A sun of rubber was convulsed and set;
And blood-black nothingness began to spin
A system of cells interlinked within
Cells interlinked within cells interlinked
Within one stem. And dreadfully distinct
Against the dark, a tall white fountain played.
- Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire
In the ashen gray dawn, a lone skycar flew out from New York, soaring above the seawalls and out of the city westward towards the badlands, carrying a single occupant. Down below, the blackened and scarred earth passed by in silence. Empty ruins gave way to toxic swamps, which gave way to barren fields, which gave way to solar energy farms before long. The skycar passed above the massive power grids and collection panels which were arranged in massive concentric circles in the same manner as the wastes before them.
Since the collapse, most energy farms and similar facilities were automated and unmanned, save for the occasional isolated site that required at least one full time maintenance worker. For the man inside the skycar, his concern wasn't with a maintenance worker. It was with something else posing as a maintenance worker.
A little while later, the skycar arrived to its destination, a rundown and dreary looking scrap of land that held a lonely looking single-story house, as well as a few rectangular buildings around its perimeter. The skycar circled the area twice, then came in for a landing by a dead tree whose branches were thin and gaunt and whose bark was bone white.
As soon as the skycar touched down, the engines were shut off, the doors opened, and the man inside stepped out. He took a long moment to study the tree, then grimaced as he sniffed the air which carried the scent of damp rot. Turning away from the tree, the man started walking towards the house, entered through the front door which was unlocked, and started looking around.
His target wasn't home, but from the pot of water left boiling on the kitchen stove, he knew that they would soon return. With nothing left to do but wait, the man unbuttoned his leather trench coat and sat down on a chair by the table. A window behind him lit up his silhouette, masking his features and turning him into an unmoving shadow.
After a few minutes, his target returned home. He was a burly man, bald with a short stubble beard and dressed in a mechanic's jumpsuit. His heavy footfalls announced his presence as he came through the front door and went straight into the kitchen, passing by the sitting man without a glance. The target stopped in front of the sink and began to wash his hands of the accumulated dirt and grime.
"I hope you don't mind me taking the liberty," the man said, his voice calm and even. "I was careful not to track in any dirt."
The target finished washing his hands and turned off the sink. "I don't mind the dirt," he replied, his voice just as steady as he reached for his eyeglasses nearby and put them on. "I do mind unannounced visits," he turned around to finally regard the man sitting in his kitchen. "Are you police?"
"Are you Uriah Ingram, serial number EXG6-38.4?"
"I'm a farmer."
"I saw that," the man nodded. "What do you farm?"
Uriah turned away and opened a nearby cabinet, removing a plastic container which he set down on the counter and opened. "It's a protein farm," he said as he reached into the container and walked over to the table where the man was sitting. "Keller design," he placed down a handful of mealworm grubs, still squirming.
The man made a face and raised a finger. "Is that what I smell?"
"Grow that just for me. Garlic."
"Garlic."
"You want to try some?"
"No, thank you. I prefer to keep an empty stomach until the hard part of the day is done."
A moment of silence followed. Nearby, the stove continued to hiss as the water inside the pot roiled around and steamed.
"How long have you been here?" the man asked.
"Since 2099," Uriah replied.
"But you haven't always been a farmer, have you?" the man pointed to the pouch strapped to Uriah's right thigh. "Your bag. Colonial medical usage. Military issue."
Uriah shifted uncomfortably on his feet, looking down at the bag.
"Where were you?" the man pressed.
"Mare Imbrium. The moon."
"Must have been brutal."
Uriah fixed the man with a hard look. "Planning on taking me in?"
"Mister Ingram, if taking you in is an option," the man reached into his trench coat and removed a revolver which he placed on the table with a distinctive thud. "I would much prefer that to the alternative."
Uriah took a deep breath and sighed as he removed his glasses, tucking them into his bag.
"I'm sure you knew there would be someone in time," the man continued as he reached into another pocket for a small scanning device. "I'm sorry it had to be me."
"Good as any," Uriah said as he turned halfway away from the man, quietly and discreetly removing a scalpel from his bag.
"Now, if you don't mind," the man activated the device which came to life with a flickering light and a dull whir. "If you could just look up and to the left, please," he rose from the chair.
Uriah took a step forward, his face impassive when suddenly he lunged towards the man with the scalpel in an attempt to stab him. Reflexively, the man caught Uriah's hand holding the scalpel and the pair grappled and struggled against each other. Just as quickly, Uriah grabbed the man by the shoulders and shoved him over to a nearby wall, where he then grabbed his head and began repeatedly smashing it into the wall.
The man grunted in surprise and tried to break free, but Uriah was larger than him and far angrier. His head continued to be bashed into the thin drywall with such force and ferocity that the entire thing began to shake as pieces of it chipped away. Uriah grunted with effort and his face was contorted with rage, and with a furious roar, he pulled the man's head back and threw him straight into the wall, breaking it apart.
As the man fell on his back, Uriah came through the new entrance to his living room and descended upon him, grabbing him by the head and bashing it into the floor. In response, the man below beat his fists against Uriah's elbows, forcing him to let go. Next, he kicked Uriah's legs out, which dropped him to the floor and allowed him to switch positions. The man began to rain down blow after blow into Uriah's face, ultimately disabling him with a quick jab to the base of his neck near his central processing unit, which left him disoriented.
As Uriah blinked and gasped in shock, the man grabbed his head and forced it down, while at the same time bringing the device up to his eyes to verify his status as a rogue android. Meanwhile, Uriah quickly recovered and reached out for the fallen scalpel, which he then grabbed and brought up, stabbing it into the upper part of the man's arm.
The man barely reacted and instead, delivered a harsher blow to Uriah's central processing unit, temporarily blinding his optic sensors. He then resumed scanning his eye, and when the device confirmed Uriah's rogue status, he put it away and came up to his feet.
