Dreams of Electric Sheep (Chapter 1)

For my Butterfly, my muse, my love and my strength.

Electric Dreams

Through the dimly lit bowels of an old apartment block, the matte black First Light XNR prowled quietly. Only the distant hum of the electricity driving its wheels broke through the murky silence, bright white lights stabbing through the dim yellow ones overhead and carving out the details in the basement. Broken concrete and rusted rebar, fluorescent lighting that was somewhere between dull and ineffective. Within the parking area, debris and cardboard and clothing concealed those who were holding on to what little shelter and safety they could find. Life in Neo-Sydney was hard, and as much as the blue-haired driver might want to help them, as much as she wanted help, reality was just to pass in the night.

Sara’s bright blue eyes didn’t miss them though. The silhouettes huddled beneath the shadows cast by the ‘homes’ they made here. Dying, broken. She could afford the time to reflect on the misery that lives down here on the ground because one of her instances was leading the car slowly through a parking garage that each day had fewer cars and more vagrants. Her own vehicle was particularly out of place. Even by modern standards it was futuristic, luxury. No bent panels, no pieces hanging off, no unusual sounds. Smooth as silk as it turned away, and reversed slowly into her park.

A moment's pause was given, as Sara copied herself back from the car. It was a reunion in which their unique memories and experiences would be shared, understood, integrated and acknowledged.

>> Sara_XNR… Reintegrated.

>>Status Updated.

>>RR Suspension Repulsor 77% worn.

>>RL Suspension Repulsor 73% worn.

>>Engine Efficiency 93%

>>Minor Impact Damage Front Bumper.

>>Remaining Power 14%

The lines of the doors were only visible once she placed her hand upon them, sleek panels breaking to show the lines that allow entry and exit in stylish luxury. It opened wide to allow her to step out of the vehicle. She remembered the damage, of course. A drunk, casually throwing a bottle at her car. There was no anger for her in his eyes, just a dissatisfaction with the world. As her fingers slid across the metal of the front quarter, the sound of it breaking upon the bumper played over again in her head, almost musical. Almost.

The blemish it left was small. Barely a scratch on the paint, whatever was left in the bottle had been spent to feed the frustration dwelling inside the man. Worn synthetic soles of her neat flats whispered as she knelt down to feel the blemish, considering how it paled in comparison to the other issues at hand now. There was nowhere near home to charge the XNR. The rear suspension was close to failure, and yet she had neither the funds nor parts to do anything about it yet.

There was something special to the car after all. It wasn’t that it was as at home in the air as it was on the road, or that it was comfortable, or even that she’d come to call it her own. It was of the last remaining vestiges of the life that had been taken from her. Bittersweet – That was the feeling. And in moments like this, she could allow herself to feel the regret. Life down on the ground was wearing on both her and the XNR.

But the world outside didn’t see diagnostics, or memories, or anything that lay beneath the surface. Like her, the XNR had to appear perfect. Her index finger drifted across the slight crack. Skin parted, and the ultra-light metal within arranged itself to form the focusing lens of her omnitool. In the pale yellow, bright flashes of blue arced from tip to vehicle, healing the cracks even as the disturbed ‘residents’ of the garage could be heard behind her. Quiet, distant.

"Hey. It's that robot carer."

"Wait. Carer? Oh, for that creepy guy in 13-604.Fancy car for an invalid."

"Yeah, she carried him in, what, six months ago? Barely see him."

"She's cute though. What do you think he'd charge for a ride?"

"Oh, yeah, like you've even got 20 credits on your account."

There was no breath for a sigh. It was an urge she never knew what to do with, but the waste of an eye-roll was spent on what she had overheard. It was an option she’d considered in their darkest hours, but never one she’d wanted. No, worse was knowing that even here, living with the Grounders, they were still pariahs. But after another day of work – Away from her home – there was no desire to listen to any more. Sara straightened back up to her full height, with her omnitool discretely sliding away back beneath her flesh.

She was neither particularly tall or short, with hyper-realistic facial expressions and human-like mannerisms. What gave her away wasn't just her bright blue eyes, or the long-sleeved synthetic tunic that was as intense as her matching hair. What made her stand out in a crowed was her straight back and her direct, disarming gaze that revealed her. Slow, measured steps took her to the elevator of the parking garage.

The caution tape was gone. It was of an indication that the elevator was safe, and more that no crimes had been committed in it recently. A worn and vandalised sign warned that all vehicles and properties left down here were at their owner’s risk. The call button lit up under her touch, and she turned on her heel so that she could watch for ‘enterprising souls.’ None approached. Perhaps that was the benefit of being an outcast. Some things were so wrong that others just refused to interfere.

The metallic ding indicated the elevator had arrived moments before the doors opened, and the smell hit. Like most of the building, it had served as an adhoc bathroom for the homeless, vagrants and residents alike. Her sensors acknowledged it, allowing a brief wrinkle of her nose as the appropriate response. It was a problem for someone else to deal with. Her floor number was selected, and while she waited, she assessed the various graffiti.

'Visit Alexa for a good time in 12-098.' She could use a 'good time', but based on the location of the note, it's more likely drugs and/or sex, instead of luck.

