By S. R. Malone

The auto opened the door on the second knock. It was a barely humanoid contraption, though it greeted the two officials with the cordiality one would expect from a real person.

“We’re here to see Ralph Alexander,” Jeanne said to the machine. A broad-shouldered woman of nearly six feet, she towered over the rickety auto.

“This way, please,” it replied. Its lamp-like eyes flashed as it scanned both Jeanne and Matthew, who shied behind her.

The auto clanked into the living room, a cluttered space that had the atmosphere of a greenhouse. Jeanne winced at the smell, the slight hint of urine in the air. Matthew smiled politely as they neared Mr Ralph Alexander, wrapped in a sleeping bag scattered with local papers.

“Mr Alexander, Officer Jeanne Naysmith, and this is my trainee Matthew—”

Ralph Alexander held up his hand, dismissing the auto and interrupting the official in one swoop. He was a young man, Matthew remembered from the file, mid-thirties, but in his den here he looked almost double the age.

“I am aware, Officer Naysmith,” he said, dry-mouthed. “My mech informed me there would be a visit.”

“We are here to assess your living conditions, and, where possible, try to make any necessary improvements for you,” Jeanne continued.

They were offered a seat. Jeanne set her longcoat on the arm of the sofa and sat in the middle of both cushions, as she did. Matthew shifted a stack of puzzle books from the nearest armchair and crushed himself into the space.

“I’m not sure exactly why the government are sending officers to my abode,” Ralph said. “All documentation has been signed, payments have been scheduled—”

“Indeed,” Jeanne produced the file. “Mr Alexander, on a long-term sickness plan, with a bowel cancer diagnosis. One year to live, and pension to be divided and paid to the recipient in twelve monthly instalments, until the time of expiry.” She crossed her hands over the file. “A reward for your service. Does this all sound correct?”

“Correct, but not fair,” Ralph said, coughing into a tissue.

Matthew went to speak but was cut off by his superior.

“Oh, believe me, Mr Alexander, no one has more sympathy than I. My mother was in a similar role to yourself, and she didn’t live past forty-nine.”

“Well. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Jeanne smiled. She raised a brow at Matthew, indicating that he needed to begin.

He paced around the outside of the room, form in hand, while his superior continued her questioning. There was not much of worth, mostly old photographs and framed certificates. Ralph Alexander had once taught at the schoolhouse in Xanthe Terra and had all manner of qualifications and awards to show for it.

A humble TV screen sat facing the couch, connectors protruding from the rear for gathering Earth streams. Matthew marked it down. It wouldn’t fetch much, but might help with the repayments.

“Excuse me, what is he doing?” Ralph pointed.

“We’re doing a brief stock check,” Jeanne said, leaving Matthew to breathe a sigh of relief.

“I’m being audited? Are you serious? I have seven months to live!”

“Mr Alexander, the government is not a bottomless void of funds, you understand. We are already providing you your pension early, as you will not live to see age of retirement.”

Ralph spluttered, “And you’re looking for ways to take repayments? Since when was this a stipulation?”

“Actually, sir—” Matthew began, again being silenced by Jeanne. He felt red-faced, actually knowing the textbook answer to this query.

“You were aware of this when transferring to Mars, Mr Alexander. It was a clause in your contract,” she held up a signed document, “and is listed on every medical bill, post diagnosis.”

“I can’t believe this,” Ralph sighed.

Matthew’s stylus trembled in his hand as he rounded the rest of the room, catching sight of the auto preparing a meal in the kitchen. It returned a blank look.

He marked it on the list, calculating it would help towards five percent of the fee.

When he turned back to the couches, Ralph Alexander had cast his sleeping bag to the floor and stood in front of Jeanne.

“Get out of my house, this instant! And tell your bosses there will be no repayments until I’m dead and buried.”

The man’s ire met Matthew’s eyes now, his tired features eaten at by an invisible illness. The stare that dressed him down was bloodshot — scared, like a cornered animal. Matthew held the list close to his chest, as if to shield him.

“Very well, sir,” Jeanne stood, gathering her coat. Her pencil-thin eyebrows frowned. “We shall return in seven months.”

The auto entered the room with a tray of soup. Jeanne uttered something unintelligible to it as she pushed Matthew out the door to the dust-coated porch. The door slammed in their wake.

Matthew looked over the list, remembering the awards and achievements hung on the walls. The sentenced man, not much older than he, with the government nipping at his heels. It twisted his stomach, wondering how Jeanne had done this dance for as long as she had.

“Dissociation,” she said, seemingly reading his expression. “Don’t get attached.”

“I thought we were there to do a checkup,” Matthew said.

“We were. To see if Mr Alexander truly needs the payments. Twelve months is a long time,” Jeanne looked at the pinkish-yellow skies overhead, “no matter which world you’re living on.”

“An expense.”

Jeanne side-eyed the young man. “We giveth with one hand, and taketh away with the other.”

“So, there’s always a catch,” Matthew swallowed against a tug in his throat. “I hope I’m never in his position.”

Jeanne checked her watch. From inside the house there came a crash and a thump, loud enough to disturb the valley. She made for the door, much to a quizzical look from her trainee.

“The auto is government-issued,” she said. “Consider Mr Alexander’s payments ceased, and the account closed.”

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