New Worlds, Old Ways Read online

  The robot’s head slowly tilted up, and a gentle, melodious bootup theme played from its neck, a little louder now without some of the plating to muffle it. Shelly’s hands shot up in triumph as she waited to hear it greet itself. The robot opened its dull-grey mouth and spoke:

  “Çäðàâñòâóéòå. ß ìîäåëü Mèíåðâà, ñåðèéíûé íîìåð TTPS-8103-X791. ß ìîãó ÷åì-íèáóäü ïîìî÷ü?”

  “What?” Runako scratched his head. “What kinda language is that?”

  “I don’t know, boy.” Shelly finished screwing the final plate, and then inched closer to Imtiaz. “Im, something wrong with the language options or what?”

  “Maybe . . .” He went back into command prompt, typing in more code to get access to its folders. “But if it’s a neural wiring problem–”

  “I just looked at it, Im. Everything in order. Don’t blame it on–”

  “I not blaming anybody. I just saying we can’t solve this now. Police all over. We have to take this home and troubleshoot it there.”

  “Nah. I can’t wait. I need to be sure Runako not setting me up.”

  “Even if we make jail?” Imtiaz turned to her in panic.

  Shelly pointed at his laptop screen. “Face front. If you don’t want to make jail, work faster. We getting out of here, and we getting out of here with this robot.”

  Imtiaz rubbed his eyes anxiously before pressing the Enter key. There was a briefer, louder whir, and then the bot powered down, its folders spilling onto the screen in a small cascade. “Okay, the root is here . . .” He fished around for the language base. “Um . . . all I see here is Russian and Japanese. I can’t even find its preferred warning phrases document.” He put a few more lines in the command box to update its language files. “Okay, two minutes at least that’s fixed. I’ll have to reboot it again first.”

  “Alright, what about everything else? Optical recording? Ear-side microphones? The riot gear?”

  Imtiaz squinted at the rest of files and folders. “They all look fine here. Due for updates, but they could run fine till we get back home. So?” He gestured sternly to the window? “Can we?”

  “Make sure for me, please?”

  At this point, he was sweating. He couldn’t see through the window. At least seeing outside confirmed his fears. Now, worry just ran amok in his mind. He was sure he had just heard a gunshot higher up the street. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a breath, and then opened them again, scanning the filenames for anything missing. Instead, he found new ones.

  “When you find this?” he said.

  Runako shifted, rubbing his hand over the top of his shiny bald head. “Who, me? Like, some weeks. Why?”

  He turned to Shelly, eyes wide, beads of sweat falling down his cheeks. “Because it still have recordings, Shell.”

  She straightened up, leaning closer to see the screen. A folder headed GATHER had reams of voice notes and video, most of which were so badly corrupted that their file types were missing, surely a result of whatever damage the bot had received. All of them were titled with numbers, and they had even more text files with the same kind of file name.

  Shelly pointed to one at random, a text file. “Twelve oh nine, twenty twenty-three, sixteen thirty-four forty-one, oh thirty-nine? What that mean?”

  “Most likely date and time, and . . . the last three, a place? Number of files on that day? I don’t know.” He opened it and read aloud. “‘Event log, September 12th 2023’–wait, nah, that was just the other day?–‘deployed on raid procedure in Arima area, address 34 Lime Avenue. Related files withheld by Winged Cpt. Sean Alexander.’ It have the number of people in the house, outstanding warrant info . . . it says, ‘Winged Det. Dexter Sandy, in compliance with Winged Cpt. Alexander, found previously tagged evidence 46859 in previously sealed case Trinidad & Tobago vs. Kareem Jones, which led to the arrest of–”

  “Wait!” Runako stood behind Imtiaz, his hands pressed firmly on the back of the chair. “Previously tagged? You getting this, Shelly?”

  “What? I don’t follow.” She hadn’t turned to face either of them, still reading the file. Imtiaz stared at it with a mild confusion.

  “That evidence! Kareem Jones was in the papers months now for weed possession. He already in jail! How would they find already-seized weed in Arima from a case in Carenage, on the west side?”

  “And what is a ‘winged’ officer?” Shelly made scare-quotes with her fingers as she said it.

  “I was wondering the same thing,” Imtiaz said. “What kind of designation is that? It sure doesn’t sound official.”

