Authors note- I'm not the first to attempt translating the novel, but I am the first to post any progress I have made. You can find the pure translations on my AO3 account, as they allow fan translations and ffn does not, but here is the translation and the fanfic bits.
Paradigm Noise Chapter 1 A Starless World And When Memories Shine
1
"These schematics are quite the pickle I fear. And if not for what you seem to know of it, I'm not sure I could make sense of it myself." Norman stated while looking over the pages of technical drawings.
The technical drawings were a replication of Dorothy's schematics. Having to redraw them by hand, because the originals were locked up somewhere in Paradigm City governments vaults after Dr. Wayneright's death. Even though androids could technically inherit property and money in Paradigm City, the government had stepped in when Dr. Wayneright had died and taken almost everything the reclusive roboticist had owned, leaving Dorothy near penniless. That had included her schematics and his laboratory notes. The only thing left to her was a rotting tower that she had not yet sold off for whatever reason.
So why exactly was Norman remaking them? It wasn't as if Dorothy wanted him too, or really she didn't see how that would help anyone. But someone was to blame for this situation.
It had been Ray's fault, but it wasn't as if she had told Norman that depending on which way the world decided to fall apart, Dorothy would either be torn to pieces by the Union led by an insane Angel, or have her CD drive ripped out and left a zombie by Beck. No, it was because of something far more troublesome…
Memories…
Days ago, Ray had woken up late from another nightmare, or was it a nightmare? To her it had felt so real it was like she was there, and it led her to asking Norman some questions.
"Norman…?" She poked her head in the kitchen. Roger wasn't up yet, but she was in need of tea to calm herself.
"Good morning Ray. Here to finally help out with the cooking?"
"Heh, ok I'll help." She grabbed an apron, and while doing as Norman directed her, also put on a pot of lavender tea Norman had started buying for her. "Norman… Have you ever had a nightmare or a dream so realistic… it felt like it was actually happening?"
"Hm?" He turned his head from the scrambled eggs he was making and looked down at her. He hadn't noticed it when she had come into the kitchen, but she had a grave expression, and seemed pensive. "Well, I can't say I've had many of those. Mostly just revisiting old memories I sometimes would rather forget."
He found himself touching his eye patch when he told Ray that. "But be that as it may, I know the thought will fade in time."
"Hm." She didn't seem wholly convinced. "I don't think this will go away."
"Was it worse than typical?" Norman went back to the scrambled eggs to prevent them from burning.
"No, but it was… bizarre." Ray shook her head as if to make the strange dream go away. "And it felt… real. Like I can still remember the sensations of what I was doing in that dream."
"Hm. I suppose just give it time." Ray tried to take Norman's advice, but by noon it was apparent that even such sagely guidance was not going to help her. She was jumpy, even if nothing was there to pester her.
"Ray, are you ok?"
"Yes… No." Ray shook her head again and just tried to sink into the couch in the lounge.
"Did you have another nightmare?" Roger was asking her all of this. He'd noticed her being out of sorts that day, but it was like something had possessed her with fear. He'd been sitting in the lounge chair reading the midday paper, and Ray had startled when he flicked the pages.
"Yes… maybe. It was weird." Ray sighed. "I just… it was so… real? Wrong? Both at once, yeah that's it."
"I find it odd that you are not telling us exactly what this nightmare is about. Can we presume it is not an underground chase?" Dorothy had come in as Ray was saying how that nightmare had made her feel.
"It wasn't."
"Why not tell us then?"
"Because you'll get mad."
"Why would I be upset about your nightmares?"
"Because it was about you!" Ray outburst and sudden realization she probably shouldn't have said that told everyone else that whatever her nightmare had been, it really had shaken her worse than they thought.
"About me?"
"Yes."
"You're right, I do not like that." Dorothy stared at Ray for an uncomfortable amount of time before probing her, "And what exactly happened in this nightmare?"
"Ugh." Ray threw up her hands and then covered her face. "Fine." Ray took a few deep breaths, "Ok, so… You were… in maintenance? No, that's not it." Ray tried to puzzle out how she would explain this dream.
"You were on a lab table. And like, your insides were exposed… No that's not right either. You were being built? Yeah that's it. The inner wiring was all done, but the outer shell and synthetic skin hadn't been applied yet. And it was like I was putting you together. Except it wasn't me." Ray looked down at her hands. "No, it was someone older, and they had gnarled hands, but they were slow and methodical. They, I, uh, whatever, were placing parts of the metal shell over the arm circuits and making sure it snapped into place. I was both watching through their eyes, and doing it at the same time." Ray sighed and scratched her head. "It was super bizarre."
Everyone was silent, and with the other three staring at Ray she felt even more uncomfortable. Finally Norman spoke.
"It seems you may have inherited some of the late Dr. Wayneright's memories."
"What? No way, that's not possible… Is it?" Ray went from shocked to maybe accepting the idea.
"I do not like that thought." Dorothy stared daggers at Ray, who didn't see because she was pondering something in her own little world.
"How?" Ray thought about it. Her chin on her thumb, her forefinger and fist curled in front of her mouth as she mumbled to herself. Can't you only inherit memories from someone when you knew them, or had them implanted by one of Rosewater's experiments? I'm not one of those, he told me that. And I never met Dr Wayneright… Not to mention Beck's supposed to be the one that inherits them as he has the most technical skill close to the late roboticist.
For her single year in Paradigm, Ray had never been able to successfully change the story in a way she wanted. Now, she'd been tossed the preverbal bone and given a chance to change things. At least a little. If I inherited his memories… then will Beck get them as well? Will that be enough to hamper Alex's plans?
No actually, this is perfect… If it works out then I can finally do that…
Ray snapped out of her reverie, having completely ignored the three of them fighting about whatever it was. "I think it's too early to say if I inherited his memories."
"Hm?" Roger and Norman both voiced mild objections, but waited to hear what Ray would say.
"One instance is not really an indicator of if I inherited someone's memories. But if I get more, then maybe I did inherit the old man's memories." Ray calmly explained her reasoning. "So if it happens again, or I suddenly understand a lot more of how androids work, then we can say I inherited his memories. But if I only received the one then it's just a coincidence."
