Return to Mech City

by Brian Bakos

  Winston continued to his own quarters at the end of the hall. He opened the elegant door just wide enough to admit himself and slipped inside. A great burden seemed to lift from his shoulders.

  Alone at last!

  His private suite was the sole area of the REX that the mech wolves did not invade. He heard Ripper and Fang plop down outside the door where they’d remain until morning, like jackals guarding a tomb entrance. He almost felt grateful to F.U. for allowing him this sanctuary.

  Grateful – to that Frankenstein contraption?

  Winston’s bottled up rage and frustration bubbled over. He flung his key ring down. Thick carpeting absorbed the shock, but he still looked apprehensively toward the door.

  Don’t give those creatures an excuse to come in.

  Here he was, the once esteemed BOSS, creeping around his own apartment like a “shitass,” to use Dr. Horvath’s colorful terminology. If only she were here now with her deadly little sub machine gun!

  Winston retreated to the study and settled into his chair. The luxurious recliner never failed to calm him. He pulled the brushed stainless steel handle to extend the footrest. The fragrance of quality leather filled his secure little micro-environment. He reviewed his litany of rationalizations.

  I’ve got to survive, don’t I? he thought. And if I don’t do this job, F.U. will pick someone worse.

  Despite its soothing qualities, the chair also had an alien feel. It was designed for human weight, and Winston’s bulk scarcely dented the thick cushions.

  What must it have been like to exist within a human body, to be the same dimensions but weigh over twice as much? To be a solid mass of muscle, bone and organs with blood circulating around. Instead of functioning on hyper efficient power cells, to be bound by the dreary necessities of nutrition and defecation; to wear out and die with no repair bots to recondition you.

  And yet the humans were able to express love with their primitive organisms. They could join themselves together in what, according to Star, was the ultimate experience of all creation.

  Star? He’d scarcely given her a thought for days ...

  Winston shifted position.

  Perhaps the Manifesto was right. The internal flaws and contradictions of humanity had brought about its own destruction, and only robots could carry on the sword of civilization. Logically, this required a winnowing process to ensure that only the most advanced Humanite designs wielded power while the metal men assumed the lower strata of society.

  Romantics like Ajax might not agree with this assessment, but what of it? Nobody had asked him to stand out in the rain “guarding” the city. Sure, you could feel sorry for Ajax, maybe even admire him – but those were the breaks, right? Only an idiot would believe that existence was supposed to be fair.

  Winston shifted position again. His body did not feel comfortable.

  Now wasn’t that a foolish anthropomorphic concept? His nerveless mechanism experienced neither comfort nor pain. His sensors merely detected pressure and temperature data which could, in turn, activate his survival programming. But survival was not the immediate issue, was it?

  Perhaps it was the constant psychological evasions of his present life that unsettled him so much.

  Oh man, how did I get myself into this?

  He’d played his subservient role so well that F.U. had awarded him the position of Head Jailer. Not only that, but as one of the few Humanites in the Roboto Fascist state, Winston could expect to move up in the hierarchy. Who knew what “honors” awaited him?

  But what’s so bad about that? This Fascist thing wasn’t my idea ... I’ve still got my mission, after all.

  He was no brute, like Clawfurt, and perhaps he could moderate the worst excesses of the regime. In any case, his days as the revered Boss were long gone. Every blank or hostile stare he received from his former workers told him that much.

  “The masses respect only power,” as the Manifesto put it.

  And wasn’t it better to have power than not – whatever the terms?

  He liked power, too, no sense denying that. Besides, what would have happened if he’d tried to resist? He’d have been crunched into scrap long ago.

  Winston commenced his inactivation sequence. The misery of the REX settled around him like a suffocating blanket. As so often happened, his most profound insights came to him during this period of fading consciousness.

  Highly literate beings can rationalize anything ... Ajax and Star lack this capacity ... Things Must Change!

  His mind went blank.

