Ambon

The mail drone deftly opens my mail box and slips some letters in. The thing whistles as it takes off just like they tell us the human “posties” did in the past. Humans used to be posties, connies, ticket inspectors, clerks, ticket sellers, security guards, cleaners and I could go on for infinity if I so chose. Nothing to do but accept it, like my old man said before he died. I live in Ferntree Gully, home of the Puffing Billy tourist train and far enough out of Melbourne to still live close to forest, Sherbrooke Forest. But technology is here in the form of drones and customer service robots and in other more sinister ways. Law enforcement. Change came quickly. Zero tolerance came in in 2064. We call these law enforcement robots the Guards.

The debate is endless. Do robots give better customer service? And my answer is yes, unless you have a left-field request. But nearly every conceivable scenario is written into them with computer codes together with the appropriate response. Customer service via telephone robots is better, the best, too good to be true in fact, but it’s a little boring, too clinical. Still, I don’t wish for the old days in that regard and at only forty-four years old I can remember them. There’s enough shit going on that a little customer satisfaction is most acceptable but there’s more, there always is, isn’t there. That law enforcement thing and quotas and racial profiling and profiling of all citizens in fact. The ID card. Your life is one big, long ID card.

Let’s say you have an overdue fine, it happens even in the perfect world, the Guards can access your bank account balance and then force you to pay the fine or you won’t be released. Like wheel clamping for humans. They can’t access your account, just the balance, but is that coming too? And the big irony here, because I’m complaining about them, is that I’m a technical writer. I write the codes for the Guards. Not the kill system but everyday stuff, and yeah, I have to write in where a little force is needed sometimes. The Guards are owned and run by a huge conglomerate of big business and government called The Guardians. The Government can freeze your bank account a lot easier these days. Any hint of corruption at your work or drugs or violence and they’ll close it down until they get the truth. We asked for law and order, the outlawing of bikie gangs and organised crime, and we got it in spades.

For twenty years one of the scourges of law enforcement in Australia was small dealers using their 3D printers as small pill presses. You could get any synthetic high you wanted and there were thousands of dealers instead of hundreds but centrally controlled by organised crime. It worked for synthetic heroin and ice and everything else too, just change the ingredients package, hence the law enforcement problem. I wrote the code that The Guardians used to infect every computer and mobile device in the land to disable home 3D printers from being used in this way. The criminals’ software became outdated and it made my name as a technical code writer. They nicknamed it the flu because it infected everything.

So, I earn big money, live in a big house and have the latest-model electric car which the manufacturer tells me is faster than anything the Guards might have at their disposal. Cars don’t have rego plates any more or any signage of the make and model. Inside you’ll know the difference. They’re mostly all silver sedans so that rich folk aren’t targeted. Obviously the temptation to test the speed of my car against the Guards is high, but the code I wrote means if they catch me they can legally run me off the road and then I’ll go straight to prison for two years, which is the predetermined sentence for that crime. Jail first; court case second. In jail until proven innocent, but the courts move fast now. I would probably only spend a month in jail before the trial. And there are different levels of jail. The most secure and notorious jails are pretty much like the old ones except everything is locked down. You can’t knock out or kill a Guard. They’re made of steel. Picture a store mannequin, face unchanging, spouting nonsense through a grill-like mouth about law and order and systems must be maintained.

That’s the big catchphrase I wrote: systems must be maintained. And someone above my station programs the consequences for people who don’t maintain the systems. The kill system. Soft crimes like shoplifting and inability to pay a fine, inability because you don’t work and have no money and that means the punishment might be you lose all data for a certain period. No computer; no phone for say six months. Your life will be so fucked up you’ll never dream of doing it again in your wildest nightmare. Unemployment sits at about 10 per cent. Nearly all retail and customer service jobs went and a lot of these jobs were replaced by people doing simple data entry (a huge industry now) or factory-line work, building the Guards and drones and the computer-operated phone systems used by all internet and phone carriers and all other customer service.

I log out of my computer and set up the security protocols for my office and close the door. Time for a coffee. Turn the house security on and walk out. I pass a Guard on my way down to Ferntree Gully Road and he wishes me a good morning using my Christian name, Felix. The creepiness never leaves you. Remember, think of a mannequin store dummy that talks. Traffic is light out here. Cars are very expensive. Everything you could need is here in Ferntree Gully. And plenty of beautiful stuff you don’t need. There’s an amazing chairlift up through the forest and lyrebirds still walk around. They created a kind of disease that killed all the feral cats, so the small wildlife is back. It’s still possible for good things to happen.

