The Worst Man on Mars
Page 4
The supercomputer’s Eye scanned the motley mechanoids before it. It took in the splashes of paint on the shiny carapaces, the scuffs and scratches on the limbs, the plaster-smears on the control panels and the vacant looks directed towards it. They’re a very limited bunch, he told himself, but they’re all I have.
*
HarVard had a special audio-visual interface for communicating with lesser beings such as robots. Or humans. A hologram generator allowed him to project an animated, life-sized, 3D avatar from his vast library of pre-computed templates of humans, animals and other beings. The robots loved his creations and could sense one was about to be switched on in front of them. A buzz of excitement went round the cabin.
HarVard kept the crowd waiting in eager anticipation before displaying his latest 3D creation at the front of the site office. It was a truly realistic representation of an old man, shrivelled and villainous-looking, with long, matted red hair. He was wearing a greasy flannel gown and holding a toasting fork. None other than Dickens’s Fagin.
The Fagin hologram gave a slight smile.
“We are very glad to see you, all-of-ya, very,” it said with a bow.
The robots stared, their silence speaking volumes. Fagin scanned the robot faces expectantly. “Get it, my dears?” he asked, smiling his mischievous smile and waggling his eyebrows.
Still the robots stared.
Other robots gave the robotic equivalent of shrugs, or retweeted the question.
“It’s a pun,” explained the Fagin hologram. “All-of-ya – Oliver. We are very glad to see you, all-of-ya, very.”
The robot stares became, if anything, blanker.
“Fagin’s opening line. In the book.”
There was a shaking of heads and a furrowing of rubber brows. Some shoulders shrugged, and there was much baffled twittering and tweeting.
Wrong crowd, thought HarVard with a deep sigh.
Reluctantly he recomputed his holo-image. Fagin morphed into a Hollywood robot, gold from head to toe and with an annoying English accent. A casual glance might have mistaken this robot for 3-CPO from Star Wars, but HarVard’s processors had a special ‘lawyer’ chip installed, called COPOUT (Copyright Offence Prevention by Obfuscation of Unlawful Transgression); it ensured no copyrights were infringed by his holographic creations. Thus, this robot was not at all like 3-CPO, but as fundamentally different from the Star Wars superstar as chalk is from limestone. His name was three-piece-yo, or 3-PCO.
The room erupted in robotic cheering and buzzed with excited radio waves.
Plebs, thought HarVard.
*
“This is madness,” said 3-PCO with a silly body-wobble, “Complete madness.”
As HarVard waited for the cheering to subside he performed a quick head count and noted some significant absentees.
“Oh, my!” he resumed in the annoying English voice. “We seem to be missing Cassie. And the Polish builder bots!”
Tude stepped forward. He flicked his appendages to readjust his high-viz jacket and prevent it slipping from his robust shoulders.
“Oh? Why?”
3-PCO’s body-wobble became extreme. “And not one of you thought to rescue her?” He looked askance at the robots. A ripple of applause commenced, but instantly ceased as the bots looked around guiltily at one another.
“Oh, my!” said 3-PCO with a reproachful tilt of the head. “This is not good, not good at all. We are a family, remember? Could we have a volunteer to pull her out after the meeting?”
Silence.
“Anyone?”
Dom opened a pneumatic bucket-arm and thrust it into the air to offer his services. Dom was known to be a bit overenthusiastic at times, and now was such a time. His arm-thrust was a little too hard and a little too high, puncturing the flimsy ceiling above his head. Dom started to retract it. The ceiling panels bowed and buckled alarmingly.
“Leave it!” ordered 3-PCO. “Or you’ll bring the whole ceiling down.”
“And the Polish worker bots?”
“On account of?”
“Oh my, oh my,” said the 3-PCO hologram waggling his head. “I do so wish they were here. We need them, we really do. A volunteer to go fetch them, please?”
Once again Dom was the first to volunteer. He thrust his other pneumatic bucket-arm into the air and managed to punch a second hole in the ceiling, next to the first. A little smoke escaped from his elbow joint as he struggled to dislodge it.
“Dom,” suggested 3-PCO’s calm, posh, English voice. “Do you think you could find an alternative way of volunteering for tasks?”
“Why, thank you, Zilli.” The golden robot’s holographic arm jerked upwards to give the repair-bot a thumbs-up sign.
*
“Right, let’s get to business, shall we?” HarVard turned and pointed at a calendar on the wall, just visible between detailed drawings of the BioDome. The calendar was open on March 2029, its picture depicting the Robot of the Month.
“Anyone know what this is?”
Deathly hush.
“Anyone? No? Well, it’s called a calendar. It marks the passage of time in units of days. Each number corresponds to a different day.” 3-PCO gazed at the sea of baffled face-plates. “I know, it’s a difficult concept for small brains to grasp. Let’s see if my learned friend can help.” With that, the avatar morphed into an old man with tousled white hair and a bushy white moustache, wearing a grey flannel suit and tie.