"That is rather solid logic Ray. For now, we just have to wait and see if it was just a random memory like a nightmare or not." Roger nodded as he thought about what Ray had put forth. It did make sense, and if she did recover more memories, well who knows.
"I still do not like this situation." Dorothy protested. "I am already rather uncomfortable with Ray learning about my maintenance needs and body as is."
"Well, if Ms. Ray does recover more memories, she will likely be even more versed in such matters than I am myself."
"I don't think that is going to reassure her in the slightest, Norman." Ray shook her head, but he was right. And if she did learn more about how androids worked, Norman would place even more share of the maintenance on her plate. Ray had more or less begun apprenticing under Norman to learn Megadeus repair as it was. So additional responsibilities on her plate didn't exactly bug her, but she knew that Dorothy would be unhappy if Ray was the only one doing such work.
However, Dorothy's hopes of it being a one off event were shattered.
The next night, Ray woke up heaving again, feeling like she'd fallen and slammed back into her body. She crawled out of her bed, grabbed the sketch book and pencils she had bought when she kept seeing that blue Megadeus in her dreams so she could draw it, and began drawing like a woman possessed.
An hour later she stopped and heaved a heavy, soul releasing sigh as she leaned back in her desk chair, the sketch that she had felt compelled to put to paper was there, very rough, but there. She hadn't even known what she was drawing, but when she looked back at it, it was all too clearly a technical sketch of an inner wiring system. As to what, she did not have to question.
"Well, if Dorothy didn't feel the need to shove me off a cliff before, she will now." Ray picked up the papers and took them to Norman.
"Oh dear." Was all he said, taking the sketch book and reviewing the images in Ray's sketch book and comparing them to a copy on drafting paper Norman had made not long ago.
"When did you draw this?"
"When I woke up this morning." Ray was slouching over, shoulders hunched, head hanging low with exhaustion. Her hair was still a mess, she hadn't brushed it or even changed out of her pajamas. Norman was only barely awake himself at this hour of the morning.
"I see. This is stunningly detailed." He continued to compare the drawing Ray had made that morning, with the drawings he had done from doing Dorothy's maintenance. "So if we assume yesterday and last night are not flukes, you do seem to slowly be gaining Dr. Wayneright's memories."
"Oh… joy. Dorothy's going to kill me."
"Dorothy is more likely to be very dissatisfied with this situation, but I am sure she will come around."
"And smack me instead?" Ray shook her head and her messy curls bounced when she did. "She is not ever going to accept this."
"I do not accept this." Dorothy was protesting later that day, when she had found out Ray had drawn an incredibly detailed wiring sketch. "Why did it have to be her?"
"Why did it have to be me?" Ray was lamenting while scrubbing the Big O's floor around the cockpit. Norman had separated the two and given Ray some tasks to work on. He wanted to avoid whatever fight Ray knew would result. It wasn't her fault… Well it was, but it was not like she could help it!
"I didn't wanna get his memories. And even if I do get 'em, not like Beck still can't get them too." Ray was muttering to herself. She felt Big O was thinking about something. What, she couldn't have said. At least not until he reached out to her. "Huh, what is it, Big guy?"
He did not speak, he never did, and Ray was fine with that. Instead, it was a simple image that she saw, clear as day. It was her, and Dorothy. But they looked angry.
"Oh, are you worried we're fighting again?" She felt more than hearing an affirmative. "Well, she is upset with me, and I don't exactly like it. But it isn't like I asked for this to happen either ya know?" Ray leaned back against the outer neck wall, and crossed her arms. "I can understand why she's upset. I suddenly have very intimate knowledge of her inner workings. I can't imagine I'd be happy if she knew about how everything in my body worked and had my medical history either." Ray did a sideways frown. "But I want to use this information to help her."
She saw another image of an android, but blocky. Was it supposed to be Instro? "I don't know if I can use the info I get on one android to help another… But I guess it's worth checking out."
Big O seemed satisfied with her resolve and left it at that. Ray finished cleaning and went back to the kitchen to help with dinner preparation, only to walk into the first real fight she could recall Norman and Dorothy having.
"I will not let her touch me like that again." Dorothy was aggravated, and almost shouting.
"You are being an entirely unreasonable young lady." Norman chided her, clearly trying and failing to keep his cool.
"Am I? It's my body, and even Ray said the last few times that it was my decision. You're the one who objected to her leaving."
I think Big O was worried about the wrong people fighting. Ray entered the kitchen, and instead of interrupting the argument, she grabbed an apron and began cutting vegetables for the soup Norman had planned that night. They actually ignored her for a few minutes until Roger walked in, and decided to walk back out.
"I'm not getting involved in this." He turned tail and was out the door before it had fully closed from his entrance.
"Wise of him not to get involved. I'm surprised you didn't do the same Ray." Dorothy was angry with her, but Ray just shrugged. That wasn't anything new.
"Look, Big O already questioned me, found out I really didn't mean any harm, and that I had no ulterior motives and let me be." Ray finished cutting the celery and put it into the pot of stock Norman had left chilled on the stove. "He wanted to know what I would do with these memories. But I think he was worried over nothing, honestly."
"Big O questioned you? When?"
"When you made me go clean his cockpit floor." Ray grabbed a peeler and started working on the carrots. "He didn't say a thing, just sent pictures. He thought Dorothy and I were fighting again and wasn't happy about it."
Dorothy frowned and left. It wouldn't be the end of the heated argument she was having with Norman, but it meant she chose to back down for the time being.
A few days later Ray had received enough memories in the form of technical information that had she the skill to do so, she likely could have built a rudimentary android. Nothing on the scale of a technical marvel as Dorothy, but she did learn how to go about repairing androids from it.
And of course, Dorothy was less than thrilled. "I still object to this."
"Take it up with God. Or go yell at the clouds. I had no say in this." Ray had learned how to stop letting Dorothy goad her into fights some time ago, but now she was almost zen about it. "But if I get more information on how you work we can have a debate on how best to perform maintenance next time it is needed. Norman seems dead set on making me do the work anyways."
