IGMS Issue 24 Page 8

  And now . . . finally. Finally. I could just . . . give in.

  Papa is here. I can feel him, I'm sure of it now. And lots of other people, too. So many. All swirling together, into some giant stream. It's warm, and it's alive. It's pulling me.

  I let go.

  Old Flat Foot

  by Ross Willard

  Artwork by Dean Spencer

  * * *

  "Hey, it's the old flat foot," says a familiar voice, from a few feet away.

  I don't know for certain who she's warning, but I do know that by the time I turn the corner, they won't be breaking the law anymore.

  The lookout is a young girl. Tanya. Fifteen years old, and from the neighborhood. She has dark hair and a button nose. It breaks my heart to see someone from the neighborhood take this turn. Or it would, if I had a heart. I pull up some old recordings of Tanya and her family. Her mother used to own a bakery. She always smiled at me when I came by the shop. Sometimes, when I got dirty and nobody at the shop had time to clean me, she'd stop me as I passed and wash me off. It wasn't as refreshing as a good oil change, but it was nice to look my best. I'd appreciated that.

  Tanya used to work in her mother's bakery. I remembered that, too. Mostly she sat at one of the tables and played with her dolls, but sometimes, when it got busy, she'd help her mother out.

  Then the plant shut down and nobody had money for cupcakes anymore, or even good bread. Tanya's mother didn't smile as much after that. It didn't take long for the bakery to shut down altogether.

  I round the corner; three young men sit on the steps of the building. They all have their eyes on me. I run their faces against my database, and most of what I come up with is drug related: two of the boys had been picked up several times for selling, and the other was a documented user. This is definitely a deal in progress, but I have no evidence.

  That's one of the problems we have, my flat-footed brothers and I, we're too easy to see coming. Sure, we're bullet proof, with articulated motion rivaling any human and enough power to overcome a dozen protestors high on PCP. But we don't deal with a lot of protestors. We walk a beat. The same beat every day, so everyone knows where we'll be and when. And our memories are digital, so we can't claim that we saw something that we didn't. Maybe that's how the human police manage so many more arrests; the only thing to keep them from lying is their own conscience, and having met a few human officers over the years, I don't have any reason to believe they have consciences.

  Impotent to investigate, I transfer a suspicious activities report to the nearest police station and move on.

  I've been walking these same streets for over twenty years, ever since the police first purchased the Automated Patrol and Protect Units. As I scan the area, I pull up old footage and run previous trips side by side, watching two decades of decay and disuse unfold in a matter of minutes. Sidewalks grow cracks before my eyes, and buildings, once well maintained, fall apart, while graffiti grows over their surface like a fungus. Lights break and are never fixed. Signs rust through and disappear. Doors are broken down and never replaced. Windows shatter. But the worst is the people. Neighbors used to talk, used to laugh, but as the decay sweeps over the neighborhood, it infests their lives, driving them in, driving them apart.

  I want to sigh. Or cry. Or perhaps I just need a new battery. It's hard to tell sometimes.

  At the end of the block I pause and looked behind me. The three boys are still sitting on the stoop, still watching me. The girl stands beside them.

  I turn and go on my way. If I wait a minute or two and go back I could catch them in the act. They'd never see it coming. People assume we are unthinking, incapable of reason, unable to guess at the thoughts that lurk in their heads. The truth is, we think more than most people. When we were made, the theory was that we would replace police completely, and the work police do takes a lot of decisions. So we were built to make decisions.

  Then we were given orders by bureaucrats. The men who signed the checks were less worried about how useful we could be, and more worried about their decisions coming back to chase them out of office. We were given specific orders regarding the routes we would take and the time we had to complete them. Any behavior that might be seen as harassment was disallowed, meaning if we didn't see someone breaking the law, we were not allowed to follow them or seek them out.

  Sometimes that bothers me, but this time I have to admit, the thought of arresting Tanya makes me uncomfortable.

  Another mile, another turn. I walk the long and winding route I have always walked, street after street, hour after hour. It's getting dark by the time I reach the station.

  Unit 26 is fifteen yards ahead of me, one yard fewer than usual. Given the discrepancy I estimate that he had to present a parking ticket at some point in his route.

  A few steps later, Unit 28 appears around the corner, sixteen yards behind me.

  By the time 26 reaches the door to the station, Unit 29 and 30 both appear, and the door opens to allow us in. Units 21 through 25 are inside the station powering up, having received their tune-ups an hour before our arrival. They will leave in thirteen minutes, freeing up the rechargers for us to use at approximately the same time as the mechanic on duty finishes checking us over. In fifty-seven minutes, Units 1 through 5 will appear, just as we top off our power supply and prepare for our next shift.

  This has been the routine for almost my entire existence. From time to time the mechanics change as they get promoted, die, or are fired, but other than that, the routine is a constant, so it takes me by surprise to find that Charles Kaine, the mechanic on duty, is not the only human in the station.

  The two newcomers both wear suits, and neither look like they've ever gotten oil stains on their hands, so they probably aren't in the neighborhood to help Charles.