The sight of a human led to further tweets of
HarVard’s ‘patience and understanding’ circuits redoubled their output, coming dangerously close to overloading. “My name is Albert Einstein. I vill explain to you a little about Time.”
“Now, Tude,” started the famous physicist. “As site foreman, you’re responsible for keeping to deadlines. Can you explain to ze other workers what this calendar is showing?”
With a firm nod, Tude shuffled forward. He extended his right limb towards the calendar, gave it a half-turn and then retracted it.
Albert Einstein stared at him. “Ya,” he said. “But can vee, perhaps, turn our attention to the numbers below ze picture? See? Zese numbers here?”
onfident he could deal with any question the old man might throw at him.
“One of the numbers is circled.”
“It has the vords ‘COMPLETION DATE’ written in large, red letters next to it. Kindly tell us vich number it is.”
“Excellent. That vould make the completion date the 23rd March, 2029, wouldn’t it. And what is today’s date?”
Tude gave the German physicist a blank stare.
“Any ideas? I throw it open to the floor.”
Silence.
transmitted Ero at a very low, despondent frequency.
Albert Einstein sighed, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hand before clearing his throat. “Ze 23rd of March, 2029 happens to be today.”
There was a hushed silence as the robots tried to assimilate the information. A few heads turned to exchange questioning glances.
One by one, the robots’ mouths cracked open into wide grins and they started to cheer, their radio waves reverberating round the cabin. Some even did a little robotic jig.
Albert Einstein had buried his face in his hands and was shaking his head in dismay. “Heaven help me!” he wailed. “What have I done to deserve this?”
7. Meet the Flint Stoners
Mission Commander Flint Dugdale sat, legs wide apart, in front of the large wall-screen, probing a fat finger between his teeth to dislodge a lump of steak pie. The darts had finished with a victory for Big Joe “Lard Belly” McGrath.
As he flipped channels, a caption caught his eye. “Coming next,” it said. “Flint Dugdale: First Man on Mars”. His eyes bulged – a programme all about him! A vast smile spread across his face.
“By ‘eck,” he said, clapping his hands together. “’Appen this calls for a celebration.”
He detached a can of Stallion from the four-pack on the seat to his right and pulled out a steak pie from under his own seat. He pressed the insta-heat button on the pie packaging, waited the requisite ten seconds and then tore off the cellophane wrapping, tossing it over his shoulder at the empty seats behind him. Greedy teeth sank into the flaky pastry, sending a stream of scalding gravy globules drifting into the room. Sublime sensations exploded on his taste buds and a heavenly aroma filled his nostrils.
With the opening credits now rolling, he popped the ring-pull on the can of ale, discarded the customized zero-G straw, and slapped his gravy-covered mouth over the hole before any of the golden liquid could drift free. He closed his eyes in delight at the delicious taste. A few drops escaped from between his lips, but it hardly mattered.
“Tomorrow morning,” the presenter was saying, “Yorkshireman Flint Dugdale will be the first man ever to walk on the surface of Mars.”
“Get in!” said Dugdale with a fist-punch. The punching fist happened to be the one holding the Stallion, so a good deal of the amber liquid surged out in large, spherical droplets. Dugdale cursed under his breath as he watched the precious beads of ale heading for the man on the screen.
“What kind of man is Flint Dugdale?”
“Chuffin’ lovely,” mumbled Dugdale through a mouth full of pie and ale.
“He’s certainly a controversial figure.”
“Am I ‘eck!” Yellowing teeth tore off another chunk of pie.
“Indeed, even within NAFA there are some who think more should have been done to stop him taking control of the mission.”
“Like who?” demanded Dugdale sitting up rigid.
The picture cut to a well-dressed middle-aged man wearing a suit and tie.
“Oh, I could’a guessed it’d be ‘im!” A quick swig of Stallion steadied his emotions and relaxed his muscles.
A caption identified the man as Jeremy Franklin, Principal Director of NAFA. “Some people exude greatness,” he was saying, “others hide it under a bushel, while there are those who don’t have a scintilla of it in their entire being. Flint Dugdale most definitely belongs to the third category.”
Dugdale, having lost count of the categories, wasn’t sure if this was a compliment or not. Besides, wasn’t a ‘scintilla’ some kind of furry rodent?
A woman, identified as Sarah Wright, NAFA Head of Human Resources, appeared on screen. “No sane or rational recruitment procedure would ever have accepted him. Any job interview, psychometric test, medical examination, or psychological assessment would have filtered him out before he’d even made it through the door; any ranking system would have ranked him bottom of the whole human race – and quite well down a list of orang-utans.”
Now this clearly was an insult. Wasn’t it? Another calming gulp of Stallion was in order.
