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The Robot Whisperer

by Holly Schofield

Emilia heard the door bang as Kore entered her workshop. Dishes clattered on the side bench. “Be there in a minute, I just have to…” She let her voice fade. How could you fix a magnifying light when you needed to magnify it to see what you were doing? And her hands were trembling again. She set down the tiny screwdriver in frustration. She was too old for this. Too old for everything. And her calendar was blinking at her again.

“Come on, Mom, it’s getting cold.” More clattering. “Your tinkering can wait.”

“You know, there was a day when I was considered more than a tinkerer.” Emilia picked her way through the crowded stacks of old electronics gear to where Kore had laid out dinner, a lentil stew and a chicory latte, both freshly steaming from the collective’s communal kitchens.

“You’ve still got it, no worries.” Kore chuckled and gestured at the faded thank-you certificate on the wall. “All of the oldtimers still have a crush on you.” In the corner of the frame, bronzed by the late afternoon light, a small printed photo perched: Emilia on the day she’d arrived six decades ago. Mirrored sunglasses—retro even then—and short black hair with an ironic flip to the bangs. And her tight black clothing, so unsuited to the climate-changed heat of western British Columbia. The collective hadn’t wanted to let her in. She’d represented everything wrong with city life—gangs, drugs, high tech for the sake of high tech, not to mention faith in capitalism and perpetual growth—everything the newly formed collective had sworn to reject.

“Tell me again about your arrival?” Kore held out the spoon. “And eat while you do.”

Emilia gave her a flat look. When had child become parent?

Kore brushed back hair and Emilia noticed the gray. Now in her sixties with fingers almost as arthritic as Emilia’s, Kore taught the younger ones woodworking, all based on the collective’s principle of “least tech necessary for the job”. Kore had her place in the world, but Emilia’s was slipping away.

The latte foam was shrinking, bubbles disappearing as if they’d never existed.

---

Coming here had been necessary but not easy. First, there had been her successful refuctoring of Regina’s municipal budget—increased subsidized housing, reduced management perks, some other tiny adjustments to give more parity among salaries—followed quickly by pretend ransomware that had handicapped immediate budget reviews. Then, the switcheroo of the deputy mayor’s name and SIN number with similar ones belonging to a lifer in Kingston Penitentiary: that had been rad! The identity theft issues had been so intense the deputy mayor had to quit her job to deal with them; Emilia would have felt worse about it had the woman not been syphoning off funds for her Bahamian home.

It all might have remained undiscovered for a while, at least until next term’s audits, but Emilia had slipped up irretrievably when she hacked into the mayor’s video recordings of his meetings with the biggest of the local gang leaders. Somehow—she’d never known how—she’d left tracks behind as clear and as deep as an elk in winter snow. That had been the turning point: two nasty groups after her was one more than even she could handle.

It still made her shudder to recall her escape. First, the run through Regina’s subway tunnels, then the long hitchhike to the suburbs, a night in someone’s garage on the backseat of an illegal gas-engined Cadillac, followed by the theft of one of the newer, badass e-bikes and a tablet from a schoolyard. Her destination was “anywhere but Regina” so she headed onto the highway, turning west into the setting sun like the hero in some old-school western vid. Vancouver, eventually, she supposed, but she knew they had troubles—and gangs—of their own.

If she kept a dead-steady speed, the self-driving semis didn’t know she was tucked up behind their taillights. She drafted a series of them for hours, past endless seared prairie destitute with withered crops and dead windbreaks. After nodding off once and nearly swerving for the ditch, she switched to a slower ancient one-ton truck but the human driver kept peering out the window back at her, brown face scrunched with concern, super-long hair blowing freakily backwards in the wind. Emilia dropped back a more reasonable distance for the next five hours—the flowery script, Chlorohaven, on the tailgate etching itself in her mind.

The e-bike’s battery indicator yellowed after a while, then reddened. Finally, a charge station appeared where the highway swung down in the cleft of two mountains near Yoho Park. The self-driving vehicles kept going, of course, but the old truck swung in. Emilia cursed. No choice but to follow. The bike was almost out of juice.

She pulled into the farthest plug station and turned her back to the lean driver who swung down from the truck cab. She ignored her near-hypothermia and growling stomach. One thing at a time. The challenge here was to charge up without giving away the bike’s ID and GPS. It had surely been reported and the automated highway patrols would flag it right away and intercept her. This highway didn’t branch for a hundred klicks.

