Benedict and Cameron

Benedict Reid, reading the catalogue spread in front of his desk, wrote down another item he needed for this week's shipment. He turned the page and began again the work of comparing the catalogue with the list of things he needed to restock.

It was a slow day at the automaton repair shop, but it gave Benedict time to write up this week's shipment of parts he needed to fix and clean automatons. He flipped through the book, eyes scanning the items to make sure he didn't miss anything. The repairman knew that the auto in charge of the shipping schedule from UK Control back in Old London would be coming by this section of the station   in just a few minutes. His fingers trembled as he set the magazine aside and went through his list, quill in the other hand.

To save Benedict even more anxiety, just then, the automaton came through the door. Its name was CD-205, the CD standing for Cleaning & Delivery, the tasks that it was assigned to do. The number indicated that it was the 205th auto who was assigned these tasks on London Central, or as its residents called it, New London. Even though it was his job to fix them, Benedict still had trouble understanding how many automatons there must be on this massive space station.

“Afternoon, Reid,” the automaton said. Benedict shifted his eyes. Even though autos couldn't express themselves as easily as humans, he knew that CD-205 was still mad at him.

“Hi, CD,” he replied, and handed over the list. and the automaton looked it over, its camera eyes reading at an inhuman speed. After a couple of seconds, CD paused and simply said, “This is a lot of supplies, Reid. Almost twice as much as you requested last month. I need an explanation before I can run this to UK Control.”

In his excitement at getting to explain his increase in the shipping request, Benedict forgot who he was talking to. “Well, I've been getting a lot more customers lately. Many of the autos are coming in with missing cogs. Some of them come in with missing fingers or toes, or other joints, and I have to replace them with new ones. Not only that, but the new catalog from Old London has a lot of new parts that would be more effective with the autos, and I really want to try them. Parts such as new working gears, more efficient screws, pipes, and new welding equipment for better repair.” He took a breath and continued. “Oh, and I need more solvent for the cleaning machine; so many autos have come in here to be cleaned I'm just about out of it.”

CD blinked. It was not amused by Benedict's long-winded speech and thought that many fewer words would have sufficed. “Very well. Those all seem like very good reasons.” He paused for just a second, and then said, “The only thing I don't think I can get you is cleaning solvent.”

Benedict stared at the automaton and frowned. “What? Why not?”

It shook his head. “I'm not cleared to tell you that. But you'll have to do with what you have for now.” With that, it opened the compartment on its chest, stuffed Benedict's list inside, and shuffled out of the shop.

Benedict was left with a sense of emptiness and anxiety. He wished that CD wasn't so cold to him; the incident with the auto had happened some time ago, yet CD was still angry with him for some reason. He didn't understand. Benedict's automaton cat, Clyde, slunk from behind some equipment and rubbed his legs. He petted the cat absentmindedly and hoped that CD's ominous words about his cleaning machine didn't mean anything drastic.

A couple weeks later, Benedict was kneeling down as he repaired an automaton from another section of the station. His overalls and shirt were covered in grease, and the automaton he was repairing was shut off. Although they could not feel pain, he found it better to work with them when they couldn't move.

He was so immersed in his work that he didn't notice the two men standing behind them until one of them rang the bell on his front desk. Loudly. Benedict jumped, dropping his wrench and whipping around to face them.

Surprisingly, they were dressed in business wear, with suit jackets and pinstripe pants. If they were all back in Old London, they would have been wearing top hats, but that was kind of impractical here on the station.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Reid,” the taller one said, pulling out some papers out of his suit jacket.

Benedict visibly recoiled. “What's going on?”

The other man held out a hand and warmly said, “My name is Richard Bell, and this is my partner, George Burke. We're administrators from UK Control.” Benedict shook Bell's hand, and held out his to shake Mr. Burke's, but got a sly look of disgust and shake of the head from the other man, so he just shrugged.

“What brings you here today, sirs?” Benedict said, wiping his hands with a rag he picked up from the table.

Mr. Burke handed him the papers. “We were ordered to give you new cleaning equipment. UK Control has developed new technology and wants you to use it.” A pause, and then, “How long have you been without solvent for your current cleaning machine?”

Benedict sighed. “About a week. My customers are starting to get angry.”

Mr. Burke pointed at the papers impatiently. “You have to sign at the bottom of the page to confirm you've received the notice that you're receiving the new equipment.”

He hesitated. “How different is this new equipment?”

