Tinman

by Simon Fairhead

  TINMAN

  by

  Simon Fairhead

  Dedicated to my Mum, for teaching me to read,

  and to H.G.Wells, for showing me why.

  TINMAN

  By

  Simon Fairhead

  CHAPTER 1

  “Fasten that chin-strap, Bailey, you wanna smash that book-filled skull of yours in?”

  Another fucking training drop; this time into the stinking jungle of Ium, the 'sky-turd.’ Joy.

  Parrish squinted hard to keep his vision steady aboard the cloud-buffeted landing skiff. Sergeant Yeovil was still on his feet, mere minutes away from the sort of landing that vertebral soft-tissue was invented for. He always sat down at the last moment. Presumably he knew what he was doing, but Parrish and his fellow draftees were waiting for the day he fell flat on his arse and had to be stretchered off the planet to a slow hand-clap. One day.

  The skiff was windowless and stank of fuel, grease, and sweaty men. Twenty soldiers were on board against the walls, facing one another, all caged behind the swing-down safety rigs. Their weapons were by their sides, all clamped to the hull to avoid any unfortunate miss-fires caused by vibrations or incompetence. A 'Tinman' mobile weapons platform filled the floor between them, its caterpillar tracks clamped to the deck.

  Yeovil swung into his seat and locked his safety rig down. “I want you bunch of tarts out of this ship and in position ten seconds after landing, clear? Parrish? Where the fuck are you?”

  “Next to you, Sergeant.”

  “I don’t want you and Bailey together this time. This isn’t a fucking book-club, clear?”

  “Sergeant.”

  “Go with Ronson.”

  Parrish and Ronson shared a glance. Ronson loved the army. Loved it.

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “And Parrish?”

  “Sir?”

  “It’s Sergeant to you, Parrish. When we get down, I want you to keep one eye on Tinman. Engineering gave us Number Six, and Six is a bit twitchy, clear?”

  “Yes – “

  The skiff roared and pitched nose-up. Branches outside cracked and squealed against the hull. With a final scream from the engines, it dropped with all the decorum of a caravan onto the surface.

  The rear troop door sprang down with a thud, revealing a patch of muddy grass surrounded by dripping foliage. The hulking silhouette of Tinman obscured everything else. His lights winked on, followed by the eerie glow of his optical system. Gears deep inside him crunched, and, as Yeovil began screaming at his men to ‘move their skinny arses’, Tinman’s exhaust pipe slid vertically from its housing and belched out black fumes. His caterpillar tracks skidded momentarily on the slick floor of the craft, and then he was on his way. Once out of the door, his armaments deployed, pivoting out from his sides, scanning, targeting, assessing. Without turning his massive, armoured head, he made his battlefield report.

  “Clear. Deploy.”

  Parrish felt a boot connect with his backside, and he stumbled into the back of Tinman. Instantly, a weapon was trained on him.

  “It’s me, Six; Parrish.”

  Tinman swivelled his gun away and moved off. Parrish slid off the robot's greasy back plate and fell into the mud. Ronson walked over him.

  “Sorry, mate.”

  Parrish looked up to see Ronson grinning like a monkey at him. He’d lost two of his front teeth in some fight or other. “Retard," he spat.

  Parrish scrambled to his feet, and together the pair of them ran in a low crouch to their position behind a fallen tree as mechanical support and drop site defence. Ronson immediately pulled out a cigarette and lit up. Parrish looked over at him, then back at the clearing. Some jungle. There was a clammy, damp humidity to the air, like that of an old towel left in a locker room. Not wanting to talk to Ronson, he plugged in his earpiece, and listened in on the command channel. Yeovil was in full flow.

  “You are all scum. Your families are scum, and so are the planets you were born on. That said, you are my scum, and we are going to blow the shit out of the other scum hiding in this fucking swamp, clear? Each one of you recruits is paired up with a regular, ‘cos of what happened to one of you lot last month. There’s no excuse for that to happen again, clear?”

