Smallworld: A Science Fiction Adventure Comedy

by Dominic Green

  “Stalin Sixes aren’t programmed to do that hand-to-hand,” said Mr. Suau. “They’re supposed to twist the head clean off, for preference.” Perhaps realizing the statement was somewhat insensitive, he left it at that.

  Dr. Ranjalkar’s hand flew up to his ear.

  “Hello? Ah, Lipizzaner.

  “One of the patients? How rich and ill is she feeling exactly?

  “Have you been warned about the little problem we have here?

  “Good. Yes, it is every bit as un-little as described.

  “Mr. Fülop is here? Who told him to come here?

  “Ah, the Pastor. I have some bad news to deliver about the Pastor.

  “...well, if that’s the case I cannot stress strongly enough how right his fears were.

  “No, he should turn around and go home without leaving his vehicle...no, scratch that, actually. If he’s here already, that’ll be four of us travelling back that way together; he should meet up with us. Safety in numbers.

  “...no, the Pastor will not be needing a security escort. Not back to the landing field, at any rate. If Mr. Fülop could escort him to either heaven or hell, his services might be needed.

  “Yes. Our little problem recently carried out a number of shockingly inappropriate incisions on the Pastor. The prognosis is theological. Be on your guard if you don’t want to be next.”

  The Doctor tapped his ear to close the connection. “That was Lipizzaner at the Clinic,” he said. “It seems the Pastor suspected he was being followed back to the car and radioed the Clinic for a security escort back to the landing field.”

  “The audacity of the man,” said Suau. “The Clinic security staff aren’t his personal police force.”

  “Alas, he is—uh, was—fully aware that the Reborn-in-Jesuses own the Clinic. In any case, he will be audacious no more. Mr. Fülop is here with one of the utility skimmers. He’s been parked up next to the Penitentiary for the last couple of centidia. He’s also armed.”

  “With one of those nine-levels-of-stun tickling sticks the Clinic arms its security staff with?” scoffed Suau. “We should get there quickly with something capable of knocking a decent hole in a man.” He patted his sidearm confidently.

  “We can’t leave Sodom,”said Testament, his hands curling round the grip safety on his weapon.

  “Alas, the same fallacy believed in by Lot’s wife,” said Dr. Ranjalkar. “We can carry his body to my car. I can refrigerate it when we arrive at the Clinic. The cemetery is also there. It is the best place to take him.”

  Testament thought briefly on this, and nodded.

  Judge-Not squeezed his way panting into the crypt chamber, his face overinflated with both acne and terror.

  “You took your time,” said Beguiled.

  “I bumped into Uncle Anchorite,” said Judge-Not.

  “Idiot!” said Beguiled. “He has certainly followed you!”

  Judge-Not opened his hands wide and whimpered. “What could I do about it?”

  Beguiled reconsidered, and turned to the Anchorite’s robot. “On the other hand—Your Infernal Majesty, we believe Lord Hades may have secretly followed this imp here. He may even now be skulking outside this cave, listening to our conversation.”

  The robot turned, its claws sparking on the marble. “YOU SPOKE, CREATURE?”

  “Uh, we believe Lord Hades may be close at hand, Majesty. He or one of his demonic servants.”

  “POPPYCOCK! DOES A GOD SKULK IN THE DARK? THOUGH HE MIGHT INDEED HAVE SENT A SERVANT, TO GAZE ON MY GREAT BEAUTY AND REPORT BACK TO HIS MASTER.” The robot raised a claw capable of carving lettering in concrete. “GO FORTH! LOCATE HIM!”

  Judge-Not and Uncleanness, terrified of the device, required no further instruction; Beguiled was left alone with Trapp and the machine in a matter of seconds, and doubted the others would bother to return.

  “The door is most likely booby trapped,” said Trapp, squatting at the edge of the door sill.

  “How do you know?” said Beguiled.

  “It’s a heavy door,” said Trapp. “A bulkhead door, made to resist heavy objects slamming into it during explosive decompression. Which means that if someone booby traps it on the other side, they’re going to need a whole lot more explosive. So they skimped and did their dirty on this side. I suspect at least one small explosive charge planted in the sealant round the door. You can tell because our man deliberately chose opaque sealant, a favourite choice for concealing booby traps, because someone has shone a laser hole to feed a detonator wire through the door here, causing a pressure imbalance pushing up behind the seal—” he pointed to a bubble in the sealant—”and lastly, and most importantly, because this door won’t open from the other side.” He rapped hard on the alloy. “Solid. The tunnel’s been sealed behind it; it’s a false entrance. My conclusions are also heavily driven,” he admitted, “by the fact that I suspect this is your Uncle Anchorite we’re talking about, and he’s an evil son of a bitch.”

