by Damien Love
“Had the key taped under there,” Alex’s grandfather said. “And now he’s swallowed it.”
“That really is a beautiful syrup, Willy,” Harry said with genuine admiration. “I’d never ’ave guessed. That’s a lovely piece of work.”
“What do we do now?” Alex said.
“Well,” his grandfather replied, heading toward the stairs, “we don’t need to get the tablet out of the robot to destroy it. But I think we should take Old Willy here along with us, anyway. See if nature takes its course.”
“Huh?” Alex said.
Harry raised his eyebrows at him.
“Oh, right,” Alex said after a moment. “Yuck.”
They followed the old man up to the kitchen, Harry gesturing for von Sudenfeld to go first.
“I say, Harry.” Alex’s grandfather drained his wineglass and smacked his lips. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spot of dessert around, would you? I have a sudden hankering for some . . . tiramisu maybe?”
“Nothin’ in,” Harry said apologetically. “I got ’ere in a bit of an ’urry”—he nodded at von Sudenfeld—“and then things got kind of busy.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Alex’s grandfather glanced down, then looked up hopefully. “Maybe some biscuits and cheese?”
Harry shook his head.
“Oh, well.” The old man patted his stomach. “We can pick something up on the way.” He glanced at his wristwatch, stood calculating. “We really should get out of here. They’ll be back here soon, all of them.”
“What did you mean, destroy it?” Alex said. He felt a pang in his own stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.
“Hmmm? Well, yes. That’s the general idea. For a while, I thought we might get away with just hiding the tablet again . . . But no. The man who is after it has decided, of course, that he’s going to raise the golem, and he’ll be granted all kinds of magical powers as a result. Unlimited wealth, endless dominion, eternal life, and all of that. No, the tablet has to be destroyed, I’m afraid.”
“But—” Alex, to his own surprise, started to protest, almost stammering. He stopped himself. “I thought that you said you would destroy it just by trying to open the robot? Why didn’t you just do that?”
“You’re right,” the old man replied. “Opening the robot without the key would result in the tablet being crushed. But, according to the version of the story we’re dealing with, to really put an end to it, it must be destroyed the right way. If we just smashed the toy open and broke the tablet that way, it would mean that someone could still create another tablet for the golem. Quite a tricky business doing that, but you can be sure that he would have a go at it. He can’t create another tablet while this one still exists, y’see. There can only be one empowered for the golem at any time. And if we destroy the original tablet and we do it the right way, according to ritual, then that’s it: the golem can never be revived, game over, and all home in time for tea.”
“So that’s what we’re going to do?” Alex said, unable to hide his dismay.
“That’s what we’re going to do,” his grandfather said, studying him. “Ah, tell me, Alex. What else was Willy here saying while the two of you were alone?”
Alex stood staring down at his folded arms, then fixed his grandfather with a direct stare.
“It’s funny, actually.” He heard the sudden bitterness in his voice and leaned into it. “He was telling me about you. He was telling me about you and the man and the girl. The tall man. The man who’s been after this tablet and trying to kill us. With his, you know, gang of oddballs and their, you know, killer robots.”
Alex’s grandfather glanced at von Sudenfeld, who refused to meet his gaze. Harry coughed uncomfortably.
“Was he, now?” the old man said. “Go on, then. What did he tell you?”
“Oh, he was talking about your past. He told me how you and this man have a long history together. He told me you go way back.”
“Did he.” The old man’s voice was steely, deadly, as he stared at von Sudenfeld. “Did he really. My, my. He really is quite the conversationalist with a gun in his hands. And?”
“And . . .” Alex slumped. “Nothing. That was as far as it went. Still, it’s more than you’ve told me, isn’t it?” He sat heavily and looked away.
The old man rubbed at his forehead. “Okay, Alex. Yes, there are maybe . . . one or two . . . things I haven’t told you. I’m not going to apologize. I’ll only ask you to believe that I have had the best reasons. I’ve been trying to protect you, keep protecting you, when perhaps it’s too late to protect you by keeping you in the dark.
“But, Alex”—he dropped to one knee and locked eyes with him, urgently searching his gaze—“the only question that matters is: do you trust me?”
Alex, caught by the intensity of the old man’s stare, felt his throat catch. He nodded.
“Of course I do. You know I do.”
“Good man.” His grandfather sagged. “Well, I’ll make you a deal. Trust me a little longer. Let’s get on with the matter at hand, and then I’ll tell you all about it. Well—most of it, anyway. There’s quite a lot, I suppose. And I suppose, if it came to it, I’d rather you heard it from me than from the likes of this.” He nodded contemptuously at von Sudenfeld, before turning back to Alex.
“Deal?”
“Deal.” Alex nodded. “So long as you keep it.”
“Oh, I always keep deals. Nearly always.” The old man stood. “Now. Do you have fresh clothes, Alex? I’m going to get myself changed, and I think you should take the opportunity, too. They’ll be here soon, and then there won’t be time for pleasantries.”
“I’ll keep a look out,” Harry said. “I’ve a couple of things I can rig up to give ’em a nice welcome this time.” He nodded at von Sudenfeld. “Meantime, you can get started on these dishes.”
