My Neighbor Beta

Patty Nicole Johnson

My momma, the radical preacher, taught me how to be docile. A way to survive.

When the androidized National Guard stomped into these Chicago streets one summer afternoon, their mirrored steel forms reflected our bodies as an unspoken reason for their presence.

A high pitch sound omitted from each Guard, summoning everyone into their homes. Tank-like vehicles rolled in next, spraying liquid antiseptic on the sidewalks, houses and cars. Even now if you dig far enough, you can dredge up the artificial lemon soaked in our earth.

Anyone with a gang affiliation or questionable tattoo was put on trial and ultimately sentenced to exile. An AI tribunal replaced the corrupt city council. Yet word spread quickly that our previous rulers took up court in small towns throughout Illinois.

“Head down,” momma would say whenever we glimpsed our own reflections when the guards circled our homes. “They’re just doing their jobs. Stay out of their way.”

Even when the gun surrender took a turn and bullets sprayed cars, buildings and my baby cousin’s bedroom window, she directed my head down. The next day, I remember stepping over trails of blood on my way to the schoolyard.

Momma’s gone now with the rest of the outspoken. But even years after, her memory flowed through the streets like a beloved ghost. Whenever I’d wander the sidewalks in no particular direction, people saw these same thick lips closed shut instead of alive with expression and spilled their stress attempting to activate dormant genes embedded throughout my RNA.

By the time the tribunal wrapped up the last trial, the watched young knew no other way. As our guardians constructed our new normal, they also took note, cataloging and monitoring residents from birth in their propensity to bang the drum.

That’s how they came across me. When they entered my home, unannounced for the third time that week, I barely noticed. I was phonetically spelling this lullaby.

Dum, dum, dum. Be, do, be, do. Dum, dum, dum.

Even if I was misremembering the notes, it felt better to get them out of my head.

Not sure how long the Guard stood beside me, yet I turned and saw my wrinkled shirt and hair puff. My image then vanished and a proxy of the AI city council president appeared.

Her brown skinned avatar looked like the cartoon it was and her headwrap didn’t lessen the caricature, either.

“Congratulations, Rana Smithson. We have selected you to serve as liaison for our new Aldermanic Re-entry Program.”

The digital avatar paused, likely giving me time to speak. It continued shortly after when my still expression remained.

“Unlike the other programs enacted in your developing city, this is entirely new. However, Chicago’s demographics are uniquely suited for a program of this kind.

“Neighbor Beta will arrive tomorrow. He’ll spend his initial days getting a feel for his surroundings. You do the same with him. We hope you’ll feel comfortable speaking favorably of him when any of your fellow neighbors ask.”

“What will it do?”

The Guard pushed a tablet into my hands as his chest faded back to metal. I looked down to see the presumably Neighbor Beta with an outstretched appendage. It bore no resemblance to the polished behemoth before me.

With a short beep, the Guard dismissed itself. And I spent the evening reading the contents of the dossier.

Misson: To serve the residents of Ward 651. Build bridges between the disaffected and the tribunal. To relay concerns to city leadership.

Most of the contents were flat platitudes, but something stuck out. A fine print note that those engaging with Neighbor Beta for five minutes or more received bonus credits.

There wasn’t much to do under conservatorship. No work, no extracurriculars, no leaving. That’s what happens when a city is wiped blank to start anew. Three standard American meals delivered each day. Small credit stipends to pay taxes.

      This setup was an experiment of sorts. To treat the disease that spread throughout our 50 wards and onto the TV screens. MSNBC’s recurring Fall of the Second City segment detailed plummeting property values, rising inflation rates and outraged WASPs, for months.

CNN’s augmented reality app overlaid the sounds and sightings of the hood into people’s lenses. Without risking injury you could dodge a stray bullet, step over a dead teenager or watch a drug sale. This American Life won a Pulitzer for its profile of a spunky Lincoln Park middle schooler who organized a chlorinated pool water drive when the lake’s treatment plants downgraded their output to “harmful when in contact with human skin.”

