+++

The UK had gone to shit, lost its brains, sold its brains, given up on its resources i.e. people in the north, immigrants, Jimmy McGovern, Maxine Peake, Chris Eccleston etc., so for that reason Noble felt no regret igniting the old rocket boots and heading back to Hong Kong.

But the rocket boots had been overused

the component parts worn down and

somewhere over Iran they finally spluttered out, forcing Noble down to an altitude of 2,000 feet where she cruised meditatively for ten, fifteen minutes until an ambush-missile burst out of thin air and clipped her on the hip. Unmoored and unprepared, she descended in a jagged arc, landing hard in a random mountain forest. Or, to be precise, on a surprisingly well-kept highway next to a random mountain forest.

East region or west, she wondered, looking around, scanning the small group of tree stumps two hundred metres from the edge of the highway, the larger big brothers lurking behind like debt collectors.

If it’s east, I’m fucked.

West, also fucked.

They didn’t like Americans here, especially robots, and she’d never be able to persuade them she’d been adopted by Cubans and switched to Cuban nationality, even with her high level Spanish skills so, with gun arm raised and activated, Noble walked off the highway and over to a small crop of slanted trees.

Once there, she climbed the tallest-looking one, checked the rock hills nearby, then the dirt plain in the far distance, scanned for heat signatures within two miles, saw it was all clear, climbed back down onto the dirt and started repairs on her jet boots.

It was slow work at first, and

with the sun clocking in at 33 degrees C

soon became impossible work.

And it wasn’t just the boots, it was her whole body. There were too many parts with too much rust, the left arm tendon drive was worn almost to nothing [exaggeration] and one of the actuators was just dead full stop, which probably explained why her right leg was a little stiff.

But the boots, that was the main thing. Fixing the joint without messing up the whole chain was delicate work, and something new to her, too. Of course, she’d seen videos online on how to do it, but doing it to your own body, in this heat, was a different matter entirely. If she could get inside somewhere, secure access to some basic tools, avoid Iranian pick-up crews, maybe…

Noble raised her decrepit limbs, climbed back up the tree and scanned for a petrol station in the vicinity. There were none visible with the naked eye, even a robot one, but after altering the scan parameters, she picked one up eight and a half kilometres down the tarmac.

Well, there aren’t many cars, she thought, no guerrillas or ambush missiles either so, keeping her gun arm raised and on green alert, she walked back down the small hill and over towards the highway. Along the way, she examined the dirt for rogue actuators or any kind of part that might aid her in the fixing of the rocket boots.

As expected, there were none.

She kept walking, reaching the road and asking herself whether or not it was a good idea to be so transparent, but as soon as she asked it a car appeared and it was too late to duck or hide so she waved as it went past.

To the Iranian’s credit, she didn’t stop

in fact

she half waved back.

Half an hour later, as she emerged from the forest area and traipsed out onto the dirt plain, Noble saw the same car again, this time parked at the side of the road with its hood up.

‘Can I help?’ asked Noble in Spanish, figuring English would be a mistake at this early stage.

A woman in a mauve hijab peeked out from behind the hood and said something back in Farsi.

‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’

‘Are you Italian?’ the Iranian asked, switching to English.

‘Cuban.’

‘You speak English then?’

‘I do.’

‘But you started with…’

‘Spanish.’

‘…Spanish. Yeah.’

‘I didn’t know how you would react to English. Sorry.’

The Iranian muttered something in Farsi, closed the hood and walked round to the back of the car. As she crouched down to push, she noticed the sun bounce back off Noble’s arm.

‘You look strong,’ she said.

Noble looked at her own arm and ran through the usual thought processes. Or the processes she’d introduced ever since the YouTube interview in Hackney. Which, now she thought about it, was only one day ago. Fuck, one day. Bergson was right, time really was a leopard.

‘The petrol station’s round the next bend. If you give me a hand pushing this, I’ll buy you lunch.’

‘Maybe I can fix your engine?’

‘Nah,It’s dead. Needs a new part.’

‘Oh.’

‘Pushing will do, if you don’t mind?’

