Caravellum

The pop-up display told the android that it felt happy. The alert appeared in the corner of its vision as it ran a damp cloth across the smooth metallic handrail. A soft hiss of hydraulics from above accompanied the slow drip release of a pale serum into its emotive system. Indeed, the android felt Happiness, and it was happy that it did. It was one of its favourite feelings to feel. It was here that it often felt it. Standing in the old foreman’s office and looking out to the expansive warehouse, with its hundreds of rows of pods, stacked and organised with just enough space in the narrow gaps for the metal criss-cross of thick service cables. There was a sense of satisfaction in knowing that, as their Keeper, it was responsible for this elegant demonstration of organisational efficiency. It glanced at the thin meniscus of the serum in its display, slowly trickling down. It would be happy for a while yet.

A soft blinking alert came from the large screens in the centre of the office. Columns of colour flickered, updated by the microsecond with extracts from the Filters. The Keeper fixed its glance on the alert as it approached the screens. It scanned through the long list of extracts, passing by the growing bright red pillar of Anger, the diminishing columns of Happiness and Love, before it found it. Towards the smaller end of the columns, just after Nostalgia, there was a new column. A small sliver of lilac. The Keeper had no memory of it. Neither in his local drive nor in the inherited files of the former Keepers. The column was short, but rising. A single question mark blinked where the classification should be.

The Keeper turned to pore over the screen by his side. There, a kaleidoscope of coloured graphs were ever-shifting, an intricate web of scrawled lines dancing to the beat of supply and demand. As always: Happiness in demand, Anger and Sadness in surplus. Yet, there was no sign of this mysterious new extract. Had it been able to, the android might have felt Frustration, or even Discomfort, by the presence of an unknown variable within its meticulously curated system. Yet it felt happy, just as the serum instructed. 

The Keeper looked out through the window to the warehouse. Its vision panned over the room, where a small pin alerted it to the source of this new resource: Filter 732. Stepping out of the office, the android lifted from the ground, tugged up by the dreadlocks of cables running from its fibreglass skull to the cable network intermeshed within the ceiling. It skirted around the large exhaust fans, consistently whirring into overdrive to cope with the radiant heat of the network, and passed over the stacks of pods towards the back of the warehouse. 

After a moment, the Keeper lowered itself at Filter 732. It took a moment to brush an errant wisp of dust from the lid of the pod. Then, with a swiping hand gesture, the internal lock opened with a hefty thud. The lid slid open. Within the pod, body crooked into the nest of wiring drilled into its skin, was a Filter. With a blink, the Keeper opened its identifiers in its display. Hope Marlow, forty-three years of age, newly interred. Her recent extracts were listed by its side. The page was mostly drowned in red. Then, that small sliver of lilac.

Selecting the most recent timeframe in its display, the Keeper gently unscrewed its left hand from its wrist to expose a plug the size of its palm. Then, it turned Hope’s head to the side, exposing a socket cavity at the base of her skull. It inserted its wrist within it.  A moment passed. Then, it was Hope.

________________________________________________________________________

I looked up towards the night sky. I had never noticed how bright the stars were, or how beautiful the moon was. Standing here, they looked so close. For a moment, I wondered whether we might have had a different life if we had gone when we had the chance. The wind picked up and I pulled my scarf closer around my neck. Barked laughter and the sound of children playing came from around me. I felt a tug upon my arm and glanced down. There was a boy, wearing a crudely carved wooden mask with blotched smears of paint forming a half-impression of a superhero that I didn’t recognise. But behind the uneven eye holes were the shining blue eyes that I had longed to see.

‟There’s my handsome boy!” I shouted. I didn’t realise how hoarse and scratchy my voice had become. But the smile was irresistible as I picked him up.

‟Wow, what have they been feeding you? You’ll be bigger than me soon.”

The boy giggled, wrapping his pudgy arms around my neck.

‟Do you like my mask?” He asked. ‟I made it!”

I pulled back in feigned surprise. ‟No way! You made it all by yourself?”

‟Daddy helped me!”

‟Well, I just supervised,” a deep voice came from behind us, ‟Ethan did all the work.”

I glanced at the man. He was similarly wrapped up from the brisk wind, hands tucked into the pockets of his thick down jacket.

‟Hello, Jacob.”