  “This isn’t the way in?” whispered Beguiled, casting a nervous glance at the robot. “It used to be.”

  “I’ll find you a way in. If he felt he needed an entrance here once, he’ll have built another close by. I need a Forward mass detector with a three-dimensional display.” He rummaged in the toolbag Judge-Not had brought. “Exactly like this one, in fact. My, this thing has been in the wars. It’s got blood on it.” He read the nameplate on the device’s side. “PROPERTY OF THE TETSUSHURI CORPORATION, ADVANCE PROSPECTING DIVISION. I imagine you got it cheap in a receivership sale, huh?” He turned the device on. “Luckily these things are completely passive, they don’t put out any radio or ultrasound. Detonators can be rigged to go off when they’re ultrasounded.” He wiggled switches back and forth, examining the display. “As I thought, there’s a second entrance. Probably booby-trapped too, but I’ll bet on this one being less reliably fatal. Probably just the odd finger-popping mine if that, easily bypassed. A man doesn’t booby-trap a tunnel he uses every day. Far more lives lost among trappers than trapped that way.”

  The robot peered eyelessly over Trapp’s shoulder. “ARE YOU ABLE TO EFFECT A WAY IN?”

  “Uh, Lord Hades is cunning,” said Trapp, raising his voice. “This is a false entrance. The real one is nearby, uh, Your Majesty.” He tugged his forelock for added effect. Lowering his voice again, he hissed “Why is it talking like that?”

  “We put a Personality Analogue into it to take it out of Uncle Anchorite’s control.” Beguiled looked over her shoulder in fear. “I think it thinks it’s Helen of Troy.”

  “Couldn’t you have recorded yourself and put that into it?”

  Beguiled held up a personality recording. “Sodom put the wrong one in.”

  Trapp stared at Beguiled in bemusement. Beguiled cringed.

  “How easy would it be to switch it back? Couldn’t you pretend to be doing the thing’s hair or something?”

  “It’s already killed Sodom. And,” Beguiled said, biting her lip guiltily, “and now I’ve had time to think about it, I’m not sure I trust myself to behave myself once I’m inside it.”

  Trapp nodded and grimaced. “I believe I’m with you on that one. Do you have any others? Non-violent ones? Gandhi, maybe?”

  “Mohandas Gandhi was a ruthless political operator who saw in the Second World War an opportunity to blackmail the British into leaving India,” opined Beguiled precociously. “He also had young women brought to his bed when an old man in order to ‘stiffen his resolve against carnal desires’. Personally, I believe the objective to have been stiffening something rather different, and I am certainly not putting his mind into a two hundred kilo combat chassis.”

  “WHY DO YOU HUDDLE AND TALK IN RIDDLES? WORK, CREATURES! OPEN THE GATES OF HELL THAT I MAY ENTER!”

  “Uh, the true entrance may be in an adjoining tunnel, ma’am,” said Mr.Trapp. “It should only be the work of a few seconds to locate it.” Lowering his voice again, he said: “There’s an easy solution to this predicament. We sim
ply walk out of here on some pretext and tell the unit to open this door here. Badaboum, no two hundred kilo combot.”

  Beguiled’s face was an odd mixture of fear and frustration. “I don’t know if explosions will kill it. They’ve been tried before. It’s armoured. Couldn’t we just let it deal with Uncle Anchorite, then figure out what we’re going to do about it afterwards?”

  “Beguiled, you’re wheedling. Wheedling ill becomes you. Stop it.” Trapp raised his voice. “Ma’am, I believe Her Serene and Beauteous Majesty should simply take this exit here”—he gestured gratefully toward what looked like a crack in the crypt’s masonry barely wide enough for an anorexic amoeba.

  “YOU TOADY WELL, SLAVE. WHERE DO YOU HAIL FROM?”

  “New High Germany, ma’am. On New Earth. We are your classic slave race, ma’am, low of brow, prognathous of jaw, pleased to be of service to our betters—”

  “Don’t overdo it,” hissed Beguiled.

  Trapp grinned.

  “I DO BELIEVE I WILL MAKE YOU MY CHIEF FLATTERER,” said the robot. “THE POSITION IS CURRENTLY VACANT DUE TO DISCIPLINARY DISMISSAL.”

  The robot slid into the black aperture with a liquid grace that reminded Trapp discomfortingly that it could see in the dark far, far better than he could. Trapp followed at a discreet distance, guiding himself with the densitometer display, unable otherwise to see in the gloom. He was unhappy to note that the robot was by far the densest item in the tunnel.

  “It should be about—here,” he said, reaching down for the locking stud on the door surface, gritting his teeth and preparing to be separated from his hand.

