The Worst Man on Mars

by Mark Roman

  The other North winds gasped with utter disbelief that anyone could think Morloth was braver than them.

  “And Morloth is here to tell you of his outstanding gallantry.” Bernard blew himself to the side to let Morloth swish to centre stage.

  “Aye, ‘tis as Bernard tells,” bellowed Morloth with a tone reminiscent of Scottish bagpipes. “’Twas a cold, cold night. The S’Un was starting to set when suddenly a magic light-stalk sprouted from the Dome of Doooom and a one-eyed box fell down its blazing stem. And from that box, atop the Dome, sprang a hideous Bloodbag that did scream a terrible, terrible curse. I could not let such language go unpunished and so I fought the Bloodbag, with no thought for the appalling personal injuries I might suffer. Finally, I flung him from the roof.”

  A gusty cheer greeted Morloth’s tale. Bernard edged back toward the centre of the canyon but Morloth would not budge.

  “But wait, before ye toast my extraordinary bravery, there is more. As ye know, the Bloodbags are devious creatures. Hiding in the one-eyed box were a huddle more of them. For hours I circled them, biding my time, waiting for the right moment to deliver the full force of my icy blast. Then, as I fixed my cross-wires on the target, the very Bloodbag I had toppled, hooked the one-eyed box onto his air-chariot with a great talon and headed off to find a new lair. But they would not get the better of Morloth!”

  “What did you do? What did you do?” rasped the many small eddies that had come to dance at Morloth’s feet.

  “With all my energy I blew them out of the sky and towards Bungee Canyon. As they teetered on the edge I showed no mercy and with one final ferocious downdraught I sent them down into the dark canyon, ne’er to trouble us again.”

  An awed hush greeted the end of the story. And then a wild, gusty, bubbly cheer erupted from a thousand air streams. The applause lasted minutes.

  “Very good, very good indeed,” said Bernard, returning to centre stage. “And now we must press on with the War Council meeting and plan strategy for future skirmishes.”

  “What’s the bad news?” asked an annoying ankle-draught.

  “Pardon me?”

  “You mentioned you had good news and bad news. What’s the bad news?”

  “So I did. Well spotted. Regrettably the Panheads rescued the Bloodbags from the canyon and took them back to the Dome of Doom.”

  A groan of dejection swept through Windy Point Canyon.

  “Do not despair,” continued Bernard, as upbeat as he could manage. “We shall fight them in the deserts, we shall fight them in the canyons, we shall fight them in more deserts. We shall never surrender! Indeed, our Generals have been working on a new battle plan. Call Serenthia to address the High Council of Winds.”

  “Serenthia, Commander of the Wild Western Winds. You are summoned to Council to deliver the plans,” cried an air-usher.

  A spiral of loose wires and foil danced above the smashed body of repair-bot Zilli.

  “Commencing at zero-eight-zero-zero hours, an all-out offensive will be launched against the invaders. Spy-winds have reported that the Bloodbags wear globes to cover their hideous heads when outside the Dome of Doom. The swivelly white orbs they rely on for navigation are shielded by a mask of glass. The warrior winds of the west will whisk up clouds of dust and fling it over their glass masks, thus rendering the Bloodbags navigationally inoperative. At the same time, a pile of empty cardboard boxes being stored in a compound behind the Dome, will be blown, without mercy, into the invaders’ shins.”

  The Winds of M’Ars gusted at this shock and awe battle plan.

  “It’s the only way,” continued Serenthia. “We must take decisive action to rid M’Ars of this scourge.”

  As they cheered, the sound of bagpipes signalled the return of Morloth who blew Serenthia from the stage. “Yet there is one more thing ye must know of that terrible, terrible night when the outsiders fell to M’Ars,” piped the North wind. “Such terrible cries I heard. Words that no wind should ever hear. But, as the one-eyed box fell, one word was clear: ‘Bernard’. And then, ‘Where are you Bernard?’”

  The dark swirling air vortex of the War Council leader suddenly became thin and lacking in puff. “They mentioned my name?” asked Bernard, his normally commanding tone now sounding less commanding. “Are you sure they didn’t say Vernon, or Reynard?”

