Version 43

by Philip Palmer

  And, to cap it all, my spaceship had been blown up, and the beaconband link with the SN Police Headquarters had been severed and there was no possibility of getting reinforcements.

  I was feeling my age – I was forty-five robot-lives old. And I was feeling Fear.

  And I was glad of it.

  For my Fear gave me a sense of purpose. I was confident that – unlike my two previous Versions – I would tame the wild planet of Belladonna. I would bring peace and happiness to its populace.

  And my Fear exhilarated me. My energy was high, my confidence was boundless, I felt invincible.

  And I resolved to devise a new approach that would allow me, and justice, to prevail.

  I clambered out of my robot chassis storage pod and paced the length of the lifeship. I saw the moon of Mandrake Root below me, pockmarked with craters. The black sky beyond was dominated by a huge red and yellow globe – the planet of Belladonna.

  I had been conscious for five minutes, and I was accessing my database to help me plan my new strategy.

  I had already confirmed that my Galactic Police Force spaceship and its computer had been destroyed by the forces of the Belladonnan Revolution; for the databird sent by Version 43 had flown out to rendezvous with it, and found only debris.

  However, Version 44 had previously taken the precaution of hiding the vessel’s small lifeship behind Mandrake Root, away from visual and radar scrutiny. The lifeship was a sleek winged vessel with a black hull that was dotted with “stars,” hence almost invisible to the naked eye, and large enough to contain a fabricator and quantum computer.

  And so the databird was able to transfer its information into the lifeship’s computer; and from thence into a robot brain.

  The death of one Cop automatically triggers the rebirth of the next; and thus, I was born.

  And within moments of my birth, I had reached a firm conclusion: both my previous Versions had been defective.

  For Version 43 had allowed himself to be duped by Jaynie Hooper, and had walked into an obvious ambush. And Version 44 had been guilty of a whole string of short-sighted and foolish decisions. Firstly, he had become obsessed with his theory about Sandro Barumi, and had missed the bigger picture. And then he had allowed compassion for the Bompasso PD officer Sergeant Jones and the various dying and jeopardised hospital patients to occlude his prime imperative; namely, the identification and elimination of the criminal perpetrators.

  He should, logic told me, have left the Sheriff and Aretha to die, and gone after Hari Gilles, and slain him. His failure to see the necessity for such decisive action had cost us the mission.

  Version 44 was at least correct in his belief that 43 had been incompetent. However, despite his many blunders, 43 did manage, I noted approvingly, to execute the gangster Dooley Grogan. Though, strictly speaking, it might have been better if he’d built a criminal case against him first.

  Both Versions, I concluded, had been stupid in the way they approached the problem from the outset. The history of this planet showed that any Galactic Cop would be a target for assassins; and so an undercover operation would have been a much smarter strategy.

  And so I spent three days designing a humaniform body to aid me in my return to the planet. When the body had been fully moulded, I took my brain out of my robot chassis and placed it in the chest of my new self.

  And now, as Version 45, I could pass for human.

  And then I flew out of my lifeship wearing an armoured spacesuit with a jetpack. And, after a slow journey through space, I eventually crashed into the atmosphere of Belladonna like a falling star.

  After landing, I buried my spacesuit and took stock. I was five hundred miles from Lawless City, in a remote wilderness area. There was a remote possibility I had been spotted by security radar, but after standing motionless for twelve hours I saw no evidence I was being pursued, and heard nothing untoward on the military radio channels I had accessed.

  And so I moved onwards, into a large forest, with soft-barked trees that howled and hissed as I passed, and many dangerous predators. When night fell, it was utterly dark, and full of strange sounds. It was cold. And I was cold. It was nearly two decades since I had last felt “cold,” whilst wearing a humaniform chassis.

  By morning I had walked the length of the forest and found myself facing a vast savannah, lit by the light of the dawn. Silver and black birds flocked in the sky as dawn pinked the yellow grass.

  I began the long walk to Lawless City.

  I walked through miles and miles of glorious wilderness, through more forests and through deserts, through ranchland rich in beef and sheep, past rivers raging in torrents, and past fields of wheat and vast estates fringed with flowers in which grew vastly long rows of vegetables.

  It took me five days to reach Lawless City. I passed a few farmers, and some travelling families, and they gave me news of what was happening on Belladonna.

  I made a point of walking more slowly than was my custom, so as not to attract suspicion. And my new body had pores, so I sweated, and follicles, so that my facial skin grew coarse and hairy. I was tall, by human standards, though I was four inches shorter than my usual height. And my new body was heavily muscled and extremely, by human standards, good-looking. As a flourish, I had covered my body with tattoos which ran down my shoulders and along my back and down my muscled thighs. Mythological rocs and dragons vied for supremacy on my naked skin.

  I had also changed the timbre of my voice: it was huskier, growlier, and my tone was default scornful. I was equipped with ID declaring me to be a former mercenary soldier with a history of bank robbery, who had narrowly avoided brain-frying after a shootout with police officers which left twelve dead.

  I entered Lawless City in the dead of night and went to a bar.