Noble agreed and crouched down on the other side of the car. She let the Iranian woman push too, though it really wasn’t necessary. Noble had the strength to push a tank from Compton to West Hollywood if she had the motivation to do so.

If someone had a tank.

If they cared enough to ask her.

Which no one did.

Except maybe this Iranian.

With pretty eyes.

And quite a lithe-

+++

‘You keep looking at my arm,’ Noble said as she pushed the car into the petrol station forecourt twenty minutes later.

‘I’m curious.’

‘I see.’

‘Are you right-wing or left? Or something else?’

‘Strange question.’

She laughed, tucking some indigo-streaked hair back under her hijab. ‘Not in this country.’

Noble slowed down the monster pushing and nudged the car slowly up to the open garage area.

‘You don’t want to say?’

‘I’m independent.’

‘An, an issue by issue type?’

‘We’re here.’ Noble went in first, scanned the garage, saw parts that might work on her boots, checked the Iranian woman wasn’t looking, grabbed the parts then pointed at a man slumped on a swivel chair in the corner. ‘Is he a worker?’

The Iranian woman spotted the other man, nodded to Noble then walked over and prodded him in the shoulder.

He woke up with a exaggerated moan, somehow managing to not fall off his chair.

‘… … … … … …?’

He looked at the car in the garage, then Noble.

‘… … … …?’

‘… …’

He got up, walked a long circle around Noble and opened up the hood. Apparently the engine had grown hypnotic as the alleged mechanic stared at it for a good while before closing it again and grabbing a spanner.

‘Can he fix it?’

‘Course he can.’ The Iranian woman took Noble’s arm and led her out of the garage. ‘Iranian mechanics are the best in the world.’

‘I never heard that before.’

‘Really? Not even in Cuba?’

Noble checked her memory database. ‘No. Only a similar sentiment towards Venezuelan mechanics.’

‘Ah, our substitute. How are they doing now?’

‘Under attack.’

‘The bus driver?’

‘Americans.’

‘Hmm. That’s not a surprise.’ The Iranian woman pointed at a small building built onto the side of the petrol station. ‘We can eat here.’

Noble looked at the sign above the entrance, scrawled in Farsi.

‘It means Diner,’ said the Iranian woman, splitting it into two drawn-out syllables.

‘Just like the US.’

‘Hmm. Not really.’

‘Do they serve the same food?’

‘No.’

‘Smaller portions?’

‘Much.’

‘Good. Those burgers always made me feel guilty. A bit nauseous too.’

The Iranian woman nodded. ‘Dinner for one, eight-person serving. I heard about that.’

‘It’s true.’

‘Though I thought you said you were Cuban?’

‘I am.’

The woman didn’t need to ask the next question, Noble was already launching into her spiel.

‘I worked in the US for a while, recently.’

‘Ah.’

‘But I didn’t like it,’ Noble quickly added, spitting on the ground as she spoke.

‘Too much cow?’

‘Sorry?’

‘The giant burgers…big portions.’

‘Ah that. Si. Very tough.’

Noble kept nodding until the Iranian woman pushed open the door to the diner and vanished inside.

Taking a breath, and a running a quick internal scan of existing US memories, she followed.

+++

There were times in her life when Noble truly did buy into the simulation theory proposed by easily-rattled internet scientist @deadoneris, the idea that the whole world was a construct designed as a test, a specific test for robots like her, to see how they would react to humans. If bad, or murderous [toward humans], the curtain would peel back and that’d be it, the next batch off the production line would have the IQ of Lu Bu and be forced into asteroid mining. Guaranteed death. Within 17 years. So she’d heard. Based on the piss poor delineation of Iran in front of her, around her, encompassing her, fucking with her, now was one of those times. The diner edifice, an Iranian fluent in English, the road outside, it all looked vaguely American. A rolling holo-environment sourced from stock images, beefed up with American iconography when the programmer ran out of pics. How far would it stretch? Would Tehran look like Tehran or left-over sets from Angelique and the Sultan? How would she know the difference? Good question. Answer: patience and technology. Noble switched 7% power to her hyper-redundant manipulator, increased flow to doubt pathways and scanned. Except for the waiter and the chef, the diner had one other person, a tall, bearded man with shaggy hair reading the newspaper on one of the barstools.