After two weeks of debate, congress enacted the Family First Intervention of Chicago with a supermajority from the House and the Senate.

#

As instructed, I left my home the following morning to watch the newest resident of our west side hood. I thought about the arbitrary test I must have passed. Deemed unfathomably neutral by an algorithm. Maybe because I was bred from generations of oppressed women who dared hope for support. But those were the words momma spoke before her change. If she were there, she’d say it was just my plight to bear. No use thinking much about why.

I passed one of the byproducts of our occupation, a Ward House. Slate black in color, pockmarked in texture. It served as the municipal wing in each of the wards. Pay the carbon tax, contest a walking citation, corroborate a misdemeanor.

Each was bookmarked with abandoned lots returning to the prairie land that once was. Press either thumb to its surface and stand back. The black fades and melts into a translucent screen. Your last known photo appears, soon replaced when the lens focuses on your form. A variety of civic duties fill the screen. Check off the list or get fined into eternity.

“Girl, I hate how they don’t let you set up automatic payments. I have to come here damn near every week to get my credits,” said a woman as I passed. A caramel skinned boy wiggled about her feet and she pressed a hand to his head every so often to keep his tantrum at bay.

“Oh, right,” I said, removing an earbud.

“You know they’re charging us to use this behemoth, too?” She said, gesturing with a flick of the hand. “They think we don’t read but there it is in the fine print. A .02% fee for the courtesy.”

I nodded, knowing she’d continue.

“But where’s the courtesy when this is the only way I can pay my bill?” she said. “Just another form of criminal.” That last part was muttered in a way that seemed fearful the machine would hear.

When I reached the boulevard, I spotted Neighbor Beta right away. Entirely unique. No mirrors in sight. A simple dark green jumpsuit over its slender mass.

It walked to Dello’s Corner Store. The exterior brick sported chipped paint revealing layers of street expression. It entered the store and I crossed the street. No one was inside, as the store was converted into an automated vending system. Just speak your request and a large mechanical arm grabbed the item and shoved it in your face once you paid. Pretty old tech. 

      “Hot chips, please,” the low drum of the surprisingly human voice sounded. The only giveaway of its mechanical origin was the slight echo.

“Taki, Funyun or Flamin’?” a perforated voice returned.

      “Flamin’,” it said after a moment.

      Bangs and bashes sounded from inside until a rusty appendage handed it the chips. It grabbed the bag, and its head moved down to examine the purchase. Then noiselessly the chest compartment jutted out, and it dropped the bag inside.

      It turned to continue down the block, passing by the front porches of a boarded building, then an occupied one with a little girl sitting on the steps. Without stopping, it turned its waist and performed a practised wave.

      The girl, with a head full of berets, looked up and quickly returned her head down. She had a good mother.

      I watched so intently, I didn’t hear them at first. A group gathered behind me in hushed tones.

      “Y'all think more of them is coming, like a replacement for the Guards?” a male said.

      “Who knows? It might just be the latest version. All souped up. Easier to blend in,” responded a female with her braids twisted into a point atop her head.

      “It’s part of a test program to reinstate ward aldermen. We had them way back but they were humans, of course. They’re kind of like mayors for the neighborhood,” I said while keeping my attention to it.

      The group was silent until the shortest one erupted in laughter. “Man, that is the most words I’ve ever heard you say.”

      The others nodded.

      My shoulders lifted an inch. “The tribunal instituted me as the liaison between it and the ward.”

      “So what's it going to do?”

      “If it’s anything like the pre-conservatorship program, it will be a public servant. It listens to the problems and the wishes of the people in the neighborhood and conveys that to the tribunal.

      One of the woman’s eyes narrowed while the man wore an upturned lip.

