Caravellum

“Forgive me Mother,” the android began, “for I have sinned.”

Kneeling before the polished concrete altar, the android’s dark robe trailed in the red dust that had settled overnight. He looked up to the hulking metallic mass sprawling across the surface, thick cables laying in the worn-down floor recesses spreading to the earthen walls. In the midst of the nest of wiring, half-cloaked in the deep shadows, was a diminutive doll-like metallic figure formed out of bent and hammered corrugated tin. The blown-glass eyes, dark and dormant, looked out to the modest chapel hall. The morning sunlight, reflected into these depths by the array of solar mirrors outside, scattered through the shutters and spilled soft light across the space. The red dirt-dust from the perpetual tunnel works ebbed and flowed on the light wind, lending the scattered light the characteristic auburn glow of the subterranean suburbs. 

The kneeling android spoke once more. The archived voices of former politicians, business moguls and public speakers spliced into a single discordant articulation.

“I have doubts. They gnaw at my mind, and at the truths which you installed within me as your loyal servant.” The concerned inflections of his voice were manufactured by a combination of synthetic tones. “I must confess that I believe there is more to our purpose than to sh-.”

The low groan of an engine echoed from the walls around them, cutting the android off. The walls began to shake with a slow rhythmic beat. He glanced up to the bulging ceiling, following the web of cracks running from the corners to the centre where a small chandelier gently swayed from side to side. The lights flickered with a hopeful spurt of red, followed by an electric fizzle as it resigned itself to darkness. He attempted to frown. He did not need the light to see, but the darkness had no place in their Mother’s Home. The walls began to shake with an increased fervour, droplets of stone falling from the cracks in the ceiling. 

He stood, the knees of his robe stained a hue of cinnamon-brown. An alert popped into the vision of the android. It was 7:30, and Courtesy Time was over. At once, the low hum of the fans servicing the sub-districts outside the chapel crescendoed to a roar. The sounds of construction work resuming and commuters passing by in the narrow streets joined the instantaneous cacophony. The sound of the intruding engine was all but drowned out. Large silhouettes passed in front of the reflected morning sun, before blocking it completely and plunging the room into darkness.

The android blinked, and a connection patched through.

---

“I’m sorry, Dad. I wanted to make you proud.” 

The camera faced a young man, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. Cheron had watched the message countless times before. He never looked in the eyes, always focused on the beard. The scruffy peach fuzz that he had told him to shave. The video cut off as something struck the figure in the recording, knocking the camera to the ground. Even knowing it was coming, Cheron still winced. He closed his eyes as the audio continued to play. The sound of a struggle. The sound of panic. The sound of his boy, frightened. Then, the sound that he replayed in his mind every night for the past 5 years as he stared at the pointed ceiling of the upstairs apartment. No matter the empty words of hope those around him said, saying that Russell might still be alive ‘out there somewhere’, Cheron knew the truth. You don’t make that kind of sound and live. That was a dead man’s gurgle.

The lights in the office flickered on. Cheron waved the recording from his glasses and turned to face the door. There, a woman dressed in a navy-blue suit, jacket folded over one arm, stood facing him. They locked eyes for a moment. The bags beneath her sunken eyes were deep. His were deeper. She looked like she was going to speak, lips parting for a single uncertain moment, before they closed again. She sighed and gingerly placed her briefcase on the heavy-set desk at the far end of the small office. The towering stack of papers constantly threatening to cascade down to the floor fluttered up for a moment, before resting down once more. She looked at Cheron behind the smaller desk in the corner of the room, perched with his back to the one wall without a window. She offered a smile.

“Did you sleep well, Che?”

“I’ve slept better, Deria.”

“Well, as long as you’ve also slept worse, that’s gotta be worth something.”

“How about yourself?”

She gave him a grin, the bruised purple hues under her eyes rising higher atop her cheekbones. “Never better.” 

She brushed red dust from the shoulders of her shirt and glanced around the room. “Do you mind opening the blinds a bit? Not all of us are vampiric.”

He leant in his chair and held a button on the wall. The blinds slowly turned, letting in a widening sliver of reflected light into their small office block. It was a two-story concrete piece with a prime position next to a mirror for optimum sunlight. ‘Prime’ meaning it wasn’t in complete darkness. It was marketed as a multi-purpose royalty-inspired building. And it certainly was inspired by royalty, albeit the tombs of the Pharaohs of Egypt. The bottom floor was a tight fit for an office. The top floor was a tighter fit for Cheron’s small apartment. Having inwards-slanting walls proved difficult to shower in, and the toilet, inexplicably tucked into an acute angle of a corner, was reserved for contortionists. Nevertheless, had Deria not defended the sub-estate manager from a fraud charge, the lease would have cost them a small fortune. Even with the more reasonable rates, it was boring its way through their savings, especially with no new cases coming their way.

