Robot Wrecker

by Paul Tomlinson

  I'm not the first person to discover you could go insane trying to figure out just how devious a company might try to be. It was impossible to be more sneaky than a company, but you could out-think them if you weren't obsessively driven by the desire to make profit. Raoul and Phyllis had planned to put the muscle fibre design into the public domain – and I thought that was still the best option. But Mr. Phripp didn't need to know that. He would never suspect we might do that, because giving the design away was a crazy option – there was no profit involved. In the short term I figured I'd just humour him.

  "If Minos Technologies had nothing to do with the attack on Raoul," I said, "then it has to have been Talos Industries or one of the other robot manufacturers. If I side with you, what sort of protection will I get?"

  "Officially? None."

  No surprise there.

  "The reason we are having this conversation in a car in the middle of nowhere is because I don't really have the authority to involve you in this," Phripp said. "Since we have not signed a formal contract to license the muscle fibre design, we don't really have any stake in this."

  "So if it all goes horribly wrong, you can deny all knowledge," I said.

  "I knew you'd understand." Phripp gave another of his smiles: he had lovely teeth. "We won't abandon you completely. I will give you as much support as I can, make resources available. Within reasonable limits. And I will stay in contact with you. But until a deal is actually agreed, I can promise you little by way of protection against our competitors." He was staring out of the window, watching the remains of one of the Minos cars go past on the back of a truck.

  I didn't say anything: I wanted to get out of his car, escape from the smell of the leather upholstery and his expensive cologne.

  "How do I get in touch with you?" I asked.

  "You don't. I'll be in touch with you."

  Phripp opened his window and leaned out to speak to one of his officers. "Have those men walk back to town," he said. Maybe he was human after all. As he rolled the window back up, something hit the car. Hard. It wouldn't have surprised me if it was one of Phripp's security vehicles.

  "What the f–?" Phripp was cut off by the sound the of the screams of the man he'd just spoken to. The screaming ended abruptly.

  "Your friends attempting a rescue attempt?" Phripp asked.

  "I don't need rescuing," I said.

  "Perhaps you should tell them."

  Something hit the windscreen and bounced off, leaving a bloody smear.

  "Get us out of here," Phripp ordered his driver.

  Whatever hit the roof was heavy: the armoured metal bowed downwards and we instinctively ducked. I could hear something moving around up there.

  "Drive!" Phripp yelled.

  Before the driver could respond, the windscreen cracked under the force of a blow from above, crazing over with a web-like pattern. It was bullet-proof glass, but it bulged inwards under the second blow. There was a screech of metal on metal, and then a tearing sound as the thing above us tried to peel back the roof.

  "Jack the Wrecker," I said.

  "We need to get him off the car," Phripp said.

  I'd have suggested firing a gun up through the roof to dislodge old Jack, but I didn't think it was a good idea to discharge a weapon inside an armoured car.

  The roof above the windscreen folded back like the lid of a sardine can, and the driver was pulled out before he even had time to scream.

  "That thing wants you," Phripp said, eyes wide. He reached for the door release beside him.

  "We're safer in here." Marginally, I thought.

  "We're sitting ducks," Phripp said. "I'll take my chances." He put his shoulder to the door and pushed it open. As he got out, the Wrecker took hold of his head like it was a bowling ball, picked him up and threw him off into the darkness. I was going to slam the door shut, but it was torn off before I could reach it.

  There was the sound of gunfire, something heavier than a handgun, and I heard bullets thud into the thing on the roof. I waited for the next volley and then leaped head-first out of the car, figuring the Wrecker's attention would be on the gunmen.

  The down-draft of a helicopter suddenly stirred up a cloud of dirt and moisture around me like a curtain. I ran, knowing the aircraft would open fire with heavy artillery any moment. I kept my head down and ran, not looking back. Luck or instinct led me to where the Land Rover was waiting. I risked a quick glance back. The Wrecker was standing on the roof of the limousine, caught in the spotlights of the gunship. It seemed to be clawing the air, trying to reach the helicopter like an angry mecha-Kong.

