* * * * *
The climate signs proclaimed that the following day was a code-brown day, a day when the summer heat melted the frost at the bottom of the seafloor and lifted pockets of methane gas to the surface. The lifting bubbles of methane popped the moment the gas rose out of the sea, and Bryce’s city perched upon the shoreline smelled of rotten eggs. The commuter buses were always crowded on code-brown days, for in exchange for a cheap ticket, those transports provided a little shade from the heat, and many a bus driver filled his vehicle with cheap air-fresheners to attract business.
No matter the smell that still seeped through the bus windows’ curtains, and no matter how the ride jostled him in the aisles as all the taken seats forced him to stand, Bryce Munson thought he was in heaven. He held in one hand the pages of his latest story he would share with his fellow keepers. His other arm gripped Rebecca, who used each bump in the road as an excuse to press more tightly against Bryce. Once again, Bryce wondered what a Val Carrington robot would’ve thought of his romance. He doubted that robot had ever used a crowded and stinking commuter bus as the setting for paperback love.
Bryce grinned as Rebecca looked into his eyes. She wore lipstick and eyeshadow, and Bryce wondered how early Rebecca had quit in the shop to ready such makeup for his pleasure.
“I wish it didn’t smell, Becky.”
Rebecca shrugged. “I can only smell gas anymore, and I don’t mind any scent so long as you’re in my company.”
“I only wish I could ignore it as well as you. I wish I could ignore it as well as them.”
Bryce nodded to the men and women with whom he shared that crowded bus. The eyes of all the other commuters remained locked upon the pages of automaton paperback. None of the readers seemed to notice when a violent bump bounced their shoulders off of the wall. None of the readers winced whenever they passed through some block that smelled especially sour. Those commuters possessed the comfort of their books. Those commuters ignored any of the real world’s discomforts for the pleasures of their pages.
“Just wait. All the buzzing and grinding in the shop is going to numb your senses soon enough, Bryce. I suggest you appreciate the stink while you can.”
Bryce chuckled. “Oh, I think I’ve already lost half my hearing to all the shop noise. But I worry there’s not going to be much of a future left for us, or for anyone, if our would keeps crumbling.”
“It doesn’t do any good to worry about it. It’s beyond our control.”
Bryce shook his head. “How do we know that? Maybe this city wouldn’t smell so bad if any of these people ever looked up from those damn robotic books.”
“You’re just more of a dreamer than the rest of us,” commented Rebecca. “You still think you can change the world with a typewriter, and that’s what makes all of your stories so magical.”
Bryce leaned forward and kissed Rebecca, and a bump forced their lips apart as the bus roared over another pothole.
“I found one miracle already in this world in you, Becky. I hope I find another. I hope I find a way to wrench everyone out of their stupor. I hope to show them that they don’t need robots to help them dream.”
A portion of the world’s scent did fade from Bryce’s nostrils by the time the bus delivered him and Rebecca across the city to the bookstation hosting that week’s assembly of automata keepers. Lines of customers snaked out from the front entrance’s glass doors, and so Bryce and Rebecca hurried through the shop door hidden at the rear of the building. Popping music from an ancient record player greeted their ears as they stepped through the door. All of the tools appeared to rest neatly in their cabinets, and the concrete floor had been swept clean of any dust or oil stains. Dishes of synthetic protein casseroles simmered on the counters where disassembled automata parts usually gathered. The keepers came together to share stories the rest of the world no longer wished to hear. They came together to tell tales shaped by fragile, human minds and delicate human hearts. They came to hear stories originating within someplace other than silicon and circuitry. The automata and all the bookstations might catch fire while the keepers gathered, but the keepers would do nothing to combat any such emergency, even if the flames threatened the consumers who stood waiting in line for another novel featuring a drinking detective as the bookstations melted all around them.
“Bryce! Hurry over here and see what I’ve brought to this week’s gathering!”
Bryce waved at the burly and bearded keeper Dave Foster as that bearded friend gestured for Bryce to hurry towards the center of the shop. Trent Wallace and Sue French stood next to the keeper, and they grimaced each time they sipped from paper, funnel cups.
“Try a cup of my wildberry wine, friend.” Dave slapped Bryce’s back as Sue poured Rebecca a paper cup of homemade wine.
Bryce laughed as he accepted his drink. “Where in the world did you find the fruit for this concoction? I didn’t think anything grew anywhere worth fermenting anymore.”
Dave smiled. “I’ve devised an impressive garden in my housing stack. I’ve been cultivating my own line of wildberry seed for years to get this wine. It’s taken me all kinds of time and patience, but I finally found a substitute for that synthetic liquor peddled in all the state shops. It’ll grow hair on the chest of man and woman, but at least you don’t have to report your consumption to any state liquor and health board.”
Rebecca winced as she tasted her first drink. “Your wine is just as powerful as your words, Dave Foster.”
There were close to two dozen keepers gathered in the shop. The week’s host Helen DeFoe, who practiced the dead art of poetry with a grace unmatched by anyone surviving upon the globe, floated from one visitor to the next to ask how the keepers continued to find any time to devout to their writing projects. Sam Noon and Brian Altamont compared notes and outlines for the novel projects they prepared to tackle. Angie Gammon proudly showed Julie Phelps her notebook filled with the scrawl and revisions of her latest book. Page Anders sat at a metal welding table and circled spelling mistakes and missed apostrophes as Tom Hart peered over her shoulder and grimaced each time Page’s green pen scratched at his draft.
Bryce smiled at the scene. The murmur of the weekly keeper gatherings always thrilled him. The automata never consulted with one another before discharging another cheap paperback into the world. The automata knew nothing about community.
Helen DeFoe climbed atop a metal platform and lifted her paper cup of wildberry wine to attract everyone’s attention.
“There’s plenty of food and drink to last through the night, so let’s not worry about rushing to eat so many treats. Let’s first hear this week’s story. It’s Bryce Munson’s turn to tell us all a yarn. He’s only been with us a few months, but I don’t think anyone would argue that he hasn’t become our favorite writer. So let’s give Bryce a big hand and get him up on this platform.”
The keepers whistled and cheered as Bryce climbed upon the metal scaffold, the pages of his manuscript held closely to his heart.
“What kind of story do you have for us this week?” Dave Foster shouted. “I hope it’s nothing that fits with any of the genres the automata proffer.”
Bryce checked the numbers he scribbled onto the bottom corners of all his pages to ensure that his words were in correct order. “I’ve got another strange kind of a story. It’s about a wasting world and a crumbling home. It’s a story where all the characters refuse to open their eyes and accept their world for what it really is. It’s a story about waking up from superficial dreams. And when I’m done telling it, I’m going to ask something back from all of you.”
Helen DeFoe arched an eyebrow. “What might that be?”
Bryce shook his head. “I’m not going to say until I read my story. I want to first use my words to trap all of you so no one can deny my request.”
Bryce gathered a breath and started his reading. He did the best he could to avoid stuttering over the words and to keep from tripping through too many sentences. He conce
ntrated to enunciate clearly. His presentation was not perfect, but Bryce pushed through his errors by convincing himself that his writing would shine through to the audience regardless of how his tongue knotted. He was no robotic scribe, and he spoke to an audience that lacked any desire to hear mechanical words. Bryce hoped there was much magic in that fact, for he would request a miracle from those keepers when he finished reading his final word.