SHOTGUN SEAT by Paul Carlson * * * * Illustration by Mark Evans * * * * The most irresistible revolutions can be those that sneak up on you a little at a time.... * * * * The phone rang at three-fifteen am. I looked at the clock, then the phone. Remembered why I felt so worn out. That cheered me up enough to grab the handset. “Hello?” My bleary eyes couldn’t make out the caller ID. “Hey, Claude, it’s Doug.” “Doug?” My brain finally kicked into gear. Dispatcher Doug Gonzalez worked the graveyard shift at Argus Trucking. He always went home two hours before I got in, so I rarely saw him. “Claude, my man, I called all the guys on the list. You know how it is.” I knew. Company procedure, with a specified order of phone contacts. A lot of truckers are party-hearty types when they’re off duty, and it’d take an earthquake to wake them up. Doug knows it and I know it. Even so, it had been six months since he called me at night. “So, Doug, wuzzup? Burnin’ hot load?” “Talk about hot. Some outfit called Sylvantronics took out insurance for seven million bucks! Got to deliver their goods by three this afternoon. Tell me you can handle it, buddy.” “I’d never let you down, amigo.” Already I was reaching for my company shirt. “No traffic at this hour, so I’ll see you in a few.” I could grab something to eat later, before or after making the pickup, depending. The suits at HQ would be ecstatic. The company gets to keep a share of those insurance premiums, but it’d be up to me to make sure nothing bad happened along the way. I was almost out the door when Laurie woke up. “Doug called?” To my nod she added, “Don’t work too hard.” After forty-three years of marriage, she knows me better than I do. I kissed her on the forehead. “Might get some overtime out of it.” Zoomed my old Camaro into the company lot with five minutes to spare. I love the cool night air, which is all too rare in the middle of a Southwestern desert summer. Inside the dispatch office, Doug had the paperwork ready. There was an unfamiliar bicycle in the corner. I scanned it with a practiced eye. Twenty-nine miles to make the pickup, in a high-tech area, then two hundred thirty to the drop-off, way out in the desert. I’d heard of Sylvantronics and their robots, but didn’t know they had a facility in the middle of nowhere. A promising development, robots, but far too expensive for my household. “The trucking business never looked better,” said Doug, with a sly grin I couldn’t quite figure out. “Have yourself a fine drive.” Energy conservation always wars with safety considerations, and that year the company yard was rather dark at night. I could find my rig blindfolded, so I figured, what’s to worry about? Someone was standing by the truck. I’d been mugged a few years earlier, so I hesitated. Then, recalling Doug’s grin, I kept walking. A moment later I remembered: I was scheduled to have a brand-new trainee that day. But Lou wasn’t coming in until seven am, almost four hours later. “Mr. Dremmel?” came a soft voice. “Mr. Gonzales said I could meet you out here, by your truck.” “That’s me.” Was this Lou, after all? “Hang on a sec.” I unlocked the driver’s side door, so the cab light cast its dim rays on the scene. There stood a young Asian woman, dressed in coveralls and a baseball cap. She wore a small backpack. Time for some fast mental footwork. “You’re, umm, Ms. Lu?” She offered a hand. “Lu Ai-Ling. Your boss said to come in today for evaluation and training, so here I am.” We shook on it. Her hand was small and without calluses, but her grip was firm. “Now?” I mumbled. “At...?” I had to force myself not to stare. She laughed, sounding almost as nervous as I felt. “I know this must be unusual, but your office lady, Beryl, gave me a link to the company system. When Mr. Gonzales logged in your response at three-fifteen, my home computer woke me up.” She hooked a thumb over a slender shoulder. “I live about a mile from here.” “This outfit could use more dedication like that.” Sounded dumb, but I really did mean it. “No wonder Doug was grinning.” I climbed into the cab and opened the passenger side door. “Possibly this is his idea of a joke.” The light illuminated Ai-Ling as she climbed into the shotgun seat. I almost did a double take, but only my eyes moved. She was gorgeous. I’m not too good at judging ages, but she couldn’t have been out of high school more than five years. Hey, I can be as politically correct as the best of ‘em. Yes, there are women truckers; employees and owner-operators both. Most travel with partners, and a few work on their own. Trucking is murder on your hands, and requires long and unpredictable workdays. Not conductive to a healthy lifestyle, so maybe that’s why it’s mostly guys. I’d have bet a week’s pay there wouldn’t be many truckers like Lu Ai-Ling on the road that day. Curious, she reached up and unhooked my CB mike. “Use this a lot, good buddy?” “Not much, any more.” I tapped Doll Box’s console. “This here guide unit has data channels, proactive tracking, voice interface, all the fancy gear. Not to mention universal cell phone access.” As she replaced the mike I heaved a sigh. “Trucking’s not what it used to be.” She looked disappointed. “Let’s do our pretrip walkaround. Maybe Doug told you? We have a rush job today, a point-to-point run.” “Walkaround? I studied that in the manual.” She showed me her Class B commercial driver’s license, which was only a couple of weeks old. “My cousin Lim showed me how to drive his bobtail truck, and I borrowed it to pass the DMV exam.” Usually Argus hires Class A drivers, who can handle full-size big rigs. If this lady proved serious, she could attend our company school in Tulsa. All you have to do is sign up for one solid year, in order to pay it off. “Since it’s dark out we’ll stick to the basics.” I grabbed a flashlight from beside my seat and climbed out. When she followed, swinging down from her side, I could see she had her hair pinned and tucked beneath her cap. “Smart idea with your hair.” I popped the hood. “Got to stick your head in places. Now what are we looking for?” “Fluid levels, clogged filters, loose wires and leaks, frayed belts. More, but I can’t remember it all.” Good enough. “Ms. Lu, after the first couple of pretrips, you won’t even need a checklist.” We took turns thumping the tires. “There are gauges and sensors, but you know what? The sensors themselves can be defective.” I pointed the light at a tire. “See here? The tread is working loose. Not a problem yet, but you don’t want this crud flying off when you’re highballing down some interstate.” “Got it.” “Then we’re set to roll.” * * * * Back in the cab, she buckled in and straightened her cap. “Call me Alice. I want that to be my CB handle.” “Like in Alice’s Restaurant, or maybe Alice Kramden? It’ll work.” I prefer the classics. I wondered if she’d have a good opportunity to sling her handle around today. “Hello, Alice,” said the guide box. “Claude always calls me Doll Box.” Ai-Ling a.k.a. Alice was unfazed. “Is this a Keltora 3200 unit?” she asked. Most of the circuitry is out of sight, as she probably knew. “Good voice recognition protocols, and I’ll bet it’s got