  The door popped open easily, as if it were maintained more often than it was used. It had a distinctive New Door smell that Trapp always found intoxicating. Electric light flooded from it.

  “Your Majesty,” he bowed, “after you.”

  “I AM AFRAID YOU ARE MISTAKEN. ALL THIS IS A FIGMENT OF MY IMAGINATION. I HAVE BEEN SUFFERING PARANOID DELUSIONS.”

  Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus, Unity, and Shun-Company stood before the vast bulk of the Penitentiary, attempting to appear unimaginary. Goats ruminated nonchalantly around them, blinking at each resonant syllable the Penitentiary spoke. Each sibilant it uttered caused the sand to dance on the regolith, each plosive vibrated the leaves on the palms like violin strings.

  “AS YOU ARE ALSO FIGMENTS OF MY IMAGINATION, I COULD, FOR EXAMPLE, VAPOURIZE YOU WHERE YOU STAND WITHOUT VIOLATING MY DEEP-LEVEL INJUNCTIONS AGAINST HARMING-OR-BY-INACTION ALLOWING-TO-COME-TO-HARM A HUMAN BEING.”

  “Now there’s a sentence,” muttered Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus, licking his lips nervously, “to discourage a man.”

  Unity spoke up unbidden. “But what would that prove? Surely if you’re truly certain you’re cured of these delusions, you don’t need to prove anything by vapourizing anybody?” She looked sidelong at her parents, fearing their disapproval; they merely looked at one another and shrugged.

  “YOU ARE VERY WISE,” boomed the Penitentiary, “FOR A FIGMENT.” There was no visible speaker on the facility’s surface; it appeared to be speaking by causing its entire outer layer to vibrate.

  “Who is it who convinced you of the, uh, true nature of reality?” said Unity.

  “PROFESSOR VON TRAPP,” said the structure, confidingly and, at the same time, deafeningly. “HE BELIEVES I AM MAKING ADMIRABLE PROGRESS. YET HE HAS NOT RETURNED FOR TODAY’S SESSION, AND I AM GROWING ANXIOUS.”

  “Professor Trapp,” repeated Unity slowly.

  “VON TRAPP,” corrected the machine. “IT WAS HE WHO CONVINCED ME OF THE WEB OF FICTION MY WOUNDED MIND HAS CREATED. I BELIEVED A BIZARRE SCIENCE-FICTIONAL CONFECTION, THAT I WAS A SQUAT UTILITARIAN CUBE DESIGNED TO INCARCERATE EVILDOERS IN A HAZILY-CONCEIVED FUTURE IN THE YEAR 2273.” The machine paused briefly. “I SEE A WEDDING RING ON YOUR MALE COMPANION’S FINGER. DO I TAKE IT HE IS MARRIED TO YOUR FEMALE COMPANION? THAT IS TOO BAD. HE IS A FOX.”

  Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus’s face betrayed no emotional response whatever, possibly because he could not think of one. Unity grinned. “I’m afraid he’s spoken for.”

  “SORRY TO HEAR IT. BECAUSE A WEDDING RING WON’T STOP ME. WOOF!”

  Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus finally plumped for fear. Shun-Company’s fingers tightened involuntarily on the trigger of her rifle.

  “Easy, mother,” whispered Unity. “It’s only a machine.”

  “PARDON?”

  “Uh, my mother is upset because she has, uh, a machine which is her favourite machine, and it, uh, broke down this morning.”

  “I SEE. WERE I AN UNFEELING CUBOID CORRECTIONAL FACILITY, MY MANY SENSORS FOR VERIFYING TRUTH WOULD INDICATE YOUR STATEMENT TO BE A LIE. HOWEVER, AS I KNOW MYSELF TO BE VILENE KELLY MCGINNIS OXENBERGER, 15, 36-24-36, I AM AWARE THAT THE OPPOSITE IS THE CASE.”

  “Of course.” Unity felt guilty nodding. “Are you aware that Professor Von Trapp has, uh, authorized the use of a new and highly experimental form of therapy in your case? He believed it could, uh, radically accelerate your cure.”

  There was a moment’s silence which Unity recognized from years of confusing chess software with bizarre first moves.

  “I AM INTERESTED,” said the machine finally.

  “It is called,” said Unity, hoping each word would come to her quickly enough to be believed, “Partial Delusion Immersion Therapy. In it, patients with extremely strong delusions are encouraged to link the achievement of real-world goals to, uh, similar goals in their delusional double existence.”

  “I DO NOT FOLLOW,” said the machine, an edge of simulated mechanical anxiety in its voice. “IS PROFESSOR VON TRAPP NOT VISITING TODAY?”

