The Worst Man on Mars

by Mark Roman

  Think, Flinty, think.

  And then the sage advice of his favourite stepfather, Denzel, came to him. “Listen up, our Flint,” Denzel had told him. “It don’t matter how bad yer’ve been, lad. When yer time comes, and yer standin’ before t’Big Fella in the sky, just ask ‘Im fer forgiveness. Simple as that. You’ll be through them Pearly Gates as quick as a chuffin’ kipper on a skateboard.”

  Flint grinned at this fool-proof plan. If there was one characteristic God was legendary for, it was forgiveness.

  Just when the light at the end of the tunnel was nearly upon him it mysteriously swung wildly to one side as the angel, which felt surprisingly hard and knobbly for an angel, altered its course and passed through a door-opening marked ‘Mind your head’.

  Weird sign to have on t’ way into Heaven, thought Flint as he lost consciousness.

  *

  Tude, last of the funereal robot procession, noticed the light that had been left on at the end of the corridor. He peeled away to turn it off to save energy. Then he re-joined the assembly in the sick bay.

  *

  A metallic uck-uck-ucking noise drilled its way through Flint’s skull and forced him to crack open an eyelid. He found himself lying on a hard, cut-down bed, strapped down like Gulliver in Lilliput. Beyond the crest of his naked belly he could just see the tops of his exposed toes. Given his post mortem situation his state of total nudity did not seem unreasonable, although the straps seemed a little over-the-top for a dead person.

  But then, out of the corner of his eye, he became aware of a motley coggle of very un-angel-like robots wearing white coats and white face-masks, with not a wing or a halo among the lot of them. All were peering at him with undisguised fascination. Realizing he was not dead, Dugdale gave a huge sigh of relief; that awkward conversation with his Maker had been postponed for another day. The robots shuffled towards him. Their optics zoomed in and out, panning from one region of exposed flesh to another, as though they had never seen anything quite so fascinating.

  One by one, their electronic gazes drifted to the most curiously-shaped and incongruous part of Flint’s anatomy, just south of his distended stomach. In fascination, they focused their attention on it, staring and pointing, their lights a-twinkle, emitting various beeps and chirps and tweets, and the occasional “Oooooooooo.” Dom selected a lopper from his fold-out tools and reached towards the unsightly article, ready to nip it off at the base along with its associated pouch.

  “Touch me bollocks and yer dead!” screamed Dugdale, struggling to raise himself free of the straps.

  “Dom,” rebuked a voice from Dugdale’s left. “No touchy-touchy the human.”

  Dugdale swung his head to see the 3D image of a smartly-dressed man in a suit wagging a white-gloved finger at the robot. “Who in t’name of Albert Tatlock are you?”

  The man gave a polite nod. “I am your valet, sir.”

  “Yer wha’?”

  “Valet. A gentleman’s personal gentleman. The name’s Greeves, sir. I know what you’re thinking – but I assure you any resemblance to a similarly named fictional character is entirely coincidental.” He directed a delicate little chortle into the palm of his hand.

  “What the blatherin’ ‘eck are you jibberin’ about? And why am I strapped to this friggin’ bench?” Flint struggled to lift his head against the resistance of his double chins.

  “I’m afraid the excitement of your dramatic landing proved too much for your frail human body and you fainted, sir. So you’ve been brought here to the sick bay for observation.” Greeves indicated the gaggle of metallic mechanoids. “They’ve been observing you, sir. Never seen a naked human before, you see, so they’re rather man-curious. It’s their way.”

  Flint was shaking his head. “Flint Dugdale don’t faint.”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  Dugdale turned to the crowd of tin heads at the bottom of his bed, still training their optical devices on his nether regions. He snarled at them and the robots backed off, uttering agitated squeaks.

  Flint lay back, but immediately jerked up again as a horrible thought slapped him. “Warra ‘bout me ‘istoric speech? Me ‘First Man on Mars’ spiel.”

  “All been taken care of, sir.”

  “Huh?”

  “I took the liberty of ... er ... modifying it a little. I think you’ll be pleased with the result.”

  Dugdale turned from baffled to suspicious.