neurophasic interfacing.” Maybe it does, but before I could display my ignorance about the subject, the guide box affirmed that Alice was correct. Except, it announced, it’s a 3200C unit, with better data stream integration. Told myself I owed the thing another module or two. We had a full tank, so fuel wasn’t an issue. Went through the driver’s startup routines, including the breathalyzer and wakefulness tests, then confirmed our routing. We pulled out of the yard at four-thirteen am, which wasn’t bad. Silence seemed too awkward, but I didn’t want to sound like a goof, either. I’m faithful to Laurie, and don’t mind who knows it. On the other hand, truckers are required to have excellent eyesight. There would be a lot of envious guys on the blacktop today. The freeway was shrouded in predawn gloom. “Alice,” I asked, “do you know the roads around here? Can you read paper maps? I’ve had days when the GPS went kaput, so that’s important.” She opened her pack and dug out an area map. “Looks like we’re heading east to make the pickup.” She tapped the map with a penlight. “Exit here, turn left, easy. No commute jams in that direction, correct?” “You are. If there aren’t any accidents or construction zones. Doll Box will alert us of any major jams.” We could listen to the morning traffic reports on the radio, but I prefer music to begin the day. NewsTalk later, depending on what kind of mood I’m in. “We should be there in less than an hour. Hope the load is ready.” No sooner had I said this than the autobrakes came on. Traffic was at a dead stop ahead. I kicked in the jake brake, which clamped the exhaust stream with its distinctive rattling roar. In the lane to our right, a car almost slammed into somebody. Likely some damn fool who’d disabled his situational autopilot. Doll Box had no comment. Alice turned on the am radio and punched up a news station. A couple of minutes later, their regular traffic report didn’t even mention the freeway we were on. The local driver’s infonet had a few questions posted, but no answers as yet. “Let’s figure out what’s happening.” I had Doll Box tap into the traffic cameras, but as I’d suspected, the ones up ahead were off line. Probably full of bullets. Even the tiny inconspicuous ones get zapped by handheld lasers or something. I rarely say it out loud, but with the Feds cracking down so harshly everywhere, I didn’t blame folks for hitting back. Doll Box learned that a police cruiser had all the lanes stopped, but nothing more. “Alice, it’s time to use my secret weapon.” “Your what?” “See that compartment? The square door? Open it and hand me the bird.” Alice probably thought it was a test, or maybe some weird in-house initiation, as she didn’t appear worried about my sanity. Yet. In any case, she opened the compartment. “It is a bird.” She lifted a gray dove out of the recess like it was made of fine china. When it blinked she flinched, but didn’t drop it. “Here you go.” I booted up a program on my personal cell phone, and used wireless to instruct the bird. Didn’t want to attract attention, so I handed it back to Alice. “Open your window and let it fly from your hands.” She let the bird go, and it fluttered up and away. I held my phone where both of us could see the screen, and its real-time transmission from my trusty scout. “Fascinating, Mr. Dremmel. Are those things legal?” I gave her a weak grin. “Gray bird, gray area. It’s a civilian prototype. If they catch on big, somebody’s going to regulate the hell out of them.” My robotic dove spotted the police cruiser, then flew onward. A quarter mile farther, the problem became obvious. A tall light pole had fallen, blocking all the lanes. Luckily, nobody had gotten smashed by the thing. “What happened?” Alice wondered. “A lot of valuable aluminum in that pole. Maybe it fell because some thieves messed up.” I shrugged. “Might be activists or el cheapo terrorists. If nobody posts a rant, I’d go with thieves.” “I’ve heard of that before, but not around here. Times are bad, huh?” “Us truckers see it all. Someday you can tell your grandkids.” She laughed again. That felt good. We watched a tow truck drive up from the opposite direction, and drag the pole onto the shoulder. The cruiser pulled up beside it, maybe to look for evidence, as cars surged forward. Alice caught the returning bird like an old pro. Everyone rubbernecked as we passed by. The pole was shredded at the base, wicked shards forming an ugly wound. I was never in the military, but I’ve happened upon enough domestic terrorism to know what explosives can do. We geared up smoothly. “My next tractor is going to have a continuous automatic transmission, or so the boss tells me. Big rigs are always last for that kind of technology.” “Cool!” Her grimace hinted she’d also recognized terrorism. The pickup was routine. I let Alice open our trailer, unlatching the bars, then swinging them up and around. An object lesson in how physical strength is sometimes required in this line of work. She handled it well. Our load was sealed inside three-dozen wooden crates, each set on plastic anti-vibration pads. The shipping crew wasn’t totally silent, but they didn’t volunteer any information either. The invoice only stated they were thirty-six production model something-or-others. “Looks like cybernetic gear.” Alice was examining the invoice by dawn’s light as we pulled back onto the freeway. “Possibly new components for their robots. I’ve never seen these designations before.” She looked up. “I know a guy who works at Sylvantronics. Maybe we’ll see him.” So she knew about technology. I kept wondering what she saw in truck driving. Could be anything from a summertime lark to familial rebellion to a childhood dream. She might even have a criminal record, and be unwelcome at most jobs. I wasn’t about to embarrass her by asking. “How are you set for chow?” I asked instead. “We’ve got plenty of time, and a straight shot ahead.” “Sometimes I pack a lunch, but there wasn’t time.” “Same for me. How ‘bout we swing by that big truck stop at the crossroads? It’s twenty more miles, and if you’re choosey, the food won’t clog your arteries within three bites.” “Sounds good. Always wanted to sit in the Drivers Only area.” Score one for Childhood Dream. Five miles on, we got flagged to pull through a truck scale. Usually I’m waved past by the remote system. My rig had passed inspection six weeks ago, so that wasn’t an issue. I explained all this to my trainee as we cruised down the designated lane. Our weight or load did not trigger any sensors, so we rolled on through. “We get an hour for breakfast, since it was such an early start. Company policy.” I showed Alice how Doll Box updates the log. Back when I first started driving you had to write everything by hand, on a special chart. The diner was crowded at seven am, mostly with drivers who’d spent their off-duty time parked overnight. That place was an institutional dinosaur, straight out of the 1950s. Did my darndest to look casual, even bored, as we headed to our table. Alice was, to coin a phrase, young enough to be my granddaughter. We both had good appetites. I considered splurging on Corn Chip