  “I could damn well tell you what it is–”

  “I don’t want to believe it . . .” Shelly turned back to the robot, as if taking it in. It wasn’t just an illegal bot–it was a flying squad bot. A metal goon for the Prime Minister. It took a moment too long for Imtiaz to put it all together, but the moment he had, the back of his neck felt warm.

  “It have video for that day here?” Runako put his hands on Imtiaz’s shoulders–and it made him even tenser still.

  “L-lemme see.” He scrolled through them to find a video with the exact same title. He double-clicked it, and it loaded in his media player, a four-minute recording starting with the camera–the bot–leaving a police vehicle.

  * * *

  “Ey! Open up! Police!” A gruff man’s voice shouted from outside of view. The bot looked directly at the door of an apple-white house as it slowly opened, a short brown girl looking out timidly.

  “Where your parents, girl?” another, softer, male voice said, still in a raised voice. The girl shook her head in reply, stepping back into the house, but a heavy-set officer ran up to the door and held it open.

  They could hear someone else shouting inside. The officer at the door, the gruff one, shouted, “Ey! We reach, so don’t play like you’re hiding nothing!” Two other officers came to the door and they entered, the robot behind them in the tight, dim walkway.

  The robot glanced everywhere, and was making readings of everything. It tried to scan for the name of the girl, but couldn’t find it; it calculated live on screen the percentage of threat posed by stray breadknives on the kitchen counter as they passed it, or of a cricket bat near the living-room window–low, it supposed, being sized for a primary school child, easy to deal with by a carbon-plated police bot.

  It saw a man it identified at David Sellers, raising his voice at an officer, asking how they could barge into the house without a warrant.

  It saw Sparkle Sellers, and brought up the recent date of their marriage beneath her name as she pulled David back, trying to calm him down.

  It saw an officer pull a bag as big as his palm out of his side pocket while no one was looking. It tagged the bag “E-46859”, and followed awkwardly, focusing on it as the officer dropped it behind a plastic chair in the dining room. The officer nudged his partner and whispered, audibly enough for the robot, “It there, eh?” It saw him gesture with his elbow to the chair.

  “What?” David shouted. “What where? What’s going on here?”

  “Sir, you are under arrest for possession of marijuana with intent to distribute,” the gruff man said, reaching past Mrs. Sellers and grabbing David by his shoulder.

  “Weed? You for real, officer? It have no weed here!”

  He threw David on the brownish carpet, inches from the chair where they had dropped it, turning his head to face it as they put on the cuffs. “So what is that?”

  The video stuttered here, playing that one moment repeatedly–of David Sellers’ frightened gaze, fixed on the clear package on his floor, looping the very moment when his eyes widened with fear, and then relaxed again in sad resignation, over and over and over . . . .

  * * *

  For a moment, the three of them stared silently at the screen. Imtiaz’s hands were on his mouth.

  Suddenly, Runako and Imtiaz jumped in unison. There was a loud rapping at the outermost door.

  “Shit,” Runako whispered,
beginning to pace in confused panic. “They catch we, fellas. That is it.”

  “Wait, stop freaking out, guys,” Shelly said, getting up slowly.

  Imtiaz still couldn’t find the words. This was it. They were done. They had in front of them what was probably an illegally sourced repository of evidence of police impropriety in the house of a career criminal drug offender. They were done for.

  “Okay,” Shelly added. “We keeping the files, for sure.”

  “How we going to keep what we can’t leave the house with?”

  “Easy. We leave the house.”

  Imtiaz wanted to shout, if not for the fear of police. “How?”

  “Boot up the bot. We flying out.”

  Runako started mumbling to himself. “We backing up everything. Four or five copies. And you going to take them. Don’t get catch, eh?”

  “Wait, no, stop–how this supposed to work?” Imtiaz put his hands out to Shelly. “This is nonsense. How we flying out with the robot? It can’t even speak English yet!”

  “It don’t need to. It just need to be able to fly.”

  He checked the download–just complete. The flight module seemed to be fine in software, but he wasn’t convinced that Shelly had it all worked out on the hardware end. He didn’t like this idea at all. “Can we just think this over for–”

  Outside, they heard someone tapping on the door. “Excuse me, this is the police–”

  The three of them froze, their voice down to whispers. Imtiaz pointed at Shelly. “Okay, but let it be known I think this is craziness.”

