RoboCop 1

by Ed Naha

  Robo crouched, taking it. A sudden thought occurred to him. Joe was firing from in front of Robo . . . but where was Leon? Robo spun around in time to see Leon fire a twist round from the control booth far behind and above Robo. Robo had .03 second to hit the ground before the bullet smacked into its intended target: Robo’s skull.

  The twist bullets smacked into the steel pylon some three inches from Robo’s head. A slice of the girder blew out, causing the entire beam to buckle. Robo was unable to roll for cover as the girder and large chunks of the steel roof collapsed down on him in one gigantic pile.

  On the catwalk, Joe glanced across the overhead mazeway at Leon. “You got him! You sonofagun! You got him.”

  “Maybe,” Leon said, looking through the video rangefire on his Cobra. “If I did, I’m going to finish him off now.”

  Leon peered through the sights. He slowly scanned the rubble far below. Twisted steel. Concrete slabs. Bits of roofing. A hand. Robo’s hand. Leon panned upward along the length of an arm. He locked onto the back of Robo’s head. This was going to be easy. This was going to be fun.

  “Hold your fire,” called Clarence from below.

  Leon did as he was told. Clarence appeared at the entrance to the building. “I promised someone I’d take care of the tin man personally.”

  “Shit,” Leon hissed. “This is going to take forever.”

  Clarence slowly and stiffly walked across the building. He walked past the battered SUX. Behind the car, Lewis’s hand quivered. She slowly flexed her fingers. She slid them across her face. She opened her eyes. The nerve endings throughout her body were on fire. Pain washed through her in great rippling waves. She could hear herself wheezing. Punctured lung, probably. She seemed to be hissing. Losing air. Losing blood. Losing life. Far above her, on the catwalk, she saw Leon lean out of the control booth. She glanced under the car. Five feet away from her was Clarence’s abandoned Cobra. She tried to slide toward it. No use. Everything in her body seemed shattered. She closed her eyes and cried. She was in pain but, more than that, she was angry. She had been suckered. She had made a tremendously dumb move and, now, she and her partner were going to pay for it . . . with their lives.

  Clarence continued his march toward the pile of debris. He pulled a grenade off his flak jacket and began bouncing it from hand to hand. He stopped some twenty feet away from the pile. He pulled the pin on the grenade.

  In the rubble, Robo slowly turned his head to see Clarence illuminated by the bright white ceiling lights. He spotted the explosive in the maniac’s hand.

  Clarence emitted a shrill, whiny laugh. “Sayonara, RoboCop.”

  Clarence tossed the grenade into the debris and backed away. The grenade bounced through the twisted steel and roofing and landed a foot from Robo’s face. Robo twisted beneath the mountain of steel, extending his hand toward the grenade.

  “Everyone say bye-bye.” Clarence laughed.

  Clarence’s laughter was short lived. Emitting a thundering roar, Robo rose up out of the steel scrap heap like a Bronze Age god come to life. He held the grenade aloft, triumphantly. He hurled it with expert calculation toward the catwalk above.

  Joe screamed as the grenade hit the catwalk not four inches from his left leg. He turned to run as the explosive detonated. Pounds of catwalk and ounces of Joe fell to the floor as the walkway began to crumble. What was left of Joe clung to the catwalk, clawing desperately for something to hold on to. Joe glanced down at the floor. His left foot was missing. He was spewing blood like a fountain.

  The catwalk splintered and collapsed, Joe falling with it.

  Joe landed with a thud on a spiked wall far below. The spike tore through his right leg, leaving him hanging like a rag doll, upside down from the wall. He was in too much shock to scream. But he was still alive, damn it. The robot hadn’t killed him. Joe wanted revenge so much he could taste it. He began to writhe, impaled on the spike.

  In the glass booth, Leon cursed and, raising his Cobra, drew a bead on Robo. “Come on, man,” Leon whispered. “Move just a little to the right. Just get away from that girder.”

  Below him, Lewis bit her lower lip, cursed herself for being weak, and rolled over to the abandoned Cobra. Sitting bolt upright she grabbed it and fired it blind. A sudden stab of pain in her spine caused her to collapse from the recoil. She passed out as, high above her, a twist bullet slammed through the floor of the booth and imbedded itself into Leon’s chest from below.