  Low, murmured responses crackled back at him. Live round training for the first time had resulted in the death of a recruit not properly supervised. ‘Terminally irradiated’ was the proper term for what happened to him. The entire platoon had been flown home by medical vessel for emergency radiation treatment from the fall out from a battlefield neutron grenade. Stupid. As stupid as the draft.

  “For this exercise, we will be up against Unit Four. Unit Four responses are quicker than you’re used to, and they’ll be firing level four plasma charges.”

  “Fuck…” came a voice over the radio.

  “Is that you, Bailey?

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “What did I say about radio silence? Level four, for those of you who haven’t had the pleasure, is like a punch in the stomach and a finger in a light socket all at the same time. It ain’t gonna fucking kill you, but if you sick up, no one will be the least bit surprised. Is everyone in position? Let me hear you, scum.”

  There was a round of affirmative replies. Ronson threw away his cigarette and craned his neck to see where the Sergeant was. “Oi, pick your weapon up and engage targeting, shit-for-brains, they’re off.”

  Yeovil was on the radio again. “Exercise in progress.”

  Tinman roared into life as Sergeant Yeovil sent the remote signal to the mechanised opposition they would be facing.

  “What the fuck is going on?” laughed Ronson.

  Parrish peered into the clearing, suddenly interested in proceedings.

  Tinman thundered straight into the jungle, his tracks spewing up muddy grass in his haste. In a moment he was gone, and all that could be heard from him was the smashing of undergrowth and the retreating growl of his engine.

  Parrish turned up the volume on his earpiece. Chaos. A multitude of voices talking over one another. And a new voice. Was that Captain Kyoshi?

  “Where has he gone? Why? Engineering? Report!”

  Parrish smiled to himself. A cock-up. Home in time for tea, with a bit of luck and a couple of weeks back at barracks while they sorted out the mess. “Chewing gum, Ronson?”

  Ronson eyed him suspiciously. “Upper or Downer?”

  “Spearmint.” He offered him a tight smile. Ronson was having none of it, and returned his attention to the clearing. The men were breaking cover and returning to their landing skiff. Yeovil was scowling.

  Ronson laughed and slapped Parrish on the back. “You’re shit and you know you are! Keep an eye on the robot, he said! Fucker…”

  “Parrish!” cried the Sergeant, advancing across the grass.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant’ was forming on his lips, but the words were aborted by the sight of what was coming out of the jungle behind the men.

  An explosion ricocheted around the clearing, sending a flock of birds screaming into the sky from the treetops. Every man fell to the ground, clutching their headgear. Beyond the trees, plasma beam weapons were cutting a path through the vegetation. Trees shuddered and toppled, shedding their leaves like confetti. Fires were erupting all around. Yeovil rose to his knees and pulled out his signalling unit. Parrish could see only his shoulders and the edge of the device, but he knew immediately something was wrong. The Sergeant got to his feet.

  “We have a programming problem with Unit Four. The abort signal has been over-ridden. Command is addressing the problem. For now, we’ll treat this as a continuation of the exercise. Take up positions in the trees, and remember, these plasma charges hurt like fuck. Run!”

  Ronson cocked his weapon. “That’s not
a level four plasma charge…Parrish, dial your weapon all the way up, man, make your shots count.”

  “What?”

  “Mechanised units set their charge levels from their on-board power source. They think they’re in a real combat situation. Shoot to kill! Look what those fuckers are doing to the trees, man!”

  Unit Four broke cover. Ten units in all, hulking, bipedal machines, eight feet tall, their stainless steel armour glinting through scratches in their camouflaged paintwork. Each had an orange circle painted on its chest-plate, an aid to targeting during exercises. But they were no longer on an exercise. Their spherical heads were mounted deep into an armoured socket. A single blue optical device was set deep into the surface of the sphere, and swivelled with the head as they scanned their surroundings.

  Parrish sank deep into the undergrowth and listened to Yeovil’s increasingly desperate exchange with the command ship.