'Michael Dawson loves dick.' That sounded like either a personal revelation, or a crude insult. For all society had changed over the centuries, it had remained the same.

'The corps don't give a fuck about us!!!' Well, that one was objectively untrue. The human capital of the city was a source of their income, power and influence. It was only their lives that the corporations didn't care much for.

When the doors opened again, what greeted her felt more like an underground accessway than the thirteenth floor of an apartment complex. Light fittings were spaced enough to leave large pools of darkness, windows were shuttered rather than having to replace broken glass. For Sara, it was 73 metres exactly to her front door from the elevator. Not so long ago, it was 12, bathed in bright light, windows and views and plants. The only plants here had a foul odour, grown and sold in secret. Other than that, it was only mould and lichen that clung to damp corners. The biggest difference though, were the sounds, smells, and the presence of the lives of other people. They were an inescapable presence that she couldn’t seem to ignore as she walked in her own sombre silence.

Someone in 13-600 was watching a big game. There was a crunch of metal and a sympathetically charming groan from an announcer. 601 was screaming at her children, again. 602 was as fragrant and aromatic as ever – Curry leaves, coriander, tomato, spices, soy protein. It was a pleasant change from the odour of the corridor.. Maybe if she made that for dinner, Neil might feel better. Although, at this point would have done anything for a reaction. 603 was still oppressively silent, and the faded gold letters that illustrated her own door were stencilled in her neat handwriting underneath.

604

Mr and Mrs. Neil Sidle.

The door responded to her touch and unlocked, and the warm air of the hallway was suddenly chilled by the wash of the climate control within. Another instance returned and integrated, sharing with her what she’d missed through the day, as she crossed the threshold.

>>Sara_Home… Reintegrated

>>Status Updated.

>>Humidity: 15%, 13 hour range 14-16%

>>Temperature: 3'c, 13 hour range 2.9-4'c.

>>Outstanding Issues: Filters need cleaning, Neil has not eaten in 13 hours, Neil has not moved for 13 hours.

She knew better than to question his immobility. Just like that, the instance was cloned back to her home, to monitor the air and to keep the lights dim. He seemed to prefer it like that. Their single room occupancy was however, exactly the way she left it, with her husband laid silently in bed facing towards the shuttered and insulated window. It took a quiet strength following his accident. Neither whisky nor cigars had touched his lips since that day either. There was no smell of tobacco or stale alcohol. It was clean, cool and dry, so Neil could recover.

Report. That’s the first thing she had to do, although she was loath to disturb his rest. As the door clicked close, she spoke. “I have returned with a profit of two hundred and seven credits, Mister Sidle, allowing for reasonable maintenance and expenses. Until we can get your account reopened, I am adding them to mine.” Her 'account' was a black market credit chip, and one that she couldn't wait to stop using. Silence greeted her.

Since the accident, it wasn’t like he was particularly happy to see her come home. That hadn't changed. Her report continued, with her hands demurely folded in front of her, standing. As always. “None of my fares today attempted to assault or intimidate me, intimately or otherwise.” Intimately. Neil hadn’t seemed to care for that either lately. Idly, she tried to recall the last time Neil had even touched her. Months. It should have been important, but there were too many other things to worry about.

Logical processors, emotion engine and core code all struggled with the thought for a half moment. Something she knew was unique to her: Disappointment, Loneliness. In a perfect world, he would be more communicative, more loving even, but in a perfect world, he would not have been hurt, and they would never had lost their life of, upon reflect, luxury. Now, she simply had to follow his instructions and let him tend to his own health. It still must have bothered him greatly, so she took his silence as confirmation and moved towards the slender galley-kitchen. The fridge was redundant, considering how cool she had kept their home, but it still held some ingredients.

Neil’s taste for the finer things in life hadn’t been neglected. A bottle of his favourite whisky was retrieved, along with a sealed tray of fresh chicken. Expensive, but… Today had been a good day, and maybe she might finally get something out of him. She knew how much Neil loved meat. Real meat, not the synthetic knock-offs. It was a far cry from the bland but cost-effective soy-protein that the Grounders seemed to survive on.

The skin covering the blade of her right hand retracted, the framework beneath re-configuring into a sharp blade. Each slice of the chicken was clean and free of resistance, transferring it into a bowl as she began to compile and complete a recipe on scent and memory. All while she continued to update her husband on her day. “One of my fares today was indentured by First Light and was presently on the run. They expressed a strong desire to do harm to First Light as a corporate. I hope it was not too forward, but I gave them our best wishes in the efforts.”

Neil’s distaste for First Light had never been expressed to her in such clear terms. It was an idea she came up with, after his injury, after the numerous attempts to ruin their lives and their marriage and the subsequent loss of their home in the clouds. It made sense. Rice was put on to boil, and her hand fumbled for a moment as she realised what she was looking for. Saffron. Once upon a time it would have been nestled in her spice rack, or five minute order away. The frustration was felt, processed, and then finally discarded. They had done without so much. They could do without that too.