‟It’s good to see you, Hope.”

I stepped back and glanced back towards the sky, keeping Ethan within my arms. ‟Well, you’re just in time because I think the fireworks are about to start soon.”

‟Wait, what about the popcorn?” Ethan sounded panicked, pointing towards a small stall near the path. The smell of hot butter wafted over the night wind.

Jacob replied with a chuckle. ‟I’ll get us the popcorn. You guys go and save me a spot.”

He walked towards the small stand as Ethan and I made our way up the hill. Already, there was a sizable crowd amassing atop the hill. I jostled my way past a group of travellers, Ethan bouncing in my arms as we made our way to the grand tree atop the hill.

‟There are so many people.” He whispered, his chin crooked over my shoulder..

There was indeed. Much more than the last time I had come. I glanced over the group of gathered folk. I saw a few familiar faces in the crowd. It seems I wasn’t the only one who had heard the news. It was fortunate that the night was cold, and they had rugged up. Hand-woven scarves were wrapped over bandages which were wound over fresh scars. With everybody gathered with what remained of their families and friends, their eyes smiled in the dim moonlight. It was a night to forget.

The Keeper recognised a few scanned faces within the group. Loyalists. Criminals.

After a few minutes of searching for a suitable spot, Ethan pointed to a low hanging branch from the grand tree that wasn’t yet occupied.

‟Up there.” 

‟Good eyes, kid,” I responded with a laugh, “I might have to get you to come work for me.”

He didn’t respond as we made our way over. I lifted Ethan up to the branch. After I was confident he was stable, I attempted to swing myself up. Instantly, a sharp pain shot through my lower back. Searing pain that made my vision blur and my grip on the branch loosen. I felt myself slip towards the ground before a firm palm planted itself in the small of my back and held me up.

‟Hey lad, do you mind taking the popcorn for a moment?” Jacob held up his other arm with a box of popcorn. “Just need to help your mum a second.” Ethan let out a small yelp of joy as he grabbed the box. 

Jacob then placed both hands on my back, pushing me up towards the branch. I felt the pain subside somewhat and positioned myself more stably.

‟You alright?” He asked. ‟That still not healed?”

‟I’ve got it.” I said, brushing his hands away. ‟Thank you.”

Jacob pulled himself up on my other side shortly afterwards. The weight of the three of us gave the branch a slight bow, but it endured. I kept my arm wrapped around Ethan, and I could sense Jacob’s hand hovering near behind me, ready to support if needed. 

The Keeper checked the extract meters. Frustration, Embarrassment. Not the unclassified.

We sat on the branch, waiting for the event to begin. Ethan had pushed his mask up atop his forehead and was staring intently at the steaming popcorn, holding himself back.

‟What’s wrong?” I asked.

‟Can I start?” Ethan asked, looking past me towards Jacob.

He nodded. ‟Go for it, lad.” Ethan smiled as he shovelled a small handful of popcorn into his mouth.

I looked out across the field. The sounds of murmured conversations could be heard on the wind. Small talk and gossip. As if the elephant in the room was addressed by remarking on its footprints in the carpet. After a moment, it fell to an uneasy quiet. The flapping of empty sleeves in the wind, punctuated by the offbeat clatter of crutches, remained an ever-present reminder.

Jacob softly cleared his throat.

‟I’m glad you could make it. We weren’t sure whether you’d be able to.”

I nodded. ‟It was a bit touch and go, I’m sorry.”

‟No need to apologise. Just good you get a chance to catch up with Ethan.”

I looked over to our son, watching a few older children playing on the higher branches while chewing on a mouthful of popcorn. I brushed a stray kernel from his cheek. I took his mask from his forehead and turned it over in my hands. While the outside was rough, the carving on the inside was smooth and done with a practised hand.

‟So, how have you guys been going?” I asked.

Jacob glanced at the mask. ‟We’ve been good. Mother Vera helps out every now and then.”

I smiled at the thought of Ethan running circles around the old midwife as her trademark cackle echoes through the village.

‟I mean, it gets hard.” He paused, before shrugging. ‟But I’m just trying to be a better father than I was a husband.”

I didn’t look at him as he said it. For a moment, I hoped he hadn’t just said it. Just so I could have a night when I too could forget. I sighed.