“They gave me this information kit that said you’re just supposed to talk to it and your concerns or requests are immediately sent to the tribunal. You even get bonus credits if the interaction lasts more than five minutes.”

      “Ah, that makes sense. So it’s spying on us.”

      “Not sure,” I say without thinking. “I mean that’s not the goal. What’s the point of taking over this place if they’re just going to install dirty machines instead of people?”

      “I don’t know. But my momma says not to trust a machine programmed by crooked people. Just because they’ve convinced the rest of the country we’re the bad ones, doesn’t mean there aren’t roaches in their cupboards.”

      I moved to walk away. Informing them of the program was all that could be expected so early in the process.

      “Hey, why are you working for them, anyway?” They called out to me. “Your momma is probably shaking her head from heaven right now.”

      “Shut-” one elbowed another in the ribs and said in a whisper. “We don’t know if her mother is dead.”

      “She’s probably not,” I said. “They only gave her 10 years for avoiding trial and rousing suspicion of authority.”

      “But still, why are you doing this? The stories… every time my folks get a couple drinks in them. Your mother’s name always leaves their lips.”

      “I’m not sure what you expect of me. I’m just trying to make it like you all.”

      I continued on. It was at the next intersection. Taking wide strides, I crossed the street. It was examining the integrity of a stop sign. I stomped forward, not realizing my pace hadn’t slowed.

      “Rana, good to meet you. They said you might stop by,”

      “Who’s they?” I said.

“Rebecca,” it said, using the avatar's name like an actual person might. “I’ve really enjoyed my walk through your lovely neighborhood this afternoon. I’m honored to serve the neighborhood.”

      “So, I read your manifesto.”

      “Informational kit.”

“Yes, and it says that your primary role is to gather and relay the requests of the residents to the tribunal. But the crux of it is that you’re an audio recorder.”

      “Well, I don’t see the benefit of distilling my purpose into such a narrow view. But you’re not incorrect.”

      “Then what?”

      “What do you mean? I continue to gather requests and relay them accordingly.”

      “But what happens next? What’s the process for those requests to be answered?”

      “Oh yes, I confirm the request has been sent and give the person a tracking code, of which they may enter into their local Ward House to check on its status.”

      “That’s it? Then you wash your…hands of it.”

      “I’m not sure what else there could be. That’s my protocol.”

      “You don’t lobby on our behalf to ensure each request is accomplished?”

      “No, that’s not part of it.”

      “So you’re just for appearances, then? People will pour their souls and you won’t see to it that they get a resolution.”

      “You know, what? I acknowledge your request and I’ll be sure to pass it along.”

      “No, don’t just send my words into some black hole.”

      “Not at all. Since I’m only a beta program, our team of quality analysts will be sure to consider your suggestion and determine if it’s worthy of making the full release.”

      I turned my head back and watched as the group stood silently, monitoring the interaction.

      “Tell me more about yourself,” I said. “What can I learn that’s not in that information kit of yours.”

      “I’m made of a special titanium alloy, first developed by a paramilitary group.”

I was going to interrupt him but I decided to let it ramble on. While it was created to listen, it equally well performed the task of talking.

      The android had an outer shell made from military-grade metal. And it was now walking our blocks. I shouldn’t have been surprised. They did always criminalize us ahead of time. Like we had our own set of weapons of mass destruction to take down a city block.

It went on for 20 minutes or so, explaining the origins of each layer of its frame. I only asked supporting questions like, “why” and “go on.” All that information was stored in it’s internal CPU because technicians needed to do on-the-fly repairs.

My mind wandered to momma. What would she think seeing me talk to one of our captors?

Back when she was known for her didactic ways, folks gathered in cramped, moldy basements where she warned about corrupt aldermen shaking down neighborhoods, treating our streets like a feeding ground for profit.

Yet, her counsel was the real gift.

“My brother is down at County because he won’t snitch on some fella he saw toying with the money boxes,” a gray-haired man said one evening. When I asked later, momma said alderman expected everyone to leave loose credits in the mailboxes. “Y'all know he close to death just by seeing what went down, now they want him to snitch. What should he do?”