She yanked the charge cable from the bike’s compartment and the tablet from where it had been pressing against her ribs. Scrolling code began and she lost herself in the flow, darting and diving and probing like a shark after prey.

“Engine trouble?” The driver’s shout was followed by a friendly head tilt. How many minutes had passed? Emilia had gotten nowhere and her left foot was growing numb.

She angled her face away and shrugged.

“No money for juice? I can spot you a few bucks.” The driver was coming closer, striding over the gravel, long grey hair puffing around a thin face with—uh oh—clever eyes.

Emilia’s second shrug was brief as it could be without being rude. “No, thanks.” Entering the driver’s account data instead of the bike’s owner’s wouldn’t help—the system would still flag the bike itself. There must be another way.

A few more minutes of futile poking before she admitted it to herself. Without hours of time and a better tablet, even trapdoor access was closed to her and her tiny pocket toolkit. She wasn’t going to be able to get in. There’d been no other human-driven traffic for hours. And those dark trees crowding in on all sides were spooky, even in daylight.

The driver still stood there, hands in jean pockets, a concerned look on their face.

Time for Plan B.

Cold fingers fumbling inside the bike’s tiny side panel, it took several attempts with her penknife to score the charge cable enough to break it.

She held up the busted cable and forced a wry smile. “This bike’s not going anywhere.” She let some of her anxiety show. She could ask but it would be better if they offered. Syphoning juice off the truck would be slow and inconvenient for the driver but would be untraceable to the bike.

“Hop in. My chariot awaits.” They grinned, flung an arm wide, and gave an exaggerated bow.

“Not what I…” It would sure be nice to be out of the wind. Her eyes ached from unaccustomed long-distance views. And maybe food would be part of the equation. Emilia made a sudden decision. “That would be awesome.”

By the time they reached the turnoff to Chlorohaven, just outside the aptly-named town of Hope, the driver had introduced themself as Dardee and told Emilia about life in the collective and how they took veggies all the way to Calgary this fall because mudslides had closed the closer cities of Vancouver and Chilliwack. How the collective was successful, but only to a point.

“We’ll never be sustainable unto ourselves, not like the founders thought’d be possible back in the day. We get meds and other health tech from various places and we deal with various governments and cities and corporations.”

Emilia nodded, feeling surreal. The truck bore the earthy smell of raw potatoes and carrots, and a damp burlap sack squatted on the seat between them, next to the beeswax wrap that had held Dardee’s lunch. The dashboard was a mashup of several styles and models of displays. An assemblage of gear that would have been punk if anything had post-dated the previous century but, no, it was all stupid-tech, dials and gauges and thermostats. A day ago she’d been in front of a TeeGore 764XC deking through encrypted software like a boss. Now, jouncing along the endless highway, e-bike bungee-corded to the rusty box, it was like she was stuck in a boot loop. She unzipped her jacket. At least it was warm.

“We can’t seem to keep tradespeople either, they get lured away by the city life—we’ve had four plumbers in six years.” Dardee waved their half of their shared hummus sandwich madly, dropping crumbs all over the truck cab.

Emilia had never hired a plumber or even seen one do their job. Living in various squats or couch-surfing meant you didn’t really get a feel for those kinds of things. But each treetop that flicked by meant she was one tree farther from Regina, She could fake being interested in anything to gain that. “Uh, a good plumber is hard to come by.”

“We could use a carpenter too. I don’t suppose you have any skills?” The raised grey eyebrow matched the hair, fuzzy and untamed.

“Don’t even know which end of a hammer to hold,” Emilia said, washing down the other half of Dardee’s sandwich with a swig of her own water.

As she tucked her canteen into the saddlebags between her feet, her mirrorshades gleamed up at her from a side pocket, a reminder of who she was and where her talents lay.

The thing was, though, Vancouver seemed more and more like a stupid-ass destination— crooked politicians and gang alliances swarmed like flies there too. Every city in Canada held danger. She eyed Dardee and sucked on her lip. “I’m not good at any of those things. But if you need someone with IT skills, I can code with the best of them.” She didn’t add how she could deep-dive into any system, pretty much, with the exceptions of vehicle registrations and municipal backroom deals.

