by Ed Naha
Robo shrugged, picked up the hammer, and began slamming at his leg again. “They would not know me as I am now anyway.” He stopped suddenly and dropped his guard, staring at Lewis. “I feel them, but I can’t remember them. Reconciliation would cause needless trauma.”
Lewis tried to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. He waved it back. “Leave me alone.”
She backed away, confused and a little hurt. Robo stared at her. “Please,” he said. “Go.”
Lewis nodded. “I’ll be back after dark.”
Robo nodded and continued his work. Lewis got back in the car and drove away. There, she reasoned, was the loneliest man in the world.
Robo continued to work throughout the day. Each wham of the hammer, each buzz of a powertool, made him feel more hollow, more alone. He was the only one of his kind, a breed apart. He wasn’t a man. He couldn’t feel the ways of humanity, fit in with their day-to-day existences. He couldn’t grapple with the hopes, the cares, the dreams, the fears that made life interesting for countless millions of people. Yet he wasn’t a machine, either. He had no more in common with a supercomputer than he did with the ratchet in his hand. He grew angry as he worked. He was a new-age dinosaur. Designed to be alone. Designed to be solitary. Programmed to stand apart from the world around him.
Robo lit a blowtorch and worked on his ruptured leg. The armor plating began to fit back in place. Armor plating instead of skin. He was probably the most expensive freak in the history of civilization. He finished his leg and sat, alone. It occurred to him that this was to be his fate for . . . how long? Until his death? Would he die? Or would he keep chugging along?
The thought of immortality frightened him. Would he, a man-made machine, stand by and watch generations of humans come and go while he, alone, remained a constant? Would he watch his human companions wither and die while he, his electronic heart whirring placidly, remained stuck in time? He was faced with a very practical form of infinity. A form that would cause the minds of most mortals to buckle under the strain. He chuckled to himself. His laugh echoed eerily within his chest cavity. What was it Woody Allen said about immortality? “I don’t believe in an afterlife, although I am bringing a change of underwear”? Did he remember that? Yes. Very good. He was beginning to remember things more frequently now. That both excited and terrified him. Perhaps it would be better to remain ignorant. Perhaps he should have allowed himself to perish at the hands of ED 209. Let this abomination cease.
He sighed. He could never have done that.
He was trapped now. Trapped by his own will to survive. He knew that, from this day forward, his existence would be haunted by the ghosts of his previous life. He was both dead and alive at the same time: both the gothic mansion and the wraiths that inhabited it. Images. Fleeting glimpses of people, places, things and thoughts of a time long gone would forever flutter through his mind. They would chip at his brain and tear at his sanity. He would never be at peace with himself. He would, in a sense, be haunting himself . . . for how long? Years? Decades? Centuries?
He tore open the baby food containers and began chugging the pasty stuff within. He glanced at the jar. Spinach. Appropriate. “I’m strong to the finish ’cause I eats me spinach,” he sang to himself. He remembered that. He finished the carton in a matter of minutes. “I yam what I yam,” he smirked. But what was he exactly?
He walked over to the satchel. A full moon was out now, shining down through the ruptured ceiling. The moonlight illuminated a brand new Auto-9 Lewis had brought him. The gun gleamed with oil in the pale blue glow. Robo took the gun out of the satchel and held it in his refurbished left hand, testing the balance. He twirled the gun and slid it into his holster.
He stood stiffly in the abandoned auto factory. So be it. If he was doomed to be a high-tech freak, he couldn’t do anything about it. They had stripped him of his humanity. Robbed him of his life. Taken away his family. Destroyed whatever chance he had at normalcy in the name of pure profiteering. They had designed him for one purpose and one purpose only . . . to uphold the law. He would be damned if they’d strip him of that. He would be a twenty-four-hour-a-day, 100 percent cop from now on. He pitied whoever tried to stop him from fulfilling his destiny.
He placed his helmet securely back on his head and moved to a crumbling wall. He gazed out upon the flickering lights of New Detroit. The OmniCon Tower stood high above the rest of the skyline, a benign despot gazing down upon its kingdom. Robo concentrated. The Prime Directive Mode locked into place. DIRECTIVE ONE: SERVE THE PUBLIC TRUST. DIRECTIVE TWO: UPHOLD THE LAW. DIRECTIVE 3: PROTECT THE INNOCENT. DIRECTIVE FOUR: [CLASSIFIED] CMI PRODUCT ID #943054.