  29: A Matter of Some Delicacy

  Day three of the Roboto Fascist Era emerged with the scrofulous sunrise. Winston buried the conflict and unease of the previous night under a burst of activity.

  Early morning, he took a work crew, under mech wolf escort, to an office building where they’d salvaged three stout metal doors and frames. This was the first time Winston had departed the REX environs since the coup, and he found the trip to be exhilarating. Even the workers overcame their customary sullenness a bit and displayed some vigor during the trek.

  The excursion had been Winston’s idea, and F.U. had approved it after only minimal deliberation. This was an important turning point. It meant that Winston was gaining more trust from the Great Leader.

  Back at the REX, the work crew installed the doors and frames in some third floor cells. These quarters were intended for the more obstreperous inhabitants. This was really a “humane” measure, Winston rationalized, since such prisoners would no longer have to be chained in place.

  Besides, he was showing initiative, and F.U. liked to see initiative.

  The crew members worked efficiently. Productive labor was much more to their taste than sitting idly in their cells listening to propaganda broadcasts over loudspeakers.

  Winston stood together with them in the hallway viewing the finished project. The new doorways gleamed back at them, neat and strong. For a moment, Winston almost felt the old pride and camaraderie of earlier times. Then –

  What the hell am I doing?

  Unbidden, a clip from the 20th Century movie Bridge on the River Kwai played through Winston’s mind, a scene in which the British colonel looks with satisfaction on the bridge he’d built for his Japanese captors. A job well done, happy workers and all that – even though he was serving the enemy’s interests.

  Colonel Nicholson eventually wised up, though, just prior to getting blown away.

  The elevator mechanism at the end of the hall sprang to life, presaging the arrival of a visitor. And only one visitor merited an elevator ride.

  “All right, boys,” Winston said, “you’d better get back to your rooms now.”

  “Okay,” they replied without a trace of their former respect.

  They slunk off to the back stairs with their mech wolf guards.

  Give them a day out and that’s the thanks I get.

  The elevator door popped open to reveal F.U. and Comrade Drone standing within. The car could barely contain their tremendous bulk. It sagged half a meter below floor level, but sprang back when F.U. stepped out.

  “Hail Ultimo!” Winston shot out a salute.

  “Hail,” F.U. replied with a nonchalant flip of his hand.

  As usual, Comrade Drone said nothing.

  The change in F.U.’s appearance was startling. A military style uniform now covered his body, its fine gray cloth shimmering under the hallway lights. Jack boots added to his already towering height, and his right hand grasped a swagger stick.

  With a sweeping gesture, Fascista placed a high peaked military cap upon his head. The front gleamed with silver braid and a large sword & hands logo. The effect of this imposing headgear atop the shriveled little noggin was ludicrous, though Winston dared not let himself notice any humor in it.

  “How do you like my new threads, Winny?” Fascista asked. “Quincy and Jack made them for me.”

  “Magnificent!” Winston said.

  “Yes.” Fascista f
licked a dust particle off a sleeve. “It’s unfortunate those two are metal men – they’re so damned useful.”

  “Everyone must know their place in the New Order,” Winston said.

  “Quite so,” Fascista said. “And there is such a terrible shortage of us Humanites. We must do something about that before long, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely, F.U.,” Winston said.

  Fascista nodded and smacked his swagger stick against a palm. “Well, let’s speak of the present, shall we?”

  He strode rapidly forward, shaking the floor in his progress. Winston felt a powerful urge to flee down the back stairs but forced himself to remain standing at rigid attention. Fascista tossed the swagger stick into his left hand and wrapped a huge right arm over Winston’s shoulders.

  “I couldn’t be more pleased with your services, Winny,” he said. “All the renovations completed on schedule – no escapes and no suicides.”

  He glanced at the new metal doors. “These look like a fine improvement.”

  “I try to do my best,” Winston said.

  “Ach, such modesty,” Fascista said. “I don’t believe in modesty. I believe in pride for a job well done!”

  He snapped his thick fingers. Comrade Drone approached, holding out a small wooden box.