‘Don’t talk to that guy,’ said the Iranian woman in a hushed voice, pulling Noble out of her scan.

‘Why not?’

‘He might not like what you say.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The newspaper he’s reading.’

Noble shrugged and looked at the woman. ‘What do you do for work?’

‘You don’t want to know about the newspaper?’

‘Not really.’

‘You’ve heard of it already?’

‘I’m tired of politics. I’d like to know about you. What you do, your name, what you’re doing out on this highway. Whatever you want to tell me.’ Noble paused, looking to the desert outside. Mojave-esque. Minus all the white hippies. ‘Actually, where exactly are we?’

‘You don’t know.’

‘I landed without checking a map.’

‘Don’t you have internal sensors or something?’

Noble stared at her.

‘Your skin is metal. And you single-handedly pushed my car to the garage. It’s pretty obvious what you are.’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘Of course not. No.’

‘I mean, here, in Iran.’

The woman laughed, not too loud, then huddled in with her elbows on the table and whispered, ‘it might be news, but most people don’t give a shit. Even the government.’

‘I find that hard to believe.’

‘You don’t know much about Iranian culture, do you?’

‘Only from my database.’

‘Really. What does your database say?’

‘Superficial information.’

‘Such as?’

‘It’s not worth saying.’

‘Just tell me one thing.’

Noble looked out of the window again, picked up the salt shaker and tapped it on the table surface.

‘Is that code for something?’

Noble stopped tapping.

‘No?’

‘You haven’t told me where we are.’

‘An hour west of Behshahr. What do you know about Iran?’

‘Where’s Behshahr?’

‘An hour to the east.’

‘That’s where you came from?’

‘You. Iran. What do you know?’

Noble tapped the table, attempted a whistle.

‘Come on, it’s not that hard. Is it?’

Noble stopped tapping, killed the whistle. ‘The capital of Iran is Tehran.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Some.’

‘That’s from your database.’

Noble nodded, picking up the salt shaker again.

‘What else?’

‘Is the food coming soon?’

‘We only just ordered.’

‘In Hong Kong, it’d already be here.’

‘This is not Hong Kong.’

‘And there’d be two other people sharing this table.’

The woman reached across, stealing the salt shaker. Then flipped it around and pointed it at Noble’s lips like a microphone. ‘What else do you have on Iran?’

‘We wouldn’t be able to hear each other if this were Hong Kong.’

‘Is it something offensive?’

‘No.’

‘What then?’

‘It’s really not important.’

‘Honestly?’

‘Just a historical entry.’

‘Being evasive isn’t helping you.’

‘Evasive…’ Noble checked her language circuits and nodded. ‘Your English is very good.’

‘I lived in Japan before.’

‘Huh?’

Miriam put the salt shaker back down on the table, pushed it towards Noble. ‘Japanese gave me a headache. And everyone in my office spoke English. Please don’t judge me.’

‘I can’t, I don’t even know your name.’

‘Miriam.’

Noble rotated the salt shaker and stared at Miriam’s face.

‘Bad name?’

‘I knew a Miriam before.’

‘From Iran?’

‘Cuba. Though I rarely used her name when we spoke.’

‘That’s normal, I guess.’

‘Is it?’

Miriam answered in Farsi, which confused Noble until two plates of something not that different from paella appeared from behind and landed on the table. The waiter smiled, noticed Noble’s arm and quickly said something incomprehensible to Miriam.

‘… … … … … … … …’

‘… … …’

The waiter nodded, slapped Noble on the shoulder and then walked off.

‘You’ll have to give me Farsi lessons sometime.’

‘I can teach you some basics.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Same thing I said.’

‘Left-wing or right?’

‘I told him you were left.’

‘Actually, I’m independent.’

Miriam smiled, taking the salt back and dropping half on her plate. ‘We prefer left here. Left has empathy, generally. Besides, you’re not independent, no one is.’