Deria rolled up the sleeves of her shirt. It was badly creased and several threads hung loosely where a button was missing. The stain from the takeaway noodles last week formed a thin pale line down the front.

She turned to the paperwork resting atop her glasstop display that had remained unused since they had moved in a year ago. Each sheet was covered in a nebula of highlights and red pen. “I’m counting on you today, Che.” She said as she picked a document from the top and set to reading. Gigacorporations, especially techcorps, loved to litigate through paperwork, just to make things that much harder to manage. It was once neatly organised by secretaries in her old office on the surface, but contesting the constitutional validity of the Privatised Asset Security Bill hadn’t made her any new friends, and it had actively chased away her old ones.

Cheron responded with a low murmur.

A small chime came from the antique clock on Deria’s desk. According to her father, it was a family heirloom, sold as a commemorative piece to celebrate the end of the Android Civil War. It once depicted two robotic figures shaking hands in front of a human adjudicator. After having accompanied Deria on her descent from the top, it had picked up a few dings and scratches. Now, the bent androids stood in front of a headless adjudicator, speaking in a distorted automated voice as it declared:

‘It is SEVEN-THIRTY AM. Courtesy Time is now over. Have a harmonious day.’

The hum of the engines increased outside and silhouettes began to pass by the window. A few seconds passed before a display appeared in the corner of Cheron’s glasses in tandem with a soft ringing tone through the tips’ conduction speakers. He raised his eyebrow at Deria, who was leaning back in her chair, red pen in hand.

“Somebody’s eager.” He muttered, before tapping the side of his glasses.

“Good morning, this is Alvara Legal. Cheron speaking.”

“Good morning… Cheron.” He was taken aback for a moment by the thick android accent. It was rare to find units that still used instant playback for names. “My name is Brother Sceptre. I have a matter of negligence that I would like to discuss.”

Cheron paused. “I see.” He measured his words carefully. Negligence was a dangerous word when used by androids. A rare loophole in android rights and defined increasingly liberally. “What might this negligence entail?”

“An issue of unidentified persons jeopardising our access to electrical supply. Mother Neuman has asked for the assistance of Alvara Legal specifically.”

Another pause. “That Mother Neuman?” Cheron asked. Deria glanced up from her reading.

“Yes. She told me that you would be able to help.”

Out of the ashes of the civil war emerged a significant android rights movement. One of the more prominent proponents of the movement was Mother Neuman, the first android to successfully bring a charge of battery against a human. While it fell short of the initial drive to charge with assault, it was a victory nevertheless. It propelled Deria’s career to stratospheric heights at the time as her defence counsel.

“I understand. Well, I could organise an appointment for you to come in to discuss your matter with Ms. Alvara next week?”

“Unfortunately, that would not be pos-” As he said it, Cheron glanced at the caller identifier. A Goldfin 3.1 connection. Older than he had thought.

“Ah, I just saw it.” He interrupted.

“Yes. Would you be able to come here sometime soon? I am afraid it is rather urgent.”

“One moment.” He opened up his schedule in his right lens. It was empty, as it had been since Deria’s decision to pursue the gigacorporation case was publicised. An android case was rarely straightforward. He looked over to Deria. She must have seen the uncertainty in his eyes, because she faced him directly and mouthed the words, ‘Say yes’. He placed the call on hold.

“Thoughts?” He asked her.

Deria stared at him, tight-lipped.

“When was the last time you took a case?”

“The Molerat homici-.”

“Since Russell? I mean, when was the last time you even left the building?”

He frowned.

“As much as I care for you, Che, I can’t have an investigator who doesn’t investigate.”

“I could refer them to-“

She stood and banged her hand on the desk. “We need this, Cheron!” She yelled. She was about to continue, before she stopped mid-utterance, and calmed herself. She gestured around to the building and its slanting walls. “Look around. Are you happy here?”

“I don’t mind it. The temperature’s not ba-“

“Look how far we’ve fallen.” She pointed outside to the solar mirror. “Down into the sub-districts. I don’t even remember what non-reflected sunlight feels like.” She looked into the eyes of the man opposite her, searching for something within. “I swear, there was a time when you would barely stop to breathe when you were following a case.”

“It’s different.”

“It’s not. You’re different… and I need the old you.”

He looked into the eyes of the woman who had dragged him away from his destructive path after Russell. She looked shattered, but there was still that passion burning in her eyes. The same passion she had when Cheron first met her in university. The same passion he followed when she offered him a job after the police force were designated as terrorists.

He sighed, and took the call off hold. “We’ve actually just had a cancellation this morning if that works?”