  “Your efforts deserve special recognition, Winny,” Fascista said.

  He opened the box, withdrew a medallion dangling from a chain of cold, glittering steel, and held it up dramatically. The medallion was a thing of frightful symbolism. A clenched fist, one finger of which sported a skull motif ring, festooned the center. Two slogans ran around the edges:

  Work Makes Freedom, along the top, Slavery Is Justice, at the bottom.

  Winston was simultaneously repelled and attracted to the brutal medallion.

  “For outstanding services rendered,” Fascista intoned, “I hereby present the Order of the High Jailer.”

  “My leader does me too much honor,” Winston said.

  “Nonsense, Winny, you’ve earned it.”

  Fascista placed the medallion around Winston’s neck. It tingled against his pressure sensors.

  “Thanks, F.U.”

  Along the hallway, captives peered curiously out of the their cell door windows. Fascista regarded them with disdain.

  “How are the ‘guests’ doing?” he asked over the leadership frequency of his radio.

  “They’re okay, F.U.,” Winston said, also over the radio. “They are not very happy, though.”

  F.U. barked a laugh. “Good! A month of this confinement, and any trace of resistance will be out of them.”

  He strutted down the corridor, running his swagger stick across every wire mesh window he passed. The cell inhabitants recoiled. At the far end of the hall, Fascista spun around and walked back toward Winston.

  “Once these metal men understand their place,” he said, “we can begin the great building program. Such plans I have!”

  His scrawny face glowed under its military cap. A fanatic gleam entered the eyes.

  “We’ll start with the bombed out city center,” he said. “We’ll remake it along revolutionary lines. We’ll construct a magnificent new party headquarters and a huge public square. We’ll erect towering statues – of me, naturally – to commemorate the victory of our movement!”

  “That sounds great, F.U.,” Winston said, trying to keep the terror out of his radio voice.

  “And this is only the beginning!” Fascista cried with growing excitement. “Once Mech City is put in order, we’ll take the revolution to new areas, wherever other robot communities might exist, conquering all before us!”

  Fascista stood on tiptoe and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes gaped into an incredible future that only he could see. Winston tuned his receiver down until the fanatic voice became a bit more tolerable.

  “Eventually, we’ll rediscover the art of manufacture,” Fascista said. “We’ll create a new generation of Humanite masters – attain full anatomical correctness! Also we’ll produce a new legion of metal man servants to do our bidding.”

  The last vestige of reason had exited Fascista’s eyes.

  “And at the head of all this glory, standing like a colossus, will be me: Fascista Ultimo, master of the world!”

  The prisoners cringed within his cell. To them, without the aid of radios, the whole performance was a ghastly, flailing, pantomime.

  Then, with incredible abruptness, F.U. transitioned into quiet and thoughtful mode.

  “There’s only one problem,” he said.

  Winston could scarcely react after such a verbal assault. Finally he spoke.

  “What’s that, F.U.?”

  “It’s a matter of some delicacy, Winny.”

  “Oh?”

  The monster bent forward with a conspiratorial leer. Winston suppressed a cringe.

  “It concerns Estrella,” F.U. said. “I want her for my Fascista Ultimina, but she won’t hear of it.”

  Star!

  A bolt of fear and rage shot through Winston. He struggled to keep from crying out.

  “Oh ... how foolish of her,” he managed to say.

  “Yes, I’ve told her that myself.” Regret tinged Fascista’s voice. “I’m afraid that she regards me as a schmuck, however.”

  “That can’t be true,” Winston said, “she’s probably just overwhelmed by your attentions.”

  He tried to sound calm, but icy dread was seeping into every circuit. Since the coup, he’d barely given Star a thought, but now his earlier affection for her was rising in full defensive array.

  “I’ve been watching you, Winny,” Fascista said, “and I think you have the right stuff to advance in the New Order.”

  “Thanks, F.U.”

  A congenial look spread across Fascista’s face, but Winston saw savagery beneath it.

