Corrigan's Code

“We're suffering the greatest depression ever faced. These metal men are actively displacing American workers, who have gone so far to start setting up shanty towns in the outskirts of cities. Houses, Auto-mobiles and Families have all been lost to a workforce that doesn't have a soul.” The crowd applauded. The sound was almost enough to wake Corrigan, but he kept his forehead down on the desk, the bottle of booze next to him giving a clue of the source of the foul breath and dishevelled state. “I'm calling for the immediate Prohibition of Weak AI machines. These construction robots are taking the roots of all industries, and the CEO's and Boards of Directors don't seem to care.”

The applause echoed around the office, around stacks of old case files and the big wall of books behind the chair that Corrigan was slumped in. His desk took up almost the whole centre area of his room, but that mean he could push his computer to one side and still have a whole area open for looking through notes, or just a place to hold a bottle of booze. There seemed to be plenty of those, jostling for attention, mainly empty or fallen to the dark carpet. Against the wall facing the desk was a line of filing cabinets, the supposed home of every paper form he ever had, but now they worked as a buffer from the empty receptionist area beyond.

About a year ago, the receptionist out there had finally shuffled off the mortal coil. Since then, Corrigan has never hired another. Dust had settled on the curved desk pressed against the windows. The computer and chair had been hocked for money, but the desk was connected to the wall so it wasn't going anywhere. Corrigan left chairs and coffee tables out there, along with a few fake Sim-plants. As someone made another point on the radio, the spider plant flickered.

This time, Sam Corrigan woke. But it wasn't the sound of the radio, it was the sound of weight being pressed down on a creaky board outside of his office. Groggily, he reached into his jacket and unbuttoned the clasp on his revolver. Lightly, his fingers curled around it and it slipped loose, as a hand ratted a knock onto the frosted glass of what was now his permanent home and office, combined. Sam pushed back on his chair and his legs shook slightly as his other hand moved to steady himself on the corner of the desk. He swerved towards the doorway to the receptionist area, his shoulder hitting the open doorway.

Outside the door was a thick silhouette of a tall, thin, angular man shifted weight from one foot to the other. He was probably wearing low light goggles, judging from the bright discs appearing behind the glass. The floor creaked again, as Sam traded the pistol to his left hand and hid it behind the doorway. The man lifted a hand and rapped on the glass again. Corrigan narrowed his eyes, lifting his hand to check the watch. “It's one in the morning, come back during office hours.” He said dully, but his eyes were sharp. The shadow seemed to pause, taking a step back and slightly turning, but then it seemed to bolster it's resolve and knocked again. “Alright, alright.” He mumbled, pushing himself off the doorway and walking towards the door with his name printed on it, backwards from this side.

He didn't take the chain off when he pulled back, looking out into the hall. “What-” His eyes widened as he took a moment to take the sight in front of him in. The robot looked back, wringing it's hat before it's chest as it's bright blue eyes focused in on Sam's face. It's head was almost human like, but it didn't have ears or a nose. One eye, the left, was larger than the right by a good three inches. It seemed to be surrounded by a thick ring that had numbers around it. There was a speaker where a human mouth would belong. Beyond that, the rest of the machine seemed to be more like the Factory workers, but it was wearing what looked like a three piece suit. Corrigan slowly closed the door on the machine.

Corrigan paused for a moment before he unlatched the chain and opened the door wide. “Come in.” He muttered, waiting for the robot to take a few steps forward into the room. Then he closed and bolted the door again, turning away from it as he walked back into his office, slipping his revolver back into it's home on his side. Sam moved around the desk and settled back into his chair, looking up and expecting to see the machine. Instead, it stayed in the receptionist area. He blinked and lifted up in chair, looking around the door and beckoning it with a finger. The robot walked forward into the room but didn't sit down, instead standing by the corner of Sam's desk.

“So, what can I help you with, my fine metal friend? Someone got a message?” He looked up into the misshaped eyes of the machine. It continued to wring its hat, head slightly moving to look down at it's own hand as if surprised by what it was doing, but then it looked up and said simply, in a synthesised voice. “I have committed a murder. I want you to investigate it.”