by Paul Stewart
‘Friends,’ I say.
‘Friends,’ she says.
It’s quiet inside my quarters. Ralph is in rest-mode; Caliph is curled up asleep on the pillow. My clothes are at the end of the sleepcrib, washed, pressed and laid out ready for me to wear. The torn sleeve of my jacket has been invisibly mended.
I’m impressed, but it makes me feel uneasy to think of someone going through my things.
I pull off the sweatsuit and flex-slippers and climb into the sleepcrib. The covers are cool to the touch. The pro-form mattress is just soft enough.
I slip into a sleep that is deep and dreamless.
It’s Ralph who wakes me. He’s making this double bleep noise, which he emits at regular intervals. I sit up. Someone has been at his memory. Remote scanning. Downloading data. It’s triggered his alarm.
I use my scanner to deactivate the alarm and Ralph comes to life. He asks whether I’ve had a pleasant downtime. I tell him I’ve slept well, then I get dressed. I’m feeling pretty good, and my clothes smell clean – but the fact that Ralph’s been tampered with is nagging away at me.
I’m being observed. Monitored. And that’s not a good feeling.
Slipping my backcan onto my shoulders, I leave the Sleep Dome. This time Caliph and Ralph come with me, Caliph riding up on top of the backcan and Ralph plodding behind. We turn left out of the door and continue round the circular hallway of the Clan-Safe.
The first door I come to is on my right. I pause for a moment in front of it. It slides open. I step through the doorway into a small dark space beyond. To one side is a ramp that leads down to the floor below. To the other is a second door.
This one does not slide open automatically.
I peer through its visiglass panel – and find myself looking into the central dome. My heartbeat quickens. This must be the Healing Dome that Dale mentioned.
There are three hover-trolleys in a line. There are arc lights overhead and shelves filled with silver tools and implements. A row of rectangular pods lines the curved wall on the far side.
And there, dressed in green-and-white overalls, is Dale himself.
He’s stooped over the nearest hover-trolley. Lying on it, face down, is Denton. Dale is tending the wound in his back. I can see wires. And a circuit board. Dale removes the circuit board and replaces it with another, then closes the wound with synth-skin.
Just like Bronx, Dale is clearly a skilled tech-doc, using zoid components to replace injured human parts. At the Inpost, Bronx implanted all sorts. Prosthetic legs. Artificial heart valves. Bionic eye units. And Dek’s arm, of course. A clever piece of work – at least until the static power surges got to it.
But then, as I watch, Dale does something I’ve never seen before. He removes a square of bone from the back of Denton’s skull, sets it aside and delicately adjusts a circuit board in the brain cavity with a long silver probe.
I shiver. This isn’t right. An arm’s one thing. But a brain? With a circuit board. I mean, just how many artificial parts can you implant before a human stops being a human and becomes a zoid?
‘Meta-grip,’ I hear Dale say.
Someone appears from behind the shelves and I’m surprised, and somehow disappointed, to see that it’s Belle. She’s holding a segmented silver implement in her hands, which she gives to Dale. He turns and starts tweaking something inside Denton’s head.
Denton twitches, then rolls over and sits up. I see Dale’s lips moving as he speaks to him. Denton answers. Dale seems satisfied and he replaces the section of skull at the back of Denton’s head. Denton climbs to his feet, and the three of them approach the door.
I back away and head down the ramp to the floor below as quickly and quietly as I can. Ralph follows me. At the bottom of the steep slope we come to a large circular hall bathed in ambient light.
There is nobody about. I pause. Above, at the top of the ramp, I hear footsteps receding, a door sliding shut . . .
‘Where are we?’ I ask Ralph.
Ralph whirrs as he accesses the Clan-Safe schematics. ‘The utility area, sir,’ he tells me.
Caliph is hunched up on my shoulder. I can feel him trembling.
The underground hall is white and shiny. The curved walls are made of the same metal triangles as the upper parts of the geodesic dome. Silver pillars act as supports. As I step forward, the light panels in the ceiling above my head glow brighter. Several appliances are lit up. I recognize most of them from the Inpost. There’s a vapour washer, a heat-diffuser, a plate-press.