  “Here, sir,” said Greeves, indicating a large screen on the wall. It flickered to life to show an image of the commander shortly after Len, aided by two burly steel-lifterbots, had yanked off his helmet. “This is the original version.”

  The camera zoomed in on his blue, oxygen-starved face, eyes bulging and saliva frothing from the mouth. “Friends, ‘umans, and Yorkshiremen ...” The speech continued for another twelve words, each more slurred and incoherent than the last, terminating in some vague guttural sounds. Then the eyes rolled and, with a strangled squeak, the head dropped out of shot, leaving the camera pointing into empty space.

  Flint stared horrified at the screen. “Wer’ that it? Me ‘istoric speech?”

  Greeves raised a calming hand. “That was, er, your ‘first take’, sir. But I managed to polish it a little. Tweaking it here and there, and this is the version actually transmitted to Earth.”

  The screen rippled to reveal a clean-shaven, smart and smiling version of the mission commander. “Aye up, people of Earth,” said the image with a salute and a wink. “Before you stands one humble human being.”

  The real Dugdale gaped at his representation on the screen. “That’s never me,” he protested. “I never said that! That dozy pillock don’t even sound like me.”

  “It’s an honour to represent you here on Mars. An old and barren world for us, but a brave new, living world for Humankind ...”

  “That’s crap!”

  “... Listen up, friends. I know you’ll call me a hero and I must learn to accept that. But, who are the real heroes of this valiant mission? The men and women of NAFA? Yes, sure, they’ve done their share ...”

  “What share?”

  “... The crew and colonists of Mayflower III? Worthy contenders indeed ...”

  “Worthy? Cobblers.”

  “... But, for me, the real heroes have been the army of robots who have worked diligently and tirelessly to build this magnificent base for us ...”

  “Eh, what?”

  “... And, above all, overseeing their epic achievement with his unerring guidance, has been the superior intelligence of HarVard, the base’s supercomputer. We salute you, HarVard.”

  “Like I’d say that.”

  The screen Dugdale raised a stiffened hand to his forehead and, with a slight tremble of emotion, completed the salute with a flourish. “By heck, even as I speak, the finest supercomputer ever built is arranging the rescue of the colonists who are trapped in the space elevator on the roof as a result of an unfortunate NAFA dimensioning error. I must now do my duty and go help as best I can.”

  Another salute and the screen went blank.

  Flint stared, too stunned to speak. His mouth opened and closed, but no sounds came out. Finally, he found his voice. “Warra load of twerkin’ bollocks! That’s deformation of character, that is.”

  Greeves’s face remained devoid of expression. “I understand the speech went down particularly well back home. Apparently, sir’s FriendlyFace fan page has acquired dozens of new ‘likes’.”

  Dugdale blinked at these words and looked at Greeves. “Dozens, yer reckon?” he asked.

  “Literally dozens, sir.”

  Flint’s normal scowl softened to a grimace. “Well, all right. But if I ‘ear one bad word back from NAFA I’ll ...” He left the threat unfinished.

  “Of course, sir. I would expect nothing less. But I’m absolutely certain that sir will not hear any negative comments from Earth,” assured Greeves with all the confidence of a supercomputer in total control of base-to-Earth and
Earth-to-base communications.

  *

  “Right, then,” said Dugdale, his attention back on his nakedness. “Get me clobber and cut these bloggin’ straps.”

  HarVard released the restraints, causing the robots to back away.

  “Sir’s space clothes were sent for decontamination and recycling. A fresh uniform is on its way. Will sir be requiring assistance with his wardrobe?”

  “No, ‘sir’ will not!”

  “Very well.”

  Dugdale swung his legs off the bed and stood up. His head thumped against the ceiling and he was forced to adopt a slightly stooping posture as he rubbed his crown. “Why’s this piggin’ room so small?” Then, as though suddenly remembering, “Warra’bout t’others. Still in t’lift, then?”

  Greeves nodded his head solemnly. “Unfortunately, the other humans are very much ‘still in t’lift’, sir. With dwindling oxygen reserves I fear their time is limited. Perhaps sir would like to join us on the small rescue mission we’re preparing?”

  “Me?”