The fourth directive began to flash. Robo summoned every inch of willpower in his massive frame. The directives faded from view. He didn’t have time to worry about them now. He wouldn’t allow it.
He walked over to the empty baby food bottles and, grabbing one, tossed it high in the air. He pulled his gun and fired. Tink! The bullet zipped into a steel girder. The bottle smashed down onto the floor intact. Cursing to himself, Robo tossed up a second bottle and fired. Another miss.
“Damn.” He grabbed a full bottle of baby food and downed it as Lewis drove up in her TurboCruiser, screeching to a halt. In the distance, several burglar alarms were screaming.
“What’s that?” Robo asked.
“Big trouble,” she said. “The rank and file voted a strike tonight.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The cops are striking against OCP.”
“But what about the people?” Robo asked.
“They’re fending for themselves,” she said, listening to the alarms. “And from the sound of it, they’re not doing too well.”
Robo slammed his fist into a girder, denting it. He was needed out there and he was in no condition for combat.
“What’s wrong?”
“My targeting vectors. They’re out of alignment. I might as well be cross-eyed.”
“Huh?”
Robo tossed up a jar and fired. Miss. Lewis nodded. “I’ll help you if you let me.”
Robo relaxed. He placed a metal hand on Lewis’s shoulder. “Thanks, partner.”
Lewis grabbed three jars of baby food and placed them at three different levels on the crumbling walls before them. She ran behind Robo. “Okay, aim, soldier.”
Robo flipped into Targeting Mode. A series of green grids appeared in his RoboVision. The grids were slightly out of line. The barrel of his gun was pointed some twenty degrees to the left of the target. Lewis crouched behind him. She slowly angled the gun into the right position. “Hold the pose.”
She walked behind Robo and placed her head alongside his, getting a glimpse of the grids playing across his visor. “That’s dead-on, as far as I can tell.”
Robo concentrated. He locked into Recalibration Mode. The grids slid into place directly atop the jar of baby food. “Try it now,” Lewis said.
Robo squeezed off a shot. The jar exploded. He moved to the second jar and fired a round. The jar shattered. Third jar. Third shot. Third hit. Robo twirled his gun and slid it into his holster.
They glanced at each other and smiled. In the distances, alarm bells and sirens were wailing all over the city.
“Now what?” Lewis asked.
“We hit the streets.”
“But we’re on strike.”
Robo tossed three jars up in the air and whipped out his handgun, shattering all three jars before they began their downward arc. He jammed the gun safely away and turned to Lewis. “The Law doesn’t go on strike.”
She smiled and ran for the cruiser.
The two partners drove off, the full moon reflecting off their speeding TurboCruiser. Robo smiled to himself. He may not have been a real human being, but there were real people out there who needed his help. That made him feel . . . good. That made him feel.
In the last twenty-four hours he had encountered the specters of sorrow, loss, anger, humor, pity, and dedication. He gazed at
the mammoth steel hands folded on his lap. Maybe there was hope for him yet.
[ 24 ]
The streets of Old Detroit looked like a battle zone. Small bands of looters smashed store windows and yanked out merchandise, howling like primitive warriors. Emil leaned against a wall on an empty street, smoking a cigarette. He hadn’t liked spending a night in jail. Worse yet, he hadn’t enjoyed the feeling that he had been put there by a ghost. He had tried to explain exactly what had happened to Clarence. Clarence would have none of it. He thought Emil was having another drug flashback. Emil shrugged. That was possible.
OCP had said publicly that this robot cop was their creation. He wasn’t a human. He hardly even behaved like one. Yeah. Emil had probably just been seeing things. After all, he had almost been deep-fried at the gas station. He put out the cigarette and lit another, tapping a small foot nervously. Clarence and Leon were late. Emil puffed away, staring at the white van parked a few feet away. Damn it, if he could get here on time in that hunk of shit, why couldn’t Clarence?
