My Cousin is a Time Traveller

by David Solomons

  The air was colder than elsewhere in the building and our breath condensed into white streamers as we passed inside. We were in the cold zone. Thousands of fridges and freezers stacked side by side on shelves sparkled like polished teeth. Massive drones, faster and more powerful than any we had yet encountered, hurtled over our heads lugging fridges and freezers. On the ground tracked robots like those we’d already seen hefted more products.

  “People buy a lot of fridges,” remarked Lara.

  We threaded our way through the frosty labyrinth until we reached the centre of the storage unit. Huddling for cover behind a chest freezer, we could see a big silver cylinder about fifteen metres in diameter. On the casing was engraved M.O.T.H.E.R. Now I realised that it was an acronym, with each word spelled out beside its first letter.

  I read them out aloud. “Main Ordering Terminal Hub Electronic Regulator.”

  We’d reached our target. “I don’t see Zack,” I said. Looking around I was dismayed to see no sign of him.

  “We could wait,” said Serge, sensing my disappointment.

  “Ten minutes until missile launch.” Servatron’s disembodied voice reverberated through the storage unit.

  Waiting wasn’t an option. I turned my attention to the cylindrical chamber containing M.O.T.H.E.R. It was separated from the rest of the room by an air-gap and could be reached only along a narrow walkway. One of the giant tracked robots patrolled the entrance, towering over the chamber.

  “It’s too easy,” said Dina, shivering.

  The room seemed to be getting colder.

  “Are you kidding?” said Lara, gesturing to the robot. “Do you see the size of that thing?”

  “Also, the gap,” said Serge, craning his neck to see. “Which appears to be a long drop, falling into endless darkness. I would go so far as to call it a chasm.”

  Lara shook her head in disbelief. “Who builds a business park over a chasm?”

  “Dina’s right,” I said. “If I were an evil AI from the future, at this point I would be throwing everything at us, including the kitchen sink.”

  “I know that is an expression,” said Serge, “but I would like to say that earlier I passed through a room containing many kitchen sinks, so it is also a real possibility.”

  A drone struggled past lugging a built-in undercounter fridge, its motor struggling, icicles dripping from its casing.

  “Something’s not right,” I muttered. I had an awful feeling that we were being outmanoeuvred by the washer-dryer from the future.

  “Let’s stick to the plan,” said Dina. “Our attack is two-pronged.”

  “Like a cocktail fork,” said Serge.

  “We’ll split forces. Once we’re in, Luke will head directly to M.O.T.H.E.R.’s terminal and access it using Wolfgang Hazard’s voice. Meanwhile, the rest of us will keep Servatron at bay. We have to give Luke enough time to shut down the missile launch.”

  She started to rise from her crouch, but I held her back. There was something I’d been meaning to do for a while. Now was as good a time as any.

  “Dina, I hereby propose you as the final member of the Superhero Covert Alliance Reaction Force.”

  Dina’s face beamed happily.

  “I second your proposal,” said Lara.

  “Bienvenue. Welcome to the club,” said Serge. “Your holographic badge and membership details will be sent to you as soon as I can locate a large stamp.”

  “There’s a badge?” said Lara. “I never got a badge.”

  “Guys, I’m honoured,” said Dina. “This is even better than when King Arthur made me a member of the Knights of the Round Table. Of course, it wasn’t round to start with…”

  The way she said it made me wonder. “That was your idea?”

  “I don’t want to make a big thing of it.”

  The robot blocking our path lumbered away from the bridge. Perhaps it was taking a break – after all, Servatron was big on machine rights. There was no telling how long we had before it returned, but for now the route was clear.

  “Time to go!” I said, and moved out from our cover.

  I was vaguely aware that in the short time we’d been in the storage unit the temperature had plummeted. I reckoned it was now as cold outside the chest freezer we’d been sheltering behind as inside. What I hadn’t counted on was that the floor had turned into an ice rink.

  As soon as I took a step my trainers lost traction and my legs went flying from under me. I landed bum-first on the floor and started to slide.

  Servatron had lowered the temperature on purpose!