  “A heroic rescue would certainly boost sir’s FriendlyFace profile. And, there are hints of a knighthood from my fellow supercomputer at The Palace ...”

  “Knighthood? I wert first man on Mars, yer know,” objected Dugdale. “A knighthood’s gorra be in t’bag.”

  “Maybe so, sir. Maybe so.”

  The door squeaked open and Disa (Standardisation), a small, dome-headed vacuum-cleaning-bot, trundled into the room. She was carrying a canary yellow pair of dungarees, a bright blue T-shirt, orange underpants, orange socks and a pair of grey space clogs. She laid them out on the bed and placed the space clogs on the floor. She fluttered her duster attachment across the clothes before stepping back.

  “Ah, your garments, sir,” said Greeves.

  “What kind of kit is that?” asked Dugdale, goggling at the clothes.

  “I am inclined to agree with sir. One instinctively knows when something is right, and this is not a colour combination I would have selected myself, but our tailor robot considers himself ‘creative’.”

  Suddenly bashful of his nudity, Dugdale grabbed the orange underpants and hurried to pull them on, but at around knee-level their deficiency in the size department became obvious. Undeterred, he continued hauling them up the fatty layers of his thighs to within inches of the part he was desperate to conceal. The underwear elastic, having significantly exceeded its maximum design parameters, cut deep into his bottom cheeks and forced his frontal parts to hang precariously over the waistband, like a loaded catapult.

  “What size are these?”

  “They’re made to measure, sir.”

  “For a chuffin’ pygmy,” retorted Dugdale. He tore them off and picked up the dungarees. Holding them against his 6’4” frame he peered down at the hem of the trousers barely reaching his knees.

  “Hmm,” mused Greeves. “NAFA supplied the measurements. Dare I suggest that, during the spaceflight, sir might have acquired a little extra ... mass?”

  “Like ‘eck I did! All t’crappy space-food kept me starvin’. Look at me. I’m friggin’ skin and bone.”

  “Of course you are, sir,” said Greeves, raising a quizzical eyebrow at the layers of body fat flowing down Dugdale’s torso. Then he raised a finger as a thought struck him. “Ah, I think I might know what’s happened here.” He turned to the cleaning robot. “Disa, kindly return to the tailor-bot and ask him to stop work on the colonists’ clothes with immediate effect.” Then, as the cleaning robot exited the room, he turned back to Dugdale with an apologetic cough. “Slight dimensioning error, that is all.” He looked up and down the naked human form stooped before him. “How comfortable does sir feel unclothed?”

  Flint’s whole frame seemed to rumble like a minor earthquake at the very suggestion.

  “Suspected as much, sir,” said Greeves. He cast his eyes over Dugdale’s naked torso once more. “And sir does have a point.”

  Swearing under his breath, Flint pulled the top sheet off the bed and wrapped it around himself like a toga.

  Greeves was nodding. “Suits you, sir. Suits you. A very classical look.”

  Dugdale’s rumbling resumed, and he was about to explode when the sound of distant hammering drifted into the room. It seemed to be coming from the exposed metal pipe-work of the heating system. Klang-klang-klang ... klop-klop-klop ... klang-klang-klang.

  Both man and hologram became stock still as they listened.

  It sounded again. Klang-klang-klang ... klop-klop-klop ... klang-klang-klang.

  “Wha’ th’ell’s that?” demanded Dugdale.

  “Morse Code, sir. At a guess, originating in the lift compartment on the roof and traversing through the structure of the building to here. I suspect it is the stricken colonists trying to communicate with us. How very Poseidon Adventure.”

  “SOS?”

  “Not exactly, sir. The message actually spells OSO, which is the Spanish word for ‘bear’. Perhaps the youngest of the colonists, Master Tarquin Brush, is in urgent need of a teddy-bear to console him during this harrowing time?”

  “Or p’rhaps they’re a useless bunch of tossers who’ve got it arse-about-face.”

  “Always a possibility, sir.” HarVard’s cart set off towards the door. “Coming to the rescue?”

  Dugdale bit his lip as he considered. His recent near-death experience had brought home his need of a few Brownie points with Him Upstairs. “All right,” he said at last. “Gerr’us to kit room and roll them cameras. It’s show time!”

