Planned Obsolescence - Part 1

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Bay 11 was down again, and by the time someone thought to call him, the company had lost fifteen bale's worth of production. Not that the operators cared, their bonus for the month was already shot. A few had started turning dials on the factory's cybernetics and injecting hormones into its blood supply – a homeopathic approach to an exact science. By the time the lead operator returned from break and decided to call Marco out, it was too late to save the day's production goal.

Marco ran a hand through his hair, reminding himself that yelling at Servelan, the cryptovet tech, would do no good. “No, the reason it's doing that is because your summoning circle's ley lines are in parallel with the servo cables,” Marco said.

“Well, they have to run that way, or they won't latch up to the syphon,” Servelan said, folding his arms.

“No, they could have gone over there,” Marco said pointing several meters to the outer wall. That's where they were last week.”

“They're a bitch to maintain over there.”

“Yeah, I know because every year, some green cryptomancer re-writes the ley lines over during new moon, then shrug when the induced noise raises hell with the feedback cables.”

“Marco, I keep telling you we don't raise scrubbies from hell," Servelan said, referring to the symbiotes used to keep the factory's toxins from leeching into the final product.

“Figure of speech, Servelan. The bottom line is that the cybernetics won't run right until we get those ley lines feeds put back the way they were.”

“The 'mancers won't like it.”

“They get paid to be on call just like I do. Get them over here.”

There was grousing and grumping when the artificers and cryptomancers made it to the floor. They always dragged their feet when having to work bay 11 with its surly operators, anachronistic machines, and the fossilized engineer that made things damned inconvenient for them. Marco didn't care.

He was one of the few people left that understood the machines fused into the living factory, he was in fact part of the last graduating class before the university's engineering department closed. At the same time, the factory had an accident requiring a pulmonary system overhaul for Bay 11 and the accountants had decided to install a cybernetics suite rather than take the old beast down for a year of grafting and recovery. He thought himself lucky to have landed a real job when his classmates either went to work for museums or put their degrees on the shelf to pursue other careers. Some just raised kids or took to lamenting in the local coffee houses with unemployed philosophy majors. Twenty years later, another twenty short of retirement, he wondered what had happened to them all.

After the ley lines were reset, Marco spent the next two hours re-tuning the servo drives: tight enough to follow the factory's vegetable-brain commands, but loose enough not to overreact to the psychic interference brought on by lunar cycles, Jupiter's orbit, or the solstices. He shouted down to the lead operator, who started the production organ back up. The motors whined to life, shafts turned, and soon the humming of production resumed. His mind felt fried, but he held a glow in his heart. Tuning servos was something only a handful of people in the world could do, and he did it well.

On his way out, he saw Yolanda standing in bay's main orifice. It wasn't often the boss left her office to come to the production organs, unless she was navigating a shortcut between meeting rooms.

“Got a minute?” she said.

*

She sealed the office flap behind them.

“Marco, I need to talk to you about Bay 11,” she said. She clasped her hands in front of her like she was praying for something.

“Look,” Marco said, “I'm sorry about the delay this morning. I got everything up and running as fast as I could.”

“It's not that,” she said, then paused, clasping and rubbing her hands as she seemed to search for words. This was it, Marco thought, they were going to pass him over for promotion again, even though he knew more about how the old beast was put together than anyone else. Martins would be the new department head, he just knew it. Sharp kid, but she never listened to him in the technical meetings. Doomed to repeat the same mistakes he and others made over the past twenty years.

“I've told those thaumaturgical jockeys that they can't just put their ley lines where they want, or summon any old efritt to do the lube lines. The kids coming out of college these days just don't pay attention to details.”

“No Marco,” she said, “I'm not even supposed to say anything until the official announcement, but I felt you of all people should know. It's about your position.”

His heart sank. He wasn't getting the promotion. Best to put a good face on it, he thought. He had outlasted two department heads before this, he could outlast one more.

“Martin's going to be the new department head? I won't say I'm not disappointed for my own sake, but she's a good choice.”

“You misunderstand me, Marco. The company has decided to retire the factory.”

“Excuse me?”

“We're opening a duplicate plant next month, and won't need the extra capacity from the old beast.”

“But it takes mega-billions to grow a new plant. I didn't hear about any appropriations for developing a new facility.”

“We aren't buying new, we're copying the existing design.”

“The genomancers' IP lawyers will sue us into oblivion for copyright infringement.”

“There's a loophole. It's been a corporate secret, but they had the old beast cloned when it got injured. If we replace one-for-one, we're in the clear. The old beast's clone has been aging off-site and is now ready for business. We'll be moving all staff over, except for those functions no longer needed.”