I usually order a double-shot latte in a small glass followed by a second one. As I talk to freaking robots all day, Sheila, who runs the café, is probably the closest thing or person that you could call a friend of mine except for Milo, who left the big city years ago. It’s only 6.30 a.m.; I usually start work at 4 a.m.

Sheila brings me the latte and sits down and says, “Did I tell you that when I lived in Sydney, before I escaped to this part of the world, I smoked ten cigarettes a day? A luxury. I had a friend with a big house in Potts Point; there was a basement flat we used to go down to three times day. We’d drink coffee and chain smoke three or four cigarettes three times a day. I wasn’t working.”

“Nothing surprises me about you. Do you ever smoke now?”

“No. I don’t want to die a painful death.”

“This is the only business I go to that doesn’t have Guards working in it.”

“I like to talk freely and this café is small enough not to need to use the Guards. Besides they’d smash all the plates. I’ll just hire a teenager to wash up if I need anyone. You still haven’t bought me that dinner, yet.”

“I got tickets to the game tonight at the MCG. Want to come?”

“A real live game. In a stadium. Can you buy me a Four’n’Twenty pie?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Then I’ll come but you have to drive us in that fancy car of yours, no trains.” She walks away and serves a customer who comes in for take-away coffee, then comes back and sits opposite me. She has short orange-red hair, bright green eyes and she’s taut and wiry and strong looking.

I say, “Did I ever tell you about the time I went to the northernmost tip of the Northern Territory?”

“No, but you’re going to.”

“It’s a place called Smith Point on the Cobourg Peninsula. There’s nothing there, complete wilderness. My friend Milo is the sole park ranger there. A friend of a friend of mine flew a light plane up to Darwin when I worked there in 2051 when I was twenty-one. I camped in a two-man tent and he flew back and picked me up two days later. A small dirt airstrip in the middle of nowhere, that’s all it was. A few others camping. You needed a permit to get in there because it was Aboriginal land.”

“Did you find your friend?”

“Oh yeah, he met the plane and we talked and smoked a joint or two together at night. He’s a big reader and I had about twenty books he’d asked me to bring for him and you could see he was dying to get at them but he wanted to catch up with me too.”

“Was anything worth looking at?”

“Oh yeah, I swear to God it felt like I was at the end of the world. There’s something to say for remoteness. You don’t understand until you’re there.”

“Nice beach?”

“The beach is amazing. Pristine. The only set of footprints in the sand is your own but the killer is it’s boiling hot but you can’t swim because the ocean is full of crocodiles and sharks and stingers. I thought a lot about what I did back then. I had just started writing code and I had a crisis of conscience and when you feel like there are only two people on the planet I … you know I write the codes, Sheila, it’s just, what do you think God or the gods would think of the Guards?”

“Don’t do it to yourself, Felix, you have no choice now, don’t even talk about it, no one can hear you in here but be careful. People know you’re a decent man.”

“That means something coming from you. Do your other customers ask about me? What kind of person I am?”

“Yes, that’s the nature of people, but in here we’re still human, a heart beats inside us.”

“You mean you don’t answer them.”

“I’m very skilled in talking and saying nothing.”

I finish my second latte and get up to leave but sit back down and say, “The business side of The Guardians is becoming more and more powerful. The Government is very much the lesser player. I can access all kinds of information with my security clearance.”

“Stop, Felix, enough information. I’m not your priest. You’re my friend but we need to be careful what we say, even here.”

 “Do you know the only place on the planet where the Guards don’t exist in any form whatsoever?”

“Don’t tell me. Smith Point.”

“No, there is one Guard at Smith Point and one person to service the Guard and there’s surveillance by the navy, airforce and army and digital cameras and imaging and my friend Milo still works there but he tells me nobody bothers him and he can still smoke a joint if he wants. But Milo knows how to be alone, he thrives on it. Maybe they know he grows and smokes dope, maybe not. He has a hydroponic setup in his hut in the middle of nowhere and the Guard mainly operates on the airstrip. The man who services the Guard has a monitoring role in combination with the armed forces and the weather stations. But there is a place where the Guards don’t exist and it’s a place I always dreamed of escaping to, but if I told you where it was I would have to kill you.”

Sheila laughs and says, “Then tell me tonight and kill me after the big game.”

I get up and say goodbye and leave. We haven’t changed that much. Friday night is still the big game of the round and tonight it is traditional rivals Melbourne versus Collingwood at the mighty MCG.