  “Foolish is fine once it works–” She gripped the robot’s left arm firmly, then leaned over to the keyboard to begin another reboot sequence. “You better had grab hold of something. Runako, you coming with us?”

  “Nah. Somebody have to take the licks,” he whispered. He was standing at the door now, facing it at attention. “Just get out quick.”

  Shelly nodded, then looked sternly at Imtiaz, who shot her a confused look. The moment the robot’s boot sound sprung to life, he suddenly grabbed hold of its free arm.

  “Hello,” it said. “I am model Minerva, serial number TTPS-8103-X79I. How may I help you?”

  “By getting airborne,” Shelly whispered. “Uh . . . Hostiles en route, or whatever.”

  “Understood.” Suddenly, its wings spread open with a tinny, rusty clang. Its edges hit both walls without even opening fully, and then it just as suddenly retracted them. “Wingspan obstacle issue.” It turned to Shelly. “Primary launch will include thrusters only. Will that be a problem?”

  “Nah, you do what you have to do, man.” The moment Shelly said this was when Imtiaz realized he was about to do something well and truly foolish.

  The knocking at the door became more insistent, and the officer’s voice harsher. “You better open up right now before I have to kick this blasted–”

  The bot’s thrusters thrummed to life, warm air gushing from it. It turned to Imtiaz. “Please hold on to my arms with both hands. Flight may often be turbulent and dangerous.”

  “No shit–” Shelly nearly exclaimed it, but another persistent knock at the door brought her back to whispers. “We should go now, you know.”

  “Understood,” the bot replied.

  A louder, harder purr of wind and heat flooded out of the thrusters, and the bot sprang up with its two parcels on each side, through the galvanised sheet roof with enough force to push it clean off. They didn’t have enough time to ready themselves; Imtiaz would have slid all the way off its arm if it hadn’t swivelled its palm to grab his belt buckle. Shelly responded by wrapping her limbs around its arm for more support.

  The robot spread its wings, and the thrusters let out an even harder gust. “Clearing distance. What is our destination?”

  “Take me to San Juan,” Shelly shouted into its microphoned ear.

  “Understood.” It flapped its chrome-feathered wings once, and then sped east with a force Imtiaz swore would tear his flesh from the rest of him.

  Imtiaz looked down to see three police officers rush through the door, one of them already pinning Runako to the wall. Another reached for his pistol and let out one shot, narrowly missing the robot’s forehead, and by extension, Imtiaz.

  * * *

  Shelly would later spring Runako from prison with the spoils of her newfound publicity. Runako’s charge, again, was drug pushing, until the real news broke. Shelly sent a compact disc to every major television station as soon as she had watched all of the video herself–hours of video of ‘winged’ officers kicking in doors, windows, and the occasional civilian’s face; dozens of false arrests and misappropriations, with all the officers’ faces on screen. Imtiaz refused to look at them. They both spent their quiet moments trembling at the thought of what must have been on the videos that were lost to hard drive damage and time. The Prime Minister resigned two nights after, owning up to the whole flying squad programme. The new hot topic on the web, though, was that till the snap election was done, the citizens would be under a state of emergency anyway.

  As for the bot, Shelly put it to work helping her mother around the house on her behalf. She had tinkered with it so intensively that it had taken to cooking their dinner and tending to their herb garden with near-mathematical accuracy. On weekends, she strapped a bespoke harness around its wings and learned to fly with it for fun, a hobby which frightened her mother every single time.

  “What’s next for the girl who blew the whistle on the Flying Squad fiasco?” the press would ask her every other day in the papers.

  “Graduate from UWI?” she’d reply, shrugging, looking away from the cameras like she was already bored with it all.

  Imtiaz managed to keep his face out of the papers, for his own sake. Even his husband had yet to hear of the drama of that night. He’d have the occasional paranoid episode coming from work, though, looking in his rearview mirror for flashing blue lights as he hurried down the highway. Whenever he found himself panicking, he raised the volume on his industrial-rock driving music just a little higher.

