Text from story reads: “Babe, the guy who used to be called Alejandro died when he got run over by a 36-wheel, AI-driven, caterpillar truck carrying edible nuclear waste to Megasydney-2. Despite the chunks of grey matter inside your titanium skull, HR has determined that you lack a human mind and all subsequent emotions and entitlements.”
I didn’t respond, system still initializing, messages scrolling down my field of view, obscuring my vision. Finally, they cleared.
“You’re RoboBro now, babe, and you’re going to revolutionise the food delivery business,” the cybertwink in the turtleneck and labcoat said, taking a brief, professional look down at the breast-shaped protrusions bolted to my chest. “The Tits for Tips program turned you into a GothGF CyberCentaur™ to improve earnings with the ‘Male 15-35,’ demographic and generate a sense of safety and camaraderie with other women.”
“Okay, babe,” I said.
“No. I call you ‘babe,’ you don’t call me ‘babe,’ babe.”
My processor struggled to parse that, but before I could waste any time spontaneously developing feminist philosophy in the workplace, Brolivery Corporation assigned me my first package.
@coreyjwhite.com and I have a new story out today in Interzone #303: "Do Motorcycle Centaurs Dream of Five Stars and A Tip?", a queer, hyperpop infused robocop parody you can read right now at www.patreon.com/InterzoneMag!