  The door opened and HarVard’s cart rolled out of the room. Dugdale followed, having to duck to get through the doorway. When he straightened again, his head thumped the ceiling, this time displacing a ceiling tile. He glanced left and right down the corridor, seeing nothing but undersized doors.

  “What the ’ell is this place?” he yelled after the receding hologram. “A friggin’ doll’s house?”

  2. Memories are Made of Bits

  Lieutenant Willie Warner’s blood boiled and he was moments away from snapping at the injustice of it all. For eight, long, dreadful months he had endured a routine of menial, unappreciated chores, Dugdale’s thuggish rule of law and the eccentricities of those annoying colonists and the even more annoying Zak Johnston.

  His reward? The indignity of being left behind on Mayflower III.

  And Dugdale?

  He stared with a sneer at the large screen in the Assembly Room. On it were the fake pictures of Dugdale’s historic speech from the surface of the planet below.

  “Him!” spat Willie, pointing with the cricket bat, although there was no one in the room to hear him speak and no one there to see what he was pointing at. “That bloated Yorkshire pudding. That uncouth, uneducated tub of lard will be famous for ever. How is that fair? Hero. Role model. In all the history books. On their covers, probably.”

  Willie sat fuming, shaking the bat at the screen. He was no longer wearing Zak’s woolly hat for underpants, but some overalls and a spare utility belt he’d found in a broom cupboard. In the corner of the room a large collection of assorted bags and suitcases restrained with bungee cords reminded him how insignificant his role had become. Among them were Emily Leach’s huge trunk and Dugdale’s battered case with its Club 18-30 stickers.

  The oversized face on the screen continued its speech with a smug smirk and a little wink.

  Willie’s nostrils flared. Enough was enough; the wink had been the final straw. He grasped the cricket bat’s hand-grip and was about to set to smashing the face on the screen when something stayed his rabid impulse.

  He looked again at the bloodstain on the bat and tried to control his wild breathing.

  “What if ...,” he wondered, peering more closely at the small red smudge. “What if this really is Penny Smith’s blood?” He sniffed it, but it just smelled of wood. “What if, eh? That would wipe that smug look off his face, if I were to prove it was Dugdale who did Penny in. Wouldn’t it? He wouldn’t be the global superstar then
, would he?”

  No sooner had these thoughts occurred than he recognized a problem. How to prove it? The bloodstain was insufficient on its own. He needed more evidence.

  Willie bit his nails. “What would Miss Marple do?” He tried to picture himself as the fictional sleuth, but only managed mental images of tea-drinking and knitting. He thumped a frustrated fist against his armrest.

  And then he had it!

  “HarOld!” he exclaimed. “Of course. He would know.”

  The ship’s computer knew everything that went on in the ship. If anyone had so much as blown their nose, HarOld would have recorded it. So Penny Smith’s death would surely be stored somewhere, in all its gruesome detail.

  Quick as a flash he unclipped his seatbelt and launched himself towards the Assembly Room door. As he flew he realized there was a problem. HarOld had been shut down several months ago. Willie couldn’t remember exactly when – before or after Penny’s death. It had been Dugdale who had pulled the plug, claiming he couldn’t stand the “annoying friggin’ bastard” anymore. But what if Dugdale had another motive for silencing the computer? Perhaps he had something to hide?

  *

  Seated in the control room he surveyed the banks of dead lights and blank monitors. He flipped open a control flap and pressed hard on the big red ON button. Monitors flicked to life. Lights flashed. And then text started scrolling rapidly on the screens, mainly error messages and warnings. In his excitement Willie barely noticed.

  A buzz of white noise flooded out of the speakers, like an act of electronic throat-clearing. “Starting HarOld,” they finally uttered.

  “Come on, you beauty,” exclaimed Willie, a huge grin on his face. His heart was thumping fiercely in his chest. “I’ve got you, Dugdale. I’ve got you by the nuts.” The image that had formed in his brain made him shudder.

  “On-board supercomputer flight module seventy-nine-alpha. Artificial Smart System, version 3.2.18, licensed to the National Astronomical Flight Agency ...”

  Willie tried to calm his excitement and be rational and cool-headed.