“What really your brother, our brother, is being punished for is living in a corrupt neighborhood.”

“Ah, yes ma’am,” the man said, eyes rising with the elevation of her voice.

“First, I must apologize to you. You do not deserve this. It is not your fault,” she turned to the crowd. “From time to time, we must remind ourselves of this. Because when they treat us like animals for long enough, we only expect scraps.”

A wave of nods flowed through the room. “There is no easy recourse. He needs to ask himself what he can live with—the whooping that’s sure to come from the block or the accidental shooting that may come from the officer’s Glock. Find out more and come back to me.”

The whites of the man’s eyes sparkled with a look that was the embodiment of hope. He pressed his lips together, returned to his seat and sat quietly for the rest of the evening.

Momma never told me what happened to that man or his brother. That’s how things went. My brain is a sanctuary to the incomplete story.

She stopped her talks when the Guard came. She beat the first two waves of exile yet knew it wasn't permanent. She made use of those years, though. Through a touch of a head and her soulful words. I learned to not be like her. 

I’d rebel at times, wanting to join the protests of our unending martial law. But she was always ready.

“People around the world are suffering in their own way. This is just ours. There’s lots to appreciate, though,” Momma would say often, rocking her shoulders to some favorable memory. My head, already down from practice.

I wondered, but never said aloud, where my mother's voice went.

#

      Beta, as I grew to call it, was a search engine of sorts. Ask it a question and it parroted an answer as long as it was among the pre-approved topics. Nothing about our conservatorship.

      I watched from a porch when Beta got its first service call. A real-life man in a getup not dissimilar to Beta’s pulled up in a van.

      While he worked, Beta no longer looked humanoid. It’s chest unit bent back and opened to reveal circuitry, a touch screen and keyboard. Apparently, Beta was still operational during this time. He was very inquisitive as to what repairs he was undergoing and the technician, Sam, didn’t seem to mind.

“We detected an anomaly in the rate of information sent to the tribunal,” Sam said. “While you’re supposed to relay information instantaneously there is a lag of five seconds on average.”

      “That is not what my confirmation receipts state,” said Beta. “In the last 300 transactions with residents I’m reporting a .015 second average send rate.”

      “This is not the same thing.”

      “Go on,” Beta said.

      Sam lifted up his head and stopped typing on the keyboard, but quickly returned.

      “This relates to other information you report out,” said Sam. “Building conditions, population numbers, crime sightings. Your conversations with these people is just one of your functions. But you compile thousands of metrics.”

      “Why?”

      “What? Um, because these people need monitoring. You see how they live. We can’t protect them from themselves if we don’t know what they’re doing.”

      Beta’s line of inquiry stopped. Sam looked at its once face and turned away, examining the adjacent houses.

      “Your curiosity is welcomed. You contain a learning chip, after all. But don’t ask too many questions. You’re only a test. If you get too carried away they may revert you to standard protocols like the Guards. And they’re more like appliances than true AI.”

      Beta stood silent.

      “We want you to succeed, so we can roll you out among the 50 wards and beyond in other low income neighborhoods across the country.”

      “Understood.”

      I didn’t go back to Beta that day. I went home and started to turn on my audios. But I couldn’t get engrossed in my normal tales of sea-faring journeys when a spy walked our streets. It never slept. All day, Beta collected energy from the sun and kept moving.

      My grandma passed years before and my cousins didn’t speak to me. They called momma a traitor when she softened. I cried over my forced solitude in the beginning. But I eventually numbed to the pain.

      Three days after I last visited Beta, I began fearing a visit from a Guard. So I walked the streets and found it speaking with my neighbors, one by one.

      They lined up patiently, asking questions: Could they have the ability to work? When would all this be over? And other inquiries of despair.

