Re-CALibrate

Work in progress: Detective Kelvin hunts scars, chips, and secrets in a dark city.

This is a work in progress…


The city was coated in rain that had a metallic bite to it. Steam rose from the heated concrete like chemical ghosts clinging to everything.

Life in the city was a drain. Policing it just made everything circle faster. The city council didn't want heroes; they wanted units that cost less than the electricity they drew.

My name is Kelvin. My life on the force started fifteen years ago. It was the first year of COAT (City Occupational Assessment Test) and, needless to say, I sucked. Thanks to my rock-bottom scores in the moral courage section, the computer spit out what I would be best suited for: Insurance Claims Adjuster or Police Detective. Figures.

And now, decades later, I was finally teamed up with someone, or something, who might care less than I do. A few months ago, they partnered me with a RE-CAL unit. Cheap android with a busted moral compass. I call him CAL. He hates it. This model shipped out with a glitch in his cognitive layer that makes him care more about the utility of life than the sanctity of it. What a pair.

This particular morning, I was in the cruiser when we got a call for a floater by the river between Lower and High Districts.

"Damn, another floater. Just what I need, more paperwork."

CAL chimed in. "Affirmative. You need it like you need a head to your hole."

I chuckled. "Close enough, CAL. Don't strain the hardware."

We turned the cruiser toward the bridge, the hazy morning light glinting off the wet streets, our tires slinging chemical runoff onto the sidewalks. Once over the bridge and into the High District, everything changed. The haze was gone, and the streets were clean. I remembered a video from a guy named NeuralLeak talking about all the undisclosed weather tech they had on this side of the city. To be an elite, I thought.

We pulled up near the embankment where the body had washed up against the concrete docks. The smell hit me first, the river rot mixed with a million pennies. CAL had already called in the drones to pick up the body and take it to the morgue, so we needed to get our scan completed. Our FBOI (Forensic Bio-Optic Imaging) scanner would capture vitals and hi-res images we could review later. Well, not we. CAL would do that while I smoked a digiVAPE. I needed my morning fix.

Just then the sound of swarming bees was above us. Man, those drones move fast. I left them to their work to take the body. We hopped into the cruiser and CAL was already uploading the information to the FBOI database. I grabbed my tablet to sign off on the upload when I noticed something in one of the pictures. A weird scarring around the thigh area. I zoomed in and it was the same scar I had seen in two other bodies earlier this week. Huh. That's odd. I mentioned it to CAL.

"Heart disease is up 13% in the city and it looks like a catheter incision. Nothing to worry about or investigate. Humans should really change their diets."

"Whatever you say, CAL. Nothing to it," I said, as I puffed the synthetic smoke in his face.

The tablet beeped with our next assignment before we'd even cleared the bridge.

Our next call was in the Lower District, which interested CAL.

"Excellent. Navigation override proposed. Head to the Neon Slums to pick up NCO-7 variant for threading optimization. Got it for dollars on the metallic tender."

"Pennies on the dollar, CAL," I quipped. "Indeed."

Neon Slums. The noise greeted us first, the crackling, whirring sound of all those damn signs. The city council had reduced the power to the slums, leaving nothing but a flicker only an epileptic could love.

CAL's directions led us to some outlet stores near the west end. I pulled into a spot along the main street, not caring how close I was to where he wanted to go.

"Location is acceptable. The walk will help optimize hydraulic function. See you later Semi-aquatic Reptilian." CAL stepped out of the cruiser and off he went.

"Get an upgrade on those idioms, pal." But he had already gone.

It was a busy morning at the Slums. The streets flickered to life like the neon signs.

Normally, it was difficult to notice the subtle differences between humans and androids. It was different in the Neon Slums thanks to OC dust. It was a drug that androids were getting increasingly addicted to.

At first, their processing increased from the hit, but over time, there was the crash. Circuit boards overloaded, glitches became more common, and for some, overheated processors. You would see goo, thermal paste, and other ooze seeping from their openings. So gross. Androids, you can't live with them, you can't turn them into toasters.

You would see micro-sparks from the users, followed by a faint ozone scent in the air. Get around the ones that were cooked, and the sparks looked like a fireworks show.

