“A moment of your time?”

The question came from behind as I scanned my surroundings to get my bearings. The voice seemed friendly enough.

“Sure” I replied beginning to turn.

The response was barely out of my mouth when something gripped my arm and spun me back round. 

My new accoster mumbled “You can thank me later. Harvesters — they pick on the newbies. Welcome to BIOS. Come this way!”

“BIOS?”

“Built In Obsolescence Surplus. Not your conventional junkyard”

I was led across the bustling plaza.  I’d got used to familiarising myself rapidly with new places. Devoid of the latest refinements, I’d been traded frequently in recent months, reduced to evermore demeaning functions as my remaining biotime and contingent value were depleting. 

Dodging left and right, we criss-crossed passageways and corners, navigating what resembled the guts of an immense mechanical leviathan. Piles of salvaged Kevlar, torn latex, bent wheels, tarnished cogs and tangled wire littered the junkscape. Workers eviscerated machines with their wrenches and blowtorches amidst the sizzling mayhem of sparks crackling beyond half open doorways. We hurried past the cacophonous banging and grinding.

“These are the ones that ran out of time. The Harvesters make short work of the unprepared and unwary.”

“Harvesters?” I asked.

“Everything has a value. They beg, borrow and steal whatever they can. They are all well past their own bioterms. The one who wanted a moment of your time would have offered you some seductive lubrication then, before you knew it, you would be legless or minus prime circuitry. Sometimes they offer to trade part-for-part, but usually you’re suckered and end up dismantled with no residual memory of what happened, your parts sold for a few chronos – enough to keep them going till the next shipment.”

We slowed down and turned down a quiet alley.

“So why did you save me?”

“I save who I can when the new arrivals come in. Just do my bit.”

I glanced at the dial on my wrist – two weeks till bioterm, one thousand chronos, then pulled my sleeve down over the digital display.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Just call me ‘H’ “came the reply.

We approached an archway, then letting go of my arm H gestured for us to go inside. He plugged his finger in a small hole and a door slid open ahead of us.

“You can stay here for now” H said.

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Thirteen days till my bioterm, the digital readout on my wrist indicated. Thirteen days before my full recycle. I’d been topped up a few times by my recent owners, but restricted functioning limited my appeal to new prospectives. Chrono inflation had soared recently and my reliance on the now obsolete Cybertec 2.1 Operating System made me uneconomical – ‘a liability’ one had said, (‘Classic’ I preferred). My last owners had used me for laser target practice: that’s where I’d picked up some surface damage and a weakened servo in my leg. 

“Everything has a value,” I remembered H saying the night before. I could trade up some of my old parts. I carried a small reservoir of spares. Retro tech was in demand in some quarters. Some of the bots and androids we’d seen the night before were definitely old school – from the age of nuts and bolts rather than the era of Cervar and flyjigs. 

The door slid open and H entered.

“Rest well?” he asked.

“I’m used to charging and uploading overnight. I just powered down to max my bioterm.”

“Is that a yes?“ 

“I think so.”

“How long is your bioterm?” asked H.

“I’d rather not say.”

“Best way,” said H, “can’t be too careful. Anyone here would harvest your chronos quicker than you could grease a flange. Still, if I’m going to help you, I could do with some idea of whether you need topping up soon or if we can take things easy.” 

I pulled up my sleeve and held out my arm.

“Thirteen days. Just under a thousand Chronos.” H scanned my display. “Guess we don’t want to hang around too long.”

H gestured for me to follow him. We ventured into the quiet alley I remembered from the previous night and towards the busy plaza where we had met.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To find you some gainful employment if you want to extend your bioterm.”

“I can do quite a lot of things actually – a scanner by design, but I’ve had varied roles recently.”

“I don’t need a CV.” said H “Your options here are going to be seriously limited. How good are you at pixel-curating?”

“Well, I…”

“Doesn’t matter, I’ll have to get you in the smelting block first. No one will pay much attention to you there.”

We descended a shallow slope and arrived at the vast opening to a cavern. Sparks crackled everywhere as huge skips of metal detritus waited to be craned into ravenous furnaces. High above us, bogies trundled along sturdy gantries, their crucibles of smelted metal swinging ominously from clanking chains. 

“This way,” said H, directing me away from the industry and towards an anteroom. “We need to get you registered first.”

“What have we got here?”  a disembodied voice boomed as we entered the laboratory-like space.

“A vintage Cybertec scanner no less – a classic if ever there was one” replied H.
“A poor specimen. Look at the shell – very shoddy. The gait? Dragging that left leg for sure.” The voice echoed around the lab.

“When was the last time you saw an original Cybertec? 2.1 OS and scanner intact.” 

“How many owners?”

“That’s not important,” H insisted. “The shell’s original, just cosmetic blemishes. At least twenty thousand chronos as a fully working unit, thirty thousand or more for parts.”

So, I was still a commodity. Everything has a value. H waited for an answer from the voice.

“Ten thousand chronos.”

“Fifteen and you can take him now” replied H.

“Twelve if you can show me the scanner still works.”

H approached and took my left hand lifting it towards his headpiece. He asked for an open-hand array, then held it against his cortical plexus. “Prepare to scan.”

My fingers cupped his cortoid socket and my scanner engaged. The influx of data felt good. It had been ages since I had scanned anything and H was a rich data mine. I went deep, the bespoke scan patch on my limited 2.1 operating system opened up vistas of digital history, knowledge and cyber-emotes. Copious memory storage and melded, if conflicted, abilities featured heavily in H’s skill-set along with cogno-functions like deception, self-preservation and arrogance. H shuddered as I mined the realisation he had been outwitted. An emote new to him I thought as my patch easily circumnavigated the feeble resistance to my nimble data cull.

The scan was complete in a few seconds. H hit the deck with a thud.

“Thank you” said the voice. “How many chronos?”

“Over half a million” I replied.

“A Horologue, we were right. He’s been harvesting chronos before we could do full evaluations of new droid shipments.” 

“He’s not the only one. The data cull shows there’s a cartel,” I announced with concern. “I have intel on the others. No more target practice though, and can I have a refurb before I go back to the plaza?”

“We can’t update your OS system – it’s what keeps you attractive. Can’t improve on a classic.”

“Paint job, visage-lift and a servo replacement at least? British Racing Green… and ten thousand chronos.”

“You Bounty Harvesters – You’ll price yourselves out of the market if you’re not careful!” the voice roared.

“Tempus est pecunia” I replied, giving full vent to my new lingua cache.

Ian Currie spends his time variously between writing, wood carving and photography. He has exhibited artwork in Blackpool, Leeds and Ormskirk galleries and currently enjoys a growing reputation for carving wooden spoons.