Dorothy gave her a look of pure disdain, as much as she could manage, before stomping off.
The construction of a twelve-story high rise has begun on the land along the river where the light industrial area spreads to the south. It's a housing complex being built by the Paradigm Corporation as part of an elitist plan to expel residents who don't have enough money to live in the domes. However, the living conditions were attractive enough that only the most stubborn of people complained, so the population steadily increased.
Paradigm is more concerned about its rent income than the security of the city, and the housing complex is increasing the number of buildings one after another.
The construction of the seventh building had begun, the ground was dug deep for the foundation, and when it was eight feet below the ground, work was temporarily halted.
This is because a robot was found buried there in a sleeping position, holding its knees. It was about thirty feet long, with long arms and legs, but no head. It wasn't like the head had come off; it had a thin, circular bulge between its shoulders where its head should've been.
When the robot, which the construction workers had named "No-head" for the time being, was dug out in its entirety, the person in charge felt he would develop an ulcer.
They did not find any damage to the robot. They had prepared an excuse that they thought it was broken because it didn't have a head, but now they had no choice but to report it. If the military and police were involved, there was no doubt construction would be delayed by several weeks, and if Paradigms intelligence department was involved, there would be a delay of several months.
The construction foreman breathed a deep sigh and called out to the android who was still digging near the robot. "Hey, you don't have to dig anymore. "Let the top brass handle it when they get here." The manager turned away and started walking to the office where the phone was.
Suddenly, he felt a presence behind him and turned around. No-head had begun to move.
The call to the military police turned into a scream instead of a report.
No-head was on an insane rampage. There seemed to be no clear purpose to its actions-every now and then it would jerk to a stop as if unsure before continuing to destroy everything in its path.
Wielding power one wouldn't expect from such long, thin limbs, each of its swings sent steel beams and concrete debris scattering like tree leaves.
Fortunately No-head did not pay attention to the north, where the high rise residential buildings lined the street. He seemed to search for a pathway there and just kept heading south.
Military police vehicles appeared on the scene. In organized movements, Military police appeared on the scene in two neatly-organized groups: transport vehicles guiding the residents of the housing complex to safety, and armored cars with mounted cannons. On the bank, a large, bearded policeman was loudly shouting commands. He is yelling at his subordinates to proceed with evacuating the factory to the south in No-Head's path, instead of the housing complex.
Whether No-head doesn't notice or care, he pays the Military Police no mind. Stomping the ground with its entire weight as if throwing a tantrum and jumping over the steel fence separating the housing complex from the light industrial area.
No-head rose up and waved his arms, perhaps surprised to find the cluster of factories so densely packed, and knocked down the oil-soaked chimneys. No-head keeps its fists on the ground when it walks. That must be how it balances itself.
The military police did nothing to stop the rampage, seemingly prioritizing evacuation over any sort of attack. For ten minutes, No-head continued to lay waste to the small factories at random. There was nothing left to destroy, so it raised its body, waving its hands in the air as if in anger.
The evacuation is almost complete. The military police aim for the moment when their target reaches their proximity and fire everything they have simultaneously.
Aiming at that moment, the tanks fire their guns all at once. No-head was hit from the cannon fire and rolled over. However, he quickly regained his posture and stood up with a quick movement that made him seem as if he took no damage. More gunfire hit. This time No-head ducked low to avoid.
Then the earth emitted a low, long rumble. As the intervals between the rumbling grew shorter, the volume became louder. The ground rose up from underneath as it began to crack. All armored vehicles put their gears in reverse, backing up to the top of the embankment. The ground was collapsing where they'd been mere moments ago.
The cracks, which were created by the thrusting up of the ground, quickly grew and formed fissures, and the cracks ran in all directions, destabilizing the ground as if being rocked by waves, and swallowed up the small town sized factory complex.
From the center of the hole, something emerged. A protrusion resembling the tip of a spear appeared, followed by a crimson crystalline plate that looked like a shield. Two bright spots appeared from the ground below it, and it was clear that the face appearing from the ground was the face of a robot.
The ground was pushed up further with a roar. At the same time as the shoulders were above the ground, the silver cylinders appeared. The arms leading to the cylinders were thick and intimidating with thick armored plates.
From the chest with its circular golden armor plates to the abdomen, to the waist with its sharp lines, the black robot had most of its body exposed to the ground.
A black giant born from the earth, clinging to the rubble of ruin like an amniotic membrane.
The robot known as Megadeus walked forward. The earth trembled with a hard sound from the sheer weight of it. As it took another step forward, a new echo resonated in the reverberation, creating a high pitched noise.
The Megadeus clenched his crustacean-like armored fingers into a fist to compete in battle against No-head.
"Hm. It's small." In the cockpit Roger muttered.
No Head put his hands on the ground. Because of his posture, he cannot even reach the knees of the Megadeus that he's fighting, The Big O. Even when he stands up, he can barely reach out and hit Big O's midriff.
Still, there's no doubt the military police are out of their depth.
Roger fixed his tie that had become crooked when he got in the cockpit. He leaned forward, his body wrapped in a neatly pressed double button suit, and placed his arms on the arc angled guide bars, and grabbed the control grips.
No Head has a bright blinking spot on its flat head. It recognizes the Big O's presence, but decides to ignore him. It looks around, as if searching for something, and continues to destroy the factory by swinging its long arms around.
"It doesn't look like we can go easy on you sadly, Big O, action!" Roger presses the pedal and Big O walks forward. Operating the grips, he extended Big O's arm and grabbed one of No Head's, lifting him up.
No Head went into a frenzy and kicked at Big O repeatedly. The Big O was still and unshaken from the assault. Eventually, the pressure from his own kicks dislodged No Heads' shoulder. Leaving his arm in Big O's hands, No Head falls to the ground and bounces away.
"So fragile. It looks like you're no match for Big O."
No Head was fragile, but quick. Before Roger could make his next move, No Head made his own, his flat plate glowed blue and shot out a beam of light of the same color.
Big O blocked the beam with his arm armor, so there was no noticeable damage until after the beam was cut off. The armor was burning red from traces of heat and slightly melted.