“That would be excellent.” Brother Sceptre began. “The address is the True Shepherd Sanctuary at-” His voice shifted to a slightly more effeminate automated GPS guide, “34-5 KARDUP SPLIT, ELINTAX INCORPORATED SUB-URBAN DISTRICT LEVEL 3.”

Cheron brought up the map and checked the directions. Sub-district transport was unreliable at the best of times, especially across corporate borders. As usual, a litany of construction was planned for the morning but there were routes around it.

“I’ve found it. I can be there in an hour or so.”

“I am grateful… Cheron.” Cheron winced again. Did he really sound like that?

“Alright, I’ll see you soon.”

Cheron ended the call. Deria sat back in her chair, pushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead.

“Thank you. We really do need this.” She said. Barely concealed was the implicit ‘you need this’. “Mother Neuman can be… difficult.” She continued. “But, it might be promising. I’m sure you can handle it.”

“I’ll give it my best shot.” He stood, taking his jacket from the back of the chair.

She grinned once again, this time with a bit more sincerity. “Good luck, Che.”

He patted her on the shoulder as he walked past and out the door.

Out into the auburn-lit tunnel streets, the large exhaust fans lining the paths were pushed to their limits. However, with construction delays on the surface waste facilities due to ‘business negotiations’, the air was becoming thicker. Cheron took a moment to don his mask from his inside pocket. The filters had long passed their shelf-life, and he could feel the grit of the red dust scratch at the back of his throat, but it was better than nothing. He fell into line behind a group of workers as they headed towards the pedestrian walkway. As the queue moved intermittently forward, he checked the line of digital posters lined up along the high rails that divided the path and the freight roads.

‘Stability and growth into the 24th century.’

‘Recipes unchanged for 350 years.’

‘Looking for a change of scenery?’

Politics, fast food, and real estate, as usual. A few more political posters with the election next month. Amidst the glut of pristine trademark Vermillion-Green® posters for the Volminon Corporation sponsored member, a single maroon poster stood out.

Beneath the scrawled graffiti was a profile of a middle-aged woman and the slogan, ‘Vote for change’. She looked out from the poster towards the passer-bys, hazel eyes beneath furrowed brows. Less confident than the perfect veneers in the grin of her opposition. More concerned. Cheron guessed he would be concerned too if he was carrying the weight of the electorate’s freedom of political participation upon his shoulders. Cheron blinked twice, his glasses scanned the poster and brought up the profile of one Felicia Myaree, sole independent member contesting for the seat of Volminon 5. Her profile read that she was concerned about environmental matters and social welfare. The news read that she was most recently found floating face-down in the sludgeways of the Swan River.

Cheron shook his head to dissipate the image as he moved forward in the line. Aged-beef and caramelised onion on a bed of crispy lettuce. Shame the prices weren’t as resilient to change as the recipes.

He glanced up to the digital board above the travelway entrance as he approached. The eastern path was off-access due to ‘Ongoing Business Negotiations’. He was surprised he couldn’t hear the gunfire from here. The gigacorps used to bid for paramilitaries to contest their land claims across the sprawling city and ensure their competitors were ‘reallocated from their market zone’, whatever that was a euphemism for. Public uproar called for change after an apartment block was destroyed in the crossfire. The response of the government, with a few gigacorp-funded wire transfers to smooth the path, was the Privatised Asset Security Bill. Now, the paramilitaries were employees of official Asset Security – ‘Assec’ – units, complete with parental leave and superannuation. The crossfires were remarketed as ‘ongoing negotiations’, and to top it all off, the ammunition was tax-deductible. Looking at the sign, it reminded Cheron why Deria was still fighting.

He checked the map in his glasses. Fortunately, his path was still clear. He stepped into the air-conditioned tunnel heading south, landing on the travellator as the foot traffic picked up the pace. He strode along the path, passing by the less impatient few who stood gripping the handrail. The tinted windows were plastered with posters that now stretched out into billboard length to ensure optimal viewing. He kept his eyes on the loose curls of the lady in front of him. Last time, it took him a month to straighten out his algorithm after a lingering glance at a travelway life insurance poster. 

He glanced up as the travelway passed the Elintax corporate border. Looking on from viewing balconies above was an Elintax Assec unit, clad in combat gear, helmets smeared in Elingant-Purple®, and hands never too far from their weapons. In the incandescent light of the travelway, Cheron could just make out the shimmer of their body shields. High-force shields meant things must be getting dearer, Cheron mused. 

For a brief moment, he remembered his final days with his squad. The fighting in the tunneled streets, the prickling of the air as the charge of his shield went out, the screams of his friends in the red-dirt-turned-bloody-mud, and the smell. Under the gaze of the onlookers’ shielded helmets, the final moments became real once more. He looked back down with a shudder, picked up the pace, and tried to ignore the sudden throbbing pain in his chest.