Marge was sulking Tuesday morning. She fussed with the collar of her navy blue jumpsuit.
“They could have left me a scarf or a belt or something.”
Joe said nothing, thankful he had not been asked “Does this jumpsuit make me look fat?” He sipped his fabricated coffee – – to his palate, no better and no worse than many a cup he’d tasted over the years. Truth to tell, his gray duralite jumpsuit beat his usual slacks and shirt for comfort. No binding when he sat down. “Nearly eight,” he said, nodding toward the center of the breakfast table.
Laurel’s holo appeared on schedule, brightening to full intensity on the last stroke of eight. His jumpsuit was gray pinstripe and somehow hung better on him than what Joe had seen in the mirror this morning. Tailors, he supposed. There’d always be a difference between the powerful and wealthy and the common citizen.
“So what’s it tomorrow?” Marge asked the image. “Today’s been so much fun, I can’t imagine what you’ll do to top it.”
“Greetings, Citizens. I’m sure you’re all enjoying the carefree comfort of our team uniform.” Invisible chuckles. Joe checked his impulse to nod in agreement, lest Marge should notice. “It will interest you to know that factories all over the world are trying to copy us. China just unveiled a prototype of the Amerisuit, but don’t worry, citizens, we’re going to keep the manufacture of our clothing at home.” Cheers. “Thank you, thank you.” Laurel gestured for quiet. “Wonderful as it is, that’s yesterday’s story. We need to talk about today. The 2040 survey made us, your government, highly aware of your frustration with commuter gridlock. Combining this with the interruption of adequate fossil fuel supplies . . .”
“It’s not our fault your bots lost the Crusade,” Marge said, her face so close to the holo she could bite it if it were solid.
“. . . the collection of all privately owned vehicles in Phase Three of the New Genesis Economic Plan, to be replaced with mass transport.”
“Thanks a heap, shrimp.”
“The collection process will begin at – -”
“ – – one second past midnight tonight, Eastern Standard Time,” the three of them, and possibly half of the citizens of the Theocratic Republic of the United States of America, said in unison.
“For once we got it right,” said Joe, thinking of Sunday’s barbecue. “We ate our aerocar before they could grab it.”
“But how am I going to do the grocery shopping?” Marge said. “I was counting on Phyllis next door to take me when she does her weekly . . . oh, right,” she finished, eyes turned to the soysynth fabricator.
Joe reached across the table and patted Marge’s hand. “At least we’re retired. This one’s gonna be hard on the kids, though.” Joe Junior and his wife lived in a suburb, an hour-long commute from the chemical treatment plant where he’d just been promoted to foreman. “I hope old Laurel thought this one out good.”
The Millers slept better that night, relieved that no taken-for-granted way of life was going to be snatched from them, personally, at one second past midnight Eastern Standard Time. Marge even admitted her fuzzy pink Ameri-Sleep-Suit was plenty good for keeping her warm in the April chill.
***
Marge deigned to fabricate herself a second cup of coffee by the time Wednesday’s newsgram materialized. Joe smiled at his wife, thinking back on the early years of their marriage and the struggles they’d overcome. He stood up, leaned across the breakfast table and kissed her on the cheek. Her face turned as pink as her jumpsuit, but she smiled, too.
“ . . . Phase Four, as the natural extension of Phase Three. All active members of the workforce will be replaced by mechanized labor where needed and with nanotechnology-based fabrication. It’s a sad reality, citizens, but this country’s infrastructure, much of it sacrificed with your consent to the needs of the Crusade . . .
“Is this some kind of joke?!” Marge glared at the holo, then at Joe. “What’s Joe Junior supposed to do with his life? And his kids, what will they do?”
“. . . cannot afford the soaring costs of work-related injury claims, cannot afford training, cannot afford raw materials on a larger than molecular scale . . .”
Joe shook his head when Marge took a swing at the holo, her fist passing through it with such force she nearly fell out of her chair. She steadied herself, eyes blazing. “What’s left? Can you tell me what’s left, Joe?”
“. . . second past midnight tonight, Eastern Standard Time.”
Joe worked the soysynth fabricator himself at lunch time, Marge having retired to the bedroom after the newsgram, never changing out of her pink jumpsuit. “Spaghetti and meatballs,” he said, then watched his request materialize, plate and all, in the single serving bay. He ordered tea and toast for Marge, but she waved it away.
“No work, Joe. No work. What will people do with their lives?”
Joe ordered some jam for the toast and ate it himself, knowing it was best to leave her alone when she was thinking this hard. Maybe she’d call next door and talk to Phyllis, like she did sometimes when things were on her mind.
They tried to talk to Joe Junior that night. Alice, his wife, answered the phone. A bot had delivered a box holding the contents of Joe Junior’s locker from the plant that morning, for which Joe Junior had signed. Then he’d left, not for his last scheduled day of work but for the nearest bar, said he didn’t care if the beer was soysynth. No, he wasn’t home yet, but the bartender had called to tell Alice that Joe Junior was all right, that he would put him on the airtram at closing time.
“He’ll be okay, Pop,” Alice said to Joe. “Mostly, he’s upset because he doesn’t want to let you down. He’s always tried to make you proud, and when he got that promotion . . .” Her words faded to a sniffle. “Like the Theocratic Republic is giving him a choice,” she muttered. “’Night, Pop.”
When they got into bed and turned out the lights, Marge was quietly crying, and heck, Joe had to hold back a tear or two himself.
END PART II
Next week: Concluding with The Seventh Day, PART III. . .