  Imtiaz grew to enjoy the safety of his house. He held on to Tevin a little tighter every day. He’d even find himself grinning like a fool at the simplest, most mundane questions, simply because he was still around to answer them.

  “Didn’t have any problems getting back?” Tevin would ask.

  “Nah,” Imtiaz would reply. “Traffic was light today. You know how it is.”

  Kevin Jared Hosein

  Maiden of the Mud

  Trinidad & Tobago

  I drive him mad whenever I can, just because I can. Me and him–we have a connection. I ain’t know how, but I could tell you–he livin good-good over there and I dead as dead over here. It must have some thread that hangin in-between, extendin from my mouth and fastenin round his neck, cause when I speak the man name–Leon–he and only he could hear. And it ain’t take long for him to start listenin. And he’d come in the night, draggin he nice shoes along the muddy bank, smellin like rum, voice tremblin like a schoolyard sissy.

  He make sure to bring two gallon of milk with him every time. See, is not only me who cryin out for him. Have a next one here. A baby girl. A scrawny little thing. I never give the child no name–never get the chance back then, and never bother to now. The thing wasn’t even born when I dead. I wake up here in Waterloo Bay, face-down in the mud, just a stone throw away from the old pyres. And the child was right next to me, cryin, cryin. It was wet, covered head to toe with muck and slime. I stare at it for a few minutes, wonderin if it was a creature of foot or fin, lung or gill.

  Had nothin I could do to ease the child. The child didn’t want my milk. The cries pierce the air like sirens–nothin you coulda ever think come outta a baby mouth. When it first start, I didn’t know what to feel. Mostly, it was confusion. Then annoyance. Then rage. Lookin at it, its toothless mouth, oyster-grey skin, cheeks scrunched like soggy cotton, eyes small and shiny like soursop seeds, I coulda only think bout settin it to drift
down at sea. It might pluck itself outta the lazy ebb and swim back to me, I know, but at least the place would have peace and quiet. Just for one night, oh God–quiet.

  I was never this kinda woman, you know, not before I shack up with a guy name Shivan Sharma. I used to sing, mostly in hotels and weddings. I ain’t never believe in the songs I sing, at least not after the paychecks start comin in less and less. I was lookin to get out. Where I meet Shivan was at his sister’s wedding. I remember the decorations–red and gold everywhere. One thing that catch my eye was a big blown-up photo of the bride and groom, Lakshmi and Leon. The two figures, frozen midway in some dippin dance move, obscenely highlighted in a carousel of airbrush and bloom.

  I remember thinkin: this Leon could be a model–every hair in place, neat scythe-shaped eyebrows, strong angular jaw, devilishly handsome grin. Lakshmi sheself–not so pretty. Thin lips, thick eyebrows, short stature, flat. Really not the kinda woman you gon expect to see with a man like Leon. It become apparent to me that Leon was the trophy, not she. See, that whole family was born in money–you know, them uppity, fair-skin, high-class Indians. So when Shivan wanted to have an after-party fling with the wedding singer, it make my blood crawl at first. Boys from these kinda families was accustom to gettin whatever they wanted and whoever they wanted. But I had to suck it up. He was my ticket outta this life of uncertainty. So I make sure to do the deed right. I stroke all the right spots, lick all the right parts, tell him how big and majestic his penis was–I make the boy fall in love. And well, before I know it, the boy bring me home to meet Mother Sharma.

  But that old woman didn’t like me at all, at all. She look for faults everywhere and fill them with salt. I try to cook lunch for the woman once and everything was missin something–the curry have no chadon beni, the rice have no cardamom, this thing need more vinegar, that thing need more pimento. But wasn’t just that. It just start off that way. The next day, my hair lack volume. The day after, my skin need lightenin. Next day, my teeth need straightenin. I needed to fix my sour face, smile more, sit straight, tone up, moisturise, deep-cleanse, exfoliate. By the end of the first two months, I didn’t have enough academic qualifications, didn’t have enough distinctions, certificates, diplomas, accreditations. For this woman to stop harassin my tail, I needed a BSc, a BA, a LLB, a MFA, a PhD. Tell you, this old woman was drivin me mad! She used to deny it, though. If I ever bring it up, the old bitch would throw her arms up in the air and holler, “But I have no problem with you, dear, what a silly thing to say!”