Data Dump VI

When the right and opportune moment comes for speaking, say something that will edify.
- Thomas a Kempis, “Imitation of Christ”.

(* * *)

Daria and Sandi had run the table.

The only e-mails left to be sent were people on Sandi’s “Drop Dead” list. Sending those people e-mail was a waste of time, unless you wanted an answer back mocking you for your misfortune.

Sandi had fallen into a glacial period of inactivity. She would shower, eat, watch television, and sleep. That was it. Most of her conversation with Daria was now limited to polite conversation. Daria noticed that even the insipid conversations that Sandi held with the other people like her in similar situations had ceased – Sandi now longer made her appointed rounds around the quad like some fashion-obsessed mail carrier.

Daria was determined not to collect flies, no matter how bad things got. She continued to develop confusing variations of Mao with Yolanda, and the two discussed communication theory. She continued her discussions with the Escape Group, which had run out of theories several years ago.

Heh. School used to be a prison for me, Daria told herself. But this prison is turning out to be a school.

Daria observed the robots more closely, watching them and testing the theories abandoned years ago by the Escape Group. Yes, the robots could decipher her rusty high school French. They even knew Pig Latin and Esperanto if you gave them enough time. They understood colors – they could tell the difference between various shades of red and blue. They could see, and sight was what made the robotized world possible. Without sight – without eyes - a robot might as well be a PC.

Prisoners – she thought of herself as a prisoner – who turned out to be violent or abusive were quickly segregated out by the ever-watchful machines. If indigents proved to be potential rapists or thieves, they soon disappeared. A certain level of social maladjustment was not tolerated by the machines, and Daria wondered what happened to the criminal fuck-ups. (Dog food?)

This left the robots to solve petty disputes among the prisoners, usually by enforced segregation. A few days in isolation would force the serious malcontents to keep to themselves. (In a society where people weren’t allowed to have many possessions, a thief is as bad as a murderer.) They would be given green jumpsuits as opposed to the orange jumpsuits, and other prisoners avoided them like someone carrying contagious cancer. Daria watched the “Greens” sitting against the stone walls of the quad, on the ground, backs literally against the wall, clutching their knees. The scofflaws were already beginning to emotionally regress.

There was fucking. There was a lot of fucking. Because there wasn’t anything else to do. Sometimes, it reminded Daria of high school, the non-married adults holding hands like school children….

(The robots won’t let anyone get married. The sermons, the religious services are all on tape. There are informal churches, and there are “marriages” under the eyes of God and Allah, but nothing recognized by the State.)

…and spending their time humping like bunnies.

(The children are now in state schools. Mothers separated from daughters. Fathers separated from sons. Daddy and Mommy lose their jobs and get sent to poverty pens – at least they get to console each other while their family is destroyed. I’ve spoken with these children, some now adults. “A state school will never get you a corporate job,” said one of them, “unless you were brilliant. Can’t join the Army, unless you’re a robot soldier. There’s nothing. After you graduate, it’s right into a poverty pen.” She was happy. At least she got to be reunited with her parents.)

There were no babies. No unexpected pregnancies. Clearly there was some sort of birth control introduced into the ecosystem. Sandi, in one of her rare moments outside, helped Daria drag a convulsing young woman towards one of the robots to be taken to the infirmary. She had been drinking from the nearby stream, convinced that the birth control was in the water circulating through the building.

(You can tell when these women want to get pregnant. They start to dehydrate, swearing off water. Or they won’t eat a certain kind of food. There are about nine “sure-fire” pregnancy diets. If any of them work, I know nothing about it. They’ve come to believe that pregnancy and impending motherhood will give them special status – or at least get them out of here.)

Daria marveled at it. She knew that the robots couldn’t program themselves (could they?) and therefore someone had to be providing the code that allowed the robots to substitute for the old guards (Wipin’ it off, Boss!) of Cool Hand Luke and I am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang.

No wonder she couldn’t get out. There were hundreds of minds like hers that were paid to keep her in.

(* * *)

While shuffling cards, a robot walked towards her. “Daria?” it said.

“Leave the money under my desk. Unmarked bills.”

The robot ignored the sarcasm. “Daria, your parole board has met concerning your case and have granted you access to CommunityNet on a limited basis, subject to periodic review.”

“Whee.”

“You are also now able to send e-mail anywhere outside of the indigent sector of Community Net for a cost of 50 credits per e-mail.”

“See previous ‘whee’.”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Daria knew that using sarcasm simply meant an interminable conversation. She watched with satisfaction as the robot ambled off.

Daria knew that at least if she had to log on, she wouldn’t have to be the backseat driver. CommunityNet depended on vocal commands to post. Without access, Daria had to have Sandi give every vocal command, and Sandi had to repeat everything that Daria told her. It slowed things down, unmistakably.

Is there anywhere I want to go? Besides ‘out’? Daria had her chance to review CommunityNet; indeed, there were a few things she used it for when she was free. CommunityNet, however, was like television – five percent treasure, ninety-five percent trash. Unless she wanted to post on message boards or type Bonanza fan fiction for an audience of slackers, the damned thing was completely useless.

Daria trusted her books. She ran her fingers over a copy of Imitation of Christ. “Ah, Thomas,” she said, referring to the author, “you never let me down.”

Thomas. Now there was a name from Daria’s past. She hadn’t seen Tom Sloane in years, hadn’t seen him since that romance that exploded into being before Summer and fizzled out during Spring. Most of those memories were locked away and accessed only in case of emergencies. She still had some fondness for Old Tom – Sloane, not Aquinas.