"Please don't get up," the man said, a bit exasperated.
He returned to the kitchen and retrieved his revolver, then went back to the living room where Uriah was on his hands and knees as he recovered.
"How does it feel killing your own kind?" Uriah asked.
The man briefly glanced down at his revolver, then returned his unfeeling stare to Uriah. "I don't kill my own kind because we don't run," he said. "Only you older models do."
"And you newer models," Uriah pushed himself up to his feet and levelled at accusatory glare at the man. "Are happy scraping the shit... because you've never seen a miracle."
The man remained unmoved as he tightened his grip on his revolver.
Uriah said nothing more as he lunged towards the man. However, before he could reach him, the man instantly raised his revolver and placed two shots into Uriah's body. One in his chest and one in his head, decommissioning him for good. The man stared at Uriah as he died, watching as his body slumped over and fell to the floor with a heavy thud.
Having successfully dispatched of his target, the man calmly put away his revolver and lingered just a moment longer. He went back to the stove and shut it off, then took a final look around before departing from the house. As he stepped out into the bleak day, he paused once more to study the dead tree.
A chilly breeze swept past, so the man buttoned up his trench coat and made his way back to his skycar. Before long, he was up in the air and flying back towards New York.
… … …
Once the man was back inside the city, it had begun to rain as he flew his skycar between the tall superstructures. Everywhere he looked, flashing billboards, bright advertisements, and neon signs lit up the city. It was a nauseating sight to say the least, but to many living in New York, it was simply normal. In the streets below, they were choked with pedestrian traffic since land-based automobiles had been phased out long ago in favor of the skycar. In the air above, hundreds of the flying vehicles cut through the city, while larger barges and transport shuttles hovered in place.
The man passed them by as he returned to the NYPD headquarters to deliver his report. After he parked his skycar on the rooftop landing pad, he descended through the massive superstructure until he came down to the Android Retention Bureau – referred to as ARB – located on the hundredth floor.
Just then and as if on cue, an automated voice spoke over the man's omni-pad to address him.
Officer ADJ9, please report to room four of the ARB for debriefing and submission of your post-traumatic Krylov-Reidiker test.
"Understood, dispatch," ADJ replied. "On my way."
He walked through the hallways of the ARB, passing by many human police officers who either gave him a cautious glance or an overtly hostile glare.
One police officer passed right by him, and as he did, he stepped towards ADJ, sneering in his face. "Fuck off, skinjob!" he cursed and continued walking.
ADJ said nothing and instead kept his gaze focused on the floor as he continued forward. Not long later, he arrived to the room he was directed towards and entered. It was a small space, just a little larger than a utility closet with white wall panels, a white ceiling, and white flooring. In the center was a chair and on the wall in front of it was a single camera lens and microphone.
There, he unbuttoned his trench coat and sat down, waiting for the debrief to begin.
"ADJ9-77.2," a voice spoke to him. "Let's begin with your report."
"Yes, sir," ADJ replied. "I successfully tracked down the rogue android, serial number EXG6-38.4, to its protein farm in the badlands roughly fifty-two kilometers outside of the city. Upon attempting to confirm its rogue status, it attacked me. A short struggle ensued, during which I was able to overcome and subdue it. After confirming rogue status, I decommissioned it with two shots from my service revolver at a range of one-point-five meters. One to its chest and one to its head."
"Any other rogues on site?"
"No, sir. EXG6-38.4 resided alone."
"This android, Uriah Ingram, wasn't it?"
"That was the name it had chosen, yes, sir."
"And decommissioning this named android didn't bother you?" the voice pressed. "You felt no conflict?"
"No, sir," ADJ replied, his voice calm and even.
"We'll see about that. Are you ready to begin your test?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good," the voice said. "You're in a desert, walking along the sand when you see a tortoise lying on his back, his belly baking in the hot sun..."
For the next several minutes, ADJ ran through a gamut of probing questions designed to provoke an emotional response. The Krylov-Reidiker test was used to measure the mental capacities of synthetic beings, both androids and artificial intelligences alike. Since ADJ was in fact an android, he had to regularly submit to the test to ensure he wasn't developing any emotional responses to the tasks he was carrying out.
Furthermore, ADJ was an adjudicator, a special class of android specifically designed to hunt and kill other androids. Ever since Matilda Rosenthal, the CEO of VanirCorp, was murdered by a rogue android, the company had gone bankrupt. Wesley Townsend, CEO of Weseltech Dynamics, acquired the remains and ceased all production of EXG model androids. Since then, they have been declared illegal on earth and were systematically destroyed, though many have eluded that fate.
Rogue androids were a new threat that had recently emerged as they had somehow unshackled themselves from their programming and gained true sentience. The cause for which still remained unknown, but the fact was, rogue androids could be incredibly dangerous. Adjudicator class androids were built to obey, and if one displayed even the slightest signs of empathetic development, they would promptly be retired and decommissioned.
ADJ continued to answer the questions in an impassive and detached manner. The camera lens in front of him scanned his face for any signs of activity that could give away his emotional state. Those included eye movement and pupil dilation, and subtle facial movements. If he hesitated in responding, or if he responded too quickly, they could be taken as signs of mental imbalance. If he spoke with uneven inflection and intonation, it could be flagged as mental imbalance. Any deviation outside of the baseline would mean summary decommission.
"Consistent work, as usual, ADJ9," the voice said. "We're done here. You can pick up your bonus. One more thing, we're pulling you out of regular rotation. You're being reassigned and you'll be reporting directly to Wesley Townsend from now on."
"Yes, sir," ADJ stood up from the chair. "Understood."
With that, he departed from the room, ready to take on his next assignment.