“It shouldn't be too much different. I've been told they're just using lower sound waves as part of the cleaning process.” Mr. Bell gave him a warm smile that reassured Benedict a little.

“...Okay.” He skimmed the paperwork before signing the bottom, his hand shaking. He then handed it to Mr. Bell. In return, the businessman gave him a card. “This is my business card. I'm just an administrator, but if you have any problems with the new equipment, you can contact me.” Benedict nodded, and the two men straightened their jackets and walked out the door.

Two days after the businessmen stopped by, two overalled mechanics wheeled the new equipment into his shop. It was slightly bigger than his old cleaning machine, but the knobs and dials looked almost exactly the same. After being briefed about what was different about this new one (needless to say, they didn't tell him much more than Mr. Bell had), and had Benedict sign more paperwork, they wheeled out the old cleaning machine and left Benedict to his curiosity about the new machinery.

He knew how his old cleaner worked. He placed a part, be it a part of an automaton or other machinery in the basket of the machine. There was water and special solvent inside the machine, and when he turned it on, the machine emitted sonic waves that would create bubbles of pressure, effectively destroying any dust, rust, or dirt that had accumulated on the piece he had placed in the machine. Benedict had been told that the sonic waves were actually sound, but that the sound was too high pitched for people to hear—much like a dog whistle. This science of this still fascinated Benedict. Humans had mastered the power of sound and used it in such a creative way. He would have never thought of it, for sure.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Benedict turned around and noticed an automaton holding a box. “I heard you got your new equipment in, Mr. Reid.”

“So quickly? I literally just got it.”

If the automaton could have smirked, it would have. “Word travels quickly around the station.”

“Oh. What can I do for you?”

The automaton pointed to the box. “I need these parts cleaned by the end of the week. They're part of some machinery that was broken down in engineering.”

“Is it necessary for the operation of this station?” Benedict said, starting to panic.

It shook his head, starting to get impatient with the mechanic. “No, these are spare parts that were taken out and fixed. I just need to you clean them. Thanks, Mr. Reid.”

Benedict went through the box, double-checking the inventory that the auto gave him. He always did that. Always keeping his things in order was a high priority. Once that was finished, he carefully picked up the first piece to put into the cleaning machine. As he had always done, he placed it in the basket. He mused that this new model didn't need any solvent before setting the machine for the seven minute mark and turning it on.

Almost immediately, a high-pitched whine began to emit from the machine. Benedict clapped his hands over his ears and reached his arm out to turn it off. He cringed as he suddenly realized the worst thing about this new machine; it locked in cycle until it was finished the cleaning.

For seven minutes Benedict sat on his stool as far away from the machine as possible, hands still over his ears. To him, the noise felt like it was gnawing straight into his brain. He would have ran away but he knew he would get into a lot of trouble if he left his shop unattended; it was one of the biggest rules on New London and he couldn't break it. He just couldn't.

After the cycle was complete, Benedict opened his eyes and uncovered his ears. He walked over to the machine, extremely wary of it. He picked the item out of the basket, now cleaner than ever, and set it into another box. Then, without warning, he kicked the machine and swore. Better machinery! Ha! This piece of equipment was obviously faulty and broken! Those men at UK Control were a bunch of fools! The old cleaner worked just fine! He saw no reason why they had to change it!!

Feeling short of breath, he sat down again. After a few minutes of thought, he saw that there was little reason to worry. He pulled out the business card. Mr. Bell would be able to get him his old machine back, or at least fix this so it stopped that obnoxious screeching.

Unfortunately, when Benedict attempted to contact him that next day, he was told by the receptionist that Mr. Bell was on-planet and therefore not available. However, Mr. Burke was available and would come by to attend to the problem.

Mr. Burke walked in while Benedict was working on a faulty watch. Pulling back his special magnifier glasses, he got up from the table to greet him.

The administrator was apparently not one for greetings. Fingering his mustache, he said, “What appears to be the problem here, Mr. Reid?”

“The machine, sir. When I went to clean some parts for E-102, the new cleaning machine emitted a high-pitched whine that was very disturbing and prevented me from working.”

Burke rolled his eyes ever so slightly. These dirty worker types always had something to complain about. “Why don't you test it for me so I can see for myself, Mr. Reid. I really can't take your word for it.”

Benedict hesitated, the hand that was resting on the desk beginning to shake. “May I please leave the room, sir? I don't want to hear that sound again.”

