by R. McGeddon
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FOR THE DALEKS, THE INSPIRATION TO RAMPAGING ROBOTS EVERYWHERE
CHAPTER ONE
It was the day of the school science fair, and the eyes of the world had once more turned on the sleepy town of Sitting Duck.
Well, not the whole world, obviously. That would be silly. Everyone in the whole world hadn’t gathered together to watch a small school science fair. They wouldn’t all fit in the hall for a start, and the line for the bathrooms would have been a mile long.
In fact, if I’m honest, there were mostly just teachers and students wandering around making the place look untidy—but if you hold your school science fair in a school, what else can you expect?
Tables were lined up inside the hall, each one displaying a different project. A lot of them were modeling-clay volcanoes that fizzed white foam out of the top when you poured vinegar in. But, in an interesting twist, one was white foam that supposedly shot vinegar out of the top when you dropped a volcano in. Although no one had thought to bring a volcano with them, so it couldn’t be put to the test.
As well as all that stuff, there was one thing even more important in the school hall that day—friendship. And heroes.
Okay, that’s two things.
In fact, here come a couple of those friendly heroes now: Sam Saunders and Emmie Lane.
What can I say about Sam that hasn’t already been said? Well, he’s probably about your height, actually, or maybe a bit smaller. Or taller. Depends what height you are, really. He’s roughly around your height—let’s just say that.
Sam loves sports. Like, really loves them. Whether it’s baseball, football, soccer, basketball, or dodgeball, he can’t get enough of that stuff. When he’s not playing sports, he’s hanging out with his best friends, being liked by everyone he meets, and saving the frickin’ world!
Emmie, I’ll be honest, isn’t liked by everyone. But that’s fine, because she doesn’t really like everyone, either. It works out quite well, actually, as it means most people try to avoid talking to her in case she shouts at them or something.
Her hobbies include being angry, plotting elaborate escapes from her great-aunt Doris’s house, and leaving sarcastic comments on YouTube videos. Oh, and saving the frickin’ world!
Sam and Emmie were strutting like a pair of champions through the hall, clutching their own science projects and checking out the competition. As they approached one table, a creature with a dozen eyes popped up from behind it and let out a high-pitched squeal. Instinctively, Emmie lunged at it, ready to wrestle the thing to the ground, but Sam caught her just in time.
“Relax,” he said. “It’s just Phoebe.”
“Like, of course,” said Phoebe. “And what do you mean ‘just’ Phoebe?”
Phoebe Bowles was Emmie’s all-time worst enemy, and considering Emmie had recently battled a power-hungry mad scientist with a brainwashing machine, that was really saying something. Emmie was very much your average running-around, climbing-trees, punching-supervillains-in-the-face type of person, while Phoebe loved nothing more than … well, herself, really.
“What are you wearing?” Emmie asked, her eyes drawn to Phoebe’s hat. It was a fluffy blue beret, but sticking out from it at all angles were six metal arms. At the end of each arm dangled a little mirror, making it look like a hundred eyes were reflecting outward.
“It’s a rotating mirror hat,” sniffed Phoebe, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“What’s a rotating mirror hat?” asked Sam.
“Are you kidding me?” Phoebe snorted. “It’s, like, a hat with mirrors on it. So you can see yourself from every angle. It’s my science project.”
Sam spotted Emmie’s fists clenching.
“Right!” he said. “Good luck with that.”
“What have you made?” Phoebe asked. “Something lame, I bet.”
Sam produced a deodorant can and sprayed it into the air. Phoebe sniffed, then immediately stumbled back, clutching her nose and mouth.
“Eww! It smells like something died!” she said, grimacing.
“Exactly,” said Sam. “It’s antizombie deodorant. One spray and you can pass yourself off as one of the living dead!”
“Why would you want to do that?” asked Phoebe.
“In case zombies ever come back,” said Sam.
Phoebe frowned. “Zombies?”
“Yeah,” said Sam. “Like last time? Remember?”
Phoebe stared blankly at him.
“Hundreds of them. Arms dropping off and stuff,” Sam continued.
Phoebe shook her head.
“You turned into one,” said Emmie. “And ate an old woman.”
“Oh, that time,” said Phoebe. “Gotcha.” She turned to Emmie, peering down her nose. “What did you make?”
Emmie held up what looked like a TV remote. “It’s an alien detector.”
“Aliens?” said Phoebe. “There’s no such thing.”
Emmie and Sam exchanged a glance.
“Yeah, well, if they ever do turn up, an alarm in this thing will go off,” Emmie said.
Suddenly, the alien detector came to life, and a very loud alarm rang out. So loud, in fact, that half a dozen volcanoes erupted throughout the hall.
“Shut that thing up!” yelped Mr. Nerdgoober, a science teacher who definitely had a bit of an alien look about him. It was his eyebrows, mostly. And his pointy ears.
Emmie whacked the device on Phoebe’s table, silencing it instantly. Mr. Nerdgoober nodded curtly and then scurried past.
