A note from the editors: Hard times — a product of the capitalist realist death cult and its neofascist cousins — are here in a big way. The main struggles right now are with labor and mutual aid organizing. But Locust wants to contribute what little we can. During the ongoing crisis we will be sharing art, stories and poetry on our website from Locust Review editors and contributors. These will be collected under the rubric “Locust Dispatches.” Issue #2 is scheduled to be back from the printer today (March 17, 2020) and all subscribers will be getting their print or digital copies soon. There may be a slight delay as we are, for the first time, printing our own postage as part of the overall effort toward social distancing. Below is our first “Locust Dispatch” fiction piece, Tish Markley’s oddcpl Episode One: Dave + KARL. Check back next Tuesday for Episode Two: Hard Reset. - Locust Arts and Letters Collective (LALC).
“Goddamnit, Dave!” I rumbled and dropped my plug on the floor. “I can’t even go to work!”
“Chill, Killy.” Dave slurred from the couch. He absentmindedly opened and closed his port covers and buzzed his ear dishes in slow circles. He fidgeted when shitfaced.
“Don’t call me that.” I sighed and flopped onto the recliner nearby. “I have to call in, now. I don’t even have the juice I need for my shift.”
“I’m sorry, KARL.” Dave’s exaggerated pout was almost too much.
“You owe me twelve hours of juice.” I mumbled, crossing my carbon-and-steel arms. “And I fucking mean it this time. I don’t make borg money, dude.”
“Yeah, you don’t have to buy food, either.” Dave slurred pointedly.
“And my juice isn’t government juice, Dave. So, go fuck yourself with that attitude.” I snapped, clenching and unclenching my claws. I went to my room and sat on the edge of my power bed. “If I call in tonight, I won’t have to sleep until payday. I want that $150 in juice you owe me.”
“How the fuck you figure I owe you $150 in juice?!” Dave sat up and glared at me through my open door.
“Between the $70-worth last time and the $80-worth this time, that makes $150.” I sneered. “For a textile finisher, you are shit with numbers.”
“Fuck you.” Dave tipped back onto the couch again. “Just use mine.”
I rolled my laser eyes. “You use 65 watts. I use 45 watts. Your juice would fry my insides. Not all of us can use whatever juice we can plug into.” He hated when I talked down to him. “And if I died, Dave, who would let you drunkenly steal juice and still give you half the rent?”
“Go to bed, Killbot Alpha.” Dave mumbled as he fell asleep.
“Goodnight, Dave.” I slammed the bedroom door.
My bed meter showed I had 18% of my weekly supply.
I woke up the next day to see my supply monitor blinking 26%. Dave left a note taped to the display panel acknowledging that he still owed me $100 of juice.
My internal battery was at 80% from charging overnight.
Dave was snoring from the couch, loud enough that it carried into my bedroom. Hearing him snoring always made me bitter. I couldn’t understand how metal and flesh was so much more efficient than just metal. The lump of soft meat inside his alpha-run, steel skull would falter and rot long before my circuit boards.
My shift alarm beeped to notify me I had an hour before work. With Christmas so close, we’d be weaving, trimming, and processing over three times the fabric to help prepare for the Camp Pageant. The Winter Culling had been more productive than ever in rounding up MALs, UNs, INs, IMs, and ERs. The Camp had filled up ahead of schedule and needed an additional six Quonset huts which we had to make the fabric for, as well as all the costumes for the neocybs. It also meant there would be a job rush in January that would put me out of work.
The factory was packed when I showed up for my graveyard shift. My station was already a mess.
I tossed the roll of Santa on Sleigh #7, featuring Santa tossing presents from the sky into the waiting robot and meat arms of children below. Of course, there were no robot or cyborg children at the moment but there would be soon. I plugged myself into the battery monitor, a safety device that would ensure that I wouldn’t drain my battery and get stuck in the rig. Once the light turned green, I pushed my arms into the weaving rig and started to work.
“How many rolls?” My manager’s voice was rough and abrupt behind me. The clock told me I had been weaving at peak efficiency for four hours.
“Seven.” My voice was quiet as I concentrated on maintaining speed.
The yes-bot following my manager tapped the screen on her handheld. “We need twelve more before you can leave.” She hissed through her pink iron grill.
I nodded and sped up my weaving, rolling my laser eyes in a slow circle. I was almost certainly going to need to replace the belts in my arms by the time this holiday rush was over.
The break bell rang two hours later, marking the middle point of the shift. I disengaged from the rig and plugged into my portable charger so I’d have enough juice to accept overtime, if offered.
Jazz, the former police bot, rolled over from her laser printing station.
“How’s your shift?” Her melodic voice was always welcome.
I shrugged, letting the buzz of my joints be my response.
She chuckled. I smiled at the sound, like ice tinkling in a glass. “I made a print special for you.” She extended a scrap of fabric on her telescoping claw. “It’s Santa…”
“On a robot dick sleigh!” I exclaimed.
She laughed again as I wrapped a still-warm arm around her steel-box body. The pixels of her smile turned red and spread to the edges of her mouth screen. My own smiled widened and took over the bottom third of my face screen.
Jazz rolled closer for a moment and tapped my chest plate with her claw. She quickly broke away and rolled back to her work station.
I sighed and disconnected from my portable charger so I could get back to work, feeling newly energized by Jazz. I wondered, fleetingly, if she’d ever been to a robot restaurant and how long I’d have to save up to take her to one.
By the time my shift was done, I’d been on my rig sixteen hours. I’d taken overtime, which meant I had to be off for 24 hours. I got home to an empty apartment. Dave’s finishing department would be just as busy, keeping up with the costuming and uniform rush. He made the same money I made plus another half and, being a cyborg, had no restrictions on working overtime.
My day off was the same day as the pageant. I asked Jazz and she agreed to go with me. Neither of us had ever been to one. We’d seen compilations on the news but they never filmed the actual pageant. You had to attend if you wanted to see the show.
Robots are forced to sit in the balconies because of the protests at the first pageant. We had filled the seats of the theater and chanted against cyborgs taking our jobs. The engineers and doctors promised they were the next step for ‘humanity’, even if they weren’t sure if that included robots. They decided soon after that it didn’t.
Jazz gave me a playbill as we took our seats. She tapped the first event with her telescoping claw: extreme rope climb followed immediately by festive caroling. She looked at me questioningly.
“Dave says sometimes the new cyborgs heads explode if they do cardio then try to sing.” I shrugged.
The lights dimmed. A hush fell as the curtain raised to reveal 157 new cyborgs in Christmas-print jumpsuits. They cowered under the spotlights.
A man in a highchair at the edge of the stage blew a whistle.
One hundred lengths of rope descended from the ceiling. The cyborgs below scrambled to leap and grab on. After some fighting, the 100 strongest and fastest were pulling themselves to the ceiling with superhuman speed.
One of the cyborgs still stuck on the ground started sobbing with rage. A line of armed guards ascended slowly from a trapdoor. The guards fired into the crowd of cyborgs scrambling to press themselves against the back wall.
All 57 were dead.
Check in next week for “oddcpl Episode Two: Hard Reset”
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