  Leon coughed, amazed, as blood began to flow down his leg. He dropped his Cobra, realizing that, in a few milliseconds, the bullet inside him would detonate.

  The control booth shot across the roof level in a thousand pieces of glass, plastic, and flesh.

  Across the plant, Joe heard the crunch of solid debris hitting the ground and the sickening thuds made by the falling body parts that had once been his partner in crime. Leon’s death stirred something in Joe. “Goddamn lady cop,” he hissed, still impaled on the spike. Grabbing the spike, he slowly pulled himself up onto the top of the wall. He lifted his mangled leg off the point and lowered himself to the floor. His Cobra was only a few feet in front of him. One good shot and he’d take out the lady cop for good. If he could hit the SUX’s gas tank, there’d be barbecued bitch for dinner.

  Joe made a move for the gun. He heard a growling sound behind him. He turned and spun as the remaining guard dog leaped down from a pile of slag. The shepherd eyed Joe, saliva dribbling from its open mouth. Joe gawked at the dog. He wished he had finished both the mutts off in the foundry. The dog was upon him in a second, teeth bared, claws slashing. Numbed by now from the pain in his leg, Joe calmly watched as the rows of teeth tore into his arm and his neck.

  The remnants of the control booth still fluttered to the ground.

  The growling of the dog subsided.

  Officer Lewis lay, silent, behind the SUX.

  Soon there were only two beings in the plant left on their feet. A cyborg cop and a deranged killer.

  They faced each other calmly, awaiting the showdown between man and a machine that was beginning to feel like a man.

  [ 25 ]

  Robo glared at the lone human figure before him. Painful pangs of memory flooded his mind. He saw Jan. Jimmy. He felt the gunblast shear off the back side of his skull. He heard the cruel laughter in the warehouse. He remembered the blackness, the darkness during his countless operations. He saw Anne Lewis’s pale white face cradled in his hands. He gripped his gun tightly, aware of the presence of steel where there once had been flesh. He didn’t seem to mind that now. He felt anger. Rage. This was the man who was responsible for his tremendous loss.

  The images faded away.

  Boddicker remained fixed in place as Robo slowly advanced toward him. Boddicker grinned, the smile of a madman whose back was against a wall. He removed the last grenade from his flak jacket. He slowly pulled out the pin.

  Robo continued to march forward.

  In a smooth, feline movement, Clarence hurled the grenade overhand at the advancing cyborg. Robo drew his gun and fired, hitting the grenade mid-arc. The force of the explosion knocked Clarence off his feet. He landed on his back, skidding across the rain-slicked floor of the plant.

  Boddicker scrambled backward across the floor. Robo walked toward him. Robo smiled at the cringing human, spinning his gun and sliding it effortlessly back into his holster. He wouldn’t need it now. Clarence backed up against a wall. He looked this way and that. There was no way out of this one. He relaxed. Well, no sweat. He smiled at Robo.

  “Okay, okay. I give up. Okay? Does that make you happy?”

  Robo continued to move toward the man.

  “I said I give up, man,” Clarence babbled. “Come on. Take me in. Read me my rights.”

  Robo bent down over the man.

  “Come on, do your riff. I have the right to remain silent. That shit.”

  Robo wrapped a steel hand around Boddicker’s neck and slowly, methodically, lifted him up against the wall.
<
br />   “Okay. You proved your point. You’re a supercop. All right? I realize that. Now, do your duty. Take me in.”

  Robo shook his head back and forth. “I’m not going to arrest you anymore, Mr. Boddicker.”

  Robo slowly cocked his left fist back. Clarence’s eyes widened. He saw the blow coming. Robo slammed his steel fist into Clarence’s face. The fist emerged on the other side of the wall, drops of dribbling crimson liquid reflecting in the moonlight off the clenched knuckles.

  Robo pulled his fist back through the wall. He let Boddicker’s headless body slide to the ground.

  Robo turned and walked over to Lewis. She looked very small lying there on the ground. A puddle of her own blood surrounded her. Robo slung a Cobra over his shoulder and gently lifted Lewis, cradling her in his arms. He gazed down upon her. For a brief instant, she was every woman he had ever cared about. He walked outside the plant. The sun was rising. There were no longer sirens blaring in the distance. The sky seemed remarkably blue for some reason.