Marco sat there stunned, like she had just driven a skewer through his stomach.

“Let me guess: there isn't a desk for the industrial cyberneticist keeping this old plant alive.”

“I'm sorry Marco.”

They must have planned this before he had been hired, a twenty year secret. And they say corporations never take the long view.

*

Marco ran to the station, using his twenty-year service plaque as an umbrella. He missed the 5:05 millipede by a good ten minutes. Now he was not only out of breath for nothing, his stomach threatened to puke up the every piece of retirement cake he had eaten out of spite. He found a bench and watched the traffic go by, people in their velocipedes with shiny carapaces, others in methane-powered autos. Thank god he hadn't bought a new fartermobile last year; he couldn't keep up those kind of payments anymore.

What the hell would he do now? Retrain? He didn't have the wherewithal to go back to school, trying to re-learn the math he had forgotten, keep up with kids who could (in theory) study far harder, and listen to professors who didn't know the first thing about application. He had already been through that wringer once, somehow managing to graduate. He suspected he would have flunked out if the program hadn't dying anyway. Why protect a reputation?

He was a museum piece.

He wondered if the museums were hiring.

*

The curator's office reminded Marco of his college advisor's: Cheap extruded workshelves filled with books and obsolete tablets, carpeting worn flat between the door and the desk, a chipped coffee mug with a faded museum logo on the side. In fact, save that it was populated by quasi-live furniture, Gonzo's office was like stepping back into the pre-rift age.

Marco shook the Gonzo's hand, and sat back into a short-furred lumbar.

“Sorry,” Gonzo said, “the chair's a bit lumpy and only massages for a few minutes. I've overfed them, I'm afraid.”

“Perfectly fine,” Marco said, “My back could do with a bit of sitting straight anyway.”

“Quite, quite.” Gonzo tapped at his chin, a mannerism taking Marco back to their college days.

Gonzo had been one of those types good at a bit of everything, who studied a bit of everything, and only settled on engineering because his parents wouldn't pay for his schooling if he didn't get a degree in some field, any field. He would never study, rarely go to class, and still pull off Cs and the occasional B. He had the intuitive gifts of a genius, but the attention span and drive of a fat magpie. They had graduated together, Marco beating down the doors of anyone who still needed engineers, while Marco never expressed interest in using his degree. So of course Gonzo was hired right out of school by the museum and had never left.

“I need a job,” Marco said, “and I thought the museum of science and industry could use me.”

“Mm, so you said in your cover letter,” Gonzo shuffled through several piles of paper until he pulled out what he was looking for. “I must say,” he said, scanning the page, ”that you are certainly the most qualified industrial cyberneticist to ever apply, and the museum sure could use your skills.”

There was a catch in his voice that set off bells in Marco's head. “I sense a 'but,' in this.”

Gonzo gave him a sour smile. “Sharp as always, Marco. The fact is, mine is the only funded position in the technical department.”

“But you have a crew of seven techs.”

“I do, but they're enthusiasts, Marco. Weekend warriors with day jobs, or retirees. They work for the museum for free admission and a chance to touch the exhibits. None of them are paid; some of them are even our largest benefactors.”

“So they're rich amateurs. I'm a professional. I can handle anything they could, and you wouldn't have to wait for the weekend or after hours to get things done. That's got to be worth something to you.”

“True,” Gonzo said, “But I don't have the budget to hire you.” He spread his hands. “I'm sorry, Marco, I wish I could. The best I can do is bringing you in as a consultant when there's a problem neither the volunteers nor I can solve.”

“How often would you need me?”

“Maybe once every three years or so.”

“I can't believe your equipment is that reliable.”

Gonzo laughed, “The demonstration exhibits are simple, Marco! Mostly wires, lights, and a couple of moving parts. We don't use anything all that advanced; anything beyond the basics would be lost on the visitors.”

Marco slumped into the chair, which groaned under his weight. He absently smacked at it to shut it up. If there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was surly furniture.

“Don't feel bad, Marco, I always admired you. You were living the dream while the rest of us had to move on and find something else.”

“You never wanted a job in industry.”

“I loved studying engineering as much as any other subject, but I knew I couldn't be happy doing the real work. I prefer the life of a romantic dilettante.” Gonzo inclined his head with a small smile.

Marco laughed and shook his head.“You got any leads for me?”

“You could try the zoo. One of my colleagues mentioned that she can never find anyone that truly understands their power grid.”

“I'm a cyberneticist, not a power guy.”

“I doubt they'd see the distinction. You're an electrical engineer, whatever the flavor.”

“I hate animals.”