Presumably this is where my clothes were cleaned and mended.
I continue. Behind me, the light dims; above, it grows brighter.
The far wall consists of floor-to-ceiling storage lockers, white and shiny like everything else. Stopping in front of them, I press a hand to the smooth surface of one of the lockers. The door rises into the ceiling to reveal a cold store behind.
My body judders – and not just because of the freezing temperature.
Staring back at me with sightless eyes is a crowd of faces.
Twenty-four frozen heads have been encased in visiglass boxes and stacked one on top of the other in six rows of four. Each of them is different. Skin tones from pale pink to dark brown. Old and young. Male and female. One has a broad nose, one a hooked nose, one a small bony nose that’s turned up at the end. Different-shaped mouths. Long hair, short hair; black, blonde, grey. Eyes that are blue or green or brown.
Etched into the surface of each box in frosted letters are names. Kurt. Myros. Stent. Lowell . . .
Denton.
I stumble backwards. My heart’s thumping fit to burst; my legs are like jelly.
‘I see you’ve discovered my little secret, York.’ It’s Dale’s voice, calm and reassuring, coming from behind me as I stare into the dead eyes of the frozen heads. ‘I can explain . . .’
I turn. Dale is standing there, blue eyes glinting. He looks thoughtful. One hand is rubbing his salt-and-pepper beard. The other is holding a glowing pulser, which is pointed at me.
‘I know I said you should treat the place like home.’ He smiles pleasantly. ‘But I’d forgotten how inquisitive you scavengers can be.’
My head is spinning. My eyes are fixed on the barrel of the pulser.
‘But that’s humans for you, York. Inquisitive. Unpredictable. Argumentative. Disobedient . . .’
I look up.
‘Lazy. Stupid. Ungrateful . . .’
He looks over my shoulder at the bank of human heads in the cold store behind me.
‘Weak.’
The word hangs in the air.
Caliph is motionless on my shoulder. Ralph is whirring quietly beside me. I wonder whether the laser-shears at my belt might be of any use. My fingers must have flexed, because Dale’s gaze falls upon them.
‘Don’t be like that, York,’ he says. He jerks the pulser at the laser-shears. ‘Throw them down on the floor,’ he tells me. ‘Nice, smooth, steady movement . . . That’s the way.’
The laser-shears drop to the floor.
‘Kick them away,’ he says, and I do.
Dale smiles. ‘Like I said, York, I can explain. You see, just as the zoids are always improving themselves,’ he goes on, without missing a beat, ‘becoming more ruthless, more deadly’ – his smile broadens – ‘so we, here at the Clan-Safe, are also improving ourselves. It all began a while back when I stumbled across the Robot Hub,’ he says. ‘Found these domestic robots there. Bit like Ralph here, but far more advanced. Beautifully engineered. Flawlessly designed. And programmed to be obedient, subservient – to follow orders without endless argument or delay . . .’
Dale’s gaze wanders over to the cold store behind me again.
‘Unlike my colleagues here.’
I nod numbly, humouring him as I try desperately to figure out what to do.
‘You see, York, the clan was doomed. The zoids were closing in, destroying haven after haven in this sector, until there was only this one left. The Clan-Safe. Fin
ding the Robot Hub was the breakthrough. That’s when I knew I had to act—’
‘So you murdered them?’ I blurt out. I can’t help myself. ‘Your colleagues . . . Your friends . . .’
‘Not murdered,’ Dale says, his calm, reasonable voice no longer reassuring, but chilling me to the bone. ‘Modified, York.’
He crosses over to the cold store and looks at the heads.
‘Denton was the first. He was happy to participate. Already had cybernetic arms and a spine implant. When a zoid shot away his legs, he practically begged me to transplant him. Kurt and Lowell were next, and they worked so perfectly that I thought the others would be happy to sign up. But instead they started plotting behind my back. Myros was the ringleader. So I had to deal with them. It wasn’t hard . . .’
Again the calm tone, the reassuring smile. I shudder.
‘A supper. All sitting down to eat together and resolve our differences. Denton, Kurt and Lowell serving. Sedative in the protein slices. It was really very civilized.’