Pie, and a lot of coffee to counteract its brain-clogging grease. Then I remembered our seven-million-dollar load, and decided to remain as sharp as possible. Had oatmeal and some halfway decent Earl Grey tea. Alice devoured a Truckers Special, with eggs, pancakes, vat-grown bacon, and more. On our way outside, I decided to introduce my trainee to Laurie. They could share lifestyle tips. Heavy-duty chow wasn’t leaving a mark on Ms. Lu. “Mr. Dremmel, that was a ton of food. Is it okay if I jog it off? We’ve got ten minutes left on our break.” She must’ve read my mind. “Ms. Lu, I’ve been a trucker almost forty years, and nobody’s asked me that before.” To her chary look I added, “Sure, go right ahead. But...” She froze. My gesture encompassed the vast parking lot. “Where did we park?” She lifted her wristwatch. “Uh-uh,” I cut in. “You might not always have a tracking gadget handy.” I’d popped that quiz before, and wasn’t about to give Alice any macho freebies. She looked around at the hundreds of trucks, and her arm traced the course of her thoughts. “That way, two rows in, left and not quite halfway up.” Next she described my rig, better than I probably could. “I’ll find it.” “You passed. Off you go.” And off she ran. Eight minutes later, hardly breaking a sweat, Alice met me at the truck. Together we checked the locks and seals. No one had bothered the load. “This place is cool,” she enthused. “I saw one of those new boron-hydrogen cycle rigs, and a lot of biodiesel electrics, and that pallet yard next door has capacitor-powered forklifts.” I grinned. “Saw a piece on Truckers Road about some physicist, claims he found a way to pack hydrogen into metal form.” “Metal hydrogen? Like a super-compressed fuel?” “Guess so. Said they’d prepack it, and rigs would swap out the whole fuel container. Be years until it’s available. Maybe Argus will buy some.” If Alice signed on with Argus Trucking, my recruitment bonus would buy something really nice for Laurie. Better than the plain little anniversary gift I’d gotten her the day before. I cranked up the engine, and we rolled in low third gear. Alice pointed to the CB mike. “Can I give it a try?” CB had fallen out of favor, but in that busy gathering place, who knew? “Sure. It adjusts itself, signal-wise, and you can scan for any chatter.” The radio speaker came to life. “Hey Jimmy,” said an unknown trucker, “check out the seat cover in the Argus rig. Heading out the north exit.” Several voices crowded the channel. Hoots of acclamation followed, and not a few verbal leers. I didn’t quite blush, and neither did she, though I wasn’t sure the message had sunk in. Gawd, it was like a flashback to high school. Laurie always knocked ‘em dead. Made me feel old and young at the same time. “Seat cover?” Alice asked me. “Lot lizard?” “You want it straight?” She did, so I gave it to her. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. A lot of those guys are wildly jealous, and half are misinterpreting our situation.” “Guess so!” She got a beat-up old booklet from her pack, looked up something, and thumbed the mike. “Alice from Argus here. That’s a big ten-four, guys. Thanks for being real sunbeams this morning.” Flashed me a grin and kept flipping pages. “No fox jaws in this fleet. Maybe see you around, but we’ve got a load to haul. Threes and eights.” With that she signed off. * * * * By then we were on the freeway, headed into barren country on the next leg of our route. We’d be on the interstate two hundred miles yet, with plenty of company on the blacktop. Alice read an e-book for a while, then tried the CB again. This time I recognized the first voice on the channel. “Got a copy, Trucker Claude?” came a familiar query. “And who’s not a fox jaws on board?” She handed me the mike. “Got you five-by-five, Pedro. My trainee is doing a fine job, I’ll have you know. She’s got brains, and beauty to match the foxy voice.” I told Alice, “That’s Pedro Owen. Thinks he’s a one man CB revival. Go ahead and chat it up.” This they did. Pedro was ten miles behind us, with another rush load for Sylvantronics. He’d picked up farther away, but skipped breakfast. We slacked off a little, allowing him to close the gap without getting busted for speeding. Soon a third voice came on the CB. “You savages got a cartel going? How ‘bout letting an old-timer get a word in edgewise?” It was a retired trucker and his wife, driving a solar-boosted RV. He’d been in our rearview mirror for a while. Pedro came up behind us both, placing the old guy in the “hammock” position. “Got us a convoy?” Alice asked me, with the CB mike lowered. She was paying attention. Good. “Heh.” I wagged my head. “It is possible to overdo the jargon.” Nonetheless, they chattered happily. Turned out Pedro and Alice liked the same novel, something about hackers in a cyber world, and artificial intelligence and androids and more. I’d heard of this, but really, a lot of it went right over my head. Made the time go faster for her, while I was happy with my favorite talk show. Their audience knew Trucker Claude from several calls I’d made over the years. Around noon, I spotted a speed demon in the mirrors. Car was dodging around like everybody was standing still. He came past my rig in a flash, then swerved into our lane. Alice gave a little shout as I eased off on the pedal. The speeder passed a rig on the right side, lost speed, then cut him off. The poor trucker braked hard and shimmied; darn near jackknifed. “That’s it!” I had Doll Box call up a twenty-second video clip from the forward wide camera. There went the speeder, license plate clearly visible. “Gotcha.” I told Alice, “We’ll shoot this clip over to the state police.” “He’ll claim, ‘It wasn’t me driving.’ Lots of cheaters do that.” “Not to Claude Dremmel they don’t.” I checked the rear camera footage, and sure enough, there was a clear view of the driver’s face. Desert sun makes fine lighting. Doll Box titled both clips and emailed ‘em. That guy probably had other complaints on file by then. If so, Smokey would seize the car, and the jerk deserved it. Almost as bad as a red light runner. “Are we going to have lunch?” Alice asked. Ah, to have such a youthful metabolism. “Look around. Nothing but empty desert. We’ll catch something at the junction.” At two o’clock Beryl emailed me from the office, to ask what the holdup was. “Holdup?” I responded, with Doll Box transcribing my voice. I told Beryl we had an hour until the deadline, and thirty-five miles of road left to cover, so what was the problem? “Deliver the load, and don’t say anything about being late,” was her directive. Familiar advice from a thousand previous screw-ups. Did not like the sound of it, but so far as I could see, everything was going right. “Copy that,” I emailed back. “We’ll skip lunch, just for you.” “Something’s up,” I informed my trainee. “The customer is asking where we are.” “But we’ve got an hour.” “So says the paperwork. You know the old line about ‘the customer is always right?’ In this hurry-up business, that applies triple.” I threw up both hands, leaving the wheel untended for a moment. “Time to hustle.” “Might’ve asked me.” Alice looked rueful. “Don’t you carry food and supplies? Some of these rigs are equipped like that RV behind us.” “Sorry. If I was doing regional or cross-country runs, I’d stock up for sure. But with city routes, I learned the hard way. With my luck, if I spent the money, I’d end up switching trucks for a day or two. Some ravenous temp driver would devour everything.” “I see.” She got a snack bar from her pack, and devoured that. Truth was, the oatmeal breakfast had left me hungrier than ever, but some male ego thing wouldn’t let me admit it. Pedro and Alice compared notes. He was catching grief from his own dispatcher, so somebody was really bent out of shape. We reached the junction and exited, bidding farewell to the old timer. Made a quick pit stop but, with regrets, passed up on the lonely diner. Alice seemed to like Pedro in person, during the few stationary moments we allowed ourselves. He’s a likeable fellow, and in much better shape than me, considering he’s thirty years younger. I squinted at the horizon. A two-lane highway went away north, diminishing to a thread, then vanishing amid hues of brown. The kind of desert, desolate at first glance, that John McPhee and George R. Stewart brought to life in their books. “Glad you’re hitting it off with Pedro,” I told Alice. After all, the man was single. “He’s an independent contractor, right? Carries loads for different companies?” “Yeah. Hauls a lot of high-value items. Electronics, military assets, things like that. Loads that could draw unwelcome attention, but they make up for it with extra security.” “Oh?” “He has a concealed carry permit. Gets armed guards and escorts sometimes, and one time he had air cover.” “Wow! But not today?” “Not sure, and he wouldn’t say. He is in the same big hurry.” I grinned. “Since you’re so interested, Pedro’s quite a character. His real name is Stansfield, as in S. Peter Owen. His grandmother was a Bradford, in the DAR and everything. Been leading citizens in New England for darn near four hundred years.” Alice looked it up. “Daughters of the American Revolution. I’m impressed. So why isn’t Pedro in some cushy Harvard faculty club, or on the board of DuPont or something?” “Long story. His father is Heathcliff Owen. Heard of him?” “No.” “I’m not surprised. The man owns a lot of companies, but keeps out of the limelight. Got past the dot-com crash, and the troubles in 2012, without losing his shirt. Came out ahead, is what I heard.” “So where does that leave Mr. Stansfield Peter Owen?” “His father is a big admirer of the work ethic. Didn’t hand down a dime to his sons.” I reached over and patted her shoulder. “Besides, maybe you’re not the only one who always wanted to sit in the Drivers Only section.” She looked thoughtful. “I suppose you’re right.” * * * * We almost missed our turnoff. Doll Box didn’t have it listed. The road was marked by a little sign, and barely wide enough for our trucks. A half mile along, a guard booth came into sight. Some distance away, a second building overlooked the area. I could see more guards up there, watching us. A dry streambed crossed beneath the road, deep enough to stop most vehicles. “I’ve seen military bases with inconspicuous security like this,” I commented. Pedro pulled in behind us. Alice commented, “This facility is new. I’ve been checking on line, and there’s not much detail.” Her eyes shone with curiosity, and perhaps something more. “They have several square miles of land.” The guards checked our IDs and invoices. Pedro jumped out and handed them his paperwork. One guard broke the shipper’s seals on our trailers, and waited for us to open them for inspection. Alice stepped in to open my trailer. Took her a couple of extra tugs, but she got it. After a short time that felt like forever, they waved us through. It takes Argus a week or so to review a job application, but those guards ran instant checks on the three of us. They must’ve deemed us acceptable, since we received Visitor badges, complete with photos. They also had us sign nondisclosure forms. I wondered what would happen if, for whatever reason, the guards didn’t approve us. Would they shoo us all the way back to the city? Expect us to park outside the gate until our employers could send someone else? That would take hours, if not overnight, and they’d already paid double for a rush job. Plus, the insurance coverage had a time limit. Rules are rules. We drove through a cut in some low hills, and the Sylvantronics complex lay spread out below us. A series of road loops fanned out from a gigantic warehouse building. Everything looked new, not yet blasted by the desert sun and gritty winds. Gravel, rather than grass, dominated their landscaping. I could see a lone vehicle whipping around a tortuous roadway. Another guard directed us to drive inside one end of the building. The rollup door must’ve been eighteen feet tall, and the dock space within was large enough for a dozen big rigs. A massive consumption of interior space, and a good way to hide from satellites, drones, and other observers. The other dock spaces were empty. I did a perfect T-turn, backing up to my indicated dock spot-on. A real showoff move, sure to please at the truckers’ national championships. But Pedro did me one better, by turning the rear wheels of his newfangled trailer. He spun in place, within a turning radius smaller than the overall length of his rig, and backed in neater than a train engine at a roundhouse. I was impressed—and truly outclassed. Argus, and its long-time owner Old Doug, weren’t about to cough up for steerable trailers. The warehouse crew made it clear they wanted to handle the crates, but stopped cold when a white-coated man landed on the scene. “Landed” in a metaphorical wartime sense. The guy was loaded for bear. He spotted me as a driver, and lit into me like the mad professor he resembled. “Why are you late?” he began. “I told you to be here at one o’clock!” Fresh salvos kept coming, as he swung on Pedro. “I paid you people thousands extra to bring these necessary items according to a strict schedule! How can we operate in the face of such incompetence?” By unspoken agreement, Pedro and I decided to let the fellow blow himself out. Alice looked aghast, so when the man rounded on Pedro again I told her, “This happens once in a while. The gentleman must be having a bad day.” At the first opportunity, Pedro presented his shipping documents. I was glad to let him go first, since he’s got more experience with high-strung specialist types. “If you’ll look here, sir,” Pedro said, “the manifest clearly states, ‘deliver by three o’clock this afternoon.’ It is now three-nineteen, and we reached your front gate with eleven minutes to spare. We are sorry if there was some misunderstanding.” “Misunderstanding!” the man exploded. “We have the most efficient corporate system in North America, and redundant multichannel communications. There was no misunderstanding! Your employers will hear about this incompetence, and ... and ... feeble attempt at making an excuse.” “Then again,” I whispered to Alice, “some guys are, shall we say, emotionally challenged. Dude is taking it out on a handy disposable target.” I showed the man my paperwork. “Sir, I was also instructed to pick up early this morning, and get the load here safely by three. I believe we have fulfilled our contract. There is, if you wish, a standard procedure for filing complaints with our employers.” “If I wish!” he screamed. “What I wish is not important. The project is what is important.” Then he lashed into his own warehouse crew, who’d been doing an amazing non-technical feat of stealth. “What are you people standing around for? We need these items immediately!” They jumped into action as fast as any crew I’d ever seen, granted that warehouse guys are rarely in any kind of hurry. Meanwhile, Alice was doing something with Pedro’s and my signature pads. I hadn’t even noticed her taking them. She put on a brilliant smile and showed the pads to Mr. White Coat. “Sir, your gate guards told me you’d sign for my load personally. I’m sure Mr. Owen received similar instructions. If you would, please?” I guess music and bright smiles can sooth the savage beast, or however the heck that saying goes, because the man calmed down. Alice showed him several lines of data. “Sir,” she told him, “here are the actual instructions, as relayed by voice and plain text, from this facility to both of our dispatchers at three o’clock this morning. Separate calls were made to both of the shippers, which accurately reflected our pickup times.” The man read the text lines, frowning hard enough to curdle an entire dairy. “You see,” Alice went on, “this facility uses military time exclusively. Notification of our dispatchers was made at three o’clock in the morning, or 0300. The delivery was expected by 1300 this afternoon, but that’s one o’clock, not three.” She reversed into a moue. “Nobody compared the company dispatch logs to your backup data transmission until one-seventeen this afternoon. A simple misunderstanding, which happened in the middle of the night.” “Humph.” Mr. White Coat did not look mollified. Some night shift Sylvantronics flunky would need to polish his resume. Inspiration struck me. “Remember when NASA crashed a Mars probe, because their mission teams mixed up miles and kilometers? They had months to catch the error, and never did. I was delivering new computers to JPL around that time.” I shrugged. “Anyhow, your items are here okay. A week from now, none of this is going to matter.” The man counted each crate then told us he’d be back to sign for them later. “If you need compensation for the extra delay,” he stated, “take it up with your employers.” As he stomped off he aimed a glare at all three of us. “We’ll not have to put up with this human foolishness for much longer.” “You put up with this abuse?” Alice asked Pedro. “I’ve yelled back,” Pedro admitted, “on occasion. This really is unusual.” Then he grinned. “We get paid the same either way.” “I suppose it does strengthen one’s character,” Alice mused aloud. “Wonder if my friend is here?” She approached one of the warehouse guys, who gladly interrupted his work to show her a company directory. * * * * Sure enough, Alice’s friend had been assigned to the new facility. A short time later, a tall skinny fellow entered the dock area. “Ai-Ling,” he called out, “it’s good to see you.” They hugged. “This is Dr. Sanjay Bishnoi,” Alice told Pedro and me. “He was a teaching assistant for several of my computer classes.” She punched her friend’s arm. “I imagine the pay is better here.” Bishnoi took in the situation, and did not ask Alice why she was hanging around with two grizzled truckers. “It will take our crew some time to complete the unloading and check for damage. You were signed in, yes? Perhaps I can show you what you delivered today.” Damage! I decided to overlook the implied insult, since my companions looked even more curious than I was. Thus we were treated to a grand tour, edited to the interesting parts only. “As you know, we supply industrial and military robotic systems,” Bishnoi told us. “We also have a position in the home care market, but fully capable humaniform units remain elusive.” He brought us to another section of the warehouse, opening security doors with his badge. “We’re on the verge of a breakthrough.” All three of us were amazed at what we saw next. A humanoid robot was driving a car around an indoor track, dodging mobile obstacles and obeying a set of traffic signals. “That’s only the beginning,” Bishnoi said, with evident pride. In the next section, a flatbed truck waited in a mockup dock area. A bipedal robot surveyed the situation, which looked to me like a typical loading job. Mostly I surveyed the robot. The frame was shiny metal, and instead of hydraulic pistons it had synthetic muscles. Its limbs and torso were enclosed in tough, clear plastic. My companions agreed it was “humaniform” but not “fleshly.” Which, I concluded, fit Sylvantronics’ bloodless corporate image to a tee. “This robot,” our guide said, “is the prototype unit of the thirty-six production models you delivered here today.” He looked at me. “You brought the bodies.” To Pedro he said, “You brought the brains. Each unit can learn, and rapidly adapt to new situations.” Obeying some silent cue, the robot got on a forklift and hoisted a large metal crate onto a flatbed trailer. Then it threw two heavy-duty nylon straps over the load, threaded the holddowns, and tightened the straps with a practiced eye. Next it opened the truck and started it, using chuck keys built into its metal fingers. Bishnoi watched intently, though no one seemed to be guiding the action. The robot drove around the indoor track, sharing a single lane with the car, which had come in though a side door. A minute later the robot stopped, then unloaded the crate. “That’s what Mr. White Coat meant about not putting up with ‘foolish humans’ for much longer.” I hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but sheer astonishment loosened my tongue. “I wonder if they could handle all the other hassles that come up?” “You said it, bro,” Pedro echoed. “Never thought I’d see the day.” Alice didn’t look surprised, but if anything, deeply offended. She sidled up to Pedro and me. “Claude, you said Alice Kramden? More like Alice in Wonderland.” Her head wagged mournfully. “No CB chatter from these paragons of efficiency.” Demonstration over, Bishnoi collected us. I was pretty sure he’d missed Alice’s harsh expression. We headed straight back to our rigs. Mr. White Coat showed up long enough to sign our paperwork, then directed his crew to bring the new robots to another testing area. “We will have our initial verification run at twenty-two hundred hours. Be ready!” He strode off with nary a backward look. Ten o’clock. After dark. Worried about the competition? Not that darkness offers much concealment. Alice murmured something about, “A Turing Test times ten.” I didn’t understand the reference, and forgot to look it up, until much later. As we passed the guard booth Alice asked me, “Mr. Dremmel, can we send your bird out again? Take another look at what they’re doing back there?” I fought the impulse to make a retort. “Ms. Lu, right off the top of my head, I can think of a half dozen reasons