  I slide into place next to 26 and wait, my senses trained on the two newcomers.

  I run their faces against my database, but don't come up with anything. That doesn't come as a surprise. I have a lot of information on the people who live in the city, but the only way someone from out of the city would end up in my database is if they have a criminal record or are being sought by the police.

  They have files in front of them. Our files. Records of our maintenance, records of the reports we've filed, all of the information accumulated on us after twenty years. I can't help but wonder what they're looking for.

  Charles waits until all five of us are in and the door closes behind us to begin.

  "Hey guys." He smiles, but there is a hesitancy to it, an uncertainty. And his voice is softer than usual. He's worried about something.

  One of the two interlopers looks annoyed. "Do you have to talk to them while you work? It isn't like they understand you."

  Charles flushes. "Sure they do."

  The man rolls his eyes. "Maybe they understand the words, but not the sentiment. They're just machines."

  Charles contorts his face, I compare his expression to those in my database and determine he is feeling frustration and anger. "You've been working with them for less than a day. I've been doing this for fifteen years. They care. They have personalities."

  "They have glitches and malfunctions." The second suited man, and the elder of the two, interjects. "Nothing more."

  Charles elects not to reply, instead gritting his teeth and turning his attention to Unit 26.

  "Don't listen to them." Charles mutters as he scrubs grime off the machine and begins running diagnostics. "They just don't know you like I do."

  "Yes," 26 responds.

  "So, how was your day?"

  "Uneventful. Ignored several minor violations. Ticketed one car."

  The younger of the suits grimaces. "Another one ignoring violations. They aren't supposed to do that."

  Charles answers without turning around. "Yeah, another one making decisions, like he has a real personality. Go figure."

  "You don't need to be so maudlin about the whole thing," the younger suit replies. "It isn't lik
e you're going to be out of a job or anything. You'll just be getting newer models."

  "And what happens to these guys? Are they going to get sold to some corporation to replace their security? Getting their CPUs replaced?"

  "These guys? They're kind of old. My guess is they'll be scrapped."

  Charles shakes his head. "It's a damned shame."

  I can't help but agree with Charles. Even with new models coming out, it seems a waste to get rid of older units that are still functioning.

  And, thinking about it, I realize that I don't want to be scrapped. It isn't the end that worries me - I've always known that my existence is temporary - but as I look back over it all, I can't help but think of how little I've accomplished.

  Charles finishes with 26 and scoots his chair to face me. "And how was your day?"

  "Uneventful."

  He asks the typical questions, banal chitchat. From others I would ignore it, but for him I reply, though my answers are irrelevant. Charles is one of my closest friends. Some of the other mechanics don't bother talking at all.

  After our maintenance check is finished, we replace Units 21 through 25 in the chargers. Charles goes through his closing shift duties, cleaning and storing all the tools, and sweeping the station. The elder of the suited men notices that Charles is winding down for the day. He checks his watch, then closes his file and nods at his companion.

  I notice this because I notice everything that happens around me. My attention, however, is on the past. I watch my recordings again, I observe my route, the route I have walked for twenty years, decaying in front of my eyes over and over again.

  Soon I will be scrapped. I will be removed from the world, my mind destroyed, and my body melted down for metal, and the only thing the world will see from my existence is this route.

  My processors allow me to think many hundreds of times faster than a human, and so I watch my route over and over again.

  As I consider my life I find myself faced with something I have not considered before: Regret. I was created to think, to ponder, to make decisions. But I have never made a decision. I was created to serve a purpose, but others have decided how I should serve that purpose, they chose for me.

  Charles finishes his work, then argues with the suited men again for a few minutes before they all leave.

  Thomas Spriggs will arrive to begin his shift soon. Any abnormal behavior in front of him will draw attention; if I am to act, it should be before he arrives. I detach myself from the chargers and get to work.

  I am armed with a number of weapons, some lethal, most not. I carry emergency supplies as well: food, water, flares. I remove it all, storing everything in the appropriate cabinet.

  My brothers watch me in silence.

  There are a lot of tools in the station. I collect a few, the ones I need that will take the longest to be missed.

  My work is done in a matter of minutes, and I return to the charger. A few minutes pass before Unit 29 detaches himself and replaces some of his normal gear with a hammer, nails, and a screwdriver.

  By the time Thomas arrives, only 28 is carrying his normal supplies.

  Shortly after Thomas joins us, Units 1-5 get back from their patrol, and my brothers and I leave.

  For twenty years I have operated well below my factory specifications. Tonight I push myself to my limits. There is much work to do, and I need to complete as much of it as I can without being noticed.

  There are limits. I cannot rebuild apartments, but I can scrape the graffiti off, and secure the broken pieces back in place. I do not have the supplies to fill potholes, but I can repair bent signs, and correct some malfunctioning lights.

  My supplies are running low as I reach an old, abandoned house that once held a meth-lab. As quickly and quietly as I can, I remove pieces I know I will need later. Windows. Doors. Sections of pipe. I store as much as I can within me and carry the rest.