  I dragged myself into the Land Rover, pulled the door tight behind me. I fired up the engine and reversed down the road until I had room to turn it around, and then I jammed my foot to the floor and took of at what the old jalopy considered to be high speed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The lights dimmed and all conversation ceased. A spotlight threw a circle of light onto the little stage, where an antique upright piano sat, its inner workings exposed. Those nearest the stage would have been able to read the faded yellow and blue Keep Music Live sticker on the end of the instrument.

  The hush was heavy with anticipation.

  The ebony bulk of the robot climbed the three steps to the stage with slow mechanical dignity. It took its place at the keyboard of the skeletal piano and flexed its fingers.

  There was a polite smattering of applause.

  The fingers of the robot's left hand walked slowly up and down the keys, repeating the bass line over and over, slowly at first, then the tempo increasing. Then the right hand began hammering out an old melody. SAM's sonorous, throaty voice sang with the kind of expression you don't hear much any more.

  After yesterday's chase and Wrecker attack, I'd decided to keep to public places. The Oasis was an ideal location, because the crowd was larger than I'd ever seen in there: the booths and tables were full, and people were standing at the bar and in every available space. It seemed that SAM, as he was simply billed in the hand bills, had already built up quite a following. His repertoire ranged from 1950s rock 'n' roll, through rhythm 'n' blues, into boogie woogie and Joplin rags. The audience loved it, and the only way Kareem managed to obtain their attention long enough to sell them drinks and food was because two breaks were included in the programme.

  "I feel the need for a little lubrication," SAM rumbled. "If you're still here in ten minutes, I'll come back and play some more."

  They were still there.

  I decided to duck out and head over to the hospital: I'd received a call from Phyllis earlier to say that Raoul had regained consciousness briefly. He was out of the coma now and sleeping. The doctors were confident he would regain his senses completely very soon, and they'd then be able to assess whether there was any permanent damage to his brain. I figured that Phyllis might need a little support at this point. I headed for the door, but Nathan appeared, blocking my way. He was scanning the crowd nervously.

  "We have to get out of here," he said. "Quickly."

  "I was just leaving," I said.

  "Not this way," Nathan said. "Out the back door. We just got word through that Talos Industries are planning to move against you tonight; they know you have Raoul's data, and they know you're here: they're sending someone to pick you up."

  Would Talos really come for me in the middle of a crowded restaurant? Nathan's nervousness was contagious. We moved towards the back of the bar, heading for the kitchen, just as two armoured policemen entered through the front door, their blank face-plates scanning the crowd.

  "Let's go," Nathan said.

  As we hurried out through the kitchen, Kareem was hassling the cook; not because the cook was doing anything wrong, just because sales of food were down: no one was eating, they were too busy enjoying the music.

  "Be prepared for a rush of orders when SAM finishes his set," I called across to them. "All those people out there are suddenly going to realise that they're starvin
g."

  Kareem looked up, his face brightening. "He could be right," he said to the cook.

  "We weren't here," Nathan said. Kareem nodded.

  Nathan had a nice sleek BMW air car parked two streets away; he kept it at street level for a couple of miles, heading east, and then he eased the little two-seater up into the night sky and I had a clear aerial view of the building they call Nottingham Castle. If truth be known, Nottingham Castle is a bit of an embarrassment to the local people: it's not much of a castle. In fact, it's not a castle at all, it's a mansion house, a pansified continental baroque confection. It was built for the Duke of Newcastle in the late 1600s, and burnt down by rioters in 1831. The rioters are said to have been protesting because the castle owner didn't want the ordinary people to have the right to vote; it's more likely that the locals were just fed up with visitors coming to Nottingham and saying: You call that a castle? There used to be a proper castle there, but it was pulled down after the English civil war. All that's left of the real thing is the gatehouse.