A sudden flash of inspiration lurched through his brain. Swinging his leg up, he kicked the TV shop window behind him, shattering the glass and setting off the alarm. He reached in, yanked out a large ghetto blaster and turned it on. Funk music echoed down the empty street. Emil began to boogie, the glass crunching beneath his feet.
A horn brought him to attention. Clarence and Leon pulled up in Clarence’s battered 6000 SUX, a gas guzzler built like a tank. Clarence slid out of the car, two grenades hanging off his flak jacket. Leon held a shotgun. He wasn’t a happy man. Thanks to Robo’s interference at the coke joint, his jaw would be wired shut for quite a few weeks to come.
Emil was wearing a prison shirt. He displayed it proudly. “Thanks for pulling strings, Clarence. They even let me keep the shirt.”
“It suits your disposition,” Clarence said as Joe pulled up in an immaculate black SUX 6000. Joe climbed out of the car, a butterfly bandage across his shattered nose. Clarence gazed at Joe’s wheels. Joe’s car was in great shape. Clarence’s, the same make, the same year, looked like a rolling slum.
Leon saw Clarence’s expression and grinned under his wire. “Hey, Clarence. Joe’s got a car just like yours.”
“Not quite like mine,” Clarence said. He reached inside the trunk of his car and pulled out a bulky, lethal-looking rifle: a 20mm Cobra Assault Cannon with video targeting sights. Clarence aimed the gun at Joe’s new car. He squeezed off a titanic round. A 20mm hole ripped through the driver’s side door. Clarence smiled and fired a second time. He blew away the front end of Joe’s car. Joe’s recently stolen, spanking new vehicle lurched forward like a dead horse and hissed toward the ground.
Clarence flashed a smile at the devastated gang member, “Nice car, Joe.”
Joe was at a loss for words. “You’re crazy, man.”
“It’s part of my charm,” Clarence said, yanking three more Cobras out of his trunk. He handed one to each one of his men. “It’s party time in Old Detroit,” Clarence said sweetly.
Emil, delighted with the new weapon, spun and fired three rounds at an appliance store. The front of the store simply exploded. Toasters and televisions sailed onto the street in fragments. “Messy,” Emil said, suddenly grinning, “but I like it.”
Joe aimed at a fire hydrant and squeezed off a round. The hydrant shattered, sending a gusher of water some thirty feet into the air. “Damn!” He chuckled, firing round after round into the storefronts on the street. Emil cackled and joined in the fun. Explosion after explosion rocked the block. Smoke and debris were everywhere. “Sort of looks like Old Beirut, don’t it?” Joe grinned.
Clarence sighed and turned to Leon. They had the attention span of gnats. He pulled out the CompuMap card. The red dot was pulsating.
“The metal man is in the factory district,” Clarence said.
Leon nodded. “So? I don’t get it. Charity work ain’t your style. We have no truck with the hammer-head cop.”
“Delta City,” Clarence said. “That’s our reward. We’re in on the ground floor of the future, Leon. There’s going to be rackets there like in any other town only bigger, better, more profitable. And we’re going to run them.”
“All for offing the cop?”
“Uh-huh.” Clarence grinned. “We’re on our way up the corporate ladder, my man. The more Delta City prospers, the more briefcase-carrying stooges UniCorp sucks into the complex, the more money we make.”
“You’re a good businessman, Clarence.”
“I’m a great businessman, Leon. Aw, Jeez.”
“What?”
Clarence stared at the map. “The tin man is moving. Let’s roll.”
Joe and Emil were still blowing up the street when Clarence called: “Stop wasting ammo and let’s go.”
The two chuckling gunmen trotted up to the van. Emil slid behind the wheel, whooping. “And they’re off,” he crowed, “for an evening of happy hunting.”
The van chugged through the smoke and flames caused by the two assault cannons. “The military gets to use this kind of stuff all the time?” Joe marveled.
“Makes you wish you were more patriotic, don’t it?” Emil grinned.
The white van disappeared into the night, Clarence following at a discreet distance in his car, Leon at the wheel.
All through Old Detroit, the world seemed to be coming apart at the seams.
Lewis guided the TurboCruiser through the hell on earth. Cars were turned upside down in the streets, ablaze. Looters smashed store windows with pipes, grabbing as much merchandise as they could carry.