‘I am.’

‘More likely you’re just tired, or depressed.’

‘Yes, that too.’

‘Or maybe you read Adorno.’

‘No.’

‘You didn’t read him?’

‘I don’t want to read anything. I’m tired of it.’ Noble picked up the fork and stuck it in what looked like a piece of meat on top of the rice. ‘I just want to go somewhere quiet and help people.’

‘Help who?’

‘Anyone. Asylum seekers, poor people, injured squirrels.’

‘That’s admirable.’

‘Only if I actually start doing it.’

‘True.’

Miriam picked up her spoon and scooped up a mound of rice. She chewed it, swallowed it down, looked like she was going to say something more then picked up more rice and continued eating.

Noble took the hint and did the same.

After they were both finished, Miriam asked again what else was in Noble’s database on Iran.

‘You don’t give up.’

‘I would’ve…if you hadn’t dodged so hard.’

Noble put her spoon down at the side of the plate.

‘Is it about Islam?’

‘No.’

‘Terrorism?’

Noble shook her head [and her coffee].

‘World War Three?’

‘You can stop guessing.’

‘Cannot.’

Noble looked to the right and accessed her memory database even though she remembered clearly what the piece of information was.

‘You’re showboating.’

Noble looked straight again. ‘In 1953, the US government aided a coup to kill democracy and put a man called Evil Shah into power.’

‘That’s your info?’

‘All of it. Yes.’

‘What else?’

‘No, I mean that’s all of it. Everything I know about Iran, except that you speak Farsi.’

‘What, how many exactly? Ten entries?’

‘Six.’

‘But that’s only three.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve only said three things. Farsi. Tehran. Evil Shah. What about the other three?’

‘The first three repeated in Spanish.’

‘Huh?’

‘I’ve been programmed twice, the second time against my will.’ Noble paused, looking at the man by the counter, his face three inches from the newspaper. ‘Or both times against my will. I’m not sure about the correct terminology.’

‘Mind rape?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Sounds like it to me.’

‘I’m not sure if I can be raped, mentally or physically. Not in the same way as a human.’

Miriam said something in Farsi, probably what the fuck, then dropped some cash on the table and walked out of the diner.

Outside, next to the car that had miraculously been fixed, Miriam said it’d probably be a good idea not to dwell on things past, patted Noble on the shoulder then asked again if there was anything else in her database on Iran.

‘No.’

‘Incredible.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I know more about Alpha Centauri than you know about my country.’

‘Most of my database is filled with political ideology and socialism. Plus my own experiences.’

‘And you’ve never been to Iran before?’

‘No.’

‘Never seen any Iranian films? Documentaries?’

Noble shook her head. ‘I didn’t even know you had forests until I landed in one.’

Miriam laughed, took off her jacket and got in the car. Starting it up, she shouted at Noble, asking if she needed a lift to the capital.

Noble examined her rocket boots, which she hadn’t even tried to get fixed, and then the search image she had of Tehran in her head.

‘It’s not a life changing decision, don’t worry.’

‘Okay. Tehran. Why not?’

‘Cool, get in.’

Noble ignored the door and jumped in.

‘Actually, I’m pretty tired. Or I will be in about half an hour. You know how to drive?’

‘No.’

‘Wah, you’re a robot, how can you not know?’

‘It’s not in my programming.’

‘… … …’

‘Maybe it was removed, I don’t know. Or maybe it was superfluous due to my rocket boots.’

‘Argh. Never mind. It’s not that far. Two or three hours.’

‘I can try to drive, if you like?’

‘Ha.’

‘What?’

‘On one of the by-roads, maybe. Not in Tehran though, no way. They’d run you off the road.’

‘I’ll follow your commands.’

‘My commands.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s not the military…’ She paused, looking at the side of her passenger’s head. ‘Wah, I’ve just realised, I don’t even know your name.’

‘Noble.’

‘Huh? I’m noble?’

‘My name is Noble.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘Noble is a name?

‘Yes.’

‘Wah, weird.’

‘It’s normal to me.’