“I don't think they'd make you clean the cages.”

“I'll think about it,” Marco said. He rose and shook Gonzo's hand.

“Best of luck,” the curator said.

*

The zoo hadn't wanted him full-time either. Like the museum, they relied on volunteers and could only offer him a consultant's job when something popped up they couldn't handle. How often would that be? Oh, once a year on average. Marco thanked her and left his contact information. Could he just consult for a living? He had a niche, sure, but only a handful of potential clients. He'd probably starve while waiting for the call.

He could become a professional bum, just wander around the city begging for change in the parks and sleeping under the pachyderm recyclers. Sure the smell wouldn't be great, but the beasts would keep him warm all winter long. No, that wouldn't do. He put his mug under the coffee extruder and absently scratched the unit behind the ears while it worked.

*

For all the years he had maintained machinery, Marco decided it was time to build something. He took the stairs to his apartment's basement and rummaged in his storage pod. Under the crates of old books and magazine readers, past a bag of phones, wedged between a toaster and a buggy whip, he found the crate he was looking for. The plastic sides had become spotted and fuzzy from mildew, but hopefully the contents were still dry. He pulled the bin out into the hallway and ripped the cover off.

He pulled out a metal cylinder like a baby from the crib, albeit one trailing grimy wires, hoses, and plugs like entrails. He turned it about, inspecting the copper coils for the tell-tale green flakes of oxide, bending the wires to check for cracked insulation, and turning the motor shaft by hand, feeling the shaft grab as it rotated past the internal magnets. It needed work, but the unit was still in decent shape.

In his apartment, he spread the wires and tubes across the floor in an arrangement familiar to long-dead electricians and equipment mongers. The arcane tools of his trade: screwdriver, pliers, and multimeter aided him in bringing life back into his creation. After three days of sequestering himself, pouring over his hand-revised schematics, and scavenging long-obsolete parts, he was ready to test the unit. All he needed was power.

Our story continues next week. 

Sutton Street Sundays

By Bettyann Moore

It’s the eggshells in Carla’s life that annoy her the most. You know, the jagged little pieces that somehow fall into an otherwise tolerable world, the ones that grate between your teeth when you bite into them. Mr. Dobroczewski’s proposal that September morning was just such an eggshell, one that jangled her nerves more than anything had since Rick had left.

It was almost as if it had been planned for her to be walking down Sutton Street that Saturday morning, a street she hadn’t entered since “The Retreat,” as she liked to call Rick’s leaving. But because of a series of exasperating wrong numbers that finally made her take the phone off the hook, Carla had gotten a late start for the college library where she and Millie were going to cram for a biology final. Her usual detour around Sutton Street would have made the impatient Millie cranky for the rest of the day and impossible to study with.

The feelings that overcame Carla as she penetrated the forbidden territory were an odd mixture of nostalgia and pain. She strode purposefully by the little shops and homes that she and Rick had passed countless times before.

There was Mrs. Santini, as usual yelling at one of her many children. Carla remember how she and Rick had tried to count the brood on several occasions and had come up with a different number each time. And here was Mr. Stanislaski, just opening his thrift shop. Oh, the many hours they had spent wheeling and dealing with the keen old man over things like the wicker love seat that went so perfectly in front of their tiny fireplace; and that ugly tapestry that Carla hated, but Rick just had to have for the big empty spot on the wall behind their bed. The tapestry was gone now and Carla had somehow never found a suitable replacement for it, despite the year’s worth of time that had crawled by.

When she came upon Mr. Dobroczewski’s Bake Shop, Carla started to cross the street, afraid of the memories there. As she stepped from the curb, however, Mr. Dough, as he liked to be called, came rushing out of the door looking aggravated until he spied Carla standing on the sidewalk.

His grip on her hand belied his 70-odd years as he greeted her and pulled her toward the bakery. Her mind reeled with the aromas that poured from the shop, propelled by what Rick had called “Mr. Dough’s Nose Fan,” the one aimed out of the window telegraphing the shop’s message better than any neon sign ever could.

“Please, please,” Mr. Dough begged Carla. “You must do me a big favor. You wouldn’t let an old man down now, would you?”

“What is it? What can I help you with, Mr. Dough?” Carla asked, worried by his urgent tone.

“It’s Muriel!” he replied. “That good-for-nothing Muriel! She went and run off with some grease monkey from New Jersey and I don’t have no help in the store. That girl, I knew she wouldn’t last long, always casting her eyes about, looking at anything in pants!”

That “girl,” Carla knew, was 45 if she were a day and had worked for Mr. Dough for 20 years.