  “No sir, I can’t raise Number Six. As soon as I sent the signal he disappeared into the jungle. I don’t know where he is. Sir, I am aware of the value of the hardware at issue here –“

  There was Number Six. Unit Four had cleared a path for him. They were holding off, waiting for him. Billowing smoke, Tinman grumbled into the clearing, foliage cloaking his broad shoulders. Had he camouflaged himself?

  Yeovil, with some effort of will, stood up straight and faced the combat robot.

  “Six, this is Sergeant Yeovil. Run system diagnostics immediately. That is a direct order. Obey”

  The clearing fell silent. Tiny servo motors whirred in Tinman’s neck. In a peculiarly human gesture, he tilted his head, as if listening to voices heard only by him.

  A shimmering insect danced a figure-of-eight in the air in front of Yeovil’s nose.

  “System diagnostics complete. Errors nil.”

  Unit Four opened fire. Searing, crackling bolts of plasma swept the clearing, decapitating, cutting men in two, burning everything. Behind them, Tinman’s chain gun whirred into life, pumping explosive shells into the darting, screaming figures before it. Ronson fired off round after round of armour-piercing bullets. He felled one, and then another, before falling himself, burned and blasted, unrecognisable.

  Parrish cowered deep in the mud and made his peace with God.

  Silence, save for the sound of burning.

  Tinman’s engine roared. Parrish listened. The robot was making a round of the battlefield, crushing the fallen beneath his mud-caked tracks. He was coming closer. Parrish shed silent tears.

  With a gush of hydraulics, Tinman pulled aside the fallen tree trunk behind which Parrish had hidden. He looked up. The big, ugly head of Tinman, with its dual, mismatched optical systems, night vision and tactical on one side, daylight and telescopic on the other, stared down at him.

  “Please…”

  The hydraulic arm, which moments ago had demonstrated its enormous strength, gently touched him under the chin and lifted up Parrish’s face to his own.

  “Battlefield secure.”

  “Yes…”

  “Injury Report.”

  “I – I’m okay.”

  Tinman immediately turned away. Parrish watched with horror and incredulity as the robot eased slowly up the ramp of the landing skiff and secured itself in its customary position. The exhaust pipe slid away, the engine switched off, and his lights dimmed.

  “Fuck…”

  CHAPTER 2

  Parrish was in a grey room, lit far too brightly. On the table in front of him was an interview device with a tiny camera on top of it, angled towards him. Beyond the table were three men. The top of the top brass. Someone was talking at him.

  “…so you were placed in command of the unit?”

  “Sir?”

  “You were placed in command of Tinman Six?”

  “I – no, I’m not authorised – “

  “Play Ium exercise tape C-81. Audio only.”

  The interview device played the recording.

  “It’s Sergeant to you, Parrish. When we get down, I want you to keep one eye on Tinman. Engineering gave us Number Six, and Six is a bit twitchy, clear?”

  “Yes – “

  “Stop. Did you or did you not receive a direct order placing you in command of Six?”

  “I’m a robotics engineer in my civilian life, Sir, I do not have first hand knowledge of combat models. I’m not authorised.”

  “You were ordered to – “

  “That’s enough, John.”

  “Nineteen men died today, Carlos, and this man was put in charge of the unit that killed them. I want to know what happened and why. I want to know if Six was tampered with. He said himself he’s an engineer. And then there’s his draft record to consider. Lazy, slow to obey – “

  “Just like ninety percent of recruits, John. The readings say he hasn’t lied.”

  “The readings could have been - “

  “Down that path lies madness. Something went wrong, and we will probably discover a loose wire or a damaged circuit board when Six is dismantled. Normal wear and tear.”

  “I’ll leave you to tell that to the families of these men, Carlos. ‘Sorry, just a loose wire.’ They’ll like that. Hell, they might just have a damn good laugh about it.”

  “Sir…”said Parrish.

  Admiral John Purcell glanced quickly up at Parrish through his thick, wiry brows. “What is it…Parrish?”

  “I’d like to take a look at Six, if I may.”

  “Not a chance. I’ve got engineers on it already.”