  Our current so-called 'castle' is all lit up at night, but it doesn't look any more convincing from the air. Nathan swung the little car in a wide arc until we were heading north, towards the relative safety of The Insurgents' hideout. We flew in low, straight over the wall. No one opened fire on us. Maybe the sentries were all asleep. We touched down in the courtyard.

  The whole place seemed unnaturally quiet. All the merrie Insurgents must be inside watching cartoons, I thought. We entered the concrete bunker, and I was surprised when Nathan had to flick on the lights.

  "Where is everyone?" I asked. In a way, I was relieved that the gang were away: I'd never really felt at home among them. I began to relax a little: it was going to be just me and Nathan for a while, like old times.

  "They've all gone back to their day jobs," Nathan said.

  Confused, I turned round and found myself staring down the barrel of a gun.

  "Janine, Dale Reuben, and the others," Nathan explained. "All worked for Talos Industries: they were part of a team set up to obtain Raoul's muscle fibre design."

  "And the attack on the robot plant when we first met them – "

  " – was set up; they were sent to recruit us, to gain our trust, and then get us to help them obtain Raoul's data," Nathan said. "It also gave Talos an opportunity to destroy an expensive new manufacturing plant which produced robots which the muscle fibre would make obsolete before they even made it into the showrooms."

  "You joined them that first night," I said: it wasn't a question.

  "But you proved too loyal to the old man," Nathan said. "Even after the second attempt to persuade you to join us, with the attack on the robot showroom."

  "Is this a final attempt to recruit me, at gun point?" I asked.

  "It's too late for that," Nathan said.

  "What happens now?"

  "We're going to have a little chat, just you and me, about Raoul's muscle fibre data," Nathan said.

  "I can't tell you where the back-ups are hidden," I said.

  "Oh, you will," Nathan said. "Eventually."

  An image flashed into my mind then, of another hideout and another prisoner, a policewoman trapped inside her armoured suit. I knew what Nathan was capable of.

  "Let me show you to your room," Nathan said.

  "You've never heard of feng shui?" I was jabbering, afraid.

  The room's walls, ceiling and floor were stainless steel, like an autopsy table. There was even a slight tilt in the floor and a plug hole to drain the blood away. In the centre of the room was a chair, bolted to the floor, with nylon web straps on the arms and legs.

  I sat down in the chair with as much dignity as I could muster: this was probably my last chance to be dignified, because I'd soon be bleeding and screaming and pleading for him to stop. The steel of the chair wasn't cold, as I'd expected, instead it was warm, body temperature, as if recently vacated.

  Nathan strapped me in and tore my shirt open down the front.

  "Excuse me, do you have these straps in a larger size? This one is pinching a little."

  Nathan didn't even smirk: no sense of fun.

  "Will there be cartoons before the main feature?" I asked.

  He smiled coldly: a response at last, I thought I was losing my touch. "This isn't the movies, Stevie. Whatever happens to you here will be very, very real."

  "What do you use in this particular Room 101? Red hot irons? Electrocution? Rats in a cage over my head?"

  Nathan smiled. He stepped forward and gripped my wrist between his thumb and fingers: I tried to jerk away, but couldn't. He was checking my pulse. "The adrenalin should be surging through your body by now," he said, releasing his grip. "We can dispense with the foreplay." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small back disc, some kind of receiver/transmitter: it had the green TelTech logo on it. "In answer to your question: there are no red hot pincers, no electrodes, no rats. These aren't the Dark Ages, Stevie. Technology is the key." He flipped the disc like a coin. "Heads I win, tails you lose." He placed the disc against the bare flesh above my left nipple, where it adhered, causing a faint tingling sensation. "It's just hijacking a few nerves, forging a highway into your brain. Through it I can access the areas of the brain that make you feel pain," he said. "I'll show you."

