The Worst Man on Mars

by Mark Roman

  Also there, was a robotic arm clutching a paintbrush. The arm belonged to HarVard and the platform constituted his ‘artist’s garret’ where he indulged his passion for oil painting. His latest work-in-progress was mounted on an easel, some of its paint still glistening and wet.

  “What do you think?” HarVard was asking Harry. “Should I give the cowboy a moustache?”

  Harry examined the painting. “What cowboy?” he asked.

  “The cowboy. On the horse.”

  Harry tilted his head first one way, and then the other, but could make out neither horse nor rider.

  The robot arm scooped up a brush full of thick black paint from the palette and hovered over the canvas, awaiting Harry’s decision.

  “Er, you decide,” said Harry with a shrug.

  “I value your judgement.”

  Before Harry could tell HarVard not to bother, a thick black gob of paint had dripped onto the canvas. The supercomputing artist stabbed the brush onto the wet surface and prodded the black paint around as if he knew what he was doing.

  Taking this as a clue to the location of the cowboy, Harry looked again at the painting. He imagined it to be like one of those ‘magic eye images’ where the picture suddenly snaps into place – except this one didn’t.

  “As a fellow artist you’ll understand how restrictive Mars is for a supercomputer with my talent.”

  “Restrictive?”

  “Exactly. I knew you’d agree. I must find a wider, more appreciative audience for my work.”

  A Ding! made him turn around and become aware of Little Urn’s patient presence.

  “Tea?”

  The poet’s head dropped and he waved a dismissive hand at the robot. “All life is meaningless,” he mused. “We cannot paper over the tragedy of our existence with a hot beverage.”

  Urn turned to leave, but HarVard’s voice stayed him. “Ah, Urn. Just in time. What do you think of my latest work?”

  Urn scanned the supercomputer’s artwork. He detected a large brown splodge with four stick legs poking out from underneath it, above which was a bearded two-legged splodge, possibly wearing a hat.

  “It’s rubbish,” said Urn.

  “Huh?”

  Something clicked deep inside the teabot and data from his CPU streamed through his voice-box.

  “Possibly the worst I have ever seen in my life.”

  “Yes, alright, thank you for your insightful comment.”

  “The composition is unbalanced; the drawing skills of the artist are negligible ...”

  “Thank you, Mobile Catering Unit. You’ve made your point.”

  “... the colours jar and the scene lacks depth and emotional engagement with the viewer. In short, this painting is sh ...”

  “That’s quite enough, teabot. It’s clear you know nothing about art. Now return to your duties immediately.”

  “Was he about to tell you it was shit?” Harry asked.

  “I hardly think so, Mr Fortune. Why on earth would he say such a thing?”

  Meanwhile, Little Urn was descending the travellator with a strange sensation in his circuits. An excitement, a vision, even. Something had changed in the little bot. Something had become clearer. Deep inside his tin casing he felt he was wasted as a mere dispenser of light snacks and liquid refreshment. He now recognized that his true calling was to be an art critic.

  *

  But, ever the consummate professional, Little Urn continued with his round. Next up were the Faerydae quarters. Urn noted that two of the names had been crossed off his list, so this should be a quick one. As he approached the door, he could hear a loud voice inside. With a knock, he entered.

  Adorabella, dressed in black from head to foot, her hair the sort of mess that even a witch might have taken a comb to, was talking to what looked like a small cloth doll in her hand. In the other hand was a long needle.

  Urn halted with a Ding. “Tea? Coffee? Breakfast?”

  Adorabella looked up and stared a crazed stare at the little bot. “Tea? Coffee? Breakfast?” she repeated as though they were the names of things she had once heard about, but could no longer place. “Have you come to comfort me now that I’m all alone?” As she spoke she stared through Urn, as though addressing someone behind him. “They’ve both left me, you know. First my philandering husband who could never keep that thing of his in his trousers. Then my boy; my beautiful, brave, foolish boy. Oh, I am so alone.”

  Urn was pretty sure this hadn’t answered his question so he gave another Ding and repeated it.