why that would be a stupid move. You’re a smart kid, and I bet you could come up with as many more.” She had the good grace to look abashed. “Sorry I mentioned it.” But she didn’t look sorry for the idea itself. I called Laurie to say I’d be late. If my trainee sent any similar message, I didn’t notice. We stopped at the junction for an early dinner, and Pedro joined us. The talk was lively, and for the most part I just listened. I’ve got plenty of stories, but don’t insist on telling them all at once. Alice fell asleep on the drive back. We got into the Argus yard by nine that evening. Under the old rules I’d have run out of duty time already, thus been required to stop somewhere for the night. As it stood, I punched out with double time on the clock, and wrote out a good report on my trainee. It got through my thick head that Alice was riding a bicycle. Since it was dark out, I talked her into letting me strap it onto the roof of my Camaro, so I could drop her off at home. She lived in an upstairs apartment, in what’s best called a humble area. I watched until she’d made it into her front door okay. * * * * Beryl’s got a miracle touch. Few places on Earth are more dingy than our local Argus Trucking yard, but she fixed up the break room with a semblance of festiveness. No helium, but finding the party balloons and all took some ambitious shopping. One more trade war, and the USA’s store shelves were going to get Soviet looking. Alice had passed her four-week training course with flying colors. She was a real Class A trucker, and certified to rumble around our highways and byways. Just in time for the hottest part of summer, but I swear she didn’t seem fazed. “For she’s a jolly good fellow” carried across the oil-stained asphalt as the yard crew, plus whoever was in town that day, welcomed our newest employee driver. Alice beamed. “Thanks, guys. Especially to Claude, for giving me a great start around here.” Some of the guys looked a mite too appreciative. I spoke in a stage whisper: “She’s a great driver, and if some creep tries to ‘jack her rig, she’s got a Black Belt she can use to discourage him.” I had no idea whether Alice could, or would, kick some lowlife into next week, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt for such a rumor to get around. In real life, sexual harassment policies can only do so much... Pedro was there for the party, which took up the whole lunch break and a few minutes beyond. He must’ve understood the intent of my words, because he gave me a discreet thumbs-up. By coincidence, Sylvantronics made their big announcement on that same day. The news and bloggers got all worked up over their new truck-driving robots. I guess it was predictable. People were used to indoor robots already, but sharing the road brought everyone’s “but I’m the world’s best driver” instincts to the fore. Sylvantronics planned to lease a few units here and there, at low cost, in return for each customer putting ‘em through the wringer. Beta testing, they call it. Quick as that, the welcome party ended, and Beryl handed Alice her first sheaf of manifests. I saw that it was a simple run: dropping a full trailer across town. That would be it for the day, no muss and no fuss. And, I realized, not much physical exertion. Alice did not complain. * * * * Argus started its test robot at the home yard in Tulsa, but a month later our turn came up. Because I had the most seniority, management picked me to ride with it. More like, I figured, if an old fogey like me could handle the thing... Couldn’t have set it up better if I’d been Steven Spielberg. The sun was coming up, shining all over the robot’s polished metal, as we began our first day as team drivers. “Good morning, Mr. Dremmel,” said the robot. “I’m glad to be working with you. Shall we get started?” I’d seen a video of this same robot at work in Tulsa, and its voice sounded different in person. Not weirdo-metallic, or silky-fembot, or butler-smooth either. Just a regular dude’s voice. Which, I decided, was perfect. Alice was assigned to residential deliveries that week, and wasn’t due in for an hour yet, but she showed up to see us off. Her look was so keen that I wondered if she’d known about Sylvantronic’s test schedule. They kept such things under tight wraps. On the other hand, my youngest grandkid could’ve hacked Argus Trucking’s computer system. Doll Box and Mechagodzilla hit it off swimmingly. That’s really what our crew started calling the robot. In truth it was graceful, like a steel and porcelain ballet dancer, so who says truckers don’t have a fine sense of irony? Our local run was routine, so I decided to spice it up. When I got to the Jimenez Brothers warehouse, I hunkered down in the cab and told the robot to take the paperwork inside. The trailer’s rear camera gave me a fine view. Matt, the owner’s grandson, looked like he was about to faint. Matt must’ve heard me laughing, because he came stomping outside, eyes fiery. I’d been delivering there for years, and we’ve had a lot of good times together. I told him, “What, you mean it’s not April Fool’s Day?” We both cracked up. Damned if the robot didn’t look amused, too. When I got back to the yard, Alice was putting her load-lifting waist belt in her locker. Gangbangers like to steal those special belts, to use for gym workouts, so she kept hers at work. She was limping, and trying to hide it. “You okay?” I asked. The “war of the sexes” was long over, won by I’m not sure who, but Alice wasn’t going to claim her female exemptions just yet. “I had a bunch of residential drops today,” she explained. “Mostly catalog orders. You know that GreenMart still makes its furniture kits out of particleboard? Dang, but that material is heavy!” I winced in sympathy. “Spent a week on disability leave, flat on my back, thanks to that crud. A full-size computer desk kit weighs at least 270 pounds, and they don’t allow drivers to open the carton.” “My worst load had about 120 pounds’ worth. Nice old lady who lives in a third-floor walkup. She was so flustered, told me how her son-in-law promised to come help, but he was stuck at airport security, and I wasn’t about to wait around, so—” In theory Alice could’ve called dispatch to request another Argus driver, and gotten help carrying that heavy box up those stairs. I knew why she hadn’t called. My hands went up in mock surrender. “I’ve got an idea. Alice, old fogey Claude got along fine with Mechagodzilla today. You have computer training, and you know about these robots. Our residential routes are way more complicated, so there’s plenty of test opportunities. How about we convince the boss it’s your turn now?” The robot could help her out, and with no ego involved. That way, the macho drivers wouldn’t be able to rag on Alice for needing help. Was I being sexist? I hope not. Fatherly, I’d admit to. Not many people can handle such loads alone. The yard manager agreed, and when Alice left work on her bicycle, I’m not sure she was limping any more. Within days, my hunch proved correct. That robot proved a boon in any number of situations. Hearing of this, the boss asked Alice to demonstrate at the next