“I don't see why you should be permitted. Just set it for a lower time.”

“Ah... okay, sir.”

The mechanic placed a small cog inside the cleaning machine and turned it on. Without fail, the screeching began again, and it took all of Benedict's self control to not run from the room or clap his hands over his ears. “See, it's making that sound. I can't use this machine.”

“...I actually don't hear it, Mr. Reid.”

“...What...?!?”

“I don't hear any sound, except for the whirring, which I believe the last machine made.”

Neither of them said anything until the cycle stopped. Mr. Burke pulled out the cog, now clean and shining in the gaslight. “See? It still works; it isn't broken. You must be hearing things.”

“I'm not hearing things, sir! I swear, that infernal screeching sound! It's very—”

“I am sure you can tell that to the nurses at the asylum, if you refuse to continue using this machine. You are being hysterical, Mr. Reid.”

Mr. Burke held a piece of paper, obviously the complaint he had received, in front of Benedict. “I don't want to see another one of these complaints again. If I do, I will personally make sure you are sent back to Old London and are treated accordingly.” He ripped up the paper and strode out of the shop.

After he made sure he knew he was gone, Benedict placed a closed sign on the door and turned most of the lights off to give the impression that he wasn't there. Then he sat on a stool and began to sob hysterically. He wasn't crazy, he really did hear that noise. Why would he lie about it to anyone? The question that caused him to sit on the floor and rock in a fit of full-fledged panic was the most horrible thought—what was going to happen to him now?? If he agreed to keep running that horrendous machine, he felt like he would go insane with that noise. But if he didn't, he would be sent to an asylum. He, who had come so far, in an asylum! Benedict decided he would rather end his life than be put in one of those places.

Several hours later, he still hadn't came to really any solution. He had stopped crying, but the anxiety had not gone away. He held Clyde. “I'm sorry,” he muttered over and over to it. Benedict knew that he would have to face this eventually. But he didn't want to! It wasn't fair! How come this had happened to him? It wasn't right!

One poor attempt at not looking frazzled later, Benedict stumbled out of the shop—only to almost run into CD-205. “What do you want?” he growled.

“I... was just going to see if you were alright. I was afraid you had hurt yourself, sir.” For the first time, Benedict saw that something was a little different about how CD spoke.

“I'm fine. Really.”

There was a long, awkward pause. “I'm sorry. I overheard you speaking with Mr. Burke and... what happened afterward. Mr. Burke is not a nice man.”

“No, apparently not. Now, if you'll excuse me...”

“I will put in a word with Mr. Bell on your behalf. I can't do much, but Bell has more power in terms of UK Control.”

“...What? Why are you doing this for me?”

“I don't know. I think I finally realized that you didn't break me out of resentment or hate. It was simply an accident. The way you treated me afterward was not because you disliked me. I think I've realized it is just how you are.” CD-205 held up his hand. The pointer finger was still burned off, destroyed several months ago by Benedict's carelessness. “I forgive you, Mr. Reid. I don't think you should be treated less than a human being by anyone.”

“I... um... thank you, CD.” To prevent further awkwardness, Benedict scurried away.

CD-205 was true to his word. Mr. Bell came into Benedict's shop the next day and believed his story. Bell came to the conclusion that Benedict must have special sensitivity to the new equipment and ordered a replacement with a higher-pitched sound wave. Benedict thanked him many times, but he knew it was really CD that he was grateful to.

The next time CD-205 came into the shop to take Benedict's order, he greeted it with a bright smile. After they had done business, he said, “Thank you, CD, for everything you did for me last week.”

“It wasn't a problem, sir.”

“Don't call me that. You can call me Benedict, please.”

“Alright... Benedict.”

“Also, I want to give you something in return.”

“What is that?”

“A name, CD. You deserve one.”

CD-205 shook his head. “But Benedict, that's illegal.” Automatons were only supposed to be referred to by their name and number. If one was found to have a human name, it was subsequently destroyed.

“Not if it's between you and me.”

“Oh, alright. What name for me did you have in mind?”

“Cameron. Cameron Davis. It's very British. It also matches your initials.”

If the automaton could smile, it—he would have. “I... thank you. It's a really nice name. I'll store it in my memory.” The auto's glass eyes glazed over for a second. Then he blinked. “Thank you again. What a special gift.”

After Cameron had left, Benedict picked up his cat, Clyde, and began to clean up for the end of the day. He thought of Cameron and smiled. It felt good to have a new friend.