"I can't underestimate it then." Roger growled. No Head jumped further away and landed on a cylindrical gas tank. Unable to bear the weight, the tank cracked. The gas tank erupted and the gas vaporized into a white haze.
The red glow of No Head's head intensified, as if he suddenly realized that the gas around him was flammable.
"This is bad." Roger pressed down on the foot pedal and Big O reversed.
No Head jumped further from the tank. He dexterously flipped into the air and turned his flat dome downwards. It's glowing blue like when it fired the ray earlier. Seems it is trying to ignite the gas.
Big O thrust his arms up. The blue beam of light hits his fists and scatters. Roger thrust Big O's fist up into the flat dome of No Head, crushing it. The upside down No Head attempted to right itself with Big O's outstretched arm. Roger pulled the grip along the arc to the very back of the guide bar. The piston of Big O's arm was released and jutted back from his elbow.
With the press of a button, the piston released its store power.
No Head was shattered to bits. Roger shrugged his shoulders. The monitor in front of him showed an old man with an eye patch and a rich mustache. "Master Roger, you have a visitor."
Roger sighed. "Oh dear, can't you give me a little rest."
2
The elevator had a full length mirror. Roger looked at himself and adjusted his appearance. The black double breasted suit under his coat was free of dust and unwanted wrinkles. The collar of his shirt was neatly fastened and free of kinks. "He had a guest, so he had to look his best."
When the door opened, Norman was there to greet him. The old butler, who was dressed in a black tuxedo, bowed deeply. "Welcome home, sir."
Roger asked as he took off his coat, "What kind of person is our guest?"
Norman draped the coat he'd taken over his arm so it wouldn't wrinkle, and looked thoughtful. "They are a unique person, sir."
"I see." Roger sighed. Whenever Norman was vague about the details of a guest, it meant that they were male. While Roger was a professional and didn't intend to discriminate against his clients based on gender, deep down he couldn't deny he'd feel more motivated if it was a woman. "I'll meet with them."
Roger reluctantly agreed and strode into the parlor. A tired looking man was sitting on the sofa, and when he saw Roger, stood up, bowed and introduced himself. "My name is Leonid Mockvine."
"Roger Smith, negotiator." Roger gestured for him to relax, and the client sat down on the sofa stiffly. Roger sat on the sofa opposite him, but his guest remained silent, his face down. For once, Norman hadn't been roundabout, certainly this man was unique. Mockvine's whole body oozed weakness, he stooped over to avoid eye contact. He spoke in such a quiet voice it was as if he didn't want to talk. When Norman walked in and offered tea, Mockvine did not look at him. Instead he gulped down the tea as if he had never had any before.
"Let's hear what it is you need." Roger urged impatiently.
"Ah, well...it's..."
Mockvine mumbled to himself as he stared straight at Roger, so Roger adjusted his posture a tad. However, Mockvine, who was thin and shabby, had a gloomy distressed look on his face and opened his mouth, mumbling, refusing to say anything further. Roger signaled Norman with a look to leave the room. The elderly butler seemed concerned with the guests' empty cup, but shrugged in resignation and left.
"No one is listening," Roger reassured him with a smile, and Mockvine returned with a weak smile. But he refused to say what he needed. He squirms, he fidgets, sucks in a breath like he's made up his mind to speak, hesitates, then exhales. After that Mockvine just rubbed his balding head and looked up at Roger.
Roger took another sip of his tea to hide his exasperation. The question as to why Norman let this guest into the mansion was solved. Norman had probably felt sorry for him. He had exhausted all his resolve just knocking on the door of the mansion. So in order to hear what he needs, Roger had to be the one to ask.
"Mr. Mockvine… are you being threatened?" Roger had thought he had used a gentle tone, but Mockvine cowered like a scolded child. "I see. You've come to the right place. Solving criminal kidnappings and extortion is one of my specialties. Let's hear the details."
Mockvines shoulders slumped in resignation, but he didn't say anything and took a booklet from his coat pocket and placed it on the table.
"What's this?" When Roger asked about it, Mockvine gestured for him to take a look, so Roger picked up the booklet.
It was a flat bound booklet made of rough, poor quality paper, with the word "Arcadia" printed on the cover. When he flipped through it, he found letters were lined up with lots of blank spaces.
"A poetry collection perhaps?" Mockvine just nodded.
On the back cover is Leonid Mockvine's name and the address of the Mockvine Printing House. "Are you the author?"
"Absolutely not!" Mockvine suddenly shouted. Ashamed at suddenly shouting out loud, he curled into a ball and muttered an apology.
"Then you are the owner of the publishing company, and not the author." Roger looked for the author's name in the booklet, but could not find it anywhere. When he looked at his client inquiringly, Mockvine just shook his head. It seems that the energy that went into twisting the loud voice into a yell has vanished.
"Apparently, you are here about the author?" Mockvine nodded emphatically. "The person to negotiate with is the author. What kind of trouble is it… ah, money?"
Mockvines head gave a subtle movement that could neither confirm nor deny.
"I guess it's not too far off the mark." Roger pondered. "Is there a problem with the rights? You don't have the right to publish this poetry book? Did you publish it without permission?"
He hit the jackpot, and Mockvine even gave a small smile with a gloomy mouth that could barely be seen.
Roger found himself smiling at Mockvine's awkward smile, but quickly came to his senses. This guessing game was a waste of time. "Mr. Mockvine. I'd like to hear the request from your own mouth."
The shy client muttered in resignation. "It's embarrassing, very embarrassing."
""But I did it." Isn't that right?"
"Yes that's right… I'm an unlucky person, but I'd never done anything wrong. That's the only thing I'm proud of, but my wife says I can't do anything wrong because I've never done anything in the first place." The self-deprecating laugh Mockvine gave was unpleasant.
"And so it went. I took the chance at a small fortune. It was wrong. My wife was right… If I did anything it was wrong and I couldn't face my son. My son died, and my wife ran out on me because of it."
Mockvine again ridiculed himself, and Roger frowned.