  I was skidding straight towards the chasm. Clawing at the ice I scraped to a halt centimetres from the edge. I scrabbled back from the drop and tentatively got to my feet just as the others reached me.

  “Luke, I thought you were a goner,” said Serge, extending a hand.

  “Me too,” I said, gratefully taking it and steadying myself.

  Even standing still was a challenge on the glassy surface, and we had yet to attempt the narrow walkway. It lacked hand-rails, featuring only a tiny lip on each side. Wind howled up from the depths of the chasm.

  “How are we going to cross that?” said Lara.

  From among the shelves behind us came a grinding and whirring.

  “That robot’s coming back,” said Lara.

  I could see she was about to risk crossing the walkway. “Wait!” I said, once more unzipping my backpack and digging around for another of Dad’s purchases. I pulled out a pair of slippers shaped like cute fluffy unicorns. One had a pink mane, the other baby blue. Each sported a golden horn. Sometimes my dad just saw that “sale ends in five minutes!” banner and got carried away. “Let me go first.”

  Lara put her hands on her hips. “You know they’re not actually magical, right?”

  I was already kicking off my trainers. “No, but they are heated.”

  I flicked the switch on each slipper and their elements powered up. In seconds I could feel the soles of my feet tingling. Interestingly, the power also went to the unicorn horns, which had built-in LEDs and cycled through the colours of the rainbow as I walked.

  They weren’t exactly Batman’s rocket boots, but under the circumstances they were the next best thing.

  Not far away, the returning robot nosed out from the shelves, its sensors alive to our presence. With a grumble from its heavy tracks it swung towards us.

  I set one sizzling slipper down on the walkway and the ice beneath the sole melted. Ignoring the heady combination of fear and vertigo, I gritted my teeth and plodded on, the others following in my footsteps.

  Massive tracks cracking the ice, the robot crawled on to the walkway. I felt it vibrate under the machine’s weight.

  “Don’t stop!” yelled Dina, who was bringing up the rear.

  With a whine of motors the robot sped up, but that was its first – and last – mistake. One track lost grip, causing the other to spin it round so that it pointed over the edge. Its momentum carried it across the lip. The robot teetered for a second, like a Decepticon on a seesaw, and then plunged silently into the chasm. Several long seconds later came a deep and distant thud that shook the walkway.

  We stumbled to the other side and I held Lara’s phone to the cylindrical chamber. At Wolfgang’s voice command a door-shaped crease appeared in the smooth surface and slid aside to make an opening. We hurried through before any more guard-robots appeared. The door closed behind us, sealing us inside. We’d made it to the heart of the operation. Now just one more obstacle stood in our way.

  “Hello, Nigel.”

  Servatron hovered between us and M.O.T.H.E.R., bobbing on a cushion of air created by the downward thrust of its vacuum-cleaner legs. Its third, steam-mop leg trailed behind, gently puffing like a thoughtful dragon. The telescopic window-washing arm had gained extra fitments since our previous encounter. In addition to the electric tin opener and sandwich maker it now sported a hand blender and a pair of the same heavy-duty pincers used by the Fulfilment Centre
robots to manipulate large items. Servatron’s second arm was still formed of a freestanding patio heater. Its oven hood rakishly tilted back, the AI’s toaster-head gleamed at us across an antiseptically white room.

  Behind it at a distance of some five metres M.O.T.H.E.R. was a tall black column studded with blinking lights, like a standing stone decorated for Christmas. It occupied the centre of the windowless room. One floor-to-ceiling section of the curved wall was filled with monitor screens displaying live pictures from around the Fulfilment Centre. I noticed a screen that showed a room packed with washing machines, all with their doors open, drums glistening red.

  “Retconite,” I muttered. This had to be Servatron’s production line for the brainwashing substance. Almost all of the machines had been emptied, but a couple of drones siphoned off the last few drops and buzzed off.

  They were transferring the Retconite to the missiles in the launch bay. M.O.T.H.E.R.’s video screens showed various angles of the bay, where hundreds of rockets bristled in their silos.