  I wanted to tell him I was prepared to take his word for it, but there wasn't time. I threw back my head and opened my throat to let the scream out. White hot hooks were embedded into every inch of my flesh, all being pulled, suspending me in a red cloud of pain.

  And then they were torn free, and I slumped back into the chair. My skin streamed with sweat, but the only physical signs of punishment were little beads of blood where I had strained against the nylon straps.

  "You scream beautifully," Nathan said. "But using the disc just to cause pain is to waste its potential. Using torture to extract information is primitive and haphazard. Why access the pain centres of the brain when I can directly access your memories just as easily? I just like to use the pain setting because I can," he said.

  "Why are you doing this?" I gasped.

  "I want the back-ups of the muscle fibre data, and you're going to tell me where to find them. One last chance to tell me straight out."

  I shook my head.

  "Then let's take a walk through your mind, shall we?"

  *

  What Nathan actually did to my mind I don't know, but I suffered a recurring dream for some months afterwards. The dream was how he got me to reveal the truth about Raoul's muscle fibre.

  Going into someone's brain and sifting through their memories in an attempt to find a specific fact is needle in a haystack stuff. It's much better to try and trick them into making the memory easy to find, by structured manipulation of dreams. A combination of electrical stimulation of the brain and some form of post-hypnotic suggestion, I suppose. However they did it, it worked. Nathan and his company cronies invited my mind into Wonderland and then had their wicked way with it.

  Judging by the dreams I experienced in the following weeks, I took them via the scenic route, but they got where they wanted to go in the end. They sent me to a virtual Village because they wanted information. I was their Prisoner. My mission, should I choose to accept it, was to outwit the Wizard behind this particular Oz. This TV cliché will self-destruct in thirty seconds.

  Welcome to my virtual fever dream...

  I opened my eyes and found myself sitting on the curb, a cigarette in my mouth, match-book in hand. I struck a match and lit the cigarette. Coughed. I don't smoke, never have. I flicked the filterless smoke into the road, watched bright orange sparks dance away on the night breeze. I was wearing my best dark grey double-breasted suit, clean white shirt and a wine-red tie, black brogues. My black wool socks with the blue clocks on were in the wash, so I was wearing sports socks. But I did have the obligatory battered fedora, and was everything the clichéd detective ought to be. I even had a mystery to solve: I didn't know who I was, or where.
<
br />   I didn't know my name. I had no memories of any time before I opened my eyes and found myself sitting on the curb. I needed a clue. The match-book in my hand had the name of a club printed on it – they always did. It probably had a telephone number scrawled on the inside of the flap too , but since I didn't have a telephone to hand, I didn't bother looking. I got to my feet and set off in search of The Queen of Hearts. That was the name on the match-book, but then you already guessed that. If nothing else, I'd find a drink at the club. A 1939 Chevrolet coupe drove by, its tyres hissing on the wet black-top. This was definitely film noir territory.

  "Hi, Stevie," Alice said, as I walked into the club.

  One mystery solved already. I was Stevie.

  She was perched on a stool at the bar, exuding industrial strength femininity. "Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?" She husked.

  It was a gun actually, but it would have been ungentlemanly to say so. I winked instead.

  "Will you have the usual?" She asked.

  "No, I'll have a drink first," I leered.

  She forced a laugh. "Always the same old joke."

  It was new to me.

  She pulled a bottle of bourbon and two shot glasses towards her. I hopped up onto the next stool and leaned close: it seemed appropriate.

  "Have you missed me, Alice?"

  "Why, where have you been?"

  Good question. To which I didn't have any kind of answer, so I decided to skip it. I sipped my drink.

  "Kinda quiet tonight," I said.

  Alice shrugged, glanced around the near-empty club. "It's early. Besides, I'd have thought you'd be avoiding the crowds at the moment."

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  She stared at me over her glass, raised an eyebrow. Then, seemingly convinced by my earnest expression, she shrugged.