Robo watched a fat man throw a bus stop bench through the window of a liquor store. “Hey, everybody,” he bellowed. “Drinks are on the house.”
He wondered to himself how people could do this to each other. The stores they were looting, the property they were destroying belonged to their neighbors—people not much better off than the looters.
“Look out,” Robo exclaimed. Lewis slammed on the brakes as a group of looters darted before her. One carried a television. Another struggled with a writhing bundle of fur coats. A third man tried to balance an entire side of beef.
“Over there.” Robo pointed. Outside a store proclaiming LEE’S SPORTING GOODS, a group of street rabble was growing dangerously rowdy. Looters were running out of the store carrying skis, tennis rackets, baseball bats, and guns. The elderly Chinese owner of the store, Mr. Lee, ran after them, a pistol upraised. He was on the point of hysteria. “Stop! Stop! Come back tomorrow. Big sale!”
A large man in a plaid shirt carrying a deer rifle calmly shot the elderly man in the leg. “I’m busy tomorrow,” he rumbled. The gang around him began firing their guns wildly in the air, like kids armed with handfuls of firecrackers. Old Mr. Lee, on the ground, cringed as the bullets ricocheted around him.
Lewis brought the car to a stop. Robo, clenching his jaw, emerged from the car. Lewis looked at him, worried. “What are you going to do?”
“One thing about a mob you can be sure of,” Robo said. “It has no guts.”
Lewis thought about the remark, shrugged, and grabbing her riot gun, got out of the car as well.
Robo walked down the flame-spattered street, his Auto-9 drawn. Lewis crouched behind him, behind the TurboCruiser, covering him with her shotgun.
Robo stopped ten feet away from the store, raised his gun and fired three times in the air.
“All right, folks,” he said in a booming voice. “The party’s over. Drop your guns.”
The mob of looters turned as one and gazed at the lone cop. A dozen held guns. The rest carried TV sets, stereos, scuba equipment, and blenders. One tall kid bounced a basketball casually. The goon in the checkered suit stepped forward, pointing his rifle at Robo.
“Hey, cop,” he said, doing some quick calculating. “There are thirty of us and only two of you.”
The crowd yelled in agreement.
Robo shrugged and fired. The guy in the checkered shirt clutched his shoul
der and collapsed on the ground, whining like an infant. The deer rifle clattered to the pavement. Robo calmly fired four more times. The deer rifle spun in a circle as the slugs pinged off its barrel and butt.
The crowd gasped. Several people dropped their guns. A basketball bounced harmlessly down the street.
Robo stared at the mob. “Anybody else have anything to say?”
The mob stood, transfixed. The fat man who gutted the bar staggered down the street, holding a bottle.
“Hey,” he exclaimed. “You shot that guy!”
Robo adjusted his voice to Public Address Mode and proclaimed loudly. “Go back to your homes! Lock your doors and stay there! Do it now!”
He faced the drunk. “You got a problem, bozo?”
The drunk dropped the bottle. “Me? Uh-uh. Just pointing out a fact. That’s all. Really. I was just going anyhow.”
The crowd began to disperse. Robo watched them leave. At the far end of the street, a white van slowed to a stop. Lewis glanced over her shoulder. She wondered where she had seen it before. She continued to cover Robo. Something within her made her glance back at the van. The back of the truck slid open and Joe emerged, holding one of the massive Cobra ACs.
Lewis remembered the face. It was the goon from the factory. The pisser! “Murphy! Heads up!” she screamed as Joe opened fire.
Robo addressed the scattering crowd. “Everybody! Hit the dirt!”
A volley of explosive rounds screamed through the air and tore up the street. Looters went flying, bleeding, through the remnants of the storefronts. People fled, screaming, running, heading for home, through the smoke and flame. One missile sent a manhole cover flipping into the air like a coin. The guy in the checkered shirt tried to get to his feet. The manhole cover struck him in the forehead. He fell to the street one last time.
Robo ran for the TurboCruiser, firing his Auto-9 at the van. Joe cackled as he fired several more deadly rounds. A shell narrowly missed Robo’s head and smashed into a light pole. The pole shattered, bursting into a maelstrom of shrapnel. The concussion sent Robo sinking to his knees.