Dale runs a finger across the visiglass of the head labelled Myros. She is older than the others. Hair tinged with grey, lines at the brow and the corner of the eyes. A kindly face. Wise and caring . . .
Human.
‘They fell asleep,’ Dale continues. ‘Their old bodies were disposed of and their brains cryogenically preserved, awaiting transplantation into their beautiful robotic bodies. Only it’s the funniest thing – I’ve just never quite got round to it.’
He pauses, smiling broadly.
‘Without their human consciousness, the Clan-Safe itself seems to run so much more effectively. And the killer zoids have left us alone. There are no arguments. No dissent. Everybody does exactly as I tell them, and I’ve grown quite used to it.’ He frowned. ‘Recently though, I’ve found that forever being agreed with and obeyed can be a bit dull. So I tried a little experiment with my latest creation . . .’
He nods slowly, as though reliving what he has done.
‘I tinkered around with the artificial brain functions – introducing a little independent thought. But not too much . . . After all, I wouldn’t want Myros back, jabbering in my ear and causing problems. But I’ve missed human contact.’ He smiles. ‘It’s been such a pleasure having you as my guest, York.’
Dale levels the pulser at me, his blue eyes glinting. I can’t break his gaze.
‘Which is why I’ve decided that I can’t let you leave,’ he says, his voice calm and reasonable. ‘Ever.’
‘We’re going to the Healing Dome, you and me,’ says Dale, jerking his chin towards the ramp.
His eyes are ice cold and intense. I stare back at him, frozen to the spot.
‘Move,’ says Dale, and there’s an impatient edge to his voice now.
I turn and start walking towards the bottom of the ramp. Dale follows me. He keeps close and I sense the pulser trained on my back. I have no idea how I’m going to get out of this.
Maybe if I spin round. Shoulder down. Slam in hard. I’d wind him, send him sprawling. The pulser would go scudding off across the floor, and I could seize it, turn the tables on him . . .
My feet are dragging; my head is down. We’re just passing the gruesome storage lockers when, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of orange-brown . . .
I glance round.
It’s the skeeter. The female skeeter. It scurries towards Dale, leaps onto his jacket and scrambles up his sleeve, to perch on his shoulder.
Suddenly, on my own shoulder, Caliph lets out an ear-piercing shriek and takes a flying leap. His claws grab onto Dale’s collar and he lashes out with his paws at the female.
Dale recoils and I hit him hard in the chest with my elbow. He goes down and, spitting and snarling, the two skeeters tumble from his shoulder.
Caliph’s teeth are embedded in his opponent’s neck, and in one furious movement he rips the female skeeter’s head from her shoulders. It comes away in a tangle of severed wires and zoid-juice – which Caliph spits out in disgust.
I turn on my heels and make a dash for the ramp. Ralph follows me. I run headlong up the incline. As I reach the top, I glance back.
Caliph is bounding towards me. Behind him, Dale is still on the ground, his zoid pet convulsing beside him as he fumbles for his wrist-scanner . . .
All at once, a deafening alarm sounds. It cuts through the quiet of the Clan-Safe like a rusty blade. Through the visiglass panel in the door to the Healing Dome I see figures emerge from the pods that line the far wall. They climb to their feet. Pull pulsers and grenbolts from their utility belts. March towards the door.
I’ve seen enough.
I turn. Back away. The three of us – Ralph, Caliph and me – hurry through the doorway and into the circular hallway. And not a moment too soon.
A burst of laser fire hits the alumac door as it closes behind us.
We hurtle down the hall and burst into the Refectory Dome. Three figures are standing in the middle of the refectory, blocking the way.
I skid to a halt.
I recognize them. There’s Kurt and Stent. And standing between the two of them . . .
Belle.
Our eyes meet. Her expression is one of recognition mixed with shock, almost disbelief. And she looks scared. Once again, it’s my feelings I can see mirrored in her face.
‘Belle,’ I say, and try to smile.
Belle smiles tentatively.
I gesture to myself, then to her. ‘Friends,’ I say.
‘Friends,’ she repeats.