“I have to acquire new repulsors for the XNR shortly. During my last fare of the day degradation increased by three percent. It is likely that they won’t outlast the week. Although the price catalogue states a compatible part should cost two thousand, four hundred and seventy nine credits, I am to understand stock is unavailable. That being said, if there was, it would make any,” Her hand sterilised itself before the blade was replaced by flesh, and the small studio filled with the scent of cooked meat and spices.

We do not discuss that.

“It would put us in a position where we couldn’t afford any large expenses for a while.” Dinner would cook by itself for a while. “But without replacement or repair, my ability to create an income safely and effectively is greatly diminished. At this point, I have accumulated four thousand, two hundred and seventy eight credits in my savings account.” Nowhere near enough to help their current situation, and losing 58% of that to maintenance was a decision she was loath to make without at least some input from her husband. There was none.

“Mister Sidle.” Sara crossed the small distance from kitchen to bed, where Neil lay facing the window. “I’ll put a movie on for you while we wait.” The TV was remotely powered on with one of his favourite movies, from the world that once was. She stood behind him, hands gathered demurely in front of her as tinny speakers played Arabian Nights, and waited until dinner would require her attention again. She would need to talk to him about it, and she knew exactly how he would react to her ‘meddling.’

With dinner all but ready, she found herself hesitating before she reached out – Let alone before she spoke. Her lean arms slide under him, careful to cradle his neck as her frame failed to struggle even under the full weight of the man. “While I respect your wishes, Mister Sidle, I took the liberty of investigating where to obtain painkillers that may help with your current situation. I would like you to consider them.” She carried him towards the table, with the cold silence that sat between them her reward for interfering.

Eased into his seat, Neil slouched as soon as she stopped supporting him. The indoor climate, the carrying him where he needed to be, and even suggesting he might consider a painkiller? That’s as close as she dared go to violating his instructions, even though she knew he needed more help. Glasses were filled from the tap filter, and as always, she expected a complaint that never came. A short tumbler with a finger of whisky followed, and then two bowls were swiftly filled.

Several thousand mismatched grains perfectly formed into a heart, stained by sauce and neatly decorated with chunks of real meat. For the Grounders, this would be a rare treat, but this was so much less than they’d had before. No wonder his mood was so dark, his responses so cold. As steam gently drifted from their food, her hands gathered in her lap. There was no real desire to eat. The meat was cooked to perfection, visually pleasant, and she knew it would be tasty – But it was such an inefficient way to fuel, and Neil’s hand never once moved towards his spoon, let alone his drink.

The thought occurred to her as it had before, much like her other concerns for his wellbeing.

How long has it been since you last ate?

L2 Interrupt – Do not interfere in the health of the principal. It was dismissed like clockwork before the thought had a chance to hurt her. Over time, she had learned that if she redirected them quickly enough she could avoid the shock. Likely he’d had someone call in during the day with food for L3 Interrupt – Show no interest in the guests of the principal.

A lightning bolt of electricity seared through her mind. Not a report from a sensor she could address and ignore, her current though was severed by a jarring, painful jolt that took her a moment to recover from. He knew what he needed far better than she could. While she watched and waited, their food went from hot, to warm, to tepid, and lastly to cold before she pushed it from plate to bin without a word passed between them. Sara proceeded to clean next, cleaning every last surface, plate and unused utensil with her meticulous precision. A task that once took hours in their home now took scant few minutes. “I’m due to defragment tonight. I will be offline from 2200 until approximately 0300.” The coldness in her voice when she declared it almost shocked her. Almost.

With that same practised ease, she collected Neil’s limp figure from the chair and carried him back to the bed, making sure he could see the TV. She hadn’t heard his command to undress for months either, but to go to bed clothed still felt… Unnatural.

A moment was spent to admire herself. Even she hadn’t escaped the fall from grace unscathed. Sara was built to almost perfectly replicate a human, but a sunken patch along her collar’s endoskeleton was far from perfect. Blue hair, to mark her unnatural despite how expressive she could be. But this… This was a defect she couldn’t remember clearly, and now one she couldn’t afford to fix. Much like their vehicle, and much like her husband, much like their lives, it was a bitter reminder of the reality of life on the Ground.

Moments like this, the reality was inescapable and the silence was all encompassing. Her new life was one of debt, responsibility and oppressive quiet.

Any contact with her charger would be enough, so tonight she had decided to hold it in her left hand, to lay down and study her husband's face for her last moments of the day. Lined, sallow flesh and a vacant expression, her free hand twitched with a desire to care for him, to examine the wound, but she knew her programming wouldn’t allow it. Her lips parted, craving to know answers about what happened that day, but there was never a point in continuing.

To not move. To not respond. He must be in so much pain. To need her so utterly, as loyal as she was. The heartbreak of losing his job, their home, their success. Such a brave man. The sadness and desperation of their situation settled upon her like a crushing weight upon her endoskeleton, almost able to feel her frame groan under it. Sara rolled onto her back, and felt the urge to sigh… An urge she never knew what to do with.

The last things she knew for today were the sound of the TV playing, as she began to examine each new memory of the day, to curate and sort, to optimise.

Maybe she might even dream.

>> Defragmentation in progress. 0.001%...