The first time Finch’s shimmering station pass beeped in rejection, he attributed it to the Precinct he’d been assigned. Everyone in Shanghai and the surrounding metroscape knew what kind of shape Precinct 117 was in. The recent influx of those crazy nanotech sentries from the WCC helped, and there weren’t many fringe extremists against them this side of China, but Finch was getting ahead of himself. He needed to get inside first. He swiped the card three more times before he thought it might be another test. Between his new partner and his rumpled old supervisor, the tests had hardly ended with his graduation from the academy. The door beeped back the red shut-out light every time.
“Just my luck…” Finch muttered, seemingly to himself. The wall-mounted speaker crackled alive.
“If you’re going to fall back on luck, you might as well leave your badge on the step, rookie,” grumbled the doorman. So he was listening.
“Door lock still busted? Or is it my card?” said Finch.
“Probably both,” laughed the doorman. The door swung out with a push from another rookie from his office. It was the young man only a few years Finch’s senior, who held the desk directly across from his. Of all the people Finch had met in his three weeks on the force, Greg was the only one he could form a remote connection to.
“We’ve got bots that can be a table or a gun, but no functioning door,” Greg shook his head while he let Finch in. He sucked down a deep breath of cool, pure air. Finch was still adjusting to the transition from the overcrowded, humid haze of Shanghai’s regular atmosphere to the filtered inside of a WCC-supported Precinct.
“So why didn’t you send your Squire to let me in?” Finch raised a sandy blonde eyebrow.
“New ordinance. Costs the Precinct millions more to pay for the Squires than it does for us. They don’t lift a shapeshifting finger unless it’s something we can’t do ourselves,” said Greg.
They headed through the glum halls to their office. The shimmering teal track of tube lights overhead made everything visible, but in such a drab light it made the Precinct even more depressing than it was by default. Sure, some Precincts in India and Afghanistan saw action, but 117 was a relic of times before the WCC, before the SkyLine changed everything. A time when law needed enforcing, when the life of the planet wasn’t at stake.
“While we’re on Squires… how are things with your new partner?” asked Greg, while they paced. Finch took a glance down every crossing hallway before he started.
“Strange. Really strange. I mean - I knew it’d be weird, with his… what’s-it-called, a personality matrix?” fumbled Finch.
“Yeah. I could hardly believe it when I heard. A drone with a heart of gold,” said Greg.
“Don’t know about gold… but he does apologize for everything. And he’s a little… clingy? Always asking me if I’m alright, or if I need anything. Wouldn’t be surprised if it was him driving the Precinct bills through the roof,” Finch marveled. That was around the time Finch and Greg made it to their office. A grid of cubicles adorned with glowing instant-coffee canisters and splayed manila files made it more their homes than their tiny, stacked one-room apartments.
“Well, the software is in beta. Poor guy is just a kink to be worked out,” said Greg. He sunk into his worn, swivel office chair. “Didn’t they give him a human-sounding model number too? No wonder the thing’s confused.” Greg spun in his chair to face his desk just before a digitized voice piped up behind Finch’s head.
“Mr. Finch!”
“Ah! DA-Vos, too loud!” Finch gasped. He wheeled to face a black onyx oval, the faceless face of his partner. Finch could see the whites of his own eyes in the reflective surface inches away. “And too close.”
“Sorry, Mr. Finch! I am still adjusting my proximity settings for appropriate socialization,” said DA-Vos. The jet-black, seamless, man-shaped machine took one small step back.
“How about one more step? Let’s say… two feet between us, at all times?” said Finch.
“Yes, very good, Mr. Finch,” said DA-Vos, the glossy black of his face lighting lavender when he spoke. Purely for human convenience, the chief had explained, Squires with a personality matrix were assigned a gender. According to this odd rule, DA-Vos was officially a “he”. First it made Finch laugh, when it was so common for people to change genders as they grew into themselves. Then the less humorous idea of rights for thinking
machines poked into his mind.
“And drop the Mr. too. Just Finch is fine,” he forced himself not to mumble for the fifth time.
“Yes, of course, Mr. Finch,” said DA-Vos. Finch groaned. Greg’s chuckles, while his own Squire sat silently beside him, didn’t help. Finch almost jumped back when DA-Vos jerked up his arm. His shapeless, metallic tentacle reformed itself before Finch’s eyes into a perfect imitation of a human hand. He sighed, and took DA-Vos’ glossy new fingers for a firm shake.
“DA-Vos, I… appreciate the gesture, but handshakes are typically at the beginning or end of a conversation. And maybe a little less abrupt? You’re going to scare someone if you do that outside the Precinct,” Finch told him. A long breath escaped him when he remembered he hadn’t even clocked in yet. Finch’s brother was off in a lab somewhere developing faster Fusion jets for magnetrains, and here he was parenting a gigantic, robotic man-baby in the slums. Just my luck, he thought, and this time he meant it.
“Understood, Mr. Finch… apologies, but my analytics show that after three weeks as partners, we should be more closely bonded. I was only extending a friendly gesture,” said DA-Vos. Then the light on his face glowed blue. Sure there was an AI in there, running the whole nanotech show. Sure, Finch knew some immeasurably complex code was calculating the closest thing a computer could simulate to “emotion”. Still, he couldn’t have been prepared for the words that came through that blue glow. “Why do you not like me, Mr. Finch?” Finch could only stare into the radiating metal, in search of the mind inside.
“DA-Vos… it’s not that I don’t like you,” said Finch. How best to say this, to so new a psyche, natural, or artificial? “Humans don’t run on analytics. And… you can’t force a bond. It just has to happen. It’s part of being partners.”
“I see…” DA-Vos’ face glow returned to its neutral lavender. Then the door from the main entrance slammed shut, marking the Chief’s entrance. Every officer, human and Squire, straightened up before his procession.
“At ease, you beanbags,” the Chief grumbled. “Office meeting in five. Time for your new route assignments.” On his way, he took a deep glowing pull from his cigarano. The health benefits of vaporized sage and chamomile filled the Chief’s chest with each deep breath. He disappeared behind the door to his office with no further word. The office resumed its previous casual shuffle.
“Think his blood vessels would burst if we hid that thing from him?” whispered Greg, about the cigarano. Finch turned to answer, but stopped when he noticed a color he’d never seen before, on DA-Vos’ face. His light smoldered yellow.
“DA-Vos?”
“Do… do you not hear that?” murmured DA-Vos.