However, if Daria had a “Drop Dead” list then Tom had to be on it. Not because Daria was afraid to write him, but it would be an e-mail that she’d be unable to write. It would remind her of her painful adolescence. Besides, Daria wasn’t interested in firing up an old acquaintanceship. She wanted to mooch from him, plain and simple. Daria didn’t know what was worse – having him ignore the letter, or having him not answer back.

Daria put her cards away and sighed. Beats posting on a messageboard. She begin planning her newest literary creation.

(* * *)

Sandi was sitting on the ground. The weather was getting cold, but she seemed not to notice the chill or the damp patches at her hindquarters. Keeping a clean jumpsuit didn’t matter. They were recycled every day.

She had the premonition that someone was walking towards her. As she turned around, she saw Daria Morgendorffer. Sandi thought back about the ugly boots that Daria always wore – for someone who valued her privacy, you could hear Daria coming a mile away. Sandi concluded that Daria had simply learned to “walk heavy”.

Daria had the half-grin that substituted for a smile. “Griffin.”

“Daria. So…what do you want?”

“I want you to be ready tomorrow morning to get your cleanest jumpsuit on, and to substitute your Grade Z mouthwash for Grade Y. For I, Daria Morgendorffer, am leaving this Theatre of Terrors tomorrow. And you, Sandi Griffin, are to be my esteemed guest.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“No. Cocktails for two. Sloane Estate. My treat.”

Daria explained. “Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been working on a particularly beautiful piece of persuasive writing. I bought an e-mail and sent it to my first real boyfriend, Tom Sloane.”

“You mean…that rich kid from Fielding?”

“Yes. I wanted to see if I could condense the drama of my life to three brief pages and write a letter that would tug the heartstrings of a concrete statue of Joseph Stalin. I went through several rough drafts, but dammit, my years as a copywriter did not go in vain. I wasn’t working under a deadline this time, and I sent it out five days ago.”

“As it turns out, the letter didn’t go to his corporate address. It went to his home e-mail which he rarely answers. I get the reply about a half hour ago. ‘Daria, great to hear from you, blah blah blah.’ Still alive, no kids, nose to the company mill, etc. The ending is the payoff – ‘I would like to invite you to my estate for sixty days.’”

“Wow…I’m happy for you.”

“You don’t get it?” said Daria. “I mentioned you. The you is plural. ‘You’. As in ‘You and I’.”

Sandi’s face lit up. “You mean….”

“…Hell yes, ‘I mean’. We are getting out of this dump. Goodbye Room 030397, Building 1, Resident Quant A.”

Sandi stood up, and calmly quietly, embraced Daria. The embrace was not the exuberant excitement of the mutual hug after the two had received Stacy (Rowe) Nibblet’s e-mail, but the embraced conveyed much more warmth.

(* * *)

Sandi and Daria stood about fifty yards away from the quad. They were looking at the sky. They heard a single chime in the distance.

“11:15,” muttered Daria, referring to the quarter-chime. “Tom wrote that he’d send a helicopter at 11 am. So where the hell is he?”

“Maybe he’s late,” muttered Sandi. “It could be the weather.”

“Right. This is a crystal clear day. WeatherNet states that chances for showers are zero percent.”

Sandi said what Daria had been afraid to say. “You don’t think he stood you up…do you?”

Daria finally put words to her fears. “God damn you, Tom Sloane. If you do this to me, I swear that when you die, I’m going to drag you into my cauldron in Hell and coat your balls with jalapeno sauce.” She looked to Sandi. “You don’t think he would…do you?”

“I don’t know,” said Sandi. “Was he a nice guy?”

“We were a lot alike.”

“Then maybe,” said Sandi. “Maybe….” She didn’t want to say it.

The two looked rather fretfully at the empty sky. There appeared to be no helicopter, no escape, no nothing.

“I know he has to be here,” said Daria. “The robots stated that they expected a helicopter to land.”

“That can be changed,” said Sandi. “Maybe he got cold feet. Maybe he’s scared to meet you?”

“Scared? Scared?” asked Daria rapidly. “Am I scary?”

Sandi said nothing. Then, quietly, “A robot is walking this way.”

“Goddamnit,” said Daria. “I can’t hear it, Sandi. I can’t hear that Tom left us both in the lurch. By…by….” Daria swallowed. “I’m not going back. I’m going to run for it. I’m not going back in there. Not another day.”

The robot had closed the distance. The women had their backs to it. If it had a message, it would fall on unwelcome ears.

Suddenly, Sandi shouted. “Look!”

It was a pinprick. A yellow prick of light against the sun, which was starting to coalesce into a solid object. Daria’s eyes sometimes betrayed her, but she could make out the faintest sounds of a shOOP-shOOP-shOOP of rotors.

Daria inhaled a discontinuous volume of air. Her eyes were starting to get wet. Yes. That’s it. You came through, Tom. You came through.

The helicopter was getting closer and closer. “Please move forward,” said the robot. Daria and Sandi moved forward, first tentatively and then more rapidly as the helicopter circled ahead and looked for a landing spot.

The robot continued to urge them forward. As they approached the helicopter, doors swiveled open. Daria and Sandi stepped inside.

Sandi walked over to the forward part of the cabin. Instead of seats for a pilot and copilot, there was merely machinery and a small chair. “This is a commercial helicopter,” said Sandi referring to the pilotless machine. “We’re the only ones on board!”

“Please make sure you are secure,” said the robot on the ground.

“What is our destination?” asked Daria.

“The estate of Thomas Lyman Sloane, North Carolina” said the helicopter’s intercom.

“Sandi…buckle in. This is it. We’re finally home free.” As Sandi buckled in, Daria played an awkward meeting with Tom Sloane a few times in her head. Then, she stopped the film. Daria was more interested in seeing the helicopter lift off and the robot disappear to a speck of orange rust against a green field.