Apparently, he'd owned a bakery, and he'd been quite good at it. However, he blindly believed the world was good. He innocently believed that if he had no malice in him, he would not suffer the maliciousness of others. When he neglected to make a back margin to his flour supplier, he was ostracized and his business stagnated.
He married late, when he was over 40 years old, and his son was his step son from his previous marriage. After his step-father lost his job, the son found a job on a fishing boat, saying he would do his best from now on. On his first fishing trip, he got lost at sea and never came back.
His wife's heart ache was so deep that she said, "It's all your fault," and disappeared.
Roger crossed his arms and showed his impatience.
"... Oh, I'm sorry. My boring life is just grating on your ears. So you see, I decided to end my own life and closed the store.
Roger looked up to the heavens. It seems he can't get to the point unless he starts from scratch.
He did intend to die at first, but even though he possessed the urge he found it waning by the day. Even though he kept telling himself that nothing good could come from being alive, his enthusiasm quickly waned. Mockvine derided himself for not even being able to die properly.
Tired of his inner conflict, Mockvine stood on the roof of an abandoned building. If he took a step forward, everything would come to an end. However, Mockvine could not advance or retreat. He remained frozen in the spot until dawn finally broke.
"It's very embarrassing!" Mockvine repeated it with a feverish tone. "I was so embarrassed I ran away from the scene. I just couldn't take it anymore, I was so disgusted with the brightness that I chose to run in a dark narrower direction."
"Tired of running, I sat down. It was an abandoned building that was leaning. And in front of me lay a broken machine. It was a printing press."
"The malfunction was not serious and could even be handled by an amateur, so I cleaned it up and it worked fine. If I couldn't die anyways, why not try my luck with this? The question was what to print?"
"As I was struggling, an android with round, yellow, egg-like eyes dropped something in front of me."
It was "Arcadia".
"When I published it, sales gradually increased, although at the start it wasn't great."
"While I was feeling good about myself, a man named Luther O'Bannon came to visit me, wearing a Panama hat and wrapped in a trench coat that covered his thin body."
The man said he was the author of "Arcadia". He said, "I have more manuscripts, you will publish them, but I don't want money. I'll pay you in return."
"When I asked him what he meant, O'Bannon didn't answer, but instead ignited the original version and inventory of "Arcadia" that was there."
"No need to ask questions. Just do what you're told. We've already collected the ones that had sold. Don't publish that version again." O'Bannon left behind $5000 and a manuscript which was ten times larger than the original "Arcadia".
"Of course, I don't know anything about the value of poetry, so I didn't care. I took the money and decided to do what I was told."
However, he had been more cautious since his fall from grace. "I know the money I received is not a favor. He didn't begin to sell the poetry collection until he'd printed many copies. I hid the stock here and there. I changed my sleeping place every night and used messenger's to collect sales."
About two weeks after he started selling the O'Bannon edition of "Arcadia", the abandoned building where the printing press was located was set ablaze. The newspaper stand he was selling from was stolen from, along with the stand itself. Every time Mockvine snuck into the place he hid inventory, he would feel an unpleasant gaze and would flee in a hurry. It would seem that O'Bannon's poetry collection was making someone uncomfortable. And O'Bannon's goal seemed to be to harass that someone. So he told O'Bannon he didn't like it anymore. "Mr. O'Bannon said I couldn't do that. Mr. O'Bannon said if I stopped publishing he'd kill me. He's a member of the Lombardi family.
Sending off his client, who bowed repeatedly, Roger returned to the couch and crossed his arms. Mockvine's pitiable looks got the better of him, and he promised to talk to the Lombardi family tomorrow. The Lombardi are Mafioso. It was inevitable that things would get a little complicated.
Roger sighed and picked up the book of poetry that was still on the table. He sipped the cool tea and looked down at the page.
This was the original "Arcadia" Mockvine had found in that printer's memory banks. Indeed, Mockvine had cautiously hidden it. Perhaps there is a trump card against O'Banon in its pages, or a hint against the identity of the arsonist. On the other hand, Mockvine had told him that O'Bannon's version was published in separate volumes because it was too long. It contains fragments of the original, but it's redundant, lacking precision and subtlety, and if you read the original, it feels padded.
I didn't think the original was that good either. The choice of words is amateurish and lacks delicacy, and although the flexion rhymes regularly, it lacks a sense of rhythm.
However, it is intensely vivid. This is probably why it sold so well. Technically, it's unsophisticated, but there's a sparkle that masks its shortcomings. What is being described is a strong longing for the unknown. A longing for a future that has yet to be reached, a longing for the depth of the darkness of the sea. A confident hope for what is hidden, what is invisible, and what's outside the common perception. An overflowing expectation of the new things that await us beyond that corner.
In "Arcadia", Roger liked the unabashedly juvenile language used to describe a naive dream. It was too innocent for him to sympathize with, but he would have loved it in his youth. When he was a military police officer and believed in justice, he might have read this and been moved by it. Nowadays, the composition of Roger's world is too complicated for him to be moved honestly. However, since the early ideology of what the poetry collection is about still exists in Roger's mind, he is not so far apart that he cannot sympathize completely.
Norman came in quietly to clear the tea cups and utensils from the table.
"How did it go?"
"I took the case."
Norman looked surprised.
"Mr. Mockvine's nervous smile doesn't suit him. I'd like to see him smile for real."
Norman seemed to think of Mockvine's bright smile, and after pondering a moment, nodded in agreement. "You have your work cut out for you then, sir."
"Don't I? This seems to be published by him." Roger chose a poem and read it aloud.
"Don't be afraid to follow, what waits for you is the unknown.
Go forward without hesitation, though your heart may be disturbed by slander, know that the unknown is your home.
And know that you will be warmly welcomed."
"What do you think?"
Norman had a complicated expression on his face. He was stroking his white mustache as if searching for the right words. "I'm not sure, I'm not a poet, so I cannot say."
"Not bad though, right?"
"Quite… though I may be too old to feel such poetry."
"I don't want you to act like you're about to kick the bucket. We're still counting on you."
Norman smiled in satisfaction and bowed deeply.
