RoboNomics

Chapter 33 - 2016

Austin and I emerge from the bank. The plan had been simple. We decided we had two options left: a line of credit or a second mortgage. It would hold us over until the crisis passed. But our interview at the bank made it clear that we had no leverage left.

"I understand that you were a neurosurgeon, Dr. Clarke," says Mrs. Moore, the financial advisor, as we sit in her office. A handful of financial consultants still work in the bank. But the bank looks mostly empty. The tellers have been replaced with iTronics' new and improved Inteller. They are a trick of the eye: holograms. But they are equipped with artificial intelligence.

Mrs. Moore turns to me. "And I understand that you are still unionized. But bank policy has changed. Neither of you are in a low-risk category anymore."

I look at the woman in disgust. She is portly while everyone else is slowly getting thin. She has shiny skin that is filled with healthy oils.

"And the fact that I'm a professional counts for nothing?" asked Austin. A flush of anger reddens his face.

"It's not that it counts for nothing, Dr. Clarke," says Mrs. Moore. "But I can't approve --"

"Yes, you damn well can," Austin yells, drawing gasps from the mouths of the consultants in adjacent offices.

"Austin," I pull him to his feet as I rise. "Let's just get out of here. If they don't want our business we'll go somewhere else, okay?"

When we're out on the street Austin lets his anger loose. "You know we can't go anywhere else, Andrea," he shouts. "Those assholes! They can bloody well approve a loan. I have a job, for Christ's sake. A good job, a well paying job. What risk could there possibly be?"

"But Austin, you don't have a job anymore. Neither of us do."

"You know that's just a technicality. I'm a professional. There's only five hundred of us in the country, for god's sake. That should mean something."

"Austin, we have to sell our house," I say. "We have no other options left."

His lips clamp into a tight line.

"Or I guess we should have saved," I say uselessly.

He is silent for several blocks as we walk down Bloor. It is a sharply sunny February afternoon but very cold. We walk to save gas. We pass service bots of every stripe. Automated plows buzz past. A round, soft-sided bot white as the snow wheels before us on the cleared sidewalk. We're gaining on it. It's no higher than our knees and glows with internal LEDs in red and blue.

Suddenly, Austin kicks the bot into the street with an agonized wordless yell. It rolls into the street car tracks. A car driving by stops short of the bot. The little machine is now laying helpless on its side. A shout of "hey" comes from inside the car. A stout man in a black wool coat jumps out and runs towards Austin. He stops on the sidewalk in front of us and blocks our path.

"What did you do that for? That's private property," the man yells into Austin's face.

"You should be ashamed of yourself," Austin growls back. "Those things took my wife's job. They took my job."

The man is speechless. Austin wraps his arm around me and speeds me along the sidewalk. The man begins to shout expletives and threats. I catch something about lawyers and how I'm a useless bitch. There are holes in his speech. It's as if my hearing has shut down to protect me from what he's saying.

Austin doesn't loosen his grip until we're trotting down our own street.

"What was all that about?" I'm bewildered by the violence of his frustration.

He sighs. "Andrea, you're right. We should have been saving all this time. But I still don't think we have to sell, at least not yet. Besides, it's the same as the car. Who would buy it?"

"You're just saying that because you love the house. You just don't want to leave it." I can feel my blood pressure rising.

"That's not fair, Andrea. I do love that house but that's because it's the home that we built together. But look around. I know I haven't been right about a lot of things lately, but I'm right about this."

I can't deny it. Over the past few weeks I've noticed a slow alteration in the neighborhood. "For Sale" signs have come up in the windows of parked cars and in the snow in front of houses. The market is at a standstill. People who wander the streets begging for money are multiplying as fast as the robots that clutter the sidewalk.

"Oh, Austin," I say as the realization hits me. "What are we going to do if we lose our home?"

(Continued in Chapter 34...)