  “Aye. Certain I am. ‘WHERE ARE YOU BERNARD?’ That chilling question I will ne’er forget as long as I blow.”

  The other winds whistled. “They know your name, Bernard,” they called. “They know where you live.”

  Bernard gusted first one way, then another, as though looking for a means of escape. “Perhaps ... perhaps they want a parlay,” he stuttered at last, his airflow shedding small, nervy vortices as he spoke.

  “Aye, perhaps,” conceded Morloth, not sounding convinced. “Yet there is more I have to tell ye.”

  “There is? Is it really important?” asked Bernard, who was growing more and more anxious about the whole War idea.

  “Well maybe ‘tisn’t important ... and maybe ‘tis. I’ll let ye be the judge of that.”

  The winds and breezes nervously brushed against the brooding rock walls.

  A metal panel clattered against a rock, making the Wind people jump.

  “Sorry,” shouted a tiny twister, who had been looking for a place to hide.

  “As ye know, for many years we have battled all that the planet E’Arth has thrown our way,” said Morloth in his most dramatic voice. “First the advance party of invaders arrived and bunkered in their crater. Then came all sorts of war machines. Insect-like reconnaissance vehicles, watching and observing us. War tanks roaming our planet, poking our ground, digging up our sand and breaking up our prized stones. Testing, surveying and mapping our land – reconnoitring their future battlefields. During this time, we have fought back. Aye, our army has been brave and has fought with the strength of a thousand winds. We have seized the enemy’s weapons and machines of war, and stored our plunder here in this canyon. But look around you, oh winds. Do ye see the spoils of war anywhere?”

  The winds looked around but all they could see was the carcass of poor Zilli and, here and there, bundles of tumble-wire rolling across the sandy ground.

  “Where is it? Where’s it all gone?” they howled.

  “Well may ye ask. What I have witnessed I can still scarce believe. The metal fragments, won from so many battles, did rise up from their graves to form a single terrifying Panhead, the size of the mighty, and now extinct, numb-bum bird, ready to suck us from the very air we live.”

  Panic gripped the airstreams. They raced around the rocks in search of sanctuary from the beast. Eventually, with nowhere to hide, the winds eased and the dust settled.

  “This is War!” declared Thelezor, sweeping forward in a mighty rush. “Bernard, we must attack them before they unleash their monstrous mechanical beast against us.”

  But Bernard’s mind was in a state of turbulence. Quite apart from the enemy’s new weapon, he was mulling over the fact that they knew his name and where he lived.

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t be so hasty with our battle plans,” he stammered, more in a hiss than a battle cry. “Let’s hold off with the cardboard box barrage, shall we? Jaw, jaw, not war, war, eh? Let’s declare a truce and have a chat with them. See what they have to say. We can keep the boxes in reserve and, should things turn nasty later on, we can always unleash them!”

  Morloth and Thelezor swept back, aghast. However, all the little winds and breezes cheered at the possibility of a truce and, perhaps, a lasting peace. While Morloth stormed off, and Thelezor breezed out, Bernard summoned the commander of the West winds to his side.

  “Take a letter, Serenthia.” The ruler of M’Ars cleared his throat and began to dictate,

  “Dear Invaders,

  “Welcome to M’Ars. We do hope you’re settling in……”

  27. Breakfast at Sniffer Knees

  Match Day.

  Despite the previ
ous day’s fatality, the Big Game was to go ahead as planned; black armbands were to be worn by all, and a minute’s silence observed before kick-off.

  In the Service Room, Little Urn trembled with excitement. Not about the match; his AI circuits were far too primitive to appreciate the splendours of the Beautiful Game. Rather, it was his new assignment that was making him buzz with delight: to supply breakfast and a nice cup of tea to the humans in preparation for the game.

  But even more thrilling was the fact that his larder was no longer bare. The colonists had brought back fresh supplies from the Other Place, so Urn would no longer have to rely on innovation and resourcefulness to make up for shortfalls in ingredients.

  With a sense of relief, he tipped out his old meadow grass ‘tea’ leaves and the silica crystal ‘sugar’ into the recycling bin, and poured the euphorbia sap ‘milk’ down the sink. They had not been popular with the humans. Now he was stocked with several varieties of real tea, some real sugar and real powdered milk – all originally from the Botany Base Food Store, but which had somehow found their way to the Other Place. What was more, he also had German bread for making sandwiches and toast, and some real fruit jam, and margarine.