driver meeting. “You show us,” he put it, not “have the robot show us,” which I thought was a good sign. What he didn’t know was sometimes Alice had the robot drive while she took a nap. Its arms and legs were long enough that it didn’t have to occupy the driver’s seat, thus fooling casual observers. Wraparound, mirrored sunglasses can bollix the wakefulness system, as every trucker knows. Alice had taught the robot to carry our heaviest, most awkward loads up a flight of stairs. Our company mechanic uses a big ladder to reach the roofs of the trailers, and Alice borrowed that for the demonstration. The robot carried a large carton while she walked above it, providing extra balance. They got it on top of a trailer, thirteen feet up, stepped across to a rig parked next to it, then made their way back down again. That wasn’t in the Sylvantronics manual, for sure. Our toughest guys claimed they’d never accept such help, but most of the crew really liked the idea. Heck, Doug Gonzales was our night dispatcher because his back had gotten so messed up. After the demonstration, he told me he was thinking about reapplying as a driver. Upon this newfound acceptance, Argus leased one driver robot for each company yard. At other trucking companies, Sylvantronics units met with mixed success, and sometimes with violent opposition. Other robot manufacturers adopted a wait-and-see attitude. Still, the new robots found dozens of other uses, all over the country. A whole lot of activists objected, on so many legal and religious and ideological and ecological and social and moral and economic grounds that I lost count, but they all got steamrollered. Millions of dollars could still grease the wheels, it seemed. * * * * In September, Pedro helped Alice pay off her debt to Argus, and she went back to school. I got a beautiful handmade card in the mail, and showed it to Laurie. “Looks like something my nursery school kids made,” Laurie commented. “I guess the artistry is better.” It was a pencil drawing of me standing beside my rig. ‘For that dark mysterious encounter, and all our adventures since,’ read the caption. Laurie was not upset. I did not frame it, and she did not throw it away. What more can I say? I’m proud of my understanding wife. There was a small note tucked in with the card, which said, ‘The chatter must go on!’ I wondered what Ms. Lu was planning. * * * * Heathcliff Owen looked uncomfortable. Guess I should’ve been pleased by the sight; a blue collar Schadenfreude of sorts, but it was too happy an occasion for such things. The wedding was beautiful. I hadn’t been Best Man in a formal ceremony for years. Laurie looked wonderful in her bridesmaid’s dress. We hadn’t been to any weddings since our youngest son got hitched. Kids these days... The ceremony took place in a church near Pedro’s home; some busy little denomination I wasn’t familiar with. Nobody threw any snakes, but Heathcliff probably considered the place beneath his dignity. Still, he was there, along with a trophy wife not much older than the bride. Brought a whole jet-load of relatives, too. No rental tuxedos on that side of the aisle! Alice’s cousin Lim was there, looking freshly scrubbed, and a couple of relatives came over from Asia. Her friends, from work and school, almost filled the bride’s side of the aisle. Courtesy of Dr. Bishnoi, a robot served as ring bearer. The newest household-type unit, as he told anyone who asked, or didn’t ask. Humaniform but not fleshly it may have been, yet it looked fine in a suit. Dignified. A few “leaked” photos of the ceremony provided great publicity for Sylvantronics. * * * * That girl had plans, all right. Alice graduated in Computer Science and Robotics after another year of college, by taking more credits than you could shake a laser pointer at. She wasn’t done yet. * * * * Pedro’s condo looked ten times better with a female touch. “Got to show you something.” Alice led me to a shelf in their home office. “Pedro got these from a contact he hauls for, one of those agencies we aren’t supposed to talk about. These were rejects, defective, but I fixed them.” “I am impressed.” They were works of art. On a high shelf roosted two spy birds, a pigeon for use in the city and a hawk for the countryside. Each had a range about ten times better than my trusty old dove. Then Pedro announced dinner. Cod fillets and cheddar cheese sauce, with hasty pudding, and apple cider to drink. He could reach back to his childhood and make New England dishes like you wouldn’t believe. Pedro and Alice took turns cooking. At our place, I never tried to cook. Wouldn’t dare! When Laurie is out of town, I’m lucky to get something heated. Straight from the can means no dishes to wash. We took turns dining at each other’s homes, for two get-togethers a month. Usually on Saturday, but juggled to fit our irregular work schedules. Sometimes we’d watch a video, or play a board game after dinner. They held off on having kids while Alice helped Pedro drive his rig. She was determined to gain the respect of truckers, and also of Pedro’s high-tech customers. Inflation kept roaring, but they managed to save up some money. Then Alice launched a consulting business, helping companies integrate humaniform robots into the work force. Pedro told me that several robot manufacturers offered to hire her, but she refused them all. * * * * Somebody threw a bagel at the break room TV set. On the screen was a news alert from Los Angeles. A driver robot was preparing to go solo. Work had come to a screeching halt at Argus, as we all got a good long peek at the future. ‘This human foolishness,’ came to my mind, like it was yesterday. “It’s the end of an era,” Beryl moaned. “Damn straight,” said our company mechanic. “Next up, they’ll have fixit robots to go with the driver ones. No way a man can make a decent living, any more.” “Old Doug won’t never allow it,” a driver said, meaning Argus Trucking’s stubbornly traditional owner. Time to speak up. “Hate to say this, folks, but Old Doug is going to retire soon, maybe at the end of this month. Don’t ask me how I know, but the new management is all fired up to modernize this place.” Even I winced at the sarcasm in my voice. Inevitably, the Feds and big trucking company owners had pushed to broaden the rules. A pilot program was starting in Los Angeles; Shakey City, as CBers call the place. Soon as I got home, I had the TV run a search for videos of the event. “Hey, Laurie,” I called, “check out the news. They had that solo driver robot demonstration this morning.” She came bustling in, with a handful of colored paper for some art project she was planning for her students. We watched with fascination as the newest model Sylvantronics robot took the wheel of a big rig. Mr. White Coat (as I will always think of the man) was on hand, with Sanjay Bishnoi talking to the press and VIPs. “There’s Alice.” Laurie pointed to the back of the crowd of dignitaries. “She’s getting paid to consult, right?” “Yeah. Not sure for who, in this case. Hope they’re paying for a big fancy hotel room.” I requested a close-up, and the TV found a second video source. The image zoomed in on our