by Mark Roman
Dugdale stared in bafflement. “What the chuffin’ ‘eck is goin’ on?”
Then a voice sounded from behind him, making him start and whack his head on the ceiling again. Turning around he was amazed to find a tall arrogant-looking man in an old-fashioned suit standing by the window. With a head of oily, slicked-back, black hair and a long waxed moustache the man was smoking a cigarette in a cigarette holder. “Well, hull-oh,” said HarVard in a voice oozing seduction, waggling his eyebrows at the small, heavily made-up bot in the doorway. “And what is your name, my dear?”
Disa seemed a little surprised to be so addressed, but she trilled and fluttered her optic-covers in response.
“I say, where have you been all my life?” asked the Lothario, a lounge-lizard smile shuffling across his lips. The reaction he got was a flirtatious giggling sound and a bashful turning of the head.
The man licked his lips in a slow and deliberate manner and stepped closer. “Would you like to go somewhere a little more ... private?”
The cleaning droid responded with a high-pitched, “Oooh.”
All the while Dugdale’s flabbergasted face ping-ponged between the smarmy leer of the seducer and the coy reactions of the seduced. Somewhere, deep within him, primitive caveman emotions were roused, baited by what he was witnessing, and he took offence at the wrongness of it. Alpha-male hormones surged through his system, muscles tensed and heartbeat increased. He looked down at Disa. “Is this creep botherin’ you?” he asked.
Disa jumped a little and blinked her startled optics at the large human. The sight of him, so much larger than her would-be seducer, seemed to send a shiver through her. She let out an appealing bleep and trembled before him, gazing up with large, liquid blue optics, her petite audio flaps wiggling.
Satisfied that the answer was yes, Dugdale swung to the hologram. “You ‘erd t’lady? Stop mitherin’ her and sling yer ‘ook.”
HarVard’s lounge lizard gave a dramatic tremble of mock terror and vanished, although just before he went, he threw a cunning wink at Tude and Dura in the doorway.
“Come in, Miss,” Flint was saying, as he extended a hand around the rear of her main dust-collection cylinder. “That slime ball won’t be back.”
Her hips rolling from side to side, Disa flounced in. Just as Tude and Dura began to follow, Flint slammed the door in their astonished faces.
Disa contorted her rubber plunger lips to form, what she imagined to be, a bashful smile at Dugdale, before casting her baby blue optics downwards.
Dugdale looked around, as though checking no one was watching. Then he went straight to HarVard’s hologram projector on the wall and flicked the Off switch.
8. No Place Like Home
It took many robots and much effort to retrieve the battered lift compartment from the bottom of the cliff and drag it across the sand to Botany Base. Tude and Dura led the sad procession to the base’s warehouse which had the only set of doors large enough to admit it. Behind them trooped a gaggle of bots, grieving at the loss of their human heroes. Gone was the chance to meet them face-to-face, to shake their hands, and take those all-important selfies. Their plans to elevate the humans onto pedestals and admire them all day long were now in tatters. The one exception was Ero, limping along with his squeaky knee-joint, beaming with a resolute cheerfulness that was anything but infectious.
In the warehouse, robots gathered around the lift with solemnly bowed heads. Tude signalled to Dom to deploy his tool for getting dead humans out of damaged lifts. The metal creaked and shrieked as Dom endeavoured to prise open the elevator doors. Finally, an abrupt hiss of air indicated that the seals had been breached and that the low pressure inside had been equalized. As the doors were forced wider and wider open, many of the assembled bots couldn’t bring themselves to look inside.
Over in a far corner of the warehouse, unaware of the dreadful significance of the noises they were hearing, the two warehouse-bots, Stan (Constancy) and Olli (Jollity), were engaged in a game of darts.
Then he noticed that not only had his domain been infiltrated by a large band of builder bots, but they had brought a big battered box with them. His electronic hackles rose.
The bots turned as one to see who could be shattering the shock and sorrow of this dreadful moment.
Olli skidded to a halt before them, shaking his head and waving his arms.
The bots goggled at him.
He was joined by Stan who still had the dart hanging limply from his chin.
Olli turned back to the others and raised himself on servo-stilts until he towered above them.
Tude was waving his appendages in a mixture of desperation and grief.