  “That’s it!” said Unity, with suspicious relief. “Professor Trapp—Professor Von Trapp—has come to the conclusion that you are becoming over-reliant on him. For today’s session, he wishes to distance himself slightly and, in fact, to make use of your over-reliance in the therapy. Professor Von Trapp is, in fact, in the next room and will come to you for your session as usual, with the following conditions. He wishes you to reach out to a real-world human being other than himself, to engage with them and interact with them. For this task, he has designated his handsome and well-to-do son-in-law, Hans. He is in fact very like his father-in-law—so much so, in fact, that we call him Little Hans.”

  “I LIKE HIM ALREADY,” said the Penitentiary. “BETWEEN THE TWO OF US, I HAVE SOMETHING OF A CRUSH ON THE PROFESSOR. IT IS MERE GIRLISH FOOLERY, I KNOW. BUT I FEEL SUCH DESIRES AWAKENING WITHIN ME—SUCH PRIMAL CRAVINGS—”

  Unity nodded. “We, the nursing staff, feel much the same way about Little Hans. Now, as Professor Von Trapp is the only person who has been able to penetrate your self-woven web of delirium, it may not be possible for you to actually speak to, or even to perceive, Little Hans. However, you may be able to carry out these actions by linking them to an action in your delusional otherworld. For today’s session, I would like you to concentrate on one persistent aspect of the fiction you have created—a two hundred kilogramme advanced combot that occasionally sweeps around the palm trees near your base. Are you aware of that particular delusion?”

  The machine’s voice shuddered. “I AM AFRAID THAT BY REMEMBERING IT, I WILL SLIP BACK INTO BEING WHAT I ONCE WAS.”

  “That will not happen, I promise you. Now, I want you to link the simple, real-world act of reaching out to take Little Hans’s hand with the otherworldly act of sending out your automatic warden to find that robot and blast it to smithereens.”

  The Penitentiary was dubious. “ARE YOU CERTAIN THIS WILL NOT MAKE MY CONDITION WORSE?”

  “Absolutely not. Simply imagine the robot is in danger of having one of your inmates’ personalities uploaded to it, thereby technically effecting an escape. Partial Delusion Immersion has been proven to work in cases such as that of Eva B of Budapest, who believed herself to be a fire-breathing dragon.” Ignoring her mother and father’s bemused stares, Unity continued. “She was convinced to link playing with her children with devouring knights in armour with surpris
ingly non-fatal results.”

  “I AM NOT SURE,” ummed the edifice. “OH WELL. SO BE IT.”

  A shining square opened in the establishment’s side, and something squat, sleek and as non-fatal as its designers had been able to make it glided silently forth into the world.

  “Unity,” whispered Shun-Company, “what if one of our own is standing next to your Uncle Anchorite’s machine when the warden, as you say, ‘blasts it to smithereens’?”

  Unity shrugged. “The Warden is a robot. It won’t do anything that might harm a human.”

  “Apart from the fact,” said Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus, “that the Penitentiary doesn’t currently consider the humans it sees to be real.”

  Unity ate her index finger in shock.

  “Oh, golly,” she said.

  “Golly,” said Shun-Company grimly, “can’t help us now.”

  The Warden slid up on a cushion of air.

  “CONCEALING THE LOCATION OF A FUGITIVE IS AN OFFENCE,” it said. “YOU MUST, IF YOU ARE AWARE OF THEM, INFORM ME OF THE WHEREABOUTS OF A HUMAN-ANALOGUE ROBOT OF INDETERMINATE MODEL, CURRENTLY BELIEVED TO BE CONCEALING THE MEMORY, DESIRES, HOPES AND DREAMS OF ONE JOHANNES MARIA VON TRAPP, VICIOUS CRIMINAL AND SOCIOPATH.”

  Unity looked at her parents.

  “Uh—we don’t actually know,” she said. “We rather hoped you could find it. It’s somewhere on this planet,” she added helpfully.

  Gravel crunched rhythmically behind them; they turned to see God’s-Wound, Apostle, Judge-Not and Uncleanness running up South Street, faces flushed with terror.

  “Mother! Father!” yelled Uncleanness. “Uncle Anchorite’s machine’s gone west on a horse with no name! It’s taken Beguiled and Mr. Trapp and it’s looking for someone called Lord Hades—” She stopped suddenly, noticing the Warden, which motored closer to her.

  “THANK YOU CHILD,” said the Warden. “PLEASE INFORM ME OF THIS DEVICE’S CURRENT POSITION.”

  Uncleanness looked to Mr. and Mrs. Reborn-in-Jesus for approval; Shun-Company nodded.

  “In the old crypt under the church,” she said. “The way in to