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What if we all had robots to work through our conflicts?

Very few of us relish individual conflict, but we all like getting what we want. It’s not hard to imagine a future in which some of us choose to delegate this unpleasantness to technology.

Janine was pleased. The light scent of cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg tickling her nose was near perfection. Near. She wrinkled her nose. Where was the dopamine flood she had ordered in the form of chai latte?

She raised the cup closer to her nose and inhaled deeply. The wrinkle returned to her button nose and there was a mild brow furrowing front building in the north.

There was something else in this drink. Was it lavender? No, did they even have lavender for drinks here? No, it was vanilla. Disgusting.

She set the paper cup back down and said “Pierre.” quietly. A soft wind stirred beneath the velvet chair in which she was seated and a little, matte black ball erupted into the air at eye level.

“Madame?” a flowery french accent queried her from the speaker on the ball.

“Take it back.”

“Of course.” the drone sped away and returned with a larger white hexagonal drone which picked up the cup with a claw and spirited it away with a whoosh. Pierre sped off behind the counter.

She picked up her reader and scrolled through news stories but wasn’t particularly interested in reading. She sat, expressionless, listening to the din of conversation in the space and trying hard not to let any frown lines crack her exquisite face.

Pierre returned a moment later and said “madame, apologies, the imbeciles put vanilla in your drink. It will take 2 minutes, but there will be no charge. The owner offered a scone as well, but I told him if he’s going to call my lady fat he can go and fuck his mother.”

Janine allowed herself a brief smile. “Thank you Pierre that is all.”

The black ball said “oui, madame.” and dropped silently out of sight.

Returning her face to neutral, she sent her attention back to her reader just as a message box popped up. It was forwarded by Pierre, from her best friend, Alexandria.

Pierre had written “Madame, I apologize, but negotiations failed. Alexandria has declined the invitation to Misseur’s birthday dinner.”

Alexandria had written “Hey queen, saw your invite. I am so so so sorry but we’re low key swamped with stuff that weekend. See you at the mixer!”

Clouds gathered in the valley of the forehead as ridges and lines squeezed together to form the mount browfuckthatbitch on Janine’s porcelain face. She breathed out a huff and Pierre sprang from under the chair in response just as the second latte was being set on the table.

Pierre had taken on a conciliatory tone in this moment. “Madame! Her negotiator is fierce, and she holds leverage over us by leading the Trooperettes. I am so sorry.”

Janine looked up at Pierre in disgust. She had been told this was the best negotiator money could buy, and here it was, failing to negotiate the one thing that pissed her off the most, Alexandria’s social calendar.

“Fuck off Pierre” she said and the bot dropped silently below the chair again. The clouds receded and the mountain was swallowed up again by her perfectly maintained face. She let her face relax, as her beauty coach had taught her, and set her reader down.

She reached for the cup, taking a breath to clear her airways, anticipating the perfection that would now be even more perfect as it was free perfection. She brought it closer and could smell the cloves, the cinnamon, the nutmeg, and no fucking vanilla. She raised it toward her lips, when something incredibly loud assaulted her ears. Her shoulders tensed as fight or flight kicked in, her grip tightened, squeezing the cup too hard, causing it to tip forward. Before she knew what was happening, it tumbled onto the ground, and exploded in a tea and milk Rorschach.

Pierre sprang from under the chair and darted off toward the door as she sat, stunned, staring down at her ruined life, feeling all eyes on her.

She heard something rare, Pierre verbalizing to anyone but her. “What the fuck do you mean you don’t have a negotiator? Fine you cretin, you lowlife. This is your fault. You have soiled my lady’s shoes…”

She looked down, and sure enough, her Italian suede loafers were stained by the edges of the splatter. Her cheeks were hot with rage, and she felt a flash flood rumbling into her eyes, which she closed. She’d discussed this with her therapist. Let the negotiator handle it.