“Oh, that’s the thing about scrambled eggs.” Alex’s grandfather frowned. “Lovely, but you have to pay the price in messy pots. Although I hear the new nonstick fellows are rather miraculous.”
“But do we really have to destroy it?” Alex said disconsolately. “I thought you said it was . . . just a story.”
“It is, Alex,” his grandfather said, heading from the kitchen. “It’s all just a story. And we’re going to be the ones who write an end to it.”
XVII.
A VIEW FROM A HILL
THE ATTACK CAME with the dawn, just as the first frail rumors of light began spreading across the blue-black sky in ominous trails of red.
The tall man came first, a stalking shadow on the snow, all angles in the half-light. He moved carefully, approaching the house with caution.
At the front door, he paused, bent leaning on his cane to scrutinize the fresh salt on the step. With almost fussy care, he brushed it away, scraping it with one shiny boot into a tidy mound he covered with a red silk handkerchief, weighing down each corner with a shiny black pebble. Next, he moved from window to window, scooping salt from ledges with gloved hands.
Stepping back, slapping his hands together to shake off the remaining grains, he regarded the house. He stood a full minute, head cocked, looking, listening. Thin clouds of breath rose and faded in the bitter morning. Pulling off one glove to reveal a long, pale hand, he put two fingers to his lips and whistled a piercing note.
They came from the bare black bushes in curiously formal procession. The girl led, two fliers at her shoulders, followed by little Beckman, his glasses lenses catching the first red in the sky. Next the bald men, wearing woolen watch caps against the cold. Behind them, two life-sizers and a dozen or so more fliers in dim formation.
Around their feet, a vague parade of smaller robots trundled and stumbled over the snow, maybe thirty, bright little robot cars and robot trains and robot rocket ships, tiny space bulldozers with robot drivers. Little things on legs and wheels and caterpillar tracks,
things that walked and climbed and rolled, things that looked and hunted and tracked and hid, things that picked and drilled. Things that could sting and slash and wound and worse.
The tall man flicked his cane. One of the life-sizers strode forward, put huge hands to the front door, and began to push. After a few seconds it stepped back, stood as if considering the problem, then unleashed a single, savage swipe at the main lock.
As soon as it touched the metal plate around the keyhole, the machine man stopped moving, rooted to the spot. Anyone close enough would have heard the electric current thrumming through it. Anyone close enough would have gradually smelled an acrid, burning scent on the biting morning air.
The tall man shouted brusque instructions. The bald men ran off into the bushes, one of them rubbing at his head. Wisps of smoke rose from the life-sizer’s coat sleeve. The tall man, the girl, Beckman, and all the other robots moved back, forming a silent semicircle around the motionless machine, watching as it started to smolder.
Presently, the men returned, each bearing a large branch freshly snapped from a tree. Standing on either side of the door, they braced themselves against the wall and used the branches to pry the life-sizer away. Finally, with a great heave, the big machine toppled backward, straight as a felled tree, landing faceup, arm still outstretched.
The tall man ignored it. Stepping back, he ran his eyes along the house’s facade, pointed a finger. The girl stepped forward. With a turn of her head, she sent a flier darting to the nearest window. Within a few inches of the frame, a sharp blue flash exploded around it. The flying thing fell, showering sparks.
The girl’s gasp and the curse the man let out could be heard for some distance.
Alex’s grandfather hummed happily and lowered his binoculars.
“Excellent work, Harry. You really are a devious soul when you put your mind to it.”
“Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.” Harry grinned. “Wait’ll they get inside, though; that’s when the fun really starts. Shame we won’t be around to see it. But I’m rather ’opin’ they’ll ’ave a crack at that top window before we go. I’ve left it open just a little. Might be a bit obvious, mind.”
“You really are like children, you know?” von Sudenfeld grumbled behind them. “Pathetic, stupid, silly children.”
“Ah yes,” Alex’s grandfather replied, raising the binoculars again. “But we’ve got all the best toys now, haven’t we? Now, shut your mouth, Willy, there’s a good fellow.”
They stood on the ridge of a hill at the edge of the forest, around half a mile from the house, looking back down over the frosted fields. Harry’s car nestled among the thin trees behind them, a smooth black shape against the greater darkness of the woods. Alex’s grandfather had changed into an immaculate three-piece suit and coat almost exactly like the one he had been wearing before, except perhaps an infinitesimally lighter shade of gray, now topped with a bowler hat the same color.
“Shepherds take warning,” the old man murmured, raking his binoculars across the frozen landscape. The world spread out before them in tones of white, blue, and gray and a red now tinged with gold. He drew in a great breath, let it out in a misty, satisfied sigh.
“Amazing air. Astonishing light. Eh, Alex?”
Alex, watching through another set of binoculars, didn’t respond. He was fascinated by what the bald men were doing.
They were working at the fallen life-sizer. One knelt by the thing, removed its singed hat, and began unscrewing a plate in its head. The other man had produced from a black case a clear plastic bag, filled with a dark, thick liquid. It reminded Alex vaguely of something.