Kurt steps forward. ‘You will not resist,’ he says. ‘You will—’
Pirouetting gracefully on her left leg, Belle spins around, arches her back and kicks out with her right leg. Her foot strikes Kurt in the chest so hard that his feet leave the ground as he hurtles through the air. Stent turns on her – but not fast enough. Her fists a blur, Belle strikes twice, disarming Stent with the first blow and breaking her jaw with the second.
Stent crashes to the floor next to Kurt. Her face is lopsided.
Belle grabs me by the wrist. ‘Run,’ she urges. I don’t need to be told twice. We race towards the door, Caliph scampering at my heels and Ralph following close behind – then stop.
The door has not slid open. I aim my wrist-scanner at it. Locate the locking frequency. Press. Nothing happens. The Clan-Safe is in lockdown.
We’re trapped.
Belle lets go of my arm, leaps up into the air and drives both feet hard into the door, which buckles and gives and bursts open. We enter the Peace Dome, but there’s nothing peaceful about it now. The lights are on red. Just red. And the ambient music has been drowned out by the strident alarm.
‘Stop!’
Two more of Dale’s zoids are standing on the other side of the broken door. Raleigh and Taylor, according to the glowing names on their sleeves. I don’t recognize either of them – and Belle doesn’t bother with introductions.
Twisting acrobatically, she kicks out high with her left leg. The ball of her heel slams into Taylor’s face. There is a splintering crack, and Taylor’s head detaches itself from his body. It slams against the wall and drops to the ground. Raleigh steps forward, his face a blank as Belle throws a punch. The blow tears through his blue tunic and penetrates his chest.
‘Hot swarf!’ I breathe. I’m glad she’s on my side.
I watch the muscles in her forearm tense as she pulls her hand out of the zoid’s chest. In her fist is a mess of wires and circuitry, the whole lot dripping with zoid-juice.
Raleigh’s inert body falls to the ground. It knocks against Taylor’s head, which rolls to one side.
‘Stop!’ it’s saying. Over and over. ‘Stop! Stop! Stop!’
Other voices echo it now. I look up. There, on the other side of the Peace Dome, is the exit door of the Clan-Safe. Clustered around it are a dozen or more zoids.
They are armed with pulsers.
With Caliph on my shoulder, Belle and I back away. But Ralph steps forward.
His eyes
are flashing red as he waddles up to Dale’s army who have their pulsers trained on me and Belle.
‘You appear to have malfunctioned,’ he announces as he approaches. ‘I have no alternative but to activate my human-safety protocol . . . Three . . . Two . . . One . . .’
A colossal explosion rips through the air. Deafening, blinding. Smoke billows. Zoid-juice rains down from above.
Slowly the smoke begins to clear. The exit door of the Clan-Safe has been blown off, and there is barely a trace of Ralph left. A couple of twists of metal. A red eye-module. A silver interface unit . . .
Ralph – Robotic Assist-Level Personal Help – has done what all those ancient robots were programmed to do to ensure humans’ survival.
He has sacrificed himself.
I swallow. I know Ralph was only a robot. Man-made. Incapable of feeling.
And yet . . . And yet . . .
I cannot swallow away the lump in my throat.
I bend down and pick up the small silver interface unit, with its simple memory datachip embedded in it. I slip it into the pocket of my flakcoat.
‘You’re coming with us, buddy,’ I whisper.
Belle takes me by the hand. ‘Come, York,’ she says. Her skin feels smooth and cool and soft. ‘Dale instructed me to scan your PH 27L’s memory chip. You are looking for Sector 17. I can take you there.’
We leave the ruins of the dead-haven sector behind us and enter a bleak landscape of upright pillars connected by a network of criss-crossing cables. I guess they had a purpose once, long ago, back in the Launch Times, but now they are rusted and out of action.
My scanner shows no heat-sigs anywhere close.
Beneath our feet, the ground-panels are ridged. Presumably, this was to prevent those who once worked here from slipping. Now though, with the sector abandoned, the narrow V-shaped channels are filled with thick dust, which is crusted over and, in places, seeded with spikemoss and leech-creeper. It doesn’t look as though anyone has been this way for centuries.