"Norman, are you here?" An emotionless voice called, and Dorothy appeared at the door. She had a headscarf on and was wearing an apron.
Roger still felt uncomfortable when he looked at Dorothy. Just as he had mistaken her for a human when he first saw her, she still appeared human to him at a glance. She is such a sophisticated android that her movements cannot be compared to any other android he'd met. On the contrary, her movements are smoother than any humans. She doesn't have any little quirks, such as lowering her shoulders, or a walking rhythm that breaks because her left leg is longer than her right. I am always amazed at the smoothness of her perfectly coordinated body movements.I suppose that's the reason she's referred to as a work of art—she is perfectly human, yet inhumanly perfect. However, that makes the moments where she nonchalantly behaves like a machine all the more uncanny, like opening her disk drive headband to illuminate the area when it's dark with her internal halogen lamp.
In other words, whether human or android, women are full of mysteries.
"The gravy is almost ready. I am unable to season it to taste myself, however."
"Oh I see," Norman quickly cleaned up the tea set.
Roger picked up the poetry book and read it again and noticed Dorothy still at the door. "What's wrong?"
"Roger, you're an adult, you shouldn't rely on Norman too much."
Roger frowned. She had overheard that last part of the conversation with Norman. "Dorothy, when I said I was relying on Norman, I meant that I trust him, not that I rely on him for everything."
"Is that so? Your life is left to Norman for everything from laundry to cleaning. You can't even iron a suit, can you, Roger? I meant that you should be able to take care of yourself a little."
"Trust is a thing, you know…" Roger choked on his words and found himself unable to refute Dorothy's words. He snorted and thrust the poetry collection he was holding at Dorothy.
"That's enough disrespect for now. You should learn to be more like a human."
Dorothy snatched the poetry book from his hands in one fluid movement. She flipped through the pages slowly, her fingers resting on her chin as if she was thinking about something.
"What do you think? I'm sure it'll make even someone like you feel a bit of emotion."
Dorothy closed the poetry book and looked straight at Roger. "This is not poetry."
"Hahaha," Roger laughed, slapping his knee with a dry chuckle. "I see, you don't understand because you can only judge from recorded data. No wonder. Poetry is meant to be enjoyed by feeling. You should learn the subtleties of human emotions first."
"That's not true."
Roger looked into Dorothy's face, but of course there wasn't a readable expression.
"I don't like the idea of you denying something just because you don't understand it."
"It's you who doesn't understand, Roger. I know both sonnets and haiku."
"You'll have to tell me why it's not poetry then."
"I felt it."
Roger threw up his hands and looked up at the heavens. Dorothy is pestering me today. I can't take her seriously.
Seeing his master at the end of his rope, Norman offered a helping hand. "Dorothy, we're short of vegetables for the side dish. Can you run an errand for me?"
When all that had occurred Ray came in and seemed to be disgruntled. "Do you have to be a jerk to her?"
"Maybe I'm tired of her admonishing me at every chance she gets." Roger sighed. Now Ray was pestering him. It had become more common as of late. Roger tried to ignore it, but her mood swings and gaining memories made that hard to do.
3
Climbing over a pile of old blackened rubble, he could see Paradigm City that seemed to crouch under a cloudy sky. A city that had lost its memory.
The city bristled with domes, rising like bubbles in the middle of a forest of buildings. In those domes, luxurious light is abundantly supplied by electricity, and real plants grow instead of mold and moss. According to the Paradigm Corporation, which controls the city, the Domes are a paradise that provides a life worthy of human-kind, but only the upper class can benefit from the Dome's glass ceilings. Most people live outside the Domes for that reason.
The out of Dome area, known as the illegal resident sector, is visible from gaps between Domes, and it looked like a sea of black from where he stood. It is a cluster of disorganized buildings, cluttered, messy and awkwardly shaped, built as the need arose with no sense of uniformity.
If you step inside those sectors, you can feel the overall atmosphere of temporary housing in the way the buildings were unkempt and falling apart, whether it's because of people aspiring to move to the Domes someday, or people who don't have the luxury of caring about where they live feel no pride in keeping such a place tidy.
Beyond the city, there is nothing but ruins spread out.
Remnants of the previous world that collapsed 40 years ago. A relic from a world that was prosperous, full of people and sunshine. Now everyone has forgotten what kind of world it was and what kind of people existed there. Relying on these artifacts, leftovers of memories that sometimes come back to life, Paradigm City was recreated - a Paradigm City built from deception based on inadequate evidence and faulty memories and human error.
Outside of it, there is only the cold desert. It acts as a barricade to prevent people from entering and exiting the city. The Desert of Destruction stretches on and on, so much so that anyone without any hope will eventually be convinced that the world is doomed, except for Paradigm City.
Ian straightened his back, to ease the burden of his heavy backpack, and sighed as he gazed at the distant view in front of him.
"Every time I return to Paradigm City I feel gloomy."
"The city is changing. I don't even recognize it anymore."
A new Dome rises abruptly where old ruins used to be, as if painted into the scenery after the fact. A modern highway casts a shadow over a once familiar place, ruins that once existed there removed.
Truthfully he'd only been away a few months- the city hadn't actually changed as much as he felt it had. He was only seeing the seeds of change sewn throughout everyday life begin to sprout. However, that was only within the outskirts of the city; the block around the central Dome, on the contrary, is disgustingly unchanged.
But even though Ian knew nothing had actually changed, he couldn't help but sense that something was different.
That's partly because of his job as a surveyor who measures and records the land's topography.
But the biggest reason is that Paradigm City, where he was born and raised, now feels like a foreign land to him. After traveling for several months and recording the topography elsewhere, it is hard to feel excited when he finally returns to a hometown that contains no trace of home.
"I still couldn't get over the uncomfortable feeling I had since boyhood. But I had to adapt. Otherwise it would be too pathetic."
Ian repositioned his heavy pack and started walking. He appreciated that the weight of his pack kept his head down. He could stare only at his feet and not at the city.
The people of this city also live their lives keeping their chins down, trying not to look at anything unnecessary.