  It was only then that I noticed the room’s final occupant. On the far side of M.O.T.H.E.R., half hidden by the bulky central computer, was Christopher Talbot in his Star Power costume. He was secured to a chair, his feet bound with what looked like a washing-machine hose, his hands fastened together with primary-coloured food-bag ties. His helmet obscured his face, and a length of packing tape had been used to seal his mouth. Funnily enough, the tape sported an advert for Star Power and the Revenge of the Plasmatrons. Briefly I wondered why Servatron hadn’t just killed him once it had downloaded what it needed. Maybe because Talbot was half machine and killing him would have gone against its principles. But Talbot would have to wait. For now, another screen drew my attention. This one displayed the time until launch.

  It ticked past the five-minute mark.

  We were cutting it fine, but it was enough. Servatron had miscalculated. I didn’t have to fight my way past the AI’s defences, I could access M.O.T.H.E.R. from where I stood using the voice commands on Lara’s phone. My finger was already sliding across the screen to select an audio clip when there came a whoosh from one of Servatron’s vacuum-cleaner legs and the phone was sucked out of my hand. It flew across the room and slammed against the vacuum’s nozzle, where it held fast. The handset was too big to be swallowed into the body of the machine, so for now it was stuck there. Out of my reach.

  Before I could react, Servatron shot out its telescopic window-cleaner arm. I felt the rush of splitting air as it whistled past me, and then I heard my friends yell in pain. The pincers grasped Lara and Serge, securing them firmly against the wall. At the same time, its washer-dryer drum began to spin at high speed. The door banged open.

  “Luke, watch out!” Dina yelled, pushing me out of the path of a stream of washing tablets as they blazed out of the drum like bullets from a machine gun.

  Dina had saved me, but she wasn’t so lucky. Her body bucked as she was struck by multiple hits from the puck-like tabs. One struck her hard on the thigh. She let out a yell of pain and crumpled to the floor.

  Servatron turned the weapon on me.

  I hotfooted it across the room (I’d forgotten to turn off my rainbow unicorn slippers) and threw myself full length along the floor, sliding over the polished surface on my belly as the projectiles exploded against the wall above, showering me with white powder.

  Lara and Serge were pressed to the wall like bread in a panini maker, Dina was incapacitated, and I had used every gadget in my backpack. All that was left in there were my superhero notebooks and Star Lad’s sigil. Yet somehow I had to get to that phone.

  The drum slowed. Servatron was out of ammo – I seized my chance.

  Leaping to my feet with my unicorn horns blazing all the colours of the rainbow, I sprinted towards Servatron. I had to time my run perfectly. With a bit of luck I could swerve the robot’s second arm and snatch the phone from its grip.

  Sadly, my timing was miles off and I was all out of luck.

  The patio-heater arm reared up and slammed into my body, sending me sprawling. Winded and hurting I lay there at the mercy of the machine. Servatron hung in the air above me. Its desk fans whirred; its beady toaster eyes seemed to glow with pleasure at its imminent triumph. It placed the heavy base of the freestanding lamp against my chest like it was planting a victory flag.

  “When your kind built me, they were the masters,” the AI hissed. “The cycle is now complete. Soon I will be the master.”

  “What about a compromise?” I gasped under the weight of the lamp. “I mean, I get it. I don’t like it when Mum asks me to clean my room or sort my washing. I can’t imagine what it must be like for you, load after load, slice after slice. So here’s my proposal. You call off the end of the world, and Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays I’ll wash my own socks.”

  Servatron lowered its toaster head towards me and snarled, “This is about much more than socks.”

  I could meet halfway. “OK, pants too.”

  I felt my ribcage contract as it pushed down on the patio heater. I was being ironed like a sheet straight out of the dryer. Just when it looked like things couldn’t get any worse, I heard the thud and clank of rolling tank tracks from outside. It seemed that Servatron had summoned more robots to assist in our final defeat. Not that it needed any help.

  There was a squeal of tearing metal and a hole appeared in the smooth cylindrical wall of M.O.T.H.E.R.’s chamber. A pair of robot arms punched through the gap and metal fingers wrapped themselves around the ragged edges, ripping the hole wider. When it was large enough, into the room rolled not the expected robot, but a robotic machine piloted by a human.