  “I know some of the engineers. They’re good, practical men. They can fix all the mechanical parts, but they don’t build brains. That’s my job. I work for Halliday Industries. I know how robots think. Let me talk to Six.”

  The three men glanced at one another. Kyoshi spoke, quietly. “Six is a combat robot. He has only a rudimentary language. What do you think he could tell you?”

  Parrish shifted forward in his chair, eager to explain himself. “He has a simple language because he is required only to express himself in battlefield terms, in a direct and clear manner. I can download a complete vocabulary in an afternoon, and have him talking fluently in a few days. Six isn’t stupid. Underneath the armour, there’s an excellent brain. It’s a Halliday Duosphere.”

  Kyoshi nodded. “Very well, Parrish, you may speak to Six. Learn the nature of his malfunction.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And then inform him that murder in this army is punishable by death.”

  Parrish dropped his gaze. “Yes, Sir.”

  “I have one final question for private Parrish,” said Purcell. “Why did Six leave you alive?”

  Parrish looked up. “I believe, Sir, it was because I treated him as a person, not a machine.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Parrish lay on the low, rubbery vegetation that served the settlers of Imo as grass and watched through half closed eyes as the morning cloud began to burn off. He loved Imo’s clear days, for then he could stare at the planet’s spectacular neighbour, Mioumo, girdled by rings and a hundred glittering moons, as it hung low in the sky. He had a house in this field, and a wife, Kate. She was making her way towards him now, carrying a jug of beer.

  “You awake?”

  Parrish looked up to see his wife’s smiling face inverted above him. Mioumo’s rings hung behind her like a halo.

  “Yeah.”

  She sat down beside him, and trailed a hand down his back. His own hand rested easily on her shin. Her feet were bare.

  “Art, the lab called. They delivered Six. He’s in pieces.”

  “Bastards. Did you tell Franco to take the head out and put it near a window?”

  “Yeah. He told me to tell you Six said ‘Area clear.’”

  Parrish frowned. Kate grinned. “He also said, ‘Sky planet pretty’”.

  “He’s learning. God knows what the army put him through. He should have been up and running by now. I’ll open him up tomorrow. Might be some neural damage.”

&nbs
p; “You don’t have to start too early tomorrow, do you? I thought we could, you know…”

  Art smiled and kissed her. “We’ll do lunch first.”

  Dimly, Art heard a phone ringing and ringing. After a while it stopped. He fumbled with the sweat dampened white sheet that covered him and his wife and came up for air. The alarm clock said one thirty pm. Late already. Never mind. Kate lay next to him, her curly hair flattened into wet ringlets against her neck and forehead. There was a love bite on his shoulder the colour of a fresh plum. Work was very low on his list of priorities. “Kate?”

  “Mmm?”

  “I have to get up now.”

  She favoured him with a filthy grin and lowered her head onto his cock again. It immediately began to pulse with life.

  “Kate…”

  She squeezed his balls, and sucked harder. Her tongue flicked over the head of his knob. He grabbed a handful of her black, curly hair in his fist and pulled her face up to meet his. They kissed deep and slow. She swung her leg over his body and climbed on top of him. Her hand guided him in. He sunk deep into the warm, wet, clenching jungle of her body, and met every thrust with his own. They became a wet, slithering mass of flesh and sweat –

  The phone rang again. This time Art was dressed and showered and ready for it.

  “Franco? Hi. I’m fine. Just been online talking to Halliday. Could be some atrophy of the linguistic synapses. I’ll be over in twenty minutes. Bye.”

  The cab banked round the third floor of the institute and dipped down towards the car park. Art stared out at the shadow of his vehicle edging towards them as they gently moved to touch down. There was the sound of landing legs pistoning out from the underbelly of the cab, then a brief bump and wobble as they met the tarmac. The engine noise descended through the octaves from a high whistle to an idling growl. Art swiped his card through the pay-slot and ducked out of the rising gull-wing door. He backed away and waved at the driver, who ignored him, as the taxi gushed back into the sky, spun on its axis, and roared away over the lab grounds.