I stood by the front of the car, on another draw, when a Glow approached me.

"Hey honey, mind if I get a drag from that?"

"I didn't know Glows go for that."

"This one does." She grabbed it from my mouth, put it to her lips, sweetly parted them, and let out a circle of smoke that enveloped me. I did always have a soft spot for them. Finally, a good use of androids.

CAL came back and interrupted the fun. I said goodbye to the Glow, got back into the cruiser, grabbed a call from the queue, and headed out.

I noticed his access port was ajar, and a little liquid was seeping out.

"Hey CAL, looks like your access port had an accident."

He looked to his left collarbone and saw that it was. "Affirmative. The city sludge drops from everywhere," he said as he wiped off the discharge.

"Uh huh, whatever you say." I think my "partner" has developed a new habit.

CAL read the info for our new case.

"Male. 40s. Five-seven. Two sixty. Domestic violence on a Glow. Last location the Hyper Repo shop at 31st and Atlantic."

"Fat bastard. Sounds like part of the thirteen percent."

"Affirmative. I'll output a meal plan for the suspect."

"Why don't you chew his food for him too?"

He paused for a minute. An arc of light flared in his temple. A mechanical laugh followed. "Ha. Good one."

We headed to the Hyper Repo shop to find our suspect. The shop was known as a local front for "off the grid" tech and stolen parts.

"Let's get in and out. I want to get some lunch," I said to CAL.

"Negative. We need to investigate the disturbance and process if necessary. We must right…"

"Just shut up already." My hangry came spilling out.

We stepped into the store and saw a man fitting the description behind the counter.

"Are you the registered custodian of this procurement outlet?" CAL asked the man.

The man stared at CAL like he had three heads and they were all on fire.

"Am I what?" the man asked.

"He wants to know if you're the owner of this dump," I said without looking up as I sifted through the junk on the shelves.

"Yeah, I'm the owner. Ion Moss. What's it to ya?"

"We heard you enjoy smacking Glows around in your free time."

"Yeah? Androids can't be trusted, especially those androids."

"We have three visual logs showing you fractured her glow-filaments. This is a breach of societal norms. Ion Moss, you are scum. Step away from the counter and come with us."

The top of CAL's head started to glow, then spark. After seeing this, Moss bolted for the back door.

We followed him through the back door and into the street. Instead of cutting left into the alley, Moss broke the other way, plunging into the crowded sidewalk.

I pulled my Glock pulse and fired. I missed him and clipped a parked car instead. Damn. I was going to hear about that.

I heard CAL calling in drones. A minute later they buzzed overhead, slicing above the foot traffic. Up ahead, Moss rounded a corner with the drones in hot pursuit.

Turning the corner, we caught sight of Moss kicking helplessly in the air, the drones hauling him up before slamming him lid-first into an open dumpster. Two points.

After fishing Moss out of the dumpster, we took him to the precinct for processing. It was my task, as CAL had to go offline to recharge after claiming he wasn't feeling "optimally calibrated." Whatever. Dust-head.

Moss wouldn't shut up about the injustice of it. Said he was going to have my badge, that I'd regret this, the usual noise. He kept yapping while I uploaded the case file for his arrest. That's when his processed images came up on my terminal.

And there it was again. The scar. Only Mossy hadn't been swimming with the fishes. So why did he have it?

"Interesting scar you've got there. Who's the butcher that carved you up?"

Moss shuts up instantly. Silence.

"Did I hit a nerve there, Mossy? Come on. Out with it."

"Screw you," he said.

I called for someone to get him out of my face and stick him in a cell.

The scar stirred my curiosity, so I cross-referenced its shape through the FBOI database and pulled a partial match from an arrest months ago. The file said the subject claimed it was a Governor chip removal scar.

How come him, I thought. I'd heard that procedure was almost impossible to survive. Lucky bastard. The chip was used on the city's poorest workers, a way to suppress hunger and drip-feed supplements so they could work sixteen-hour shifts. Stalin would've been proud.

I recalled a memo from a few weeks back talking about a decrease in work production quotas and a need to investigate the matter. Funny how nothing matters until it starts circling your own drain.