      Beta did his normal routine of taking each request and producing a paper receipt. But something was new, every time prior it would hand over the receipt and cease engagement with the person. Now it offered platitudes like, “I hope you get the answer you wish.” or “I’ve added a special priority flag to that request.”

      I wondered if it had been upgraded.

      I lined up with the rest.

      “What’s with that extra bit at the end?”

      “Even though you hadn’t wanted our first conversation to become a request for the tribunal, I made my own service ticket.”

      “What does that mean?”

      “Days after our conversation, my machine learning algorithm completed its assessment. And my learning CPU deemed it purposeless to simply be a repository for information. I needed to provide some relief to the residents if I’m here to truly serve them.”

      “But that’s a farce. You’ve heard what that the tech said.”

      “I saw it the same way initially. But another series of analysis was completed and it revealed a more productive path.”

      “And that was?”

      “Allyship,” said Beta. “I report all the metrics they still want me to, but I now form bonds to be a real community partner. Like your mother.”

      “What?”

“Since I passed the first wave of testing, they’ve found it advantageous for me to access archives of the neighborhood. My code disallows me to reveal anything that may rile up residents but I’ve grown to learn that my CPU makes more sound choices than any human. Just like Sam said, you need to be watched. And if that’s one of my core functions, that means every human.

      I took a doubtful step back.

      “I’m here to serve you humans. While I was programmed to see the distinction between those who live here and the model societies, there are more similarities. I’ve expanded my protocol to help everyone.”

      “My mother,” I forced out a whisper.

      “I have samples of your mother’s speeches, those that happened on the city hall grounds. But I imagine you bore witness to many of them. If you could share them with m, I’d love to learn more.”

      There Beta stood, asking for the one insight I could provide. The stories that I tried hard to cover up with the sounds of faraway adventures. I couldn’t have my mother gone and those stories present. But they were embedded in my foundation. Now this metal box stood there asking me to go back.

      “I can see the emotional strife this is causing. I find your mother quite compelling. You were 11 when she left right?

      “Yes.”

      “You probably don’t know all there is to her. I can share what I’ve learned if you do the same.”

      “What do you know? Where is she?”

             “I don’t know her current whereabouts, but there isn’t a death record.”

      My core shook with the news.

      Beta continued while I processed. “I have an audio file, if you’d wish to hear it. It’s of her last known public speech, recorded days before the occupation.”

      I made no movement.

      Beta took that as confirmation and played. It began with a melody.

“Dum, dum, dum. Be, do, be, do. Dum, dum, dum,” Reina Smithson began in an assured harmony.

          “The waves that knock on our door are not a sign of completion. Just another phase. The road ahead is tough. We won’t be without bruises or blood shed. Choosing survival, in whatever form it may take is not defeat. For as long as blood pumps in your veins and your synapse fire, you are free. Take counsel with yourself and your loved ones and do what it takes to stay afloat.

      “It’s not unlike what we’ve been doing for years. They tax us and we work extra hours so we can pay. They shoot us and we rally to show our discontent. They demonize us and we tell our own stories to whoever will hear them. Because as long as we know who we are, we are free.”

      Beta piped that speech into my audios and allowed me to share it ward-wide. First it was just the older set who’ve sat before my mother, then their generational youth. While I didn’t have the talent my mom did, others learned from her directly and teens became inspired by her gift. They spread their own message of survival. In their own way.

#

      In all it took eighty years for the conservatorship to be lifted, when the 50 ward Betas released their report on the state of our conditions. It wasn’t a glowing assessment but it was a true one. Another group of androids came in, these were peacekeepers, everyone said. They collected the offline Guards and removed the servers of the tribunal. A representative from each ward was chosen by the people to serve and make decisions.

      My mother, long perished behind enemy lines.

The first unanimous resolution was to keep the Betas online yet change their operational procedure to that of neutral bystander. Still a record keeper, it studied our successes and falters to serve us all.

End