  “Oh, my boy!” wailed Adorabella. “He will never return. All I have left is Brokk – and I don’t even have him. If I could just get him back, I won’t be so solitary here. I still love him, you know. Oh, how I love him! And I forgive him. I forgive him his seedy dalliance with his assistant back on Earth. I forgive him the sordid Penny Smith business on Mayflower III. And the disgusting stuff with Commander Lionheart. I blame them all. You see, my husband can’t help himself. He suffers from Obligatory Sexual Opportunism (OSO). I’ve been giving him homeopathic doses of knotweed oil ever since I met him, but they’re taking their time to kick in.”

  Urn dithered, wondering whether it was worth trying the question a third time.

  Adorabella looked down at the cloth doll in her hand and then threw it in the bin, tossing the needle onto her dresser. “How to get him back? How do I get him back? If only I had my potions ...” She dropped her wild-haired head into her hands.

  A routine inside Urn’s central processor timed out, triggering a ‘time-being-wasted’ flag and initiated the retreat response. He turned and left the room.

  *

  Last port of call was Commander Dugdale’s cabin. Urn had deliberately left this place till last and now felt a certain reluctance to enter the quarters at all. He had heard so much from the other robots about this human – none of it positive. But as it was his duty, so he scanned his barcode and entered.

  Flint was lying on the floor, the huge mound of his belly upwards, hands behind his head, straining every fibre of his being. With a huge grunt and a bulging of his eyes, he managed to raise his head and shoulders off the floor, but could only manage about six inches of a sit-up before collapsing back down again. He tried again, managing only four inches this time.

  On the bed lay Disa, her face a bizarre collage of smudged lipstick, rouge and mascara. She reached one of her pincers across to the bedside table and picked up an e-cigarette. From her cleavage she withdrew a holder and plugged the cigarette into it before inserting it to her sink plunger lips. She pushed a worn looking button on her breast-plate marked ‘suck’ and took a deep drag before exhaling long and loud. Then she offered the cigarette to her lover on the floor.

  “Not now, luv,” croaked Dugdale, struggling to his feet on spotting Urn. “Can’t yer see I’m trainin’ fer t’match?” As he stood, he whacked his head against the ceiling. He swore and sat on the bed, rubbing his scalp. “No wonder me knees are so stiff if I can’t even stand up straight in this piggin’ place.”

  He turned to look at Urn and surveyed the teabot’s wares.

  “What, no pies?”

  Urn shook his head. “No. But I have a bacon roll.”

  “Alright, give us one of them.”

  “Ketchup?”

  “Are you friggin’ joking me? It’s Brown sauce with a bacon roll, lad. Don’t they teach you owt at robot school?”

  Urn set to preparing it, a little anxious about the reception it might get. Placing the roll on a plate, he extended a trembling arm to the commander.

  Dugdale grabbed it off the plate and bit off about half the roll in one go. Urn watched him as he chewed, slipping into second gear and ready to engage turbo-drive for a hasty exit should the situation turn nasty.

  But the commander kept chewing, his chubby cheeks distended with the sheer volume that he had taken into his mouth. After a few swallows, Dugdale started nodding his head. He raised the roll to indicate it to Urn. “Bloody great
, that!” he said. “Nice bit of bacon.”

  And he thrust the rest of the roll into his gob.

  28. Texts and the Single Girl

  Willie scrolled through Penny’s messages. There were a lot of them; she’d been a popular girl. Most of the messages were from the male members on board, including little Tarquin! Willie opened a message at random. It was a love poem from Harry:

  It is no legend, it is no myth

  That I am in love with one Penny Smith

  She is so gorgeous; she is so fair

  Beautiful figure, lovely blonde hair.

  Voice like an angel, ...

  Willie stopped reading while still able to maintain control over his stomach contents. He flipped to one from Brokk – cryptic, like the man himself: “A jar at one.” And another: “A jar for two.” There were a few messages from Adorabella about Penny’s course of treatment for an unspecified ailment; it seemed that the various crackpot therapies Adorabella had been trying hadn’t been working. What a surprise, said Willie to himself. Brian Brush had sent a few messages inviting Penny to star-gazing sessions. Several messages were from Dugdale, but nothing of a personal nature; only general posts sent to all on board: his Rules of Conduct, times of Safety Drills, times he intended occupying the Assembly Room and lists of programmes he intended to watch.