That's what it means to live in the past. That is why they are surprisingly uninterested in their surroundings. Most people only know the neighborhood in which they were born.
The seeds of irritation are still there that have persisted since I was a boy. I want to walk with my face up and eyes on the road ahead. I chose a job as a surveyor as an extension of that. When I told people I went out and made maps, they gave me strange and puzzled looks.
Maps don't sell. Construction companies will pay a reasonable price for the periphery of the area due to hazards and topographical knowledge, but beyond that no one else had any use for them.
And yet, Ian's feet lead him to uncharted territories.
"I want to see what the world looks like." I want to hold my head high. He likes to think that it's his motive, but in truth, he really just wants to escape. Maybe he wants to go somewhere far from here.
—
The market had definitely changed.
The gathering of street vendors lined with tent roofs had not changed, but the scale of the market had certainly increased.
Along with that the market was livelier and the atmosphere brighter. The atmosphere was not the same as it had been before, with none of the seediness that had made people hesitant to venture inside.
When he recalled what it used to look like, the abandoned hotel that separated the main road and the market had been demolished and turned into a pile of rubble. A path was cut through the rubble to provide access to the main road.
Ian looked for a familiar face, perplexed.
The vendor's territory has also changed, and the merchants who used to mix and match are now organized into categories like food and daily necessities.
Still, seeing the actual, real products lined up in the open-air market gave him peace of mind. There were no high stacks of synthetic food cartons like in the city center. Juicy vegetables and meats that looked fresh and delicious- unmistakably sold on the sidelines. Even though goods and people have become abundant, their nature hasn't changed.
Finally, Ian saw someone he knew. Johnny, a familiar face, was pushed to the edge of the market. Using the eves of an abandoned restaurant as a roof, he looked out over the customers passing by with a piercing glary eyed gaze.
Not only does he look out of place, but there are no products on display, which is very suspicious. And his job was a suspicious one too. Johnny is a purveyor, and his job is to procure requested items, so there is no need to put his goods on shelves. As for where he gets them, it's not hard to figure out they're stolen. He has no choice but to be rejected by a growing market that has become more commercialized.
When Ian greeted him, Johnny responded with a straight face.
"Looks like you got kicked out." Ian said.
"No, I picked an easy place to escape from."
The commercial growth of the market must mean that the authorities are surveilling more closely. The shopkeepers in the market must have banded together and collectively paid bribes to the military police, but since Johnny was stubborn and would rather have cash in hand to pay for goods, he would not pay for the sake of association.
"Have you found any treasure, explorer?"
"I'm a surveyor." Ian corrected, but it's not surprising Johnny wants to know about treasure. There are many relics from the previous era buried in the desert frontier, and Ian does bring them home to make money. Since maps won't sell, his main income is what Johnny likes to call treasure.
Johnny shouted in marvel as he circled round to look into Ian's pack. "Oh, another cable. This is good, I can sell it. How long?"
"100 feet."
Johnny's eyes lit up with joy.
In the backpack is a high-voltage cable. According to the numbers written on the side, it can withstand 300,000 volts. About a year ago Ian had found a pre-collapse battleship, stranded in a narrow bay in the north-east. It's not the first time Ian had taken parts and sold them.
Ian knew how Johnny planned to use the cable without asking. Electricity theft. He drills a hole in the side of the Dome, probes the power transmission cables, and steals power. The problem is that it's hard to find cables that can withstand high volts, and most cables burn up quickly. Ian's cable solved that problem. It may even be more powerful than the cables in the Dome's main power system.
"It's a real treat."
Ian chuckles as Johnny slapped him on the back. I've been friends with Johnny since we were boys, but I don't remember him praising me much. Now that Johnny finally had praised him for something, however, it only made him feel like an accomplice to thievery. To say he didn't feel guilty at all would be a lie-this cable would surely make trouble for the residents of the dome. But it didn't bother him too much, because he felt no love or pride for this city. The cables are sure to cause trouble for the residents of the Dome, but it doesn't trouble his conscience. Because I feel neither attachment nor pride in this city.
"$2000"
Ian laughed at Johnny's quoted price and doubled it. They haggled back and forth several times, and when it reached $2900 Ian whispered in Johnny's ear.
"There's still more. Not just cables, but there are also ridiculously large batteries and motors. I'll sell them to you, why not give me $300 more on top of that for the rights?"
"I'm a cash-in-hand kind of guy. I'm willing to put some green on the next sale."
"Maybe I should sell it to someone else?"
Johnny sneered at Ian's poor negotiation skills. "Where are you going to sell everything you're carrying off your back? Don't bother, you're already unbalanced from the weight."
He may have been joking, but Ian lost his balance when Johnny poked his shoulder. Ian was immediately dragged down by the weight of his backpack and stumbled backwards.
Ian saw a girl sitting where he was about to fall. She was sitting on the stone steps leading to the restaurant entrance, reading a book spread across her lap. If the combined weight of him and the backpack were to fall on her, it would be more than a serious injury.
As Ian twisted to avoid the girl, his heel was caught on the stone steps.
"Move!" As soon as he shouted, Ian felt his body being supported. His body remained still held by the straps of his pack, but at an unsteady angle. He whipped his head back and saw the girl holding his backpack with one hand.
"Be careful."
Ian just nodded at the girl's calm voice.
"See, I told you so." Johnny said.
Johnny tugged on his arm, and Ian got back on his feet.
"$Alright, $2900 it is. Congratulations, let me add a little present on top of that."
"Congratulations?"
Johnny winked at him with a crude look, took a wad of cash out of his pants pocket. He chuckled as Ian gave him a strange look.
"What? You haven't seen Elaine yet?" Johnny asked.
"What happened to Elaine?"
"I'm not such a dick as to spoil the surprise. There, $200 on top of $2900. Take it."
"Spoil what?"
While Ian was confused, Johnny shoved the cash into Ian's hands, made him drop his backpack to the ground, pulled out the cable, then Johnny wrapped it in rags and drove off. He was as quick as you would expect of a pickpocket. Stretching his neck to follow, Ian tried to put his backpack back on his back and leave, but the girl who had helped him earlier was still reading on the stone steps.