  Nevertheless, certain key items were still missing. Bacon, for example. Difficult to obtain on a planet lacking pigs. In place of bacon, Urn used a substance he had been experimenting with which he called ‘bacon-lite’ – a mixture of rubber, engine oil, red paint and crushed earthworms from the BioDome.

  He loaded a loaf of the sliced German bread into a toasting carousel located in his chest, wiped the brown and red ‘sauce’ dispenser nozzles, defrosted two packets of ‘bacon-lite’ and arranged a selection of improvised sticky ‘buns’, made from glazing putty, in the glass-fronted display case hanging from his waist.

  With the water boiling in his base unit, Little Urn powered up his short, fat, wiry legs and set off to do his rounds.

  *

  First stop was Emily Leach’s cabin. Not waiting for an invitation, he entered, but no sooner had he done so than he found himself staggering back, blasted in the face by a fog of perfume. Just in time he switched off his olfactory sensors to protect his sensitive smell circuits from suffering irreparable damage.

  Steadying himself he scanned the room. It resembled a nineteenth century Parisian brothel; floral designs, tassels, and red velvet in abundance. A four-poster bed, hastily customized by robotnik Maciek occupied most of the room. Its silk bed sheets were thrown back on one side while, half-lying, half-seated on the other side was a human figure, propped against a pile of pillows. Urn observed that the human displayed none of the usual signs of life, such as movement, noise, or a recognizable thermal signature. A smarter robot might have identified the figure as merely a spacesuit taken from the suiting room and stuffed with cushions, the faceplate of the helmet adorned with a smiley face inexpertly drawn with a thick black marker pen.

  The sound of frenzied splashing indicated that the cabin’s designated occupant was on the other side of the closed door to the en suite bathroom. Urn knocked and walked straight in.

  There was a panicky thrashing of water. “Oh, thank goodness it’s only you, Urn,” said Miss Leach, visibly flushed and breathless amidst a thick wodge of bath foam. “Just having my early morning bath. I take it you’ve met George Clooney next door. He’s my new literary companion. He’ll have a cup of Earl Grey, as will I.”

  “Milk?” enquired Urn using his primitive electronic voice-box.

  “Not in Earl Grey!”

  “Sugar?”

  “Two lumps pour moi and none for my companion.”

  “Nun?”

  “That’s right, none. He’s watching his weight.”

  Emily shifted in the bath tub releasing a stream of bubbles. Urn was grateful that his odour detection system wasn’t operating.

  “Oh, and perhaps I might have a dainty pastry as an accompaniment.”

  “What?” asked Urn, his speech recognition system being far too primitive to make sense of Emily’s request.

  “Oh, never mind. Just leave the tea on the bedside table on your way out. Thank you.”

  Urn nodded and turned to follow her instructions, leaving her rearranging the scented candles on the bath rim and turning up the volume of For Ever and Ever, her favourite Demis Roussos song.

  *

  Passing the science laboratory, he became aware of sounds inside. It appeared the scientists were already up and at work. Urn screeched to a halt, swiped his barcode and entered the lab.

  Brian Brush was peering into a microscope through the cracked lenses of his broken glasses. “Fascinating,” he was saying. “Fascinating. No doubt about it. It’s chicken.”

  “Confirms the DNA result,” put in Delphinia.

  “Chicken?”

  “Gallus gallus,” said Delphinia with a nod.

  “And the DNA from the hairs I collected?”

  “Definitely human.”

  “Hmm,” said Brian, stroking his chin in thought. “So much for my theory that the Germans are aliens in disguise.”

  “We need another theory,” said Delphinia before becoming aware of Urn’s entrance. “Ooh, I say. Tea, my dear.”

  Brian looked up. “Gung!” he exclaimed on seeing Urn.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions, my love,” said his wife, patting his hand. “He might have some real tea this time.”

