Get ready for a thrilling ride into a future where robots and humans clash for control in RoboNomics, the updated and refreshed version of the 2013 sci-fi classic.
In Toronto, elementary school teacher Andrea Anderson's world crumbles when she's rep...
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At the end of the school day, I rush to hop an automated streetcar home, and will myself to avoid the iVerse, E-merse, or to send a single message until I can ensure they'll be encrypted and secure.
When I get off the streetcar at last, I rush down my street from Bloor. Every step is an agony of anticipation as my mind spins out, planning my every move. I'll tell the union about the press conference first, I think to myself as my black heeled boots crunch frosted brown leaves gathered on the sidewalk. Then I'll let Chris know.
Not the Reclaim our Future Movement. That's not how my mind frames the small group of unemployed activists who toil in that former Liberty Village factory. Instead, when I picture their work, Chris' face fills my mind's eye. Only his.
I shake my head and the blond whiskers and blue eyes disappear. I try to pass the long walk by taking in the view of the ancient trees, now nearly barren for the year, that spread across the street in a comforting canopy. It can be a relief, to walk down the street without my I-yes on. I get that feeling of superiority when, as now, I spot someone else who is obviously consuming AR content as a digital overlay that partially obscures the real world. It's a man, wrapped in a shoddy brown coat and long knit scarf, with eyes that flick around wildly as he steps down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street from me.
I also get relief from the constant barrage of advertisements that change as the I-yes system tracks every step. The wearable tech was marketed as an enrichment of the real world, and our lives. But I know better. Not only do I have the tracking turned off, but I refuse to turn on any but the most urgent notifications. The results are a blessedly unobscured view of the late autumn afternoon that's quickly sliding into twilight.
When I finally turn my key in the backdoor lock and shake off the cold in the little foyer of the apartment I share with Austin, I can't wait any longer. I double check the security on my private network and immediately send a message to the union. It's brief – giving the date and time of the RoboNomics press conference planned at my school.
I log off and shed my wet boots, leaving them in the cramped foyer. I throw my coat on the beat-up, green and beige striped couch that Austin's parents gave us when we first moved in together. By the time I've flicked on the dim, mid-twentieth century lamp in our galley kitchen, the union has already replied.
"Thanks so much for the information, Miss Anderson," the message starts off. "We've been planning a day of action for some time and you've just provided us with the perfect venue."
I start to write back, "you're welcome" via my AR workspace. But then something occurs to me. Something about the words they used. We've been planning. Why didn't they tell me about their plans? Why, even though I've been passing them every little last bit of information I could about the I.I.U. program, have they been keeping me in the dark?