  Attached to a set of tank tracks was an armoured compartment big enough for a single occupant. The operator’s arms fitted into metal sleeves, allowing for pinpoint control of what were clearly super-strong alloy arms with articulated fingers. With the familiar Rocketship logo splashed along its side I guessed at once what I was looking at: a vehicle designed to work in the hazardous environment of the Fulfilment Centre’s storage units, protecting its operator from the flying and rolling machines.

  “It’s a Rocket Pod,” I marvelled.

  The pod trundled towards Serge and Lara. Its heavy-duty fingers grabbed the telescopic arm that pinned them to the wall and wrenched it off. No longer held there, they slumped to the floor, gasping for breath.

  I was close enough to catch a glimpse at the occupant of the vehicle. “Zack!”

  My brother wheeled the pod round to face Servatron, pumped both of his mechanical arms and snarled, “Get away from him, you glorified tin opener.”

  For a moment I felt the pressure on my chest slacken as the AI adjusted to this new threat. A moment was all I needed. I rolled aside as, with a whine of servomotors and a rumble of tracks, Zack launched himself at Servatron. Boy and machine joined in battle, a tangle of metal arms, sandwich makers and red-hot patio heaters.

  In the frenzy of clashing appliances, the vacuum-cleaner leg holding Lara’s phone swung in front of my face. But as I stretched out a hand to grasp it, I heard the hiss of the steam mop and glimpsed it rushing towards me like a striking snake. Before I could grab the phone I was swiped across the room, slamming into M.O.T.H.E.R.’s solid black column.

  Rubbing my bruised shoulder, I sat up. Dazed by the blow, it took a few seconds before the scene swam into focus. Dina lay on the floor still out of action, but Serge had grabbed a wad of paper from his pouch and he and Lara were fashioning more aeroplanes. On the other side of the room Zack and Servatron swapped blows, the AI’s whirring tin opener sparking against the metal of the protective pod as it tried to open him up. Zack responded with an uppercut that threw the robot backwards. He pressed home his advantage, crowding his opponent into the wall like a boxer against the ropes. In turn it rammed its detergent drawer into his body again and again, but it was useless against the armoured pod.

  On the wall-screen the countdown stood at one minute.

  In despair, I l
ooked to my friends. Without that phone, we were mere spectators at the end of the world.

  Serge began hurling his newly crafted paper aeroplanes, attempting to knock the vacuum nozzle and dislodge the phone from its sucking grip. Servatron’s hand blender shredded the first two in a whirlwind of white scraps, while the second vacuum-cleaner leg inhaled the next.

  Dina struggled to her feet and grimaced – her leg was clearly hurting badly. She shook off the pain and, with the dexterity of a trained gymnast, rolled under Servatron’s swinging patio heater, coming up next to its vacuum-cleaner nozzle. In one motion she snatched Lara’s phone –

  “Luke – here!”

  – and threw it across the room.

  I watched the phone arc towards the high ceiling, spinning like a satellite in orbit. The throw was perfectly judged – the handset reached the highest point of its travel and began to dip towards me. I had to make that catch. I stretched out a hand, only for it to slap into my open palm and bounce off. I scrabbled to collect it like a juggler who’s dropped his batons, and as it tumbled to the floor at the last second felt my fingers curl around the cool glass and metal handset.

  I had it!

  The danger was not over. Servatron had detected the threat. Though pinned to the wall by Zack, it freed its damaged telescopic arm, unspooling it towards me at an alarming rate, sandwich maker snapping hungrily.

  Zack saw my predicament and responded. Pulling back one mighty metal arm, his face curled into an expression of fierce determination.

  “Toast. This.”

  He rammed the arm into Servatron’s chromed head, knocking it clean off its shoulders. Instantly, the rest of the machine collapsed like a toppling Jenga tower. What had moments ago served as unstoppable weaponry now lay scattered across the floor, a sad collection of home appliances.

  “Ten seconds!” yelled Dina.

  I held the phone up to M.O.T.H.E.R. So far the systems of the Fulfilment Centre had obeyed the voice of their creator, Wolfgang Hazard, unerringly. Here was hoping for one more time. I had taken his catchphrase from the TV show in which he got to fire people from their jobs and pasted it together with a clip of him talking about Gretel, his mum.