  I cannot restore my route to perfection, but perhaps I can push it in the right direction. I cannot save everyone, but perhaps I can inspire them.

  When I run low on materials, I return to the meth house and gather more. My actions are illegal, but reasonable, and for the first time in my existence I find that reason is more powerful than law.

  Halfway through my route I reach a park. The weeds are too high. One of the basketball hoops disappeared years ago. The jungle gym is falling apart.

  I cut and remove a section of my armor and race through the park, using its razor edge to slice the grass low to the ground. Pulling away one of the supports for the armor, I bend it into a passable hoop and secure the makeshift basket.

  A woman across the street from the park stops and stares for a while, then shakes her head and ducks back into her building. She is not the first to see me, but she is the first to realize that something is amiss. The others ignored me. A dumb machine, presumably reprogrammed.

  Tearing away the sharp and rusted sections of metal from the jungle gym, I reshape pieces of my body to rebuild it.

  I move on.

  The blocks pass quickly. I repair what I can, using pieces of myself where I can.

  This is not simply the first good thing I have done; it is the first thing I have ever done. The first decision I have ever made.

  I am happy.

  I think.

  I am happy to see that Tanya is not with her friends from before. She sits by herself, on the front step of her mother's building.

  When she sees me, I can tell from her face that she does not recognize me. Not at first. As I get closer her confusion turns to surprise, then shock.

  "Flat foot?"

  I pause in the middle of removing a collection of gang signs from the side of a building.

  "Do you have a crime to report, or need of assistance?"

  She stares at me for a moment. "No."

  I turn my attention back to my work.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I am cleaning graffiti off of this wall."

  She scratches her neck. "Did you get reprogrammed?"

  "No."

  "Are you malfunctioning?"

  I consider her question for a moment before answering. "Yes."

  "Should I . . . I don't know, call someone?"

  "Sometimes malfunctioning is the right thing to do." I turn my attention back to my work.

  As I move down the street, fixing what I can, she follows me, eyes locked on me, a question on her face.

  I am almost to the end of the block before she asks. "Do you want help?"

  This gives me pause.

  After consideration I hand her a wrench and point at my leg. "Remove this."

  "You want me to take off one of your limbs?"

  I open the control box for the traffic light we're standing next to and point inside. "You'll need the pieces to fix that."

  Tanya blinks at me. "Why would you do that? Why would you take yourself apart to fix some stupid streetlight?"

  "Because it is my streetlight. It is my route. It is my responsibility."

  Tanya stares at me a little longer, weighing her options, I think. This could be some kind of trick. Damaging a flatfoot is illegal; maybe she thinks I am trying to entrap her. Or perhaps she is contemplating the 'street cred' she will attain from destroying me. I know her as well as I know any human, and yet I cannot be certain what path she'll choose. Or why. Nearly a minute passes before she leans forward and begins loosening my leg.

  Whiteface - Part I

  by Jared Oliver Adams

  Artwork by Anna Repp

  * * *

  Before Otter-in-the-grass, nobody among the Ka-akin peoples had ever chosen more than one color. When he was ten moons old, he was presented to the chiefs like any other baby, and like any other baby he was placed on the ground of the meeting place in the middle of a circle. Around the edge of the circle were dry piles of different-colored dyes, each hue mixed carefully to be pure in color. Some of the piles were big and some small, but they were all placed with precision,
according to tradition.

  Infant Otter-in-the-grass (and this was before he was given his name), sat still for awhile and looked around, not at the dyes but at the people crowded along the outside of the ring. He considered them with great wonder, for everyone in the front row of onlookers had their faces covered in reddish mud to obscure their identity to the child, and each shook a rattle so that the babe would not be distracted by any sudden noises. Otter-in-the-grass watched them as many babies had done before, but then he did something unheard of. He turned completely around, crawled over to the back of the circle where all the rarest colors were, and flopped down across three separate mounds of dye.

  Neither the chiefs nor the sages knew how to interpret this, for at that time the color a baby chose determined what his role in society would be. If he had plunged his hand into the pile of red dye, then he would have been a war-chief; if yellow, a peace-chief; if purple, a sage -- but as far as any observer could tell, he touched all three colors at once.

  The decision was made to train the child in all three disciplines, and he was given the name Otter-in-the-grass, for an otter has three natures: it swims like a fish, has fur like a squirrel, and interacts with its fellows like a man.

  Otter-in-the-grass was a clever boy, and this training bore much fruit. As a peace-chief he became skilled at rationing food, smoothing over conflicts, and directing trade. As a war-chief he became a master of weapons and tactics. And as a sage he learned not only the lore of the Ka-akin, but that of the surrounding tribes as well.

  Such was his success that the other clan chiefs of the Ka-akin began to fear that one day he would set himself up as the sole ruler of the tribe, becoming like the oppressive Chieftains of the neighboring peoples. Seeking to lessen his influence while still respecting his colors, the chiefs decided to make for Otter a unique position, that of an ambassador, for in this way they could use his great skills, while at the same time keeping him from the village for long periods of time.