The kneeling man opened the plate. His colleague now had a transparent tube leading down from the bag he held. They fed it into the robot’s head. Liquid began oozing thickly down the tube. Alex realized with a shudder why the bag looked familiar—he’d seen doctors and nurses using them often enough in the medical dramas his mother watched on TV. He had the terrible sensation it was blood running slowly into the machine.
Satisfied this drip-line was secure, the kneeling man was digging around inside the case. He came out with an oversized woolen purse. Snapping open the catch, he pulled out a fistful of something dark. Producing a cigarette lighter, he held a flame under it until it started to smoke, then began sprinkling it into the panel in the robot’s head, patting it around the tube.
“What,” Alex said, “is that?”
“Hmm?” his grandfather replied. He moved his binoculars until he saw what had caught Alex’s attention.
“Oh. Hair, probably. Nasty business. You should never burn hair, Alex. The most terrible smell you will ever smell. Or, well, one of them, anyway,” he added, as the kneeling man brought out a squat jar, pulled on a thin rubber glove, unscrewed the lid, and began scooping out a thick, sticky handful of its obscure contents, pushing the gloopy stuff into the robot. “Gads.”
“What is . . . ?” Alex began.
“Now”—his grandfather cleared his throat—“never mind all that. Keep an eye on the top window; this should be good.”
Alex directed his binoculars as instructed. After a blurry few seconds trying to focus, he saw four fliers hovering at a cautious distance outside the tower window. One held what looked like a rusty nail balanced across its hook and scalpel arms. With a jerk, it pitched it forward. Nothing happened. The nail hit the glass, bounced off the frame, fell to the ground.
Below, the tall man stood watching. Behind him, the little girl also stood with her neck craned, staring up at the fliers with great concentration. Beckman and the small army of little robots crowded behind her.
The tall man motioned with his hand. The girl blinked. The fliers moved in.
The window was slightly ajar. White curtains pressed against the glass from inside. Working as one, the four little robots took up a fluttering formation along the bottom of the frame and got their hooks into it, beginning to tug the window farther open. They were clearly encountering resistance. The machines strained, heaving, until, with a suddenness and force that sent two of them shooting backward several feet through the air, the window sprang open.
A huge white torrent came pouring out, falling straight onto the people and robots below.
“Salt?” Alex asked.
“Certainly is,” chirped Harry. “Nice big load of fleur de sel. Oldest trick in the book, but, well, old ’uns are good ’uns.”
Down at the house, they were scattering out of the way but weren’t all fast enough. The tall man’s hat and shoulders were coated white. The two fliers that had still been pulling at the window were engulfed and fell to the ground. The little girl clutched painfully at her forehead.
“She feels it,” Alex said.
“Ah. Yes,” his grandfather replied.
“When you said you didn’t like to kill them—what happens to her if you kill one she’s controlling?”
“Well.” The old man lowered his binoculars and considered. “I suppose it would maybe feel something like having a hand cut off. Or a finger, anyway, depending what it was. Except, you would still have all your fingers and your hands. But you would have felt it going. That shock, that severance. That loss. You know?”
Alex thought about it. “Kind of. Is that why you don’t like killing them?”
“Oh, no,” his grandfather said. “I’m not worried about the people using them. No, it’s the machines—if you can use salt on them, it breaks that connection. It’s a shield. But they still have some energy left in them: they’re no longer plugged in, but it’s like . . . a battery, running down. It doesn’t last long. But for that little while, when they’re not being controlled, it’s maybe like they’re . . . released. Dumb as they are, it’s their one taste of autonomy. I mean, they probably don’t feel anything, but . . . who knows? I just started wondering what it must be like for them. Freedom, life. Confusing pr
obably. I know it is for me.” He lifted his binoculars again.
After a second staring at the old man, Alex did likewise. Several of the smaller robots were spinning wildly or wandering stupidly around. As the last salt leaked out, the window slammed itself shut.
“How long do you reckon it’ll take them to realize they’re trying to break in to an empty house?” Alex’s grandfather asked.
“Well, they should be kept fairly busy once they get through that door,” Harry said. “But, yeah, we should probably think about gettin’ movin’.”
The tall man was issuing orders. The bald men seemed to have finished repairing the damaged life-sizer. They put its hat back in place, then left it and began clearing away as much salt as they could. After a few seconds, the machine lowered its outstretched arm, sat upright, then clambered stiffly to its feet and strode to join its companion. The two life-sizers stood silently facing each other for a moment, then turned as one, disappearing into the bushes at a rapid march.
The girl was still rubbing her head with one hand. With the other, she clutched to her chest the flier that had been burned by the window, like any small girl soothing a doll. The two fliers that had avoided the salt hovered protectively around her.
Beckman, a hand to one temple, ran in ever-widening circles, trying to round up the smaller robots. Little machines were staggering madly all over the garden. The two life-sizers reappeared, carrying between them an ornate iron lamppost, clearly ripped from the ground. Without pausing, they began battering at the door.
On the path behind them, the robots that hadn’t been touched by salt ranked up in position, like cars in a Formula One race. Nasty arrays of blades and needles began to snap out from those at the front. The life-sizers kept ramming the door. The faint, flat sound of metal hitting wood carried bleakly on the crisp morning air to the hill.