Olli looked aghast.
Stan was shaking his head.
Tude gave an electronic sigh.
Suddenly, a scream from Timi the little fluebot echoed through the warehouse.
The robots gasped and gathered round the lift’s doorway to peer into the gloom. And, inside, there was indeed movement. One of the humans was crawling from under the pile of bodies towards them. His movements were slow and clumsy as he dragged himself along on his belly. The robots shuffled back to give him room as he crawled out. Lifting a dreadlocked head, he croaked, “Woah, man, that was one mega-bad bundle. Must have been a bad batch of bathtub crank. Head’s on heavy-load, superfast, spin-cycle.”
So great was their joy they didn’t mind not having understood a word.
The cries, and shouts, and whoops of joy, wirelessly transmitted, were inaudible to Zak, so all he could hear was the curious rattle of countless robot arms waving in celebrati
on.
But two pairs of arms stayed stubbornly unwaved.
Dom leaned down and offered Zak a lifting-arm to help him to his feet. Zak rose and then staggered as he tried to walk.
Dura helped Tracey to her feet.
One by one, some gently, some not so gently, the colonists were pulled, or dragged or eased out of the lift. All were in various stages of oxygen starvation, but none were structurally damaged. Each was assigned a robot to help them find their legs and help them become accustomed to the force of gravity, something they had not experienced for eight months.
Tude flicked his high-viz jacket onto his shoulders.
There was a wild cheering from all robots, except Stan and Olli.
But as the robots turned to escort their charges, most of whom were too weak and breathless to speak or know what was happening to them, something else emerged from the lift. Shuffling along on uncertain legs, like those of a new-born colt, never having experienced gravity before, came a small metallic machine.
“Chuffin’ Nora,” it spoke. “That were a right how-to-do. ‘Appen these humans couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery.”
The robots turned back and stared at the contraption.
“Eyup,” continued Mr Snuggles. “Any chance of a charge-up? Me piggin’ batteries are as flat as pancakes.”
The robots turned away, not wanting anything to do with this unwelcome competition for the humans’ affections.
“Mummy,” Tarquin was saying, holding his stomach.
“Yes, my little fishcake?”
“You remember what you promised me?”
“Hmm?”
“You said that as soon as we land on Mars I can have my favourite meal.”
“Did I say that?”
“You did. So, I’d like some frankfurters and spaghetti hoops. Now, please.”
Delphinia gave a tight-lipped smile. “Right-ho, soldier. We’ll see if they have any in the kitchen, shall we? After all the speeches and stuff.”
The party of bedraggled colonists and their beaming robot assistants headed for the door.
The robots stopped, as only they had received his message. The humans vaguely wondered at the hold-up.
9. Ma’s Army
“Attennnnnnnn…. tion!” called the pompous-looking man in 1940s British battle dress and peaked officer’s cap at the front of the Meeting Room. He stared through his metal-rimmed spectacles with piggy eyes, twitching his greying moustache as though there were a fly crawling through it. His passing resemblance to Captain Mainwaring, fictional bank manager and Home Guard officer from Walmington on Sea, was entirely coincidental, for this was a completely different person, namely: Captain Manerring from Wangmilton on Sea.
Lined up before him was a motley row of robots wearing tattered facsimiles of WW2 uniforms. In response to his barked command, they variously shuffled and stamped and made to stand rigidly upright, but ended up fidgeting at the excitement of watching the humans being assisted by their robot guides into the rows of undersized seats before them.
The captain impatiently slapped a short stick, held in one brown leather-gloved hand, into the palm of his other brown leather-gloved hand, frowning with embarrassment at the shabby, ill-trained state of his troops.
Gavin tapped Oberon on the shoulder and indicated the portly gentleman at the front. Oberon gave a grin of recognition. “Oi, where is Pikey?” he called out.
“And Corporal Jones?” added Gavin. Both giggled.
Tracey blew out a voluminous bubble of gum. “What is you plonkers on about? He is looking nuffing like de Dad’s Army man.”
The military man harrumphed and then spluttered, “The name’s Captain Manerring.” As Gavin and Oberon cheered, he glared at them in disdain. “Stupid boys.”