“IT skills? Like, you could keep track of our seed bank and our crop rotation? Fix the farmbots? Monitor the solar array? That sort of thing?” The truck swerved just a fraction as Dardee’s voice rose in excitement. “Hey, if you’re willing to put a few hours in at the kitchen hall or the garden as well, that’d be an infiniwin for the win!” They held up a hummus-smeared hand for a high five.

Emilia returned it with a cheerful slap. That expression had been cheesy a decade ago. Chlorohaven might not be cool but any port in a storm, right? She’d just have to hide her sarcasm from these naïve solarbabies. But it wouldn’t be for long. Just until the heat died down and she could figure out how to hack the bike. Then she’d be on her way, leaving nothing behind but a sardonic cloud of dust.

---

“Mom? You okay?” Kore was bending over her in concern.

“Just lost in my thoughts.” She smiled up at Kore. “Go along, go eat with your friends at the hall. I’m good here.”
Kore kissed the top of her head and flashed the same indulgent smile she used with her students. “Sure, Mom.” And Emilia watched as Kore’s relief was replaced by anticipation as she scooted out the door.

Emilia ran her hands down her hemp shorts and over her faded striped tank top. Where had all her cool gone? Rotted away like her jacket or repurposed like her e-bike, with nothing left behind but rusty rivets. She’d lost her badassness somewhere, worn it right down to nothing.
In fact, she could almost pinpoint the day.

Five years after coming here—not long after Dardee’s peaceful death from old age—she’d finally decided to do something about the stress and tension that hovered in every single member, a constant presence, a black cloud overhead. Climate change was hard on everyone everywhere, sure, but it had taken Emilia a lot of time and contemplation to see that it was hardest on those who lived closest to nature, those who felt connected to the wilds, who experienced pain every time the spring wildflowers were fewer and smaller, every time the returning migratory flocks of birds shrunk.

That night, at the Spring Solstice bonfire, she’d made all the farmbots do a square dance to wild applause. It had taken hours and hours to program but had given the members a short-lived release from their worries, made their faces crinkle in laughter in the flickering firelight. The stunt had earned her the title of Robot Whisperer, a name so uncool it made her laugh even now.

Her protectiveness for the community had grown since then. She glanced at the faded photo—no, she wasn’t that secretive furtive person anymore. Chlorohaven, with its healing circles and forest bathing, had cleansed her.
But she still had her secrets.

Ohhh yes, she sure did.

She scrubbed her face, callused palm rasping.

Dinner had congealed in the bowl and she wasn’t hungry anyhow.

The calendar blinked at her.

Might as well satisfy the silly thing so it’d stop nagging her. She grabbed a headlamp and hobbled into the back room, past the small workstation which held a simple yet robust Bartleby-Q rig, enough to easily handle all the collective’s e-needs. Under the wheeled box of old inverters and gauges, the trapdoor’s hinges gleamed, oiled for quietness. Even a year ago, she could have raised the hatch with one arm. Today, she fetched a handybot and let its pinchers wrench it open.

She climbed awkwardly down the steep wooden ladder, knees complaining. Her headlamp shone on the equipment in the corner, all of it flickering with lights and false purpose. The battered chair sent up clouds of dust as she plopped down and her eyes watered. How many years? How many hours of writing code down here late at night, trying to stay one step ahead. Triple screens of endlessly scrolling, rapid fire keyboarding, crows of victory when she squashed an opponent.

Kore and the others would be alarmed and anxious if they knew this setup existed. But telling them how she’d sheltered them, not just from ransomware attackers who tried time and again to breach the collective’s systems, and ID thieves almost as talented as Emilia, but also hackers who thought Chlorohaven would be an easy and fun target just for the fuck of it—telling the community about all that would have increased their angst and anger at the outside world. At first she resented the lack of a thank you or a pat on the back but she’d finally learned to let her ego go, to let it float away like a dandelion seed puff, and continued to secretly protect the people she loved.

Now, miracle of miracles, the outside world had turned a corner. Folks everywhere actually learned how to govern themselves in good—well, pretty good—ways, with the help of sophisticated AI that filled the role of Chlorohaven’s Tuesday night group discussions. Calgary, Vancouver, and even Regina had actually managed to implement renewable energy sources, encourage mass transit, house every single person, embed food forests in every downtown core, and generally pull back from the brink. She’d be proud of the Reginans if she still felt even a tenuous connection to a living soul there. But their definition of a local carrying capacity, how many people an area could sustainably maintain, was very different than hers. The very thought of crowded sidewalks and thousands of auras all residing in the same few square kilometers had grown foreign and even disturbing to contemplate nestled here in the pine and spruce and freely flowing mountain air.

