RoboNomics

Chapter 25

Elizabeth sits next to me and types on the keyboard that's projected onto the blond wood veneer of her desk. I am mesmerized by the clack of her fingernails on the hard surface. Midday sunshine pours through the crisscrossed lead-paned windows and onto the concrete floor. I look around at the people working quietly at their computers. The few folks talking to each other speak low. Their talk is muffled by the hum of the silver fridge on the back wall.

"Why don't we talk directly to the union?" I say to Elizabeth and break the silence. "We could act as a liaison between them and the unemployed teachers."

Elizabeth reluctantly agreed to join us at the Group when she wasn't pounding the pavement. Henri joined right after he was fired. The three of us and Miriam are still the only teachers who have joined the Group and we decided to form a Public Relations and Communications Committee. We figured it was the best way to use our skills: educating the public. But even though our posts on news items regarding the strikes have increased the amount of people following us online and even with what happened at Crescent Street Public School all over the news, we haven't had much luck attracting new members.

The white glow of the computer screen reflects off Henri's rectangular glasses. I can't see his eyes but I know he isn't listening to me.

"Don't they have their own PR people?" Elizabeth offers.

"Then why the hell haven't we heard anything?" I demand. "It's been months. Look, I think we just need to do something drastic. It doesn't have to be successful. It just has to prove to people that we're taking action. That we're not just going to wait for the government or the courts to get involved."

Henri rips his eyes from the screen. He makes a face at us. I've seen that look before, when he's about to reprimand someone. But just as he's about to say something, the elevator door slides up and open. It grinds in its track. The noise fills the office, rendering all speech impossible. Chris steps out beyond the green door of the elevator and rushes past the clusters of computers. Every head in the room turns to watch.

"Everyone who leads a group, in the meeting room," he bellows as he crosses to the steep stairs to the attic. He takes them two at a time. Joe, Oz and Shari follow close behind. The leaders of each little group: logistics, legal and treasury begin to roll their chairs loudly away from bodies. They file in behind the group of ex-garbage collectors. I watch them go. It's the first time Chris has been in the office since the four of us formed our communications group. It's also the first time I've seen him since he and his friends tore the I.I.U. apart.

"What are you waiting for?" Henri whispers to me.

"You want me to go?"

"You're the one who had the idea to make this group."

"He doesn't even know we exist yet," I counter.

Chris' head appears above the partition that separates his bedroom and meeting room from the rest of us below. "Communications, that means you too," he calls down the stairs.

"Oh. Okay," I say quietly. I grab my FlexScreen and race to the stairs.

In the meeting room, everyone is seated in decrepit office chairs around the oblong table. Chris stands behind his chair. He leans his stout, muscular frame over the head of the table. He's wearing a blue cap emblazoned with the silver logo of some sports team I can't identify. His hair curls at the ends and is tied back at the nape of his neck. His fair beard and mustache are shaggier than I remember. When I enter, he looks into my face and scowls.

"Take a seat," he points down the table. "I was just about to say that I have new information. We need the public to know about this. Otherwise we'll be done."

"What do you mean, done?" asks Bill, the Group's treasurer. He used to be the manager of a bread factory. Bill is short with thinning white hair. He's not much to look at. His pale complexion is red with patches; his massive belly pushes out against the white buttons on his collared shirt.

"Just like I said. We'd be over," replies Chris. Bill opens his mouth to speak again, but Chris' speech comes out in a rush. "Look, they drew up a bill at Queen's Park. It's about land use or something but they somehow slipped in a line that will change everything. If it gets voted through it'd make sure that we'll never get our jobs back from that damn robotic scourge. And I don't just mean us. I mean no one will get their jobs back. "

I look at the people seated about the table. Confused, they look at Chris, at me, at each other. The provincial legislature, Queen's Park, is responsible for a lot of the changes happening in Toronto. But the mandate of the legislature to regulate Ontario is small. So I guess he means everyone who lives here. Alexa, a former nurse with long, mousy hair, acts as the Group's head of logistics. Deep lines fan out from her thin lips. "What are they doing, exactly?"

He's been waiting for the question. "They're trying to abolish unions. They're going to try to outlaw them."

There's a gasp. My blood pressure bottoms out. Eyes roll around the table in fear and everyone starts shouting at once.

"Impossible --"

"They can't --"

"What about my union dues? I didn't pay all those years for nothing --"

"It can't. They can't --"

"How could they do it --"

"Sneaky bastards --"

"It's the damn U.S.," Bill says authoritatively. "They say roll over and die and we're just so happy to do it. Those damn right-to-work laws they passed last year." The group breaks into angry shouts.

"No matter why they did it or how," Chris begins high but lowers his voice as the noise in the room dies down. "I've already got a way to deal with it."