Sam and Emmie left Phoebe with her mirror hat and went to see Arty, the third member of their little band of hero-friends. Arty is all about science, so the science fair was right up his alley. If Arty had to choose between science and candy, he’d choose candy. But science would come a very close second—that’s how much he loves it.
Arty had kept his project a closely guarded secret, so Sam and Emmie were intrigued when they saw the bulky shape hidden under a sheet at his table.
“Ready for the big reveal?” Arty asked, bouncing from foot to foot with excitement.
“We’ve been ready for weeks!” said Sam.
Arty gathered up the sheet and pulled it away with a flourish. “Ta-da!”
Sam peered closely at the hunk of metal and wires, trying to make sense of it. “Wow!” he said. “It’s … it’s…”
“Bits of metal junk bolted together?” asked Emmie.
“It’s not junk!” Arty protested. “It’s CHARLES.”
At the mention of its name, the pile of definitely-not-junk whirred to life. Wires twitched and metal unfolded, until Sam and Emmie were staring into a pair of LED eyes and a series of lights that looked like a smile.
“I am CHARLES,” said the robot in a voice so cheerful it made Emmie’s hair stand on end. “It stands for Chore Helper and Really Lovely Electronic Pal!”
Emmie went over the letters in her head. �
�Surely that would mean you were called CHARLEP?”
“I couldn’t exactly call him CHARLEP, could I?” Arty said. “What sort of name’s CHARLEP for a robot?”
“What does he do?” asked Sam, leaning in to get a closer look.
“Chores!” Arty said. “All that dull stuff like tidying your room, ironing your clothes, whipping up cream. You’d never have to do any of them again! And he’s gonna win me this science fair!”
Just then, Mr. Nerdgoober clambered up onstage and tapped the microphone to get everyone’s attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen. And children. And pets,” he began. “The judges have deliberated, and it’s time to announce the winner of this year’s fair.”
“This is it.” Arty beamed. “The greatest moment of my life…”
“With a fantastic entry sure to inspire generations of scientists to come, it’s Miss Phoebe Bowles and her miraculous rotating mirror hat!”
A squeal went up from behind them, and Phoebe made her way to the podium. A steady smatter of applause filled the hall.
“Still the greatest moment of your life?” Emmie asked.
“No,” Arty replied. “This is the worst!”
* * *
Charles Character Profile
1. LED lights on face can display a range of emotions, from happy to not-quite-so-happy.
2. Whisk attachment. For whisking.
3. Thermonuclear power core housed in an old soup can.
4. Trendy robot sneakers, for the robot that’s really going places.
5. Legs like metallic licorice laces.
6. Can’t remember, but it looks important.
7. Deeply flawed and easily damaged artificial intelligence chip.
* * *
CHAPTER TWO
After the science fair, Sam’s dad drove him and Arty home. Sam was sitting up front like a boss, while Arty slumped in the back like a deflated balloon, with CHARLES sitting beside him.
“Bad luck, Arty,” said Sam, looking back over his shoulder at his friend. “You totally should have won. Or at least taken second place to my zombie deodorant.”
“Is that what that smell is?” coughed Mr. Saunders, who’d been quietly wondering if Arty had some sort of toxic stomach problem. He pressed a button and the window slid open, filling the car with fresh air.
“No, it’s fine,” Arty sighed. “I mean, how can a state-of-the-art robotic helper possibly compete with a hat with mirrors stuck on it?”
Sam just laughed.
“A hat with mirrors on it?” Mr. Saunders asked, winking. “Let’s reflect on that for a moment.”
“Good one,” Sam groaned, stone-faced.
“I’m going to make CHARLES better,” Arty announced. “I’m going to upgrade him—then we’ll see how he compares to Phoebe’s mirror hat!”
“Great idea. Then we can reflect on which is best,” said Mr. Saunders, who felt that if a joke was worth making, it was worth making twice.
“Ha-ha. Amusing statement detected,” said CHARLES, the lights on his mouth flashing.
“See, the robot loves my jokes!” said Mr. Saunders, bringing the car to a stop outside Arty’s house.
“Yes, but he has the IQ of a calculator,” Sam pointed out.
“But not for long,” Arty said, opening the door. “Come on, CHARLES.”
Arty clambered out of the car. CHARLES extended his whisk attachment and batted it against the car door handle, trying to get it open.
“Does not compute,” CHARLES chimed. “Mayday! Mayday!”
With a sigh, Arty grabbed CHARLES’s robot arm and pulled him out onto the sidewalk.
“See you tomorrow!” Sam called as Arty trudged up his path with CHARLES hurrying along behind him.
Mr. Saunders pulled away from the curb. “Arty seemed in a very reflective mood,” he chuckled, because—as he often said—if a joke was worth telling twice, it was worth telling at least three hundred times.
“Yeah,” said Sam, who knew it best to ignore his dad’s jokes. “I think he got his hopes built up about winning the science fair.”
“Well, speaking of getting things built up, there’s something I want to show you,” said Mr. Saunders. “My masterpiece is almost complete!”