  “You’re right, my sweet. I lost control and succumbed to irrational, unthinking prejudice based on a single data point. We must give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  As Urn approached, Delphinia leapt to her feet to guide him around a pile of pipework trailing across the floor. “This way,” she said, waving him along a clear path to her husband. “These pipes. Not very well built, not well built at all. They’re waste pipes, carrying all the waste matter from upstairs (and, believe me, there’s a lot of it) for recycling. Some is converted to biofuel and the rest to ... er ... a food paste known as Marsmite.”

  Urn safely bypassed the pipes and stopped by Brian’s lab-bench. On request, he dispensed some tea and a ‘bacon’ roll. Delphinia asked for a black coffee and a slice of toast. Urn stepped back to watch the scientists tuck in. Both exchanged glances before first sniffing and then tentatively sipping their drinks. Finding them palatable, their whole bodies seemed to relax. Delphinia took a bite of her toast.

  “Hmm, lovely,” she said, perking up and nodding to her husband in appreciation. “Very yummy. Try your bacon roll, dear.”

  Brian sank his teeth into the roll with an eagerness he was to regret half a second later. “Gung!” he yelled. And then, “Bleurgh!” He spat out a mouthful of the roll, gagging and spluttering.

  Horrified at such a strongly negative reaction to the ‘bacon-lite’, Urn staggered back several paces in dismay. He had neither the time nor the presence of mind to look where he was going and suddenly found himself caught in the tangle of pipework Delphinia had so studiously ensured he avoid. Drawing on instincts he didn’t know he possessed, the teabot began lashing out in a bid to escape the clutches of the giant squid-like creature that he feared had ambushed him.

  “Nooooo!” screamed Delphinia.

  “Gung!” cried Brian.

  The thickest of the waste pipes was torn from its ceiling bracket and hissed and danced like a snake, spraying its pressurized contents around the room. The two scientists’ pristine white lab coats were splattered with brown matter of an unknown provenance that was best left unknown.

  Finally free, Little Urn wheeled himself in front of the lab bench under which the two humans had taken cover.

  “Another cup of tea?” asked the robot peering under the table.

  But even Urn could see, from the expressions on their dirty faces, that his question was not well timed. Not waiting for a reply he engaged reverse gear and exited the laboratory with as little fuss as possible. After a brief stop to wipe the glass of his bun cabinet, he carried on with his assignment.

  *

/>   Zak’s cabin was in darkness. Urn drew back the curtain to a small window that looked out onto the rainforest biome. A large, covered mound on the bed stirred and groaned.

  “What d’yer want?” grumbled a croaking voice from deep under the duvet.

  Urn blinked his optics and displayed his wares as best he could, given there were no eyes trained in his direction to actually view what he had to offer.

  “Tea or Coffee?” asked the bot.

  Finally, a bleary eye peered out from under the cover. “Oh, it’s you, Urn. Got any Shroom tea, roboman?”

  Urn shrugged, bleeped a note to reflect his lack of comprehension and wiped his bun display.

  “You know, Shroom tea. Tea made from the magic fungus?”

  Still not having understood anything the strange human was saying, Urn turned to go.

  “Wait,” called Zak. “Just leave a cup of hot water, Mr Beverage Transporter. Zakkie’ll make his own.” The bleary eye disappeared.

  Urn extracted a clean cup and saucer from his crockery drawer and filled the cup with piping hot water. But there was a problem. Zak’s bedside table was covered in packets of pills and assorted paraphernalia. There was no room for the cup and saucer.

  He scanned for other available surfaces, but all tables and ledges were full. The only flattish area the teabot could see happened to be the summit of the human lump in the bed. So he balanced the cup and saucer of scalding water there. Congratulating himself on his ingenuity, Urn left.

  After ten or eleven revolutions of his casters along the corridor floor, his sound receptors picked up a scream of intense pain, closely followed by the shattering of crockery. He shrugged and continued.

  *

  Cutting across the rainforest biome, Little Urn heard a noise coming from the observation platform high above him. One of the colonists was up there, perhaps looking out at the Martian landscape.

  Urn changed course and made his way to the base of the vertical travellator. There was a click and a hum as it engaged and lifted him at a snail’s pace to the look-out deck. There, Harry Fortune was gazing out at the bleak red desert having entered the dark despair of his ‘artistic’ side, unaware of Urn’s arrival.