Allen could see what had begun this new divide in society: fear-mongering with probable cause.
He leaned back on the bench, deep in thought, watching the people passing by. Automatics might be shunned and frowned upon by many, but he could see a surprising number of them still interacting closely with humans. Groups of Blue-eyes walked with friends — both human and automatic — talking, laughing, drinking. No one seemed to care, as there were far worse things happening down here than humans and Automatics getting along. The ritzier humans among the crowd wore suits or dresses, and were either businessmen or mobsters — or perhaps those were one and the same down here. Allen had been told that sleek fibreglass outfits and sharp, angular designs predominated current fashion, but that didn’t seem to be the case in this area. Lower Manhattan was stuck in the late 1920s, and no “Technossance” would change that until the city cleaned itself up.
He saw something else when he looked deep into the crowds, something that defied the history books he had read. Men and women were both equal, as were black and white. All humans were equal, all valued above the machines, who were treated like dirt, just like the human slaves of old. All transgressions were forgiven in the name of progress and scapegoating. Human nature reared its ugly head, and again, one society was built upon the backs of another. Hundreds of years of racial tension, and all it had taken to heal those scars was something else for all humans to hate universally.
Allen was part of the worldwide excuse.
Looking up at the towering billboards and electronic screens that had recently been unveiled didn’t deter this assumption. The billboards marketed everything from suits to drinks to the latest cars. Television was a burgeoning new technology used by businesses first and foremost to make back the money they spent on the devices. While nothing was overtly anti-Automatic, it was hard not getting that vibe from the advertisements. Ford was “Mankind’s Car.” The slogan for Land in Upstate New York was “The Eyes Are Always Greener Here.” Even postings about jobs and welfare said in big bold letters, “Help for the Working Man.”
He got up from the bench and merged into the crowd again. He felt like something inside him had sunk down a few leagues. Now, walking shoulder to shoulder with other bipedal creatures, he felt more isolated than he had before. The sight of rust and steel was easier to pick out and identify with than the men and women who surrounded him, giving him suspicious looks because of his blue eyes. The walk to the 5th Precinct was a hard one, but it gave him all the thinking time he needed.
“Who’s there?”
Robins’s office was a beacon for Allen in this dark, dreary underbelly of a city. It was late, but it seemed that the commissioner spent more time in his office than he did at home. It was well beyond eleven at night, and Robins was the only one left in the station. All the lights were off except for the one in his office and the one in the hallway leading to it. Allen poked his head in, and Robins relaxed, lowering the gun in his hand down. “Oh, Forty-One. Sorry, I get jumpy this late. What are you doing here?”
“Commissioner,” Allen began, trying to reciprocate his boss’s formal manner, “shouldn’t there be people working at this hour?”
“Inspections, son. FBI wanted the floor cleared so they could see if my officers were hiding anything under the floorboards. They aren’t. I’d know about it, after all. But we humour them.” He sipped from a snifter on the desk that sat next to an M1911 pistol. “Can I help you?”
“I need access to the higher levels of the General Electrics building. It’s for the case Detective Roche and I are following.”
“I see.” The commissioner didn’t bat an eye. The alcohol was weighing him down. “It’s hard to get jurisdiction to go up there. Only when ‘absolutely necessary,’ they say. They allot only thirty minutes a month. But I’ve been saving them up in case it ever does become absolutely necessary. Best I can get you is about two hours above the Plate. Hell, what am I saying? Roche usually only needs five minutes to get his shit done. You probably won’t even need all that time.”
“So … you’re giving us access?” Allen asked, puzzled at Robins’s behaviour.
The commissioner reached into a drawer and grabbed a hard plastic card. He slammed it onto the desk and slid it to the far edge, then went back to his drink, turning to look out the window at the dead fountain outside. Allen approached the desk and took the card.
“You know what that fountain is?” Allen was caught off guard by the question, but Robins didn’t wait for an answer. “That is a tiered fountain, built in 1862, and designed and crafted by Owen Jones, who helped make the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park. They shut off the water back in 1925, and they nearly took the fountain, too.”
“Fascinating,” Allen said, trying to be as supportive as possible, but unsure of how to proceed.
“I got them to leave it there. I had to pull some major bureaucratic strings, but thanks to being friends with the mayor … well, it was worth the effort.” He took another