In case you haven’t been keeping up, Mr. Saunders recently became mayor of Sitting Duck, after the last one tried to brainwash all the residents. Since then, Mayor Saunders had overseen the rebuilding of the Town Hall, which had been blown to bits by aliens, and was working with a world-class security expert on a plan that would keep the town safe from zombies, aliens, and mad scientists.
There were lots of different factors to the Sitting Duck Defense Plan, but the main one involved building an enormous dome over the town, which would stop any nasties from getting in. Sam had been against the plan from the start. He tried to point out that when the aliens had attacked Sitting Duck they’d trapped everyone under a fizzing purple energy dome, and it had been pretty unpleasant all around, but Mr. Saunders insisted this dome would be different. It wouldn’t be purple for one thing, or from outer space, for another.
“Want to see the control room?” Mr. Saunders asked.
“Erm, I guess,” Sam said.
“Great!” his dad cheered, pulling his car into the specially marked MAYOR ONLY parking space outside the Town Hall. “Let’s go check it out!”
Once inside the Town Hall, they made their way up to the control room, which looked like the inside of a spaceship. (And Sam should know; he’d been inside one pretty recently.) There were no aliens hanging out, obviously, but there were walls of computer monitors and banks of high-tech control systems, all conspiring to give the room a futuristic vibe.
Seven or eight women and men in matching white shirts all sat at control panels, their eyes darting across the screens. Mr. Saunders swept his arm around the room, like a game-show host showing off the star prize.
“LOOK!” he cried, making everyone in the room jump. “What do you think?”
Sam puffed out his cheeks. “I dunno. There are a lot of TVs?”
“Those aren’t just TVs,” Mr. Saunders said. “They’re connected to cameras all over Sitting Duck. From here, we can spot trouble anywhere in town.”
“So you’re spying on people?” said Sam.
“For their own safety, of course,” said Mr. Saunders.
Sam pointed to one of the screens. There was something that looked like a laser blaster mounted on top of a streetlight. “What’s that?” he asked.
“It’s a laser blaster mounted on top of a streetlight,” said Mr. Saunders. “You know, in case zombies appear again!”
On another screen, a robotic drone skimmed the rooftops, scanning the streets below. Above the town, the last few pieces of the dome were being slotted into place. It was like a giant jigsaw puzzle, but you know, a giant jigsaw puzzle that towered over you and your family and your whole entire town, and wasn’t just a pretty picture of a cat or the queen of England. I enjoy a jigsaw puzzle on a cold winter’s night, but really, this one was ridiculous.
“The top is camouflaged,” said Mr. Saunders proudly. “To any aliens flying by, it’ll look like there’s nothing here.”
“Wow. You’ve really thought of everything,” said Sam.
“You mean we’ve really thought of everything!” barked a voice from the other end of the room.
Sam turned to find a gruff-looking man with a gruffer-looking mustache standing just inside the doorway. He was flanked by two men dressed in black. Even under their uniforms, Sam could tell that they had muscles like iron balloons. Their square-jawed faces twisted into scowls as they both yelped at the same time: “Ten-hut! Commander on deck!”
Throughout the room, the people working at their consoles stood up and snapped to attention. Even Mr. Saunders stiffened and fired off an awkward salute, Sam noticed, as all three men marched toward him in perfect formation.
“Hello,” said Sam, stepping in front of
the men and flashing his most charming smile (which was pretty flippin’ charming, let me tell you). “Who are you, then?”
The man with the ’stache peered down at him, his eyes bulging like a tropical insect’s.
Mr. Saunders let out a nervous laugh. “Sam, this is Earl Brute, my new head of security. He’s the fellow who has helped me put all this in place.”
Earl Brute shifted his bug-eyed stare to Mr. Saunders, who shrank back.
“Well, I say he helped me; he basically did everything,” Mr. Saunders added quickly.
“You bet your butt I did!” Brute growled.
* * *
Earl Brute Character Profile
1. Mustache so firm you could eat your dinner off it. And he often does.
2. Years of physical training have given him the strength of 1.17 men.
3. Boots. Very well polished.
4. I mean, look at the shine on them. You could see your face in that.
5. Angry scowl that’s is a permanent fixture on his face.
* * *
“Hey, kid,” Brute said to Sam. “What’s got eight hundred tons of concrete at its base and walls made of rocket-proof glass, all topped off with four thousand diamond-core steel bars?”
“Your house?” Sam guessed.
Brute blinked. “Say what?”
“No? Hmm. Your mom’s house?” Sam said.
“No!”
“Is it a cake shop of some kind?”
“No, it’s the dome!” Brute spat, his mustache bristling so much it practically gave off static.
“Gotcha,” said Sam, who had known the right answer all along but had played dumb to annoy Earl Brute, because that’s the way he rolls. “Sounds a bit like a prison.”
“Oh, it is!” Brute said, tucking his hands behind his back and rocking on the heels of his leather boots. “It’s the world’s most escape-proof prison.”