That place I was telling Sheila about, where there are no Guards, is Ambon in the Spice Islands of Indonesia. The Aborigines used to trade with Ambon long before white people arrived to settle Australia. There are thirteen thousand islands in the huge Indonesian Archipelago and I’m sure there are other islands that don’t have the Guards or monitors but Ambon I know for sure doesn’t. There was a yacht race from Darwin to Ambon each year but it stopped in 2050 after relations with Indonesia disintegrated to only the most basic diplomatic necessities.

However, Indonesia has 3 million military personnel and twice that in their army reserve. Who needs Guards? They are the fourth-largest country in the world in terms of population. The US maintains the peace between Australia and Indonesia but in my view the stronger the business side of The Guardians gets, the weaker the relationship will become.

Ambon is 970 kilometres from Darwin downwind and maybe, just maybe, I’ll go one day. Sail along the Rhumb Line through the Arafura Sea and onto the Banda Sea and then into Ambon Bay. Milo has a catamaran.

I don’t have any urgent work, but I update some protocols for the Guards. Of course I’m not the only technical writer but I have a higher clearance than most. I can’t write whatever I like. I need clearance for some new ideas but I can change already written code to a certain level. I can block out CCTV and delete video that might work against The Guardians, the traffic Guards and so on, and I’m in a position to be offered bribes daily, which I refuse and mostly don’t report. I just set people straight. If I take your bribe I will have to report you and that is a mandatory five years in a high-level prison. No one wants a month in one of those places. Five years would be like life. The people who contact me for bribes are usually old friends I don’t talk to any more or people I went to school or university with. People I knew when I was with my wife, Leila, and who dropped off when we broke up. No kids.

I take a gun in the car with me when I go out at night because car-jacking is becoming more prevalent. Criminals are always looking for new ways to make money and they come out of nowhere, like ghosts, and with weapons to disable your car. The speed of my car from scratch has saved me a couple of times. Guns are outlawed but my security clearance allows me one at home. The gun is a Hercules snub-nose job that would blow a hole the size of a football in someone’s chest.

I pick up Sheila at 6.30 p.m. The game starts at 7.10 and I have priority parking and seating. It’s a quick drive down Ferntree Gully Road onto the Princes Highway and Punt Road to the ground. Like I said, cars are very expensive and most people don’t own one. The public transport is great so long as you have a ticket and keep your mouth shut. Trains, trams and buses every five minutes from everywhere.

“We should win tonight, Sheila.”

“Yeah, go Melbourne. Really, I just like watching men in shorts. This car is amazing, so quiet, and it looks like every other car from the outside. A small silver sedan but so cool inside and fast. I know we’re flying but it feels so smooth.”

“Thanks.”

“How come you never made a pass at me?”

“Maybe I think you’re too good for me.”

“That would be pretty stupid.” We both laugh.

“No, seriously, am I that bad?”

“You’re perfect. I promise I’ll hit on you after the game tonight.”

We both say nothing until I need to try and rid myself of the guilt I feel for what I do. “I’m going to get serious for a second here. I agree with the Christians that the soul survives when we die but I think we become better and better people with each reincarnation or whatever you want to call it. Maybe there’s no heaven. Just next time around. We don’t make the same mistakes. It would also explain déjà vu and give me a clear conscience for what I’m doing this time around.”

“You just can’t keep feeling like that. You need to get away or change jobs. You’re complaining about a system that you work within. You write the rules, Felix. You’re complicit with everything that’s wrong.”

“I don’t make the rules, I just write the code. The rules come from The Guardians.”

“I can’t win with you, Felix. Shut up and talk about the game now.”

It turns into a great night. It’s the last quarter of the game and we’re in front by 30 points with five minutes to go.

Sheila has managed to drink too much but be quiet about it, and I turn to her and say, “You want to cut out now? They can’t lose.”

“No, let’s stay and sing the song.” We shuffle out at the end, Guards at every exit making sure we’re all good people. We walk briskly to the car, it’s cold and I open the doors a few metres away, and see someone approaching quickly from the left but it’s nothing, he veers off. I should know better. Sheila is still drunk and still singing the team song as we drive out onto Punt Road. We make it to the Princes Highway and when we exit onto Ferntree Gully Road at Oakleigh a Guard waves a fluoro yellow stick at us and signals us to stop.

I slow down and the Guard turns on a loudspeaker and says, “Sir and madam, please get out of the car.”

I look at Sheila and say, “It’s cool. Get your ID card ready. They’ll see who I am with my card and it’ll be fine. I must have been going too fast.”

We both get out of the car and Sheila hands the Guard her ID card. He looks at the card and then starts scanning Sheila’s face, which is not normal.