‟You weren’t a bad husband. It just…” I trailed off. I didn’t know what to say. It fell apart. It didn’t work. It wasn’t the right time. I wasn’t the right person. We were young. We were busy. We had our own plans. None of them seemed right. ‟you know…”

‟Yeah…” His shoulders slumped forward. ‟I know.” 

Another moment passed. He glanced at his watch. ‟Would have been our seventeenth anniversary in a couple minutes,” he paused before smiling, ‟your favourite number, right?”

For a moment, his words brought me back to the time when we were in university. When the best thing we could imagine doing was sharing everything together. I remembered eating from food trucks on the campus greens, telling each other anything from our favourite numbers, to what we would do with three wishes, to our plans for the future. We planned where we would live, when we would get married, how many kids we would have and all of their names. We would argue, both with a slight grin, about whether I would let him name our firstborn after his dog.

Thinking back on the pure joy that we had shared made me smile. Without knowing why, and without anything particularly humorous coming to mind, a laugh escaped from within me. A sound that I hadn’t heard in months. It was a strangled, hoarse laugh but it was a contagious germ and I couldn’t stop it. I tried to hold it in, but as if I had forgotten how to, each attempt burst into a more desperate chuckle. Jacob, somewhat uncertain at first, was hooked with a deep laugh too. It was a few moments before we both managed to control our laughter. In the ensuing calm, he spoke again.

‟You know, I missed your laugh.”

I looked towards him. A low whistle sounded in the distance, climbing into the night sky.

He locked eyes with me, before speaking again.  ‟I missed you.”

The fireworks began.

In the sudden flash of light, accompanied by cracks, fizzes, and the appreciative murmurs of the crowd, I looked into his eyes. They were deep set and sunken, red-rimmed and blood-shot. The bruised purple hues of the bags beneath them weighed low upon his high cheekbones. But within them, there was that same fire. The same fire I saw when he first held Ethan in his arms. The same fire I saw when he proposed to me when we sat under this same tree seventeen years ago. 

The Keeper watched the pink-hued extract of Love rise for just a moment. Then, the sliver of lilac came.

I thought of the times that we had. I had loved him, with every fibre of my being. But we had both changed. There were fights, arguments, and accusations. I had told him I loved him every day. Like routine, like it was my job. Then one day, I just didn’t know what it meant anymore, or whether I meant it. We had spent so much time together, done so much. If that wasn’t love, then what was? But then the call came, and he wanted to stay while I wanted to go. We both knew what we each had planned for our futures, because we had told each other. And we both knew that the other didn’t have to be in it. I loved him enough that I knew the best thing I could do was to let him go. I didn’t know if it was the right decision but then again, I don’t think there was one. I saw Ethan’s joy with his father, and I think for a moment that perhaps I screwed it up. I think that maybe I shouldn’t have been so fast to act. Maybe we could have been somewhere else, sitting in that small cottage we talked about buying, reading paperbacks to the three other children we promised to have. 

The fireworks came to an end with a short burst. I looked away from his eyes. Not enough time to live in the past. Ethan was clapping with glee as the fireworks ended, dropping popcorn onto the ground. I looked down, offering an apology to the people below. They weren’t focused on it. They were looking to the horizon, pointing out past the treeline. One of them looked up to me, their eyes meeting mine for a brief moment in the moonlight.

Then, there was Fear.

_________________________________________________________________________

The Keeper ejected itself from the pod, releasing itself from the memory. It looked at the figure of Hope beside it. Her forehead was damp with sweat, her brow furrowed and eyes fidgeting behind closed lids. Reattaching its hand, it pulled out a cloth and lightly dabbed her forehead, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. It adjusted the air conditioning within the pod, before closing the door.

The internal lock clunked into place as the cables lifted the Keeper once again into the space above the pods. It glanced at its emotive display, the pale serum had all but vanished, with nothing but a few droplets left behind. It pondered over what it had seen as it was dragged back towards the foreman’s office. Landing on the metallic walkway, it stepped into the small room. On the screen, the unclassified extract was still level. The Keeper watched it, staring at the defiant question mark. The regulations were clear. Extracts without marketable purpose were to be purged. The Keeper stood in front of the screen, its hands hovering over the console.

Then, there was a soft hiss of hydraulics from above, and the android hesitated.

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Cheers,

Marcus