She lay down on the narrow bunk, the mattress molded to her body by countless nights. She was as useless as the firewall embedded in the CPU against the wall, as useless as software that ran on obsolete O/Ss. Thankfully, it had been ten years since the last attack of any kind on the collective’s network. She’d diarized the calendar entry then, ten years to the day. Now it was time to shut it all down. If a new threat came along, it’d be so sophisticated she doubted she could make up for a decade of letting her abilities and knowledge lapse. The equipment with its flickering lights was now as useless as she was. It could sit here until it clogged with dust.

“Auntie Emilia? Are you therrre?” A pounding on the workshop’s front door. Emilia leant over and clicked on Camera One and there was little Audie on screen or maybe it was little Terra, one of Dardee’s grandkids anyhow, face mashed against the workshop window, peering in, clutching a broken toy of some kind. The light in their eyes was worshipful, incredulous, full of wonder at the magic they believed lived within. Even with no idea of her mad skills. Her former mad skills.

The chair squealed as she methodically shut down the rig, one system at a time, fingers feathering across the familiar keyboard. Telltales winked out like dying fireflies until the dim lamp was the only illumination, a sorrowful moon for a sorrowful day.

She unplugged the powerbar cord for good measure. Thorough is as thorough does, she thought to herself, then realized that had been one of Dardee’s phrases.

One hand pressing firmly down on the side table helped her stand, wrist on fire, hips protesting. Audie, or whoever it was, was still yelling. She plucked a rusted e-bike rivet off a cracked ceramic plate full of screws and transistors. Maybe the rad factor she’d always craved wasn’t about being as slick AF. Maybe it was the glow in a child’s eyes. She couldn’t fix the heavy stuff on the solar array anymore, couldn’t even fix that magnifier upstairs, but maybe she could pin a broken puppet back together or glue a wheel back on a wooden toy garden cart.

Something in the clutter next to the plate caught the light. She pushed off a yellowed paperback and pair of needlenose pliers and used the hem of her shirt to rub the dust off the lenses.

The mirrorshades slid on, smooth and slick against her face, the ultimate of cool.

A glance at her reflection in one of the dead screens showed a slender, surprisingly elegant ponytailed woman with faded tats down her arms and an ironic twist to her mouth.

She grinned, waggled her forefinger and pinky finger at the image, then headed up the ladder, shades firmly in place.

Yeah, she still had it.

---

Host Commentary

And that was “The Robot Whisperer” by Holly Schofield.

The little things that people worry about are often my favorite parts of science fiction. We hear tales of adventurers who explore, and encounter aliens, or fight super viruses. Often if there are smaller conflicts, it has to do with the (usually male) hero having a problem with his wife or ex-wife, so he has to save the world AND his marriage. (Yeah, we watched Die Hard over the holidays.) But people don’t complain about hangnails, they don’t worry about their high school bully and what he’s up to, and they aren’t concerned with looking cool. Adventurers don’t worry about looking cool- they know they’re cool and often flaunt it. Or toss their hair that’s styled perfectly so that it kind of looks dirty but really looks sexy (Aragorn) and say that they’re too concerned with the weight of the world to look cool.

Being a woman of a certain age, as I understand we are called, also tugs you out of that cool category through no fault of your own. Seven years ago I was a suburban mom who also was trying to turn everyone onto the experimental hip hop band clipping. If I thought about it too much, it hurt my head. Sitting in the carpool line, hair in a ponytail, blasting Splendor and Misery. It was weird. But I liked it. (By the way they have a new album out).

One of the things I’m learning as an adult is you often do get too busy to worry whether you’re cool or not. And this is possibly when your hair looks terrible. But on the offchance that you get a moment to remember what it felt like when you were younger and feeling the achievement was almost as good as the achievement itself, then hell yes you take advantage of it. You be cool, damn it.

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Our music is by permission of Daikaiju. You can hear more from them at daikaiju.org.

That was our show for this week. Our quote comes from Felicia Day and the song “I’m the One That’s Cool:”
The latest trend has hit its peak
They say that geek’s becomin’ chic
So now you’re out of style as you can be
And I’m in Vogue, so you can bite me

Stay safe my babies, and stay kind.