  “I’d like you to butter up Estrella for me,” Fascista said, “talk to her about my warm and cozy side.”

  A chance to see Star!

  “Will do, F.U.,” Winston said.

  Fascista placed an arm over Winston’s shoulders again and began walking with him toward the elevator.

  “She trusts you, Winston,” he said. “So, tell her that either she accepts my proposition, or it’s the spare parts bin for her.”

  “Uh ... sure thing, F.U.,” Winston said.

  “You’re the scholar, Winny, use whatever terminology that works best.” Fascista waved an indulgent hand. “You know, lay on the old charm-aroo.”

  30: Foray to Star’s Place

  Winston left the REX and headed toward Star’s apartment house, a three kilometer northward trek through undamaged cityscape, with no detour required around the central bomb crater. Fang and Ripper, as always, accompanied him.

  The shock and awe he’d felt during F.U.’s tirade was wearing off, while the full dreadfulness of his situation began to sink in. He was on a pimp’s errand, and no amount of rationalization could disguise that fact. He was going to present a despicable proposition to Star – the same wonderful Star Power who had once admired him so much.

  But did it matter any longer? Star surely hated him thoroughly by now, and a bit more contempt could hardly make a difference.

  His illusions of power vanished into the oppressive air. He was just another prisoner, no matter what fancy titles or decorations he might receive. His new medal dragged down his neck like a cannon ball.

  The whistled theme song from Bridge on the River Kwai ran through his mind nonstop, like the pounding of a jackhammer. Involuntarily, Winston’s gait assumed a marching rhythm, and his arms swung in exaggerated military style. He glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see a column of prisoners trailing behind him – but there was no one, not even the mech wolves.

  Winston stopped in his tracks. He looked all around. No sign of Fang and Ripper! He stroked his chin. Could it be possible that F.U. trusted him enough to let him wander the city unescorted?

  No, that wasn’t very l
ikely. His mech wolf assistants must be lurking around somewhere, watching him from concealment. Still, it was an enormous relief to be out of their close proximity – and it spoke well for his growing status in the Regime. This was a definite mark of favor from F.U.!

  Besides, a show of force was hardly in tune with the nature of Winston’s assignment. How would Star react to the appearance of mech wolves at her door? F.U. had probably tried that approach already and failed with it.

  Winston resumed walking with a new bounce in his step. The gloomy afternoon seemed to brighten a little, and his medal thumped against his chest with reassuring solidity. Wouldn’t Star be impressed to see it? He, the former meek little Winston Horvath, was now an important government official!

  His semi euphoric state lasted until he reached Star’s neighborhood, then reality sank in again. No, Star would not be impressed with him at all. Her hatred would be boundless, having festered for days now, just waiting for an opportunity to lash out. The disdain she’d expressed for Nilo would be sweet pleasantness compared to the reception she’d give him.

  Well, he had to make the attempt, didn’t he? Winston entered the apartment building and began mounting the stairs, all the while listening for sounds of pursuit. He stopped at every landing window and peered outside, but he saw no trace of mech wolves. Then he was at Star’s door.

  Will she slap my face immediately, or will she wait until I say something first?

  He knocked; there was no reply. He knocked again, a bit harder. The door creaked open. A face laden with fear and apprehension poked out.

  “Winston!”

  Joy burst across Star’s features. She flung the door open and leaped into his arms.

  “I’m so glad to see you!” she cried.

  She threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. Winston reeled back.

  “Uh ... hello Star ... I’m glad to see you, too.”

  He glanced up and down the corridor. “Somebody might be watching.”

  “Yes, of course, dear.” Star took his hand and led him inside. “Welcome to my home.”

  Winston poked his head back out for a final scan of the hall, then closed the door gently. Star had moved to the middle of the living room, fairly glowing at him with pleasure.

  The room was an open, bright space furnished in a severe and modernistic style. Abstract paintings adorned the walls and gas flames danced in a small fireplace. Avant-garde type humans must have once lived here, like some of Dr. Horvath’s younger left wing associates.