  I felt right at home.

  “What are you having?”

  “I’m buying.”

  “Let me—”

  “Let the man buy his own fucking drink.”

  “Are you new?”

  “Are you fucking nosy?”

  “Four whiskies.”

  “Ah, you’re buying a round.”

  “No.”

  “Ah.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy a round. Make that twelve whiskies.”

  “So, you’re new, aren’t you?”

  “I am. Came through the fifty-fifty a week ago.”

  “I can tell. The shaky hands. A scary moment, eh?”

  “I’ve had worse.”

  “When?”

  “Never.”

  “I lost my brother. His body came through but his heart and lungs and brains stayed behind. His liver too. He was alive, but not human.”

  “That’s tough.”

  “We burned him. Honoured his memory.”

  “I was luckier.”

  “You looking for work?”

  “I might be.”

  “Bodyguard work?”

  “Anything.”

  “We’re looking for killers.”

  “Come right out with it, why don’t you?”

  “You’re augmented, aren’t you?”

  “How can you tell?”

  “The way you stand. The reflexes. I can tell.”

  “I’m not looking to kill. I just want to – find a niche.”

  “Niche?”

  “Something I can do, that doesn’t involve killing.”

  “You came to the wrong planet, brother.”

  I spent most of the next day exploring post-Revolutionary Belladonna.

  The mood was electric. There were banners in the street, bearing photographs of the Mayor of Belladonna, Abraham Naurion, now known as the President-to-be-Elected. The actual elections were scheduled for the following month, but no other candidates dared stand against him.

  I witnessed a street carnival in which Belladonnans openly mocked the Earth/Solar Neighbourhood regime. There were parodies of the more noteworthy members of the Governing Body that controlled all the humanoid planets and their varied
inhabitants – the Humans, Lopers, Dolphs, Cat People, Noirs, and Eagles.

  Rock bands played impromptu gigs. Television stations broadcast coverage of the street parties that were breaking out all over Bompasso.

  Ranchers were interviewed. These were the conservative ruling financial élite of Belladonna, and they were considerably less than articulate. But even they spoke fulsomely in praise of the new order. And, rather than railing at the end of trading links with the Solar Neighbourhood, the ranchers all rejoiced at having achieved freedom from the gutless cowards who had dared for so long to judge them.

  The TV stations endlessly played coverage of the moment when anti-matter missiles exploded on the hull of the Quantum Beacon which had orbited all these years around their planet. When the Beacon exploded, all links with Earth and the Solar Neighbourhood were severed, including the all-precious quantum teleportation network.

  This meant no more settlers, no more Solar Neighbourhood news broadcasts and, hence, no more interference with the way they lived their lives. The white flash that spelled the end of the Quantum Beacon was an icon of hope for this entire planet.

  I was intrigued, and annoyed, and exasperated at the outpourings of jubilation I was witnessing. I compared what was happening on Belladonna with other accounts in my database of societies freed from tyranny, and marvelled at the parallels, but also the glaring dissimilarities.

  In the late twentieth century for instance – 1989 – the wall dividing one half of Europe from the other was brought down, and the citizens of Berlin united at this symbol of the end of communism. But that had been a genuine turning point in history – the moment when corrupt communism collapsed, and capitalism took its place!

  And, then, shortly after the collapse of market-capitalism, in the years after global warming, the nations of the Earth had united to form a new world order, with a democratically elected World President. And then too the streets were full of revellers and the mood of celebration had been, by all accounts, exhilarating.

  But that moment had been a triumph for liberalism! The victory for social solidarity, and the end of dishonest pressure groups controlling government.

  And on Kornbluth, of course, there had been a month-long carnival after the victory of the Last Battle. However, then there really had been something to celebrate. The end of tyranny, the birth of hope! For, after all, the Cheo’s regime had been evil beyond all measure.

  The Solar Neighbourhood Government, by contrast, was liberal, mild, fair-minded to a fault, and almost wilfully peace-loving. So why rebel against it? What was wrong with these people?

  There was something bizarre about it all.

  But there was also, I had to concede, something sweet about it too. People in the street would stop me and smile and talk about the good new days that were to come. The Mayor gave speeches of genuine eloquence and dignity. People on this planet seemed happier than they had ever been before. I saw a lot of laughter, I witnessed much goodwill and good-natured kidding. And, as I relentlessly eavesdropped conversations for clues about the political and social climate, I frequently heard the words “hope,” “joy,” “promise” and “new start” being used, by citizens from all walks of life.

  Nevertheless, I concluded, it could not be tolerated.

  I recalled data from Version 44’s account of the phantom hospital. Millions of Belladonnans had been abducted and pillaged for their organs by gang boss Hari Gilles over a period of decades. And as a direct consequence of 44’s actions Gilles was, I discovered, now under arrest for mass murder and was due to stand trial in a month. The arresting officer was Sheriff Gordon Heath. This was, I conceded, some kind of progress.

