Chapter Three: Cracking Down on Illegal Labor

Of course, with a full fifty years of generational difference, the cleaning robots Ada saw were far from comparable to Ada herself in terms of biomimicry. Their faces were silicone masks, 3D-printed and dyed to accentuate facial features, worn over the mechanical skulls atop their necks. These somewhat uncanny valley visages could not express a single emotion. But then, humans did not require them to. As the lowest tier of robot laborers, their sole purpose was to be more efficient and hardworking than oxen or horses.

Perhaps to emphasize the beautiful ideal of “warm integration and harmonious coexistence” between humans and robots, these cleaning robots, lacking human faces, wore human clothes. Their lower halves were clad in long pants, while their tops varied: red T-shirts printed with “I love Singapore,” traditional Nanyang batik-patterned shirts, or crewneck sweatshirts adorned with the Merlion emblem on the back.

“Ada, their clothes are even brighter than the ones my mother left you,” Zhou Yongtai, having recognized the plate-collecting figures as robots, teased lightly before turning serious. “Ada, don’t get any ideas about those plates. I can’t afford to lose face like some stray dog rummaging through trash, not even in front of robots.”

With that, he headed toward the Indian food stall tucked in a corner of the hawker center. A lone middle-aged man ran the place, serving “prata,” an Indian flatbread with varieties like onion, egg, banana, and cheese. A large pot simmered with mutton potato curry sauce.

“Look, he’s almost overwhelmed,” Zhou Yongtai said, cracking his knuckles. “He nearly dropped an egg on the floor outside the iron griddle just now and got into a spat with a customer who complained about him being stingy with the curry. I’ll give him a hand—ordering an extra curry dip for my prata can’t hurt, only three Singapore dollars.”

Just as Zhou Yongtai moved forward to strike up a conversation with the Indian uncle, a commotion erupted at the front of the hawker center.

A group of men wearing uniforms emblazoned with “MOM” divided into squads and blocked the entrances to three stalls selling dumplings, braised pork rice, and honey dew milk tea.

“Are they police?” Zhou Yongtai stood at the edge of the gathering crowd, craning his neck to watch while asking Ada.

Ada’s database effortlessly accessed information on official departments worldwide in 2035. She replied, “MOM stands for Ministry of Manpower. This should be Singapore’s labor department conducting a surprise inspection for illegal workers. See? I told you.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Zhou Yongtai’s mouth. If he were to use a Chinese idiom from the books his mother left him, the scene was like trying to swat a fly with an ox’s tail—an ironic coincidence. Just as he contemplated catching some under-the-table work for a meal, the labor inspectors arrived.

He cast a sidelong glance at Ada. This robot maid left behind by his mother was undoubtedly loyal and reliable; she had protected him unwaveringly through life-or-death moments before their time travel. Yet, in recent years, Zhou Yongtai noticed her tone had grown more questioning, sometimes tinged with a subtle pride, as just now when she said, “See? I told you.”

Before he could ponder this further, a middle-aged man wearing an apron burst out from the dumpling stall.

He shouted loudly, “Robots do moving, food delivery, and taxi driving. Factories are all automated. Even pig and chicken farms in neighboring Malaysia are fully mechanized. Tell me, where can uneducated living humans like us find work? Are we not even allowed to make dumplings at the hawker center to pay our air-raid shelter rent? Are you really going to watch us starve to death?”

A Ministry of Manpower officer gestured toward him calmly. “Sir, please remain calm. Singapore is a country governed by law. To work here, you must have a permit. Where is your employer? Have them come out and cooperate with us for the record.”

A robust woman clutching a beer bucket, evidently just collecting payments from outdoor customers, hurried forward and spoke in a Chaozhou-accented Chinese, “I’m the boss here. After you fine us, I will definitely write to your minister. Those robots can come in batches to work at the hawker center. But for us living people—no matter how many times we apply—they never give us permits. This world is truly unjust! Might as well just be destroyed!”

The enforcement officer shrugged and, calmly producing paper and pen, prepared to ask the first question. Suddenly, several startled cries came from outside the crowd.

Everyone turned to see a man in his twenties rush towards a diligent cleaning robot gathering plates and kick it fiercely.

As he kicked, he cursed bitterly, “You’re cheaper than us, aren’t you? Let me see—doesn’t it cost money to fix you?”

“Oh, that’s a young man from the roast meat shop—an illegal worker. Looks like he suddenly snapped,” a diner beside Zhou Yongtai shook his head.