When Curtis entered the police station, he heard the familiar hum of the fluorescent lights in tired harmony with the aging HVAC unit. The station always smelled faintly of burnt coffee and old carpet—like stress baked into fabric.
Deputy Mara Tolliver walked in holding a coffee and greeted George, the Admin Bot.
“Morning, George,” she said.
The robot was her height and had the form of a person—two arms, two legs, one head. It was a mix of metal, plastic, and rubber.
“Good morning, Deputy Tolliver,” George said in a neutral tone. “I’ve uploaded to your glasses the incident report you requested.”
Like most robots in recent years, George sounded human and was driven by artificial intelligence. To keep costs down, he didn’t have much in the way of facial features—no moving mouth or eyes, only sensors and speakers—so there was no facial expression to read.
George then turned to Curtis. “Good morning, Detective Hale.”
Curtis ignored the robot and held his phone up to let the coffee machine scan it.
“This machine does not remit court-ordered surcharges. Please try again later,” said the machine.
“Oh Jesus—Mara, could I bum a coffee off you?”
Mara looked up, puzzled. “Sure, boss—something wrong?”
Curtis shook his head. “I had a run-in with some scammer this morning. No big deal, but there was an… altercation on the side… I got sewn up and fined.”
Mara waved at the coffee maker in her VR space. It started its brewing sounds. “I wondered why you looked like you just got back from physical training this morning.”
“It was… the cost of doing business… thanks for the brew.”
Curtis gazed at the TV monitor hung on the wall as he stood sipping his coffee—volume low, captions scrolling over images of farmland occupiers and makeshift roadblocks. The screen threw a cold light over faded paint and curling bulletin-board flyers.
“…rebels now control nearly forty percent of local food distribution routes in the lower plains region. Officials warn that further disruptions to interstate supply chains could lead to—”
Mara pulled out a chair, sat, and looked up toward Curtis. “Did you see the orders from Sheriff-Bot? Wants us on this—branding victim.”
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Curtis continued looking at the screen. “Yeah, saw it on my phone on the way over. Calhoun branded somebody for trying to use U.S. dollars instead of rebel currency?”
“Yep,” Mara said. “Sheriff-Bot wants our read on the victim’s account of the events—Calhoun’s demeanor, attitude, emphasis… that sort of thing.”
Curtis grimaced. “Well, it’s good to know Sheriff-Bot still needs us,” he said, sipping his coffee.
George chimed in. “Human-to-human interpretations increase the probability of convictions by 0.4%.”
“Well shit, George, with success of that magnitude no wonder they pay us like this.”
“Yes…” George was about to continue, but he must have noticed Mara shaking her head, signaling it was not a good idea.
The news feed shifted to poor-quality video scenes that looked to be from overhead security cameras in a supermarket, showing confusion—people running frantically with shopping carts, and store-owned robots spinning as if they’d lost control and were out of order, or even confused… if that were possible.
CAPTION:
Rebel collectives attack Wellfed Supermarket.
“You think we can still get there without getting caught up in…” She glanced at the screen. “…this?”
“Yeah, won’t be a problem,” he said. “What would be nice, though,” he continued, “would be to actually complete one of these investigations instead of just doing consulting work and consoling victims.”
“Agreed,” said Mara. “It was a lot more fun working here when you were Sheriff.”
Curtis smiled and lifted his coffee cup to clink cheers with Mara’s. “Those were the days.”
“Sheriff-Bot sure is smart, though… and efficient,” said Mara.
“Sure the hell is,” said Curtis, looking up toward a security camera in the corner of the room and lifting his coffee cup toward it in a mock gesture of cheers.
On the TV, a reporter ducked behind a barrier as gunfire crackled off-screen.
“…violence against authorities escalates as rebels attack the gates of Bay Estates Community in California. Federal negotiator bots say talks have stalled—”
Curtis looked away from the screen, his gaze snagging on the cluttered bulletin board: missing persons, stolen vehicles, a faded flyer urging citizens to USE U.S. DOLLARS FOR NATIONAL STABILITY.
“Whole country’s going sideways,” Mara said.
Curtis gave a tired, humorless laugh. “Sideways? Hell—it’s upside down, with bots marching over it.”
“You know Calhoun will be organized,” Mara said.
Curtis shrugged, slow and heavy. “Yeah. But we’re not feds. We’re local police—barely that. Humanitarian workers, essentially… at this point. Calhoun’ll give us a wide berth.”
The news shifted again. A stern anchor stared out from the screen, tie perfectly knotted.
“…the federal Monetary Integrity Council warns that bartering and the underground stamp exchange constitute economic sabotage. Authorities estimate nearly sixty billion U.S. dollars have been converted into unauthorized local currencies via seizure of physical assets.”
CAPTION:
Ports paralyzed as stamp militias demand “economic sovereignty.”
Mara pointed at the screen. “Rebels punish anyone using dollars; government punishes anyone bartering. We’re squished in the middle.”
Curtis smiled thinly. “Gotta stay friends with both sides.”
“So—we’re taking both currencies again?” she asked.
Curtis nodded. “Yep. Have to. We’ll need ‘greenbacks’ to get there—and stamps once we’re in Bridgefield.”
Mara tilted her head. “That’ll make us enemies of both sides.”
“Well, we could do the interview via video feed… I’m sure Sheriff-Bot wouldn’t mind keeping us behind these desks.”
“Not on your life,” Mara said with a smile. “Should we let the Sheriff know we’re headed out?”
Curtis killed the TV with a tap. “Sheriff-Bot’s smart. He’ll figure it out in a nanosecond.”
“Let’s go play law-and-order.”
Curtis grabbed his coat.
