RoboNomics

Chapter 12

“Nope. Still just fighting about it. Threatening, I guess. But the teachers have stopped doing extracurricular activities.”

“Do you think that will do anything?” She sheds her coat and flops it over the back on her chair. Her boots, wet from the year’s first snowfall, leave puddles on the gray floor.

“I don’t know. I guess it depends on how much the I.I.U.s can take over.”

“Well, there is still only one in each school, right?” She takes a FlexScreen out of her bag and unfolds it. She places it on the desk and examines it.

“Hey, Miriam,” I say in a rapid stream. “I have an idea.”

“Yeah?” she asks as she looks over at me eagerly. It strikes me how young she is. I’m not sure how to proceed. It is now not only my career on the line but her career as well. Her whole life will be decided before she even had a chance to live it.

“Yeah, I just think...well, look, it seems like there’s another article about all this union stuff every few days. What if we, like...organized around it or something?”

“Isn't that what we’re doing here?” She glances around the office.

“No, I mean, like...online,” I feel myself stumble over my words. “Like we could get an account for email or whatever and call it...I don’t know, ‘Toronto workers unite’ or maybe something a little flashier.”

“Okay?”

“And then we could, you know...comment on all these articles and have some central link to direct people. Like the Protest Group’s website. Where they could find more information?”

“Hm.”

“What? What is it?”

“That’s...kind of an amazing idea,” she says. “There’s only one problem, remember? Chris.”

“Does he have to know about it?”

“He’ll find out sooner or later.” I follow her gaze and catch Bill giving us a sidelong glance from he sits at the group of four desks beside ours.

I've bitten my tongue about Chris ever since I joined the Group. I've only seen him a handful of times. I barely speak to him. I believe in what Miriam and I and the others are trying to accomplish so I try to push Chris and his firecracker boorishness from my mind. When I do see him at the loft, he speeds past me in a rush of self-importance.

I can’t help wondering what he and the other garbage collectors do all day. Even though I prefer that he keep his distance, I want to ask Miriam about him. I want her to bring him up in conversation. Every time we speak I wait for her to say his name. I've been waiting for this moment for weeks. And now I have a reason to talk about him.

“I guess we have no choice,” I agree. “If we ever see him, right?”

“He’s probably just busy.”

“Miriam, can I ask you something? What...where does he go all the time? With Joe and the others?” Joe was the tall man who convinced me to come back to the Group. He was the one who’d cornered me in the elevator the first day I showed up.

“I dunno. I guess to go talk to the union bosses. Or maybe to talk to politicians. All I know is he thinks it’s important.”

I'm not satisfied by her answer. I want to know more about what goes on when Chris leaves these four walls.

#

I look at the clock. It is free choice time in my old classroom, and the room is in chaos. Children are laughing loudly. Children are sending instant messages to each other with their computer desks. They are having competitions to see who can finish math exercises the fastest. Children make plans for recess: they talk about the snowballs and snow forts they’ll make. A first thin layer of snow has fallen throughout the morning. The I.I.U., in the meantime, sits behind my desk and quietly observes the misbehavior.

I sit at the group worktable and make notes about the I.I.U.’s lack of reaction. For the past few months, I've been trying to make a case for the removal of the machine. Every day is the same. I sit at the side of the classroom with a water bottle and a FlexScreen and I watch as my former class goes wild. I make sure that I emphasize in my notes how little they are learning. Sure, they pay attention to her while she conducts lessons in mathematics and language skills -- the skills that they will be tested on at the end of the year. They are riveted to her while she teaches. And sure, their tests have gone up. But they goof off a lot more than they ever did with me.

Sometimes Natalie, who was my best student, sneaks a peek over at me. She looks at me with curiosity. But mostly the children are diverted by the machine as she takes little steps around the classroom and talks to them in her soothing voice. It is actually amazing how efficient she can be. She doesn't need to fuss like human teachers do. She interacts with the electronic displays that plaster the classroom walls with stunning ease. She'll talk about the next assignment, she'll direct the students to their desks or to look up at the walls and the lesson will already have appeared. It looks seamless. To me, it is obvious that her programming is interfacing with the machines around her through invisible wireless connections. But to the untrained eye, the one who may not immediately see that she is not human, it must look like a well-timed symphony of thought.

Meanwhile, I'm just here to make sure that the android doesn't get abused and that she doesn't break down. But she doesn't really need a babysitter. Day after day I sit here, making my notes and trying my best to ignore the fact that she is better at my former job than l ever was.

I let the class go wild as much as I can stomach. Sometimes, like now, I can't help interjecting. I rise from my seat and startle some of the children when I raise my voice.

"All right, boys and girls, it's time for you to go to the gym." I turn to the I. I. U. "Do you need me to come along?"

"Yes. Mr. Tharanga says that gym time is the most dangerous time for me to be left alone with the children."

"All right." I turn to gather my water bottle and sigh. I've never enjoyed teaching gym class. When I was in school gym was a tedious, vulnerable ordeal during which none of my skills were on display. Teaching gym was a similarly loud, chaotic affair ruled by screams and my whistle. I'm happy I don't have to teach it anymore but I don't relish the thought of having to intervene when the kids decide to topple their new toy.

The children, according to their habit, line up by the classroom door. Natalie stands at the front of the line. She looks at me but then changes her mind and glances at the bot instead. The I.I.U. nods at her and the line of third graders begins its march towards the gym. The android follows the line of kids. She enters the hall just as I hear the sound of running.

I rush to the door but before I can follow the rest of the class as they run down the hallway, I hear the voice of the machine.

"Walk in the hall, boys and girls," She bellows. "You know the rules." The statement is a perfect imitation of what I say to the children the few times I deign to correct their behavior. I'm startled by her sudden initiative. Has something gone wrong with her programming? I wonder.