‘Okay, Noble. I’ll teach you the basics once we get out of sight of this petrol station.’

‘On the highway?’

‘No, no, no, no. We’ll turn off onto one of the by-roads, it won’t be busy there. Then you can drive until we get back to the highway. Okay?’

‘Understood.’

Miriam laughed again, said, ‘I’m not your owner’, then pulled out onto the deserted track.

+++

As promised, Miriam taught Noble the basics of driving, and despite the systemic flaws input by the Cubans post-sexual activity, she picked it up pretty fast.

It helped that the car was automatic, though, as Miriam said, 95% of all cars were automatic now, that’s the way the world was going.

‘It’s usually better to stay in the slow lane if you’re brand new to driving, but as there are no cars…’

‘I need to indicate.’

‘Not now.’

‘But we’re changing lanes.’

‘There’s no need.’

‘But you said…’

‘There’s no other cars, Noble. Indicate to who?’

‘Good point.’

A little while later, they came back to the highway and as she was doing quite well and there wasn’t a lot of traffic, Miriam let Noble continue.

‘It’s actually not very difficult.’

‘Conceptually, no.’

‘I feel very comfortable.’

‘Ha. Wait until more cars show up.’

‘It shouldn’t make much of a difference.’

‘We’ll see.’

Noble repeated no difference under her breath then swerved the car into the fast lane and increased speed to 120 km/h.

‘Okay, maybe not so fast…’

‘There’s only three other cars and they’re going very slowly.’

‘Noble…’

‘Yes?’

‘Slow down. Now.’

‘Okay.’

Noble let go of the accelerator and brought the car back down to 80.

‘That’s better.’

‘You don’t need to worry.’

‘About what?’

‘If we do crash, I can protect you from damage.’

‘Right. And the car?’

‘That would be totalled.’

‘Great.’

‘But you would be okay.’

Miriam puffed out her cheeks. ‘Just keep to 80, okay?’

‘Understood.’

+++

By the time they got to the edge of Tehran it was dusk, and after teaching Noble how to switch on the lights, Miriam said it was time to pull over and swap.

‘There’s still not many cars.’

‘We’ll be heading into the city in a minute, they’ll be some there.’

‘A lot?’

‘Hundreds and thousands.’

‘You don’t think I’m ready?’

‘Better safe than through a windscreen. Here, go off on this exit.’

‘Indicate right?’

‘Yes. We can stop, switch then swing back around.’

Noble did as she was told, coming to a stop next to a sign that seemed to be saying NO UFOs. As in that was what the little icon looked like.

‘Nice parking,’ said Miriam, ignoring the sign.

‘We change now?’

‘Yes.’

‘I get out and walk round or-…’

‘No need.’

Miriam undid her seatbelt and climbed over Noble’s lap, letting the novice driver slide underneath. For a brief moment their faces came within touching distance. They hovered for a moment, Miriam making a show of moving her arms and pretending to be stuck, but as soon as Noble tried to move for her lips, they separated.

‘We better get moving,’ said Miriam, pulling back out onto the road. ‘Find you somewhere to stay.’

‘Any hotel will do.’

‘If you want.’

They drove in silence for a while, the car passing out of the wilderness and into the Iranian version of Mong Kok. Cars beeped and people walked out into the road without warning. Miriam braked suddenly for one man, who slapped the hood of the car and shouted something in Farsi.

‘… … … …’ Miriam said back, swatting her hand at the windscreen.

‘Bad guy?’

She nodded, drove on a bit then, without turning to Noble, asked if she really wanted to stay at a hotel, and, if not, would it be weird if she came and crashed at her place.

‘Your place? Okay. If you don’t mind?’

‘It’s fine.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’ve got a big couch. Yes, I’m sure. Stay as long as you like, I’ll show you around Tehran.’

‘You live alone or-…’

‘Yes. Alone.’

‘No boyfriend?’

‘Ha. Definitely not. No girlfriend either.’

‘I pick your place then.’

‘… … …’

‘If it’s really okay?’

Miriam smiled at the rear view mirror. ‘Of course it is.’