  Lewis coughed. Robo stared tenderly into her eyes. “Good morning,” he whispered.

  Lewis smiled. “Hey, Murphy. I’m really a wreck. Reed’s going to be pissed off.”

  “I doubt that.” He smiled.

  A dog barked. Robo looked down. A giant German shepherd stood beside him, wagging its tail. “You might as well come along,” Robo told the dog. “Misfits belong together.”

  Robo carried Lewis toward the front gate. Two TurboCruisers, sirens screaming, pulled up outside the steelyard. Starkweather, Ramirez, and two other cops jumped out.

  “Jesus H. Christ, Robo,” Starkweather exclaimed.

  Robo gently handed Lewis to Starkweather. “Get her to a hospital.”

  He turned and walked toward the battered TurboCruiser sitting near the open bay doors of the pressing plant. The dog padded alongside him. Robo held the rider’s side of the car open for the dog. He climbed in behind the wheel and, gunning the engine, raced by the four startled cops.

  He headed out of Old Detroit.

  He still had some unfinished business to attend to in the better section of town.

  [ 26 ]

  In the OCP Tower, a very composed Dick Jones stood at the head of the board table, next to the Old Man, addressing the gathered board members. The police strike was in the headlines across the country. Those headlines translated into bad press for OmniCon. Jones was doing his best to finesse the situation.

  “As far as I’m concerned, they can strike forever,” Jones sneered. “I’ve got a 209 model downstairs guarding the building now. By the end of the week we can have more in place all over the city.”

  The Old Man seemed to consider this. “But what about the publicity, Dick? We don’t want to seem heartless.”

  Jones sighed. He’d have to be very long-winded about all this, very circuitous. What the hell, he had the time.

  Outside the building, Robo guided the battered TurboCruiser to the curb. He patted the shepherd on the head. “I won’t be long,” he said.

  He eased himself out of the car and stood next to the driver’s door. He came face to face with ED 209. The Olympian robot marched slowly toward the cruiser, his cannon arms upraised.

  “Your vehicle is illegally parked on private property. You have fifteen seconds to . . .”

  Robo reached into the front seat, slid the Cobra AC out and, with one hand, fired pointblank at the lumbering killing machine. Thwap. ED 209 looked down at his chest cavity as a neat 20mm hole appeared as if by magic. Suddenly, ED 209’s body began gyrating wildly, the twist bullet burying itself deep and deeper within his insides. The lumbering droid jitter-bugged through the tower’s statue garden, mashing several statues into smithereens before exploding.

  Robo ducked as the debris flew over the Cruiser. The dog inside watched the scene placidly. When the smoke cleared, all that was left of ED 209 were his elephantine feet, still standing in place.

  Robo marched up the front stairs leading into the tower.

  In the boardroom, Dick Jones was still practicing his finesse. “In the last few days of crisis, this corporation has lived up to the guiding principles of its founder.” He nodded toward the Old Man. The Old Man smiled and nodded in return.

  “Courage, strength, conviction,” Jones said in neo-biblical tones. “Well, if I have anything to say about it and, ha-ha-ha-ha, rumor has it I might, we will continue to meet each new challenge with the same aggressive attitude that has governed this corporation over the years. We will adhere to the credo of . . . SHIT.”

  The double doors to the room splintered inward. RoboCop marched into the room. The executives gasped, terrified at the sight of this rogue product. One man grabbed for a phone.

  “Please,” Robo cautioned. “Don’t.”

  The man pulled back his hand.

  Only the Old Man seemed to maintain his composure. “How may we help you, Officer?” he asked.

  Robo considered this. The four prime directives flashed through his mind. DIRECTIVE ONE: SERVE THE PUBLIC TRUST. DIRECTIVE TWO: UPHOLD THE LAW. DIRECTIVE THREE: PROTECT THE INNOCENT. DIRECTIVE FOUR: [CLASSIFIED].

  The fourth directive began to flash. Robo concentrated and willed them away. He didn’t need the directives right now.

  He was a cop.

  A good cop.

  He bowed slightly before standing at attention before the Old Man. “Dick Jones is under suspicion of murder, conspiracy, and aiding and abetting a known felon.”

  The Old Man didn’t react. “Unfortunately,” Robo continued, “my program does not allow me to act against an officer of this company.”