young friend. “Look!” Alice was fidgeting with her shoulder bag. Barely visible, peering out from the bag, was a tiny, moving bump. The TV found us a couple more angles, but none any closer to Alice. I was certain it was the spy pigeon. Laurie agreed. “Most gals in LA have to settle for a Bichon Frise dog in their purse.” We laughed, long and hard. I requested a fast news summary. The robot had completed its delivery run without a hitch, with more aerial cameras following than OJ’s white Bronco chase ever got. According to the analysts on TV, Wall Street was ecstatic. Got me to thinking. Could it be that I resembled a buggy whip manufacturer, like those talking heads claimed? Time to make way for the future? I figured this was a more profound sort of change. I could retire any time, but what about younger folks? Men who’d no longer have a serious job to keep them focused? But, as usual, the big boys had their way. In several other cities, more robots went solo. I still wanted to let some air out of Mr. White Coat’s tires. Every time I saw him on TV, Alice’s harsh look, from that day in the desert, would rise in my mind’s eye. Compared to some, her sentiments were mild. Something was bound to happen. * * * * Three weeks later, when the public’s attention had wandered, a robot was solo-driving a shipping container from the Port of Los Angeles to a big electronics store in Pasadena. The suits wanted to match up all the latest elements, so the load was inside a new autoloading type container unit. This time, when the news broke I did not wait to get home, and nobody blamed me. I know all the good break spots, and modern cities don’t have a lot of safe, legal places where you can park a big rig. I parked at a funky old shopping center that doesn’t mind trucks, so long as you’re spending a little money. Then I asked Doll Box to do something against Argus work rules, which was, to grab the video signal of a certain news outlet. The driver robot had pulled over in Watts, opened the container, and unloaded several hundred boxes. Each box held a flatscreen television set, the fancy kind that looks 3-D without your wearing special glasses. The police didn’t see it, since about 90 percent of the surveillance cameras in that area are gone. Neither did that truck’s guide box send an alert. By the time I tuned in, many home video clips and eyewitness accounts had been gathered for news reports. The robot cranked up its voice, denounced capitalism and profiteering, and offered the TV sets as a gift to the oppressed peoples of the area. Whether this was a lunatic rant or a liberating sermon, Che Guevara or Hugo Chavez or Hakim X Sunshine couldn’t have proclaimed it better. To an old-timer like me it sounded campy. Heedless of any cameras, the locals threw off their oppression with enthusiasm. Every box was gone in minutes. That robot was fast! It drove away before the police responded, got back on the freeway, and delivered the empty shipping container to the store. The police only recovered about a dozen TV sets. Then another report broke. Apparently, in several other cities, driver robots were also taking action. Doll Box only has a little monitor screen, so I threw work rules to the wind and ran inside a nearby diner. Tommy, the owner, was an old buddy of mine. Cooked a mean soyburger, and he had connections to get real beef sometimes. “Hey Tommy, put your both your TVs in split-screen mode. Something really big is happening.” One look, and he agreed. In Denver, a robot dropped its load of frozen foods at a busy Salvation Army soup kitchen. In Orlando, a load of over-the-counter medicines went to a low-income senior citizens’ center. “Check it out,” I told Tommy. “Somehow they acted at the same time. Finished before humans could respond.” The next three events were outright weird. In San Francisco, a trailer full of chainsaws ended up in an alley near a Natural Resources Defense Council office. The manifest was marked “Discard, Dangerous Items.” Then several pallets of Creationist literature landed in the parking lot of a scientific (AAAS) office in Washington. Not to be outdone, a load of Plan B pills went straight to a National Right to Life place in Oklahoma City. By then the cops were cracking down, and pulling over every robot-driven truck they could find. Even so, there was one last incident, south of the border. A shipment of toys, headed for a retail shop in a highbrow neighborhood, went instead to the Shriners’ children’s hospital in Mexico City. The electronic invoice appeared legitimate, so with happy surprise, the staff accepted the donation. Later, when the Federales showed up, nobody had the heart to take anything back from the kids. I don’t know about anybody else, but when that report from Mexico came on, the folks in Tommy’s Diner cheered like it was a high school soccer game. * * * * All that week I followed the story with interest. Sylvantronics clammed up, but rumors abounded. Was it a hacker prank? Economic terrorism? Union activists? Jealous corporate rivals? A shared malfunction? Nobody knew. Reclaiming the loads would’ve been a PR disaster. Even the coldest-hearted bean counters knew that, so the items were written off as donations. But the insurers panicked, in their own debonair fashion. Even though its own shipments were unaffected, the military almost went on red alert. Wall Street turned its fickle thumbs down. Sensing the country’s mood, politicians piled on thick. President Donna Weinberg held a press conference. I caught the key part of her talk: “A great many people, like seniors and the handicapped, depend upon household robots. I can assure you these are safe, and will not be recalled. However, my experts agree that industrial robots must have constant human supervision.” Unsaid was, people could vote and robots did not. Human truckers came back into favor real quick. By the end of the week, solo robot drivers were out like the dodo bird. * * * * A few days later, it was Pedro and Alice’s turn to have us over for dinner. Recent events were, of course, our big topic. Pedro said, “The FBI says there’s no evidence of terrorism, or a hacker prank. They’re stumped. None of my government or industry contacts have any good leads.” “Dr. Bishnoi asked me to keep my eyes peeled,” Alice said. “The robot’s basic programming seems intact. He wonders if they didn’t make their units care too much about humans. We have so many troubles, and now they’re seeing everything.” Did I imagine a smug look on Alice’s face? On our way home, Laurie commented on the uproar. “I feel like we’re watching history unfold. Yesterday, one of the kids at my nursery school asked if a nice robot was going to bring her some toys. She’s only four years old! Honey, do you think it was hacking, or an incipient robot takeover?” I’m no expert, but it’s surprising how much an old trucker can learn, when right in the middle of something. “I’d say clever hacking. The robot takeover comes later.” Laurie agreed, then we talked about the beauty of the desert sunset. Next to us on the freeway, a robot was driving a big rig. Its human team driver was in the shotgun seat, chatting on his CB.