The Guard says, “This is a fake ID. You are not Sheila Wilson, you are fugitive Connie Neilson. I am taking you into custody.” Sheila gives me a look that tells me she’s in deep shit here. She has managed to surprise me at last, and I wonder who she really is or what she has done.

I think fast and say to the Guard, “My name is Felix Norton. I’m a code writer. This woman is with me. I have security clearance.”

“Where is your ID, Felix Norton?” the Guard says as he scans my face.

I have it in my pocket but I say, “It’s in the glovebox.”

“Get it.”

I take the gun out and put it in my jacket pocket. He doesn’t see me. I have the ID card too. He has hold of Sheila.

I walk up to him and say, “Let her go for a second.” He does, because of my clearance, and then he reaches for her again but I quickly put the Hercules snub-nose to his chest and fire. It forces him back on the road and a semi-trailer pummelling down Ferntree Gully Road runs into him and sends him flying down the road and then runs over him.

The semi pulls up and I run to it, wave the gun at the driver and say,
“Get in, keep driving. This never happened.” He looks at me, sees the Guard, and starts working it out in his head. He doesn’t want any of this action.

“Get in. Drive. Forget it happened,” I say again. He climbs quickly back into the cab of his truck and drives off. The Guard is a mess on the road. I drag him off, slowly, and no one comes past. Then I place the gun behind his metal knee and blast a hole in the steel where his USB device is fitted. The USB device is similar to the old aircraft black boxes, holding vital information, probably including video of what just happened.

I look at Sheila and say, “Who are you? What did you do?”

She doesn’t speak.

“Too late. We have to go. Get in the car. Now!”

I explain as I drive. “If I can get to my laptop quickly enough I can erase all the CCTV from the cameras on the road but I can’t delete the Guard’s video. We may have until morning. Sheila, they don’t take you in for nothing. What’s this about your name?”

“Good people do bad things, Felix; you of all people should know that.”

“This is the deal, Sheila. Get all the clothes you need. I’ll drive you to the bank. The daily limit is $20,000. Take it all out if you have it. We’re not coming back. Understand that clearly.” She nods. “I’ll get my laptop and clothes and I have $40,000 in a cash box plus the $20,000 from my daily limit. They’ll shut down our accounts when they find out what happened.” Sheila looks dazed and I say,
“Are you clear? It’s important.”

She looks at me and I can see her nodding, knowing it may all be over, whatever it is. I speed down the highway at 200 kmh and drop her off, get into my house and send an email that I’ll be off line for twenty-four hours, the maximum sick time I’m allowed. I get security clearance and erase the CCTV from the cameras on the road. I send another email saying that the Guard who was on Ferntree Gully Road, Oakleigh, has been taken off-line until 7 a.m. I tell them I noticed faults in the way he was talking when he stopped me for going too fast, and good system management meant I had to come home and take him off line. We have until the morning if we’re lucky. I drive quickly to Sheila’s flat and thank God she’s waiting. She knows it is the only way. I accelerate away down Ferntree Gully Road but stop after five minutes and call Milo.

“You can’t come here,” he says. “You’ll stick out like dogs’ balls. I can’t hide you in the bush and anyway you’d need a four-wheel-drive to get here, flying is out of the question. The Guard controls the airstrip.”

“You know where I want to get to, don’t you?”

“Ambon. Your best bet is to get to Darwin and steal or buy a yacht, a small sailing ship. I know you can sail. Make it a minimum of ten metres and monohull. Your best bet is Cullen Bay, there’s less security, maybe only one or two Guards, maybe you can somehow take them off line. How much money do you have?”

“I have over a hundred grand in the bank if they don’t shut my account down. I plan to be in Adelaide tomorrow morning. Banks open at 7 a.m. I may be able to take it all out.”

“There’s lot of maybes in this, Felix. What happened?”

“I’ll tell you when we get somewhere safe, if ever.”

Back in the car I say, “Sheila, I’m going for Adelaide. Like you said, this car looks like any other car, with luck we’ll make it. A bus to Darwin or we’ll get another car, maybe even keep this one. Milo says we can’t go to Smith Point. Stealing or buying a yacht and sailing to Ambon is our best bet, if we can get there.”

“Ambon? What is it? Some kind of paradise?”

“If we can get through the Arafura Sea to the Banda Sea we might just make it.  Ambon isn’t paradise, the Christians and Muslims have been at each other’s throats for over a century. But there are over 550,000 people living there. Not so small that we’ll stand out too much, and the possibility of a life without the Guards, if not there then on to Manado or some other island, some other place in the Indonesian archipelago.”

She looks at me and says, “I’m sorry, Felix. I …”

I put the accelerator flat to the floor. We may always be running.