“But what can I do about that, Mr. Dobroczewski?” Carla asked, afraid of his answer.

“You come work for me, that’s what! You know the business, you and that fella of yours been here enough. It’ll just be the weekends, mind you, a little pin money. You come to work tomorrow, Sunday, it’s my biggest day, you know.”

How well she knew. Sundays had been the days she and Rick, on the hottest and the most frigid mornings, had walked down Sutton Street to buy the Sunday paper at the newsstand and then would wait in line at the bakery to buy their usual half-dozen sweet rolls. Mr. Dough didn’t believe in the “take a number” system and Muriel, patient Muriel, wouldn’t hurry the customers, customers like Mrs. Ferlinghetti who always took forever to make up her mind, but who would always go home with two loaves of French bread and six cream puffs.

They didn’t mind the wait. She and Rick loved to watch the people who were drawn in either by the Nose Fan or habit. They would giggle at the old man whom everybody knew had more money than a Rockefeller, but who would purchase his day-old bread with money wrapped in two layers of tin foil and a layer of plastic wrap. Or their hearts would go out to the Santini kids who came in with scraped knees and tattered clothes, waiting for someone to drop a dime so they could snatch it up, even before it hit the floor. On days when no one “accidentally” dropped a few coins, Mr. Dough would make a big show over how he had burned a dozen doughnuts and couldn’t sell them. Would the Santini kids please take them off his hands? Away they would race with the prized confections that, as far as Carla could tell, weren’t burned in the slightest.

Those lazy Sundays when she and Rick would take the newspaper and the rolls up to their bed, filling the sheets with newsprint and crumbs. Then they would make love, the papers hastily thrown aside, bits of icing and dough clinging to their warm bodies.

And that particular Sunday, when the stroll to the bakery had been more like a jog, Rick hurrying before her. He had already put on his business suit – his new promotion carried great responsibility and opportunity, but only if he put in the time, even on Sundays. Carla had tried to be understanding. She hadn’t cried until Rick in his damnable hurry in line at the bakery, had yelled at Mrs. Ferlinghetti to pick out her French bread and cream puffs already! And then, as if the sight of the Santini kids had somehow made his new wealth feel dirty – he’d offered them the money to buy their doughnuts.

Everyone had stopped their chatter as the kids, pride drained from their faces, backed out of the shop and ran empty-handed toward home. Carla’s shame was in the fact that Rick showed no shame at all. Before the week was out, it was over between them.

Carla had spent the year picking the eggshells out of her life and now here was Mr. Dobroczewski cracking another egg into her finally-smooth batter. All right, she could use the money. Damn him, how did he know? He looked so lost, how could she turn him down? She said yes and hurried off to study with Millie. Afterward, she returned to the bakery and learned how to run the cash register and all the little things connected to the job and promised to return the next day, bright and early.

She almost backed out of the agreement as she stepped from her apartment building and smelled Indian Summer in the air, the time she and Rick had enjoyed the most. Mr. Dough’s pleading eyes came to her mind and she headed for Sutton Street, wishing the day were over.

It was strange from the beginning. Mrs. Santini was nowhere to be heard and her kids weren’t running through the alleys or bouncing balls off the stoop. The leaves from the few trees on the block fluttered across the deserted street as Carla walked slowly toward the bakery. As usual, the fan was blowing its good air out onto the sidewalk and the big window was steamy from a morning of baking. And, as usual, as Carla opened the door, she saw Muriel behind the counter.

“Muriel! What are you doing here?” Carla cried.

“Just wait your turn, please,” Muriel hushed her as she wrapped Mrs. Ferlinghetti’s bread.

It seemed as if the whole neighborhood was there: Mr. Stanislaski, the Santini kids, even Mrs. Santini herself. It was impossible for Carla to reach the kitchen to confront Mr. Dough.

“Who’s next?” Muriel called out.

“I’ll have six of those sweet rolls,” a painfully familiar voice replied.

All eyes turned to Carla, who saw no one but Rick standing just five feet in front of her. The crowd parted and Carla strode boldly to the counter and stood beside him as Muriel bagged the rolls and then handed them to her.

“But, I ...”

He was looking into her eyes then and saying, “I thought we’d stop and get the newspaper on the way to, uh, your apartment, if you don’t mind. I have to check the classifieds for a new job – I quit the last one, you know. You were right, selling out meant more than that: it meant selling my soul.”

Carla hesitated – there were a lot of things to discuss – but let him take her arm and guide her through the quiet, smiling crowd and out the door, into the street they loved.

Gifts of the Storyteller

I thought I liked Cliff, but maybe it was time to reconsider. I consider myself an optimist when it comes to relationships, but there's a fine line between putting up with a little nonsense and becoming a doormat.