She's kind of a strange girl. Her clothes are well-tailored but all black, while her skin is white as if coated with pigment. Her face is half hidden by her bobbed hair as she reads the book in her lap, but one could see her sharp and dignified features.
"Hey, thanks for earlier…" Ian said, and then realized for the first time his bag wasn't something a girl could support with one hand.
"Is your hand ok?" He asked.
Ian was startled by the speed in the way she turned to look at him.
"I'm fine, don't worry."
There was something about her voice that was as curious as the movement of her neck. She had a beautiful, low-pitched voice, but something about her voice was too perfect, too unnatural.
"Are you…?"
"An android? Yes. Don't pay it any mind." The girl cut through Ian's confusion with a crisp remark and went back to reading.
"Oh. Okay." Ian was convinced and amazed at the details of her creation. She looked almost human. No, she was too perfect to be human. "Could you tell me your name? I'm Ian, Ian Stanley."
"Dorothy Wayneright." The quick response had a nuance of annoyance. She's fundamentally different from the androids usually seen, made of pipes and drum cans. Dorothy pointed to the paper bag by her side. Zucchini and leeks were peeking out of it.
"I'm on an errand. Don't interrupt me."
"You look like you're slacking off, though." Ian picked up the book from Dorothy's lap. Whenhe glanced at the book, Ian's expression froze.
"Give it back." Ian didn't hear Dorothy's voice.
Ian couldn't take his eyes off the writing on the book's cover. "Arcadia" was etched with the sharpness of a knife, he felt dizzy and closed his eyes, but he could still vividly see it reflected in his eyelids.
"I said give it back." Dorothy got up and took the book from Ians hands.
"Eh? Oh, I'm sorry. That… what is it?"
"A collection of poems. They sell them over there. What's wrong?"
"Nothing." Ian shook his woozy head to clear it, and managed to give Dorothy a wry smile.
"Thanks for helping me out. So um, never mind." Ian staggered, turned on his heel and fled. He ran through the busy streets of the markets, bumping into people and kept running anyway.
He finally came to his senses when he fell face first into a puddle. The newspaper boy was looking at him with a worried look, like he wondered whether he should help or turn a blind eye.
"No big deal, kid, I just tripped."
Laughing while getting up, his eyes widened and he froze again when he noticed that "Arcadia" was sold alongside the newspapers on the boys stand.
"What is it?" Feeling uneasy, the boy stepped back.
"They really do sell them everywhere." Ian picked up a stack of poetry books and tossed a bill to the boy without checking the price of the books. The boy yelled that he had paid too much, but Ian ignored him and hurried to his apartment, tucking the poetry book under his arm.
He opened the door, walked past the drafting table in the living room, and went straight to his bedroom in the back. Wrapping himself in a blanket on the bed, he was able to breathe properly for the first time since being shocked by the book the android had.
After taking a few deep breaths and driving away the pain in his chest he had time to look at the poetry collection. He stared at the now crumpled book from being under his arm all the time.
He didn't remember the name Leoniod Mockvine being on the book's cover before. Pushing aside his confusion, Ian tried to read the contents. His confusion deepend, and Ian's brow furrowed in a deep crease.
Wrong. It was all wrong. Ian dragged a dusty trunk out from under his bed. He reached for a large worn out notebook hidden under his boyhood clothing, too small to wear now that he was an adult.
Wrong. The text partially matched, but there were a lot of unnecessary sentences in the printed version he had bought. What does it mean?
Perhaps someone named Mockvine found "Arcadia" by chance and added padding because the volume was too small. Ian hoped so.
Ian let out the fear and frustration he was feeling with a sigh. His eyes fell on the notebook. He saw his own juvenile handwriting. "When he'd tried to transcribe Dr. Livingston's words, he'd been so focused on listening to every detail that he forgot to move his pen, and when he tried to focus on writing them down instead he ended up missing a lot of what he said. She had laughed at Ian's clumsiness and filled in the blanks for him. Her smart, thin, angular handwriting. A nostalgic name came to mind, "Monica."
"Ian?" Ian's body stiffened in surprise when he heard a reply. "Are you back Ian?" A black haired woman appeared at the bedroom door, and Ian's shoulders slumped in relief.
"Elaine, I'm a little busy now. I'll drop by later."
"Later? Are you blind or something?"
"My eyes? What are you on about? I'll come by your place later."
"Look at me Ian Stanley."
The confidence in Elaine's voice made Ian lift his gaze to his lover. He had never seen her with her hands on her hips and chest puffed out. The thin drooping eyebrows that had always made her look troubled were gone, replaced by a smile that was relaxed.
"You look like something good happened to you Elaine, but could you please leave me alone for a while?" When Ian averted his gaze, Elaine stamped her foot to get his attention.
Ian was taken aback by her completely uncharacteristic behavior. Normally, when he asked her to leave him alone she would do so, looking back and forth as if she wanted to say something. "Notice anything different?"
"Obviously not!" Ian exploded into a tantrum. Elaine however, didn't take her eyes off him. She didn't flinch when he yelled, which was unusual. Normally that alone would bring her to tears.
Ian looked at his lover again and noticed that her hand was lovingly caressing her belly. Her belly was puffy and swollen near the bottom. "Elaine?"
"Finally figured it out? Johnny knew right away when he saw me on the street."
"You're pregnant?"
"Seems like it."
Ian cheered. The past, which had been haunting him until now, was rapidly receding. Half-crazed from the liberating sensation, he pounded his bed and let out a strange cry of delight. He was surprised to find himself so happy. He didn't really like children, but when he thought of Elaine with his child, Ian felt like he was in heaven.
She went up and hugged her lover, and he felt the softness of her stomach bulge, the life-filled bump between her thighs.
At that moment, Ian felt exhilarated, as if a strong wind had blown away the daze in his mind.
There are two more parts to chapter 1. So I will post them as soon as my editor is done checking it over. Book Roger's kind of an asshole, so I did what I could to more align him with the anime and manga Roger. Short of a jerk, but still has his charms.
Merry Christmas and all that.