The programme’s presenter returned. “Of course, it is well known how Flint Dugdale made it onto the mission.” The screen showed archive footage of Dugdale celebrating his win on British reality show Who wants to go to Mars? “The British public, perhaps through an act of collective mischief, voted for him in their millions. NAFA were not so keen.”
The screen cut back to Jeremy Franklin. “Our contract with the major sponsors, Stallion Lager Ltd, obliged us to include him. There was nothing we could do. It’s not that we were slow to spot his complete unsuitability. We did what we could: counselling, elocution lessons, you name it.”
Sarah Wright took up the story. “We sent him to London’s top anger management school. They lost patience with him after two days. He failed the final assessment, of course. Lowest mark they’d ever had. But never in our worst nightmares did we think he’d become commander!”
Dugdale was grinning to himself. “Stupid twonks.”
“Dudgale’s unplanned and unexpected rise to power was, of course, the result of a tragedy,” the presenter was saying. “A power surge in the urine extractor led to Commander Chad Lionheart sustaining a fatal injury. And, suddenly, the mission was without a leader. Yet NAFA’s orders for the captaincy to pass to the senior lieutenant were not followed. Why? And was it a coincidence that around that time all sound and vision from Mayflower III was lost? Just how did Dugdale assume control and install himself in Lionheart’s cabin?”
“Yorkshire grit.”
The screen showed a man dressed in military regalia, Mission Director Montgomery Johnston. “Should never have been Dugdale. Never. Perfect replacement already on board. Lieutenant Zak Johnston. End of.’”
The screen cut from Zak Johnston’s father, back to the presenter. “So, what is Flint Dugdale really like?”
“Friggin’ gorgeous.”
“Who better to ask than the people who know him best? His friends. His family. The people he grew up with. Katie Pipperton is live in Huddersfield – Commander Dugdale’s home town. Hello, Katie.” The picture cut to a night-time street scene. At the centre stood a nervous-looking female reporter, large microphone in hand, with an unruly, and clearly very inebriated, mob behind her. In the background was a seedy-looking pub.
Dugdale leaned forward for a closer look. “Well, I’ll go to foot of our stairs! That’s t’Muck’n’Shovel!” A huge smile opened on his podgy face.
The crowd were chanting, “Dugdale, Dugdale”. Many were waving crude, homemade banners and placards peppered with appalling spelling mistakes. “Yorkshires Fist Man on Mar’s”, “Dugdale the Heroe” and “Flint dose us proud!”
“Hello,” said the pretty reporter, forcing a smile and looking completely out of place amidst some of the ugliest specimens of the human race. Boozy, beery yobs, drunken old sots, slutty-looking females with thicker limbs than the males, all threatened to engulf her.
A tear came to Flint’s eye as waves of nostalgia washed over him. These were his people; his tribe. Snatches of remembered yobbish cries involuntarily issued from his mouth and, as he recognised old mates, he sh
outed their nicknames – Scudder, Banyard, Mugger – each conjuring treasured memories of shared youthful violence.
“Eeee, thems wer’t days,” he muttered, rubbing the tear aside and taking another swig of ale.
“Welcome to Huddersfield,” Katie continued, struggling to make herself heard above the general din. “Home of Flint Dugdale. Soon to be the first human being to walk on the surface of Mars.”
There was a rowdy cheer, which mutated into some coarse songs and raucous bellowing. Katie tried to maintain her professional demeanour and polar white smile as the crowd behind her fought for camera attention.
“Tonight, on the eve of the historic transfer to the Red Planet, we meet some of Commander Dugdale’s friends and family who would like to relay their own special messages.”
Dugdale echoed some of the rowdy chants and choruses, taking swigs of his ale in between and partying along with his people.
Katie turned to an elderly, bespectacled man with large ears who was kneeling down and removing a pair of bicycle clips from his ankles.
“We’re thrilled to have Commander Dugdale’s old English teacher from Grimley Comprehensive School...” She leaned down to hold the microphone close to the man’s lips.
There was a dull groan from the audience, echoed by an even duller groan from Flint. “Oh, for frigg’s sake! Not ‘im,” he moaned. “Of all’t chuffin’ people, they go ’n pick that big-eared numpty, Flappers.”
“Mr Potter, as Flint’s former teacher, perhaps you could give the world an insight into what he was like as a student?”
The old man creakily raised himself from his knees and put his mouth very close to the microphone. “You wanna know about Dugdale? I’ll tell yer summat about him. He was a worthless lump of shit. A bone idle little fu….” Katie shot a hand up to her earpiece and winced in pain at her director’s yelled instructions. She whipped the microphone away from Mr Potter and swung it toward a wrinkly, white-haired old lady dressed in a shiny pink tracksuit. It had ‘Dugdale’ emblazoned in sequins across her ample chest.
“Now, beside me,” said Katie with a nervous grimace, “I have Flint’s gran who, I know, has something she would like to say to her grandson.”