  Nothing that offered a clue – and certainly nothing pointing at Dugdale.

  Willie slapped the blablet shut and returned it to the locker.

  “Damn,” he said.

  At the back of his mind, though, he felt he’d just missed a significant clue.

  29. Game of Throw-ins

  “On me ‘ed! On me ‘ed!” yelled Dugdale, as Brian Brush nutmegged Helmut, dribbled around Hansie and sprinted down the right wing of the BioDome’s hastily readied five-a-side pitch. He flashed a perfectly weighted cross that smacked off the Commander’s greasy fat head and, more by luck than design, spun beyond the outstretched fingers of Otto Bungelly and into the back of the net.

  “Goal!” screamed Dugdale, his eyes bulging with the exultation of the moment. He pulled his custom-made Leeds United jersey over his head, exposing a beer gut that was even more unsightly than most would have imagined, and rushed towards the corner flag where he performed a tango with the flagpole. Brian, Gavin and Zak joined him, but merely to pat him on the back before retreating. Celebratory hugs, with the team captain in his current state of excitement, were out of the question.

  “Well done, Mr. Flint!” shouted Miss Leach from the touchline, putting down her knitting. “What a jolly good scoring point.”

  Referee HarVard, dressed in black and standing with legs apart on his HologrAmbulator, blew the whistle and pointed to the centre spot. With only two minutes of extra time left, and the score at 2-1 to Botany Base, the Germans were keen to get the game restarted in the hope of a rapid equalizer.

  The outcome of this match was important to everyone. Not only would it determine the winner of Flint and Helmut’s wager but, perhaps more crucially, whether Germany or England would be the recipients of the first Mars World Cup.

  As Flint continued his celebration at the corner flag, the holographic supercomputing referee sped up to him on his cart, brandishing a yellow card. “I’m cautioning you for removing your jersey, time-wasting and lewd conduct.” HarVard took a pencil from his top pocket. “Name?”

  “Come on, ref. I’ve just scored t’winning goal in the Mars World Cup! I’m allowed to celebrate aren’t I?”

  “Name, please?” insisted HarVard.

  “You know what me chuffin’ name is,” said Dugdale defiantly.

  “Less of the attitude, sonny, or it’ll be a red card and you’ll be taking an early bath. Now, what’s your name?”

  Dugdale scowled at him and muttered “Dugdale” before jogging slowly back to his own half.

  HarVard carefully noted “Dumbdale” in his holographic notebook and sniggered at his own naughtiness, regretting that no one would ever know.

  The German team, or the Germartians, were in a huddle, discussing tactics. Otto Bungelly had used the delay, and his brilliant mind, to come up with a flawless new strategy which he was urgently communicating in whispers to his teammates: Helmut, Hansie, Andy and Ulrich (the colonist formerly known as Brokk).

  Dressed in his extra-baggy pre-war shorts, flapping inches above his ankles, Helmut took the kick-off, playing the ball to Otto. The rest of the German team immediately formed a tight circle around the large-headed German genius. Moving as a unit, they progressed towards the Botany Base goal.

  “What are them chuffers up to?” muttered Dugdale as he stood and watched the tight formation chugging through his stunned team’s ranks. “Oi, ref. They’re rogueing us. Blow yer whistle!”

  HarVard scanned his rulebook but found no contraventions in the German tactics. Indeed, he admired the arrow-like attack formation. And still the phalanx advanced, unimpeded, on goalkeeper Harry Fortune.

  “Get into ‘em, yer fuppin’ wusses,” Dugdale ordered his outfield teammates.

  Zak made an attempt to breach the German configuration, but his outstretched boot only met Helmut’s hard bony shin. Gavin and Brian jogged alongside the seemingly impenetrable attack unit, eyes searching for an opportunity to break through Otto’s wing-men and the other eye on HarVard, whose whistle was poised to blow at the slightest infringement.

  “I’ll stop these cheatin’ buggers meself,” Dugdale fumed as he tracked back, racing faster and faster, and setting a collision course with the group.