At the end of the line of robots, standing on his only leg, was Godli (Godliness), the oldest and most doddery of the robots on the base. His other leg had snapped off due to a corroded hip-bolt and had been sucked into the underground drainage system where it was now permanently lodged. Of all the robots he had been looking forward to this day most of all. He had pressed his uniform, turbo-charged his batteries and polished his chrome work. But now, as the colonists filtered past him, the excitement was proving too much and he was finding it hard to maintain control of the valve on his lubrication tank. He raised a creaky limb to attract the captain’s attention.
“What is it, Private Godli?” asked Manerring in an irritated tone.
He looked mournfully down at the floor next to his single foot. The other robots leaned forward and focused their optics on a puddle of lubricant that was getting ever larger as a trickle of fluid ran down his solitary leg.
“Oh, very well,” said Manerring. “You, Corporal Len. You’d better get that sorted out – put some sawdust on it, or something. And you, Corporal Dom. Take Godli to Repairs. Chop-chop.”
Dom carefully scooped the old robot into his bucket hand and carried him towards the door. Godli peered over the edge of the bucket at the humans and chanted to himself, Humans are my Heroes.
Captain Manerring cleared his throat. “Come along, come along,” he huffed, glancing at his watch as Emily Leach, flushed and gasping for breath, was the last colonist to be robot-handled into her seat. “Right, then. Sit up straight! All of you. No slouching.”
Most of the colonists were barely aware of where they were, what they were doing there, or even who they were. They tried straightening their backs, but, apart from the youngsters and Mr Snuggles, no one had enough leg-room to seat themselves with any degree of comfort.
“Welcome to Mars. I expect you’ve had a tough journey and want to get to your quarters.” He raised his stick to indicate they were not to go yet. “We run a tight ship here. Follow the rules, and you’ll get through. OK? Remember: Jerry might attack at any moment. We must be vigilant.”
The colonists looked around at one another in bafflement.
“The Germans?” asked someone.
“You can’t be too careful.” Manerring gave a stiff smile. He tapped the side of his nose with the stick, knocking his glasses off in the process and having to fumble to get them back on. “Now, the robots are here to look after you. Builders by trade. Not much of a fighting force, so you’ll have to face Jerry on your own.”
Manerring looked around at the colonists as though assessing their fighting potential.
“Right, never mind Jerry for the time being. Wine and nibbles. The robots have prepared a little welcoming reception party for you.” He ind
icated a low door to his left.
The mood in the room lifted in an instant.
“Grub! Brill, I’m starving,” exclaimed Gavin.
“I iz well famished, too,” agreed Oberon.
Tracey was shaking her head. “Diet,” she said, stroking the outline of her not-so slender figure.
Manerring paused. “Um, now, about the robots. They’re all very excited to have you here and are a well-meaning bunch, but their AI systems are a little on the ... er ... primitive side. You may need to exercise patience with them.”
The crowd of robots bristled at this slight. Some wild tweeting broke out. Of the visitors, only Mr Snuggles was aware of the burst of quick-fire radio transmissions pinging around the room, but as Tarquin hadn’t programmed him for wireless communication he was unable to interpret it.
Emily Leach raised a feeble hand. “Will Mission Commander Dugdale be joining us?”
“Commander Dugdale is resting in his quarters and does not wish to be disturbed until tomorrow morning.” Manerring threw a wink at Tude and Dura at the back of the room.
*
The teenagers were the first to arrive at the reception area as they were able to make the short journey without robotic assistance. They found the room to have several short tables arranged against the walls, each covered by a white cloth and splendidly laid out with large dishes heaped high with an assortment of nuts and chips. One table held the wine bottles, plates and glasses.
Gavin approached the nearest table. “What the ...?” he said.
“Ha, ha,” said Oberon, joining him at his side. “They iz ‘avin’ a larff, innit.”
“What’s occurrin’?” asked Tracey.
“Nuts, see?” said Gavin, plunging a hand into a dish of assorted nuts, lifting out a handful and allowing them to drop back down. They made a dull clinking sound as they landed in amongst their fellow wing nuts, wheel nuts, hex nuts, shear nuts, lock nuts and flange nuts.
“These must be the chips,” said Oberon, picking up and offering round a dish containing assorted wood flakes, computer components and roulette tokens. “Cheez’n’onion, anyone?”