  Jones spun toward the Old Man. “This is absurd. Preposterous! This man is a violent mechanical psychopath wanted by the police.”

  The Old Man ignored Jones and, standing, looked Robo directly in the eye. “These are serious charges. Do you have evidence?”

  “Yes, sir.” Robo walked to the center of the boardroom table. Making a fist, he extended the terminal strip from his knuckles and shoved it into a computer access port on the table. The overhead video monitors in the boardroom crackled to life. The figure of Dick Jones, glaring down at the camera’s eye, smiled stonily. “I had to kill Bob Morton because he made a mistake . . . you. Now it’s time to erase the mistake.”

  The executives in the room uttered a collective gasp. Jones stared at the faces around him. He gaped at the Old Man. The Old Man’s eyes were hard and flinty.

  At that point, two OmniCon security guards burst into the room, guns drawn. “Hold it, Robo,” one of them yelled.

  “No!” the Old Man yelled.

  It was too late. The two guards charged Robo. The cyborg tried to be gentle but firm. He tapped one of them in the stomach with his mighty fist, effectively knocking the wind out of him. He tossed the other one along the top of the boardroom table. Both men dropped their guns during their gymnastics.

  Jones saw his chance and took it. He dove for a gun, palmed it and came up firing. The board members dove under their table. Only the Old Man remained standing firm, looking at Jones with distaste.

  Jones fired again and again at Robo. The bullets pinged harmlessly off his chest. Robo sighed. “Aww, come on, Dick.”

  Jones stopped firing. He was not on a roll here. Thinking quickly, he grabbed the Old Man and pushed the executive before him as a shield. Jones placed the barrel of the gun next to the Old Man’s forehead.

  “Okay, tin man. I want a chopper . . . now. We will calmly go to the roof. I will board the chopper with my hostage. Anyone tries to stop me . . . the Old Man gets it.”

  The Old Man stood there, simmering. “Dick?”

  “What?”

  “You’re fired.”

  Robo stared at Jones. He summoned up the prime directives. Only the first three flashed through his mind. The Old Man chose that second to stomp his heel into Jones’s instep. The elderly executive elbowed his former executive hard in the gut. Jones gasped as the Old Man leaped away.

  Robo smiled
at Jones. Jones was fired. He was no longer an employee of the company. So much for the fourth directive.

  Jones aimed his gun at the retreating Old Man. Robo blinked, lapsed into Targeting Mode and, pulling his Auto-9, squeezed off four quick shots.

  The first two shots took Jones by surprise, knocking him spinning toward the large window stretching the length of the table. The third shot shattered the glass. The fourth shot hit Jones smack in the chest, sending him hurtling through the massive window.

  A howling wind sliced through the boardroom as Jones, howling almost as loud, glided 151 stories to the ground.

  Robo gave his Auto-9 a western spin and slid it back into his holster. He nodded toward the Old Man, turned, and walked for the exit.

  The Old Man rushed forward, placing a hand on Robo’s elbow. Robo turned. The Old Man was smiling. “You’re a credit to the force, young man. That was marvelous shooting. What’s your name?”

  Robo thought for a moment. “Murphy,” he said and walked out of the room.

  [ 27 ]

  On the outskirts of town, an elderly couple, Emma and Hank Saunders, sat in their small home, watching the latest news on television. Casey Wong was smiling into the camera, as usual, intoning, “Detroit got its police force back today. In a surprising turn of events, OmniCon agreed to every key demand made by the striking police union. In a night of widespread looting and lawlessness, there were moments of heroism. Justin Ballard-Watkins has more on this story at Henry Ford Memorial Hospital.”

  A young man in a loud suit jockeyed for position with a gaggle of other reporters in a hospital room. Behind them, Mayor Waldo Gibson was smiling and shaking hands with a bedridden Anne Lewis. Lewis smiled weakly as the reporter offered, “Officer Anne Lewis. Even while on strike she risked her life to uphold the law. Broken bones. Shot three times. What a gal. What a cop. She’s an inspiration to us all. Back to you, Casey.”

  The camera focused on both Casey Wong and perky Jess Perkins. They faced each other before final sign-off. “I don’t know about you, Jess.” Casey grinned. “But I’ll sleep a little better tonight.”