Was it Fitzgerald who said something about how self-interest is our only real possession? I thought I'd seen it on Spark once before I got banned. Dumb android mods.

Floaters. Scars. Decreased quotas. Hmmm, where there is smoke there are bureaucrats.

---

The next few days were more of the same. A few more floaters, more degenerates, and more damn paperwork.

The scars were the constant. On floaters, on junkies, on one guy CAL coaxed off the edge before he could drop into the rot beneath the bridge. CAL didn't seem interested in the scars, no matter how many we found. His synapse lapses kept getting worse, same with the steady requests to detour through the Neon Slums.

I was getting cozier with the Glow, Nova, so that part worked out. But CAL always came back wired like he'd been on a crusade, even his idioms suddenly landing clean. Dust will fry his circuits someday.

Eventually everything burns out.

---

We were in between calls after finishing up processing a dead body. Another one of the Scarred, as I'd started referring to them.

CAL was finishing up the paperwork on his tablet when he chimed in.

"My initial analysis was incorrect. There are statistical inconsistencies with these deaths being attributed to heart disease.

All recovered bodies present advanced caloric deficiency, micronutrient depletion, and prolonged muscle catabolism."

I rubbed my temple with one hand. "English, please."

"These bodies haven't received adequate nutrition for months. Supplements are present but woefully ineffective."

"So you're saying the Governor chips aren't working?"

"Early analysis indicates that, affirmative."

CAL tapped the tablet once, then added, his voice flat but precise:

"The system design is towards collective, not individual, when working properly. Indications show drastic actions to remove themselves from this design."

I chuckle. "Drastic actions, huh? You have a firm grasp of the obvious, CAL."

"Indeed."

"Moss has been slowly darkening the jail the last few days. Maybe he's had a change of heart. Go talk to him and see. Going to the Red Rock Club. Take the edge off."

In my right peripheral, I caught a brief flare of light, bright, sharp, gone almost as soon as it appeared.

"Sure thing, Kelvin."

---

I signed off on the tablet and made my way to the Red Rock. A place I frequented to detach from reality. I called it Darwin's Waiting Room, where most crawled out of the primordial ooze of hedonism. Degenerate low-lives. What's not to love.

The club had a low ceiling and second-rate lights that threw more shadows than the past. Every surface was sticky with yesterday's mistakes, and the shadows carried their own weight.

I was on my second Puddle Jumper, an opaque, oily rainbow slick that coated my throat with regret, when a loudmouth entered the club. He wore a red pinstripe suit and pink gloves. Apparently, the circus was in town.

The bartender rang the bell and announced the newcomer had bought the place a round. Making friends with the degenerates, I thought. I'll drink to that.

I grabbed my drink and left the table, heading to the bar where the action was heating up.

"Business is good, so I'm spreading some love around tonight," said the newcomer.

I chuckled. He turned toward me, clapped me on the back, then extended his gloved hand. "Pinkerton. But you can call me Dr. Pink."

"Kelvin."

"Like the scale! Nice. I knew a guy in med school named Zero. Weird dude. He'd make pasta at like two a.m. and use hummus instead of sauce."

"A calorie bomb," I said into my drink.

"Booom," Pink said with a high-pitched laugh.

"So, med school, huh?" I quipped back.

"Yep. Well, I didn't finish. Nope. They caught on to me and my jars of fake body parts. Made a tidy bit of coin until they gave ol' Pinkerton the ban hammer."

"But you are a doctor," I argued back.

"Close enough," he said, smiling.

I liked him.

"So what type of doctor are you?"

"Well, a general practitioner at first, but then I went into these specialized surgeries. Yeah, really lucked into that. My precision is improving," he said, making cutting gestures with his right hand.

"Do the gloves help?"

"They do. In handling the product." He was on his fifth drink and a bit woozy.

"The product?"

He leaned in close. I could smell the sanitized metal on his breath.

"The chips, my man."

"Governor chips?"

He put his finger to his lips and smiled.

How did this guy get into that racket, I thought. Before I could ask, Pink was laid out on the bar like one of the corpses he undoubtedly craved with his gloved hands.

That's modern medicine for you.