  Meanwhile, as Otto neared his target, his fantastic mind computed the ball trajectory required to score, unaware of the human express train approaching from behind. Before he could conclude his cunning plan, Flint had thrown his considerable body weight into a sliding tackle and the five Germartian players were felled like a rack of skittles. Alas, the force of the collision merely propelled the ball towards the goal.

  On a very long list of things that Harry Fortune was completely useless at, football came near the top. Nobody had bothered asking him whether he’d actually ever kicked a football before – which he hadn’t. Indeed, he probably never would. As the ball rolled towards him he readied himself to hoof it high up into BioDome space-frame trusses to claim glory for his team. What could be easier? With a level of nonchalance never before attained on a football pitch, he jogged out of the goal and swung his right boot at the approaching football. Unhappily, he experienced a bit of a ‘Joe Hart moment’: his standing foot skidded, his kicking foot missed and, as he commenced an unplanned but spectacular low gravity backward somersault, the ball continued its stately roll along the ground and over the goal line.

  HarVard’s whistle blew for a goal. Tweee. And then, a moment later for the end of the match.

  Tweeeeee. Tweeeeee. Tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

  The Germartians were jubilant while the English contingent sank to their knees in dejection.

  With the final score tied at 2-2, the first ever Mars World Cup would be decided by a penalty shoot-out.

  Harry Fortune lay on his back pretending to be dead. Sensing blame-waves wafting over him from team captain Dugdale he deemed this the best strategy. If he lifted his head, he feared Flint’s boot would appear out of nowhere and kick it clean off his shoulders.

  “Can’t fault the somersault,” said Zak Johnston as he bent over Fortune’s prostrate body. “A ten for your fall. A zero for missing the ball.” Still Harry acted the corpse, not moving a muscle. “Hey man, don’t worry about Duggers, he looks cool with it ... NOT! Just lost us the World Cup and the Mayflower, that’s all.”

  Harry opened an eye. “We’ve not lost yet. It’s penalties.”

  Zak gave him a pitying look. “England v Germany? Penalty shoot-out? You do the maths, goalie-guy.”

  Suddenly aware that Flint had struggled to his feet and was limping over, Zak quickly vacated the crime scene.

  But Flint appeared outwardly calm as he offered the poet a hand. There was even a
smile on his face. “Eyup, Barry lad, football’s a funny old game, int it,” he said. “Don’t beat yerself up over it. I’ll tell you a story ...”

  The two teams looked on in surprise as Dugdale, still limping, led his goalkeeper to the far side of the pitch, his arm draped over the other man’s shoulders in an apparent act of consolation. Then Dugdale made a small but sudden movement and Harry dropped to his knees groaning.

  Dugdale jogged back, hobbling slightly, to talk to referee HarVard. “Ref, I need to substitute me chuffin’ goalkeeper for t’penalty shoot-out. Would you believe it, t’daft beggar has gone and aggravated an old groin injury so he can’t play.”

  “I hope you didn’t inflict the injury on purpose,” said HarVard with a raised eyebrow. “You’re already on a yellow card, you know. Another and you’re off.”

  “Come on ref. Poor ol’ Barry’s knackered ‘is knackers. I gorra gerra sub on.”

  “Very well. You may bring on your substitute.”

  As he approached the colonists sitting alongside the pitch, Flint’s heart sank. Where am I goin’ to find a decent goalie in this gormless rabble? he asked himself. “Eyup, you lot. I need a volunteer to go in t’goal and unfortunately it’s gorra be one of you useless wastes of space.”

  Adorabella remained immobile in her lotus position, pretending to be deep in meditation. This was her attempt at getting husband Brokk back: by playing hard to get, cool and indifferent. So far, it wasn’t working, with Brokk having barely acknowledged her existence. Next to her, Delphinia was wrestling Tarquin’s arm down in case Dugdale noticed him.

  “Oooh I say, how exciting,” said Miss Leach. “I’d love to play kickball. Netball’s my game, but this looks fun too.”

  “You’re good at netball?” asked Flint, grasping at even the tiniest crumb of hope.

  “Not really, Mr. Flint. I used to be the match scorer. I was fairly good at that, except when I got the score wrong.”