The storyteller, dressed in a scarlet bodice and heavy patchwork skirt, smiled and brushed her long hair aside. I couldn't really follow her story, something about a kid in Ireland who helps a spirit living in the well behind his cottage. I might have been able to make sense of it all but the woman kept pausing after every line, either for dramatic effect or because she was making it up as she went along. I couldn't tell. Cliff, who was going by the name Thaddius today, stared at her with rapt attention though his long fingers twisted his tunic's lacing in tighter and tighter curls.

But spirit, tell me more of this world you speak of. I ... would know more.

Cliff nodded along, bouncing like a little ball. Why we were here when we could be at the bawdy pirate sing-along, or watching fire eaters? Boys liked naughty songs and fire, didn't they?

The spirit thought this admirable of the boy, so this was good.

Was that a double positive, or just redundant? Fifteen minutes in so far, with no end in sight. After this epic turd of a story was over, I hoped there was still something fun left to do.

The spirit said, 'By the light of a second new moon ... the portal will open to the land under the hill. If ye heart be true ... then no harm shall come to ye,' the spirit whispered.

Cliff leaned over and gave my shoulder a friendly bump. He had an amused glance, like we were sharing a secret. I faked my best amused look, which seemed to please him. This morning in the car we were making fun of these people, the scrawny men in chainmail with iPhones (Doth thou harken me now?), the serious roleplayers who sneered at each other's costumes (You bought that online, didn't you?), and the gawking parents who caved in to their kid's demands for plastic swords, tiaras, and all manner of junk-foodery (Funnel cakes! Snow cones! Turkey legs!). Yet here he was, as much a rube as any of them. And I was sitting next to him for what? Going on a date in some distant future? Not having to go to the homecoming dance alone?

Sadly, yes.

Then the storyteller leaned forward, exposing more cleavage than she had any right to.

But if'n you be false, then the fae take ye!

It had to be the woman's boobs, I thought. Her bodice pushed everything up and together and masked her doubtless flabby tummy. While her chest was displayed for all to see, her heavy skirt could have hidden a circus's worth of elephant's thighs. I glanced at Cliff, and sure enough, his gaze drifted somewhere south of the storyteller's face. I wanted to reach out and cover his eyes, the perv, but to be consistent I'd have to blindfold him for the rest of the afternoon against all the other bawdy wenches running around. I had to admit that I considered a similar outfit for myself, but a corset on my chest would look as impressive as a gilded egg carton. Life just wasn't fair.

So the boy nodded and said 'I understand spirit, and pledge that it will be so. ... And the sprit found this to be good.

Wait, did the kid just admit to being true or false? And did if false, did the spirit think that was good? I sighed.

"I know," Cliff whispered. My heart rose as I thought he and I were back on the same wavelength, like the times at school where we'd roll our eyes at the same things: Mr. Burton's lectures on how tough college classes would be, the tired alpha-dog clichés shouted over the PA at school assemblies, or the way Tara Spielman closed her eyes sang with look-at-me vibrato in choir. Cliff was just teasing me with this storytelling bit. He did have an odd sense of humor.

I rocked to my feet to leave, but he put a hand on my knee. "What are you doing?"

His hand was on my knee! I should have been giddy. "Come on, let's go," I said.

He looked at me like I was crazy.

"I want to hear the end of this."

"I want to see the mud show."

"Come on," he said. Like I was the one being unreasonable here.

The storyteller cleared her throat. "Lass, if you don't mind, either sit quietly so others can enjoy the tale or kindly bugger off." She smiled saccharine sweet.

Would they put a minor in the stocks for punching out a storyteller? I was willing to find out, but Cliff put his hand in mine and pulled me back beside him. His hand was smooth and warm, just as I had imagined it. Part of me wanted to storm off —and I do love a good storming off—but most of me wanted to happy dance. This was what I wanted wasn't it? Yes, but I wasn't going to be a doormat.

"Ask me nicely, Thaddius. Say please," I said.

His face tightened, and his hand twitched in mine. He would have jerked it back, but I held it tight, squeezing harder. He glanced at my hand then smiled at me.

"Of course, m'lady. Please."

As I sat, he turned back to face the storyteller, though with less intensity. Around us, others stole glances; a few smiled. The storyteller kept on with her tale, though now she frowned during the dramatic pauses. I just stared past her shoulder, willing to listen to another hour of drivel if needed. If the worst thing about Cliff was a weakness for melodramatic stories told by top-heavy hacks, I could live with it.

Besides, the mud show had a second showing at 2:15.