  But no one queried how Hari Gilles could have got away with such massive butchery over so long a period. The Mayor must have known about it all; he must have been complicit. And the other gang bosses must have known too. Such mass slaughter could simply not have been kept secret from these extremely powerful criminals.

  And so they were all guilty.

  I was fully aware, of course, that my original mission was to solve the Mass Murder (Utilising Banned Technology) of the five medics, including Alexander Heath, the son of Sheriff Heath. It now seemed to me highly likely (probability 74.3 per cent) that Hari Gilles was guilty of that murder. He had the motive – covering up the phantom hospital – and he had the means – his Gill’s Killers, with their extraordinary and genetically augmented fighting skills. But I felt no urge to find additional evidence to prove a case against him. After all, Gilles was already on trial for an estimated five million murders, and the evidence against him on those charges was compelling. To find him guilty of another five murders, I reasoned, would hardly register.

  And so I decided to rewrite my mission brief. My task was now to restore the rule of law, exterminate the rebels, and clean up Lawless City by killing all the gang leaders and the key corrupt politicians, including Abraham Naurion. Only Hari Gilles would be spared – provided he was found guilty and sentenced to death by the court. The others – his partners in slaughter – would have to die.

  This was, I realised, a golden opportunity for me. For in times of treason, as these indubitably were, I had far more latitude in the way I enforced the law. My programming constraints had been redefined by this new political context: I no longer had both hands tied behind my back.

  It was time to show these bastards what I could really do.

  “Have you worked in a bar before?”

  “Of course,” I lied.

  “Ah, you’re lying,” said Billy Grogan, grinning all over his face. Billy had teenage freckles still, even though he was twenty-nine. A mop of sandy hair sprouted on his head. In another fifty years, I mused, rejuve would soften the edges of this unruly wild boy. But at the moment, Billy looked like he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards whilst drunk and singing, and I was confident he always looked like that.

  “We have a robot to make cocktails,” Billy explained, “but our boys and lasses tend not to like that kid of poncey shite. If anyone asks for a fancy drink, just say we only do pints with a spirit dash. Cobrabite, that’s beer and whiskey; Venom, that’s beer and vodka; Big Mistake, that’s beer and liquid nitrogen. I’m kidding ya.”

  “I know.”

  “You can’t drink liquid nitrogen.”

  “I’ve drunk worse.”

  “Aye, and so have I. This is my father’s bar, remember that. We live by his rules. We play rebel songs every Wednesday, blues every Thursday. We never play zigzag or nurock. Anyone wants to play that crap, let them find a whorehouse.”

  “I thought this was a whorehouse.”

  “Wash your tongue out. This is a respectable place. Except, I do concede, some of the girls and boys do rent rooms from us. But what they do in the privacy of their own rented room is their affair, and no business of mine, not at all it isn’t, unless of course it’s me the girls are with.”

  “Is this the price list?”

  “Memorise it. Can you do mental arithmetic?”

  “Can I what?”

  “Mental arithmetic.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Good.”

  I checked my database, and found nothing available on this subject.

  “What exactly is that?” I asked, uneasily.

  Billy sighed. “It goes like this: three pints at four dollars twenty each plus a dash of whiskey in two of ’em at one dollar ten and a dash of vodka in two of ’em at one dollar five plus a tray of mash with bacon at four dollars seventy-five; how much does that come to?”

  I subvoced the figures, then waited a few moments, then said: “Twenty-one sixty-five.”

  Billy sighed again. “Did you not factor in the ten per cent discount for locals?”

  “You didn’t say I was serving a local.”

  “All our customers are locals. We have another bar for strangers; that’s the basement bar. You’re serving in the locals bar.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to—”

>   “Are you fucking querying my business practice?”

  “Not at all.”

  “And you cheated, you subvoced and got the answer from the Belladonna computer. No! Bad boy. Mental arithmetic means you have to do it in your head. Mental? See? Get it? Our customers don’t like all that subvocalling shit; it reminds them of the old days.”

  “What old days?”

  “Before the fifty-fifty.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t see the problem. After all, we’ve all got MIs now, haven’t—”

  Billy’s face told a story.

  “You don’t have an MI?”

  “Do I look like I have an MI?”

  “Everyone has an MI,” I said weakly. Apart from me that is. I am my own computer database; I’d only pretended to remotely link to the Belladonna computer.

  “Not here they don’t. We hate the old days, see. Doppelganger Robots, police surveillance, computers in the brain. We like to think we’ve put all that behind us.”

  “I didn’t realise that.”

  “So I figured. You’re new here, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve been on Belladonna a week,” I said.

  “Then you’re still smeared in blood with an umbilical cord hanging off you. I was born here. My father was born here. My grandfather fought in the Last Battle and died there. All he left was a test-tube full of his sperm, and his yellow hair, which went with the sperm, if you see what I mean. We Grogans count ourselves amongst the founders of this entire planetary civilisation. Some of us, like my great-uncle Dan, are almost as old as some of the ancien fucking régime.”

  “Then why aren’t you—”

  “Do I look like I’d want to live in a fucking spire, like a fucking vampire?”

  “No.”