She breathed in, counting down from 100 in her mind. She tried to tune out the french accented tirade coming from behind her. 78.. “no! No! You don’t get to walk away you piece of trash.”.. 73.. “.. money? You offer me money? I spit at your money.”.. 64.. “You need to apologize to me for making me come and remind you of what a loser you are.”.. 61. The tirade stopped.

She opened her eyes. Nobody was looking at her, they were looking at something behind her. She turned her head but the high-backed chair blocked her view. She stood slowly and turned around.

There, just inside the door of the coffee shop, lying on the floor on his side, was a man in a large, shabby coat. He was clutching something into his belly. Pierre was nowhere to be seen.

She stared, stunned. Several people walked over to the man and knelt. Janine was transfixed and rooted to the spot, her mouth slowly went slack.

A white ball, similar to Pierre, floated over to her and said, in a non-de-script, female voice “I’m so sorry ma’am, I can’t reach your negotiator. Please stay put, the police are on their way.”

She stared at the ball, aghast. Why was it even talking to her? She just said “Where is Pierre?”

The ball replied “Ma’am, I can’t discuss anything with you. Please remain calm. Our baristas are replacing your drink. Again. Would you like a scone while you wait?”

She took note of the passive aggressive “again” but just shook her head no and started to walk toward the man slowly. The ball maneuvered between her and the man.

“I’m sorry ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to remain where you are.”

She stopped and complied. Staring down at the man, she saw a large plastic jug of water lying on its side next to the man. She recalled the loud noise that had startled her and reasoned that he’d dropped it while trying to get through the door.

Just then a policeman in a blue uniform opened the door and a blue and red drone sped through toward her.

It said in a chipper voice “Hello. I cannot reach your negotiator. Please confirm that you are Janine Yarr of 496 Westwood Drive.”

She nodded yes and the drone continued. “Your negotiator has discharged its self defense stun, and we have no reason to believe you were involved. The assailant is in duress. We are so sorry but we need to detain you.”

Her mouth swung open in full gape, she stammered out “Where is Pierre?”

She looked on as a wheeled drone moved through the door now and sped over to the man, whom the policeman had rolled over onto his back. The wheeled drone extended an arm which dropped a mask on the man’s face and cables which pierced the man’s shirt. The policeman sat up and yelled “CLEAR!”

The man’s body surged and the cables receded. The man’s chest heaved up and down.

Janine crouched and wrapped her arms around her knees, closing her eyes as she began sobbing uncontrollably. She was so mad. Her makeup was waterproof but her day was completely ruined.

She felt a tap on her foot and opened her eyes. They lit up as she shouted “Pierre!” The drone was dented, rolling on the ground, and tapping her foot weakly.

She started to reach for him but a large, gloved hand beat her to it, picking up Pierre.

She stood up and the policeman was holding the drone, inspecting it, ignoring her. The police drone said “Ma’am, we’ve determined your drone to be in violation of robot code section two three five point one, excessive force. We have no permit for a security drone on file for you. We’re going to have to confiscate it and cite you.”

Her cheeks went flush with shame. She looked at the drone and then to Pierre, hoping he would talk to it for her, but Pierre was silent, wiggling a bit in the officer’s hand.

The drone said “Ma’am, you’ll find a citation in your inbox. Good day.”

The policeman walked away without saying a word to her, and the drone floated over to the man lying on the floor. She heard it begin “Sir, we are so sorry that you had to go through this. I see that you don’t have a negotiator..”

She stood there for a full minute in shock, and then remembered her reader. She returned to the chair. The coffee shop’s drones had already cleaned up the mess. She picked up her reader, then sat down. She saw the inbox message indicator, but she didn’t want to look at the citation.

Then she realized she had a replacement chai coming. She looked around, but there was no drone bringing it to her. She waited five minutes. The man and the police left, the mess was cleaned up behind her. She stood and looked around. Everything was as if nothing had happened. Except she was alone. She walked to the counter, where the white drone said “Ma’am?”

She said “Hi um. I thought you’d replace my chai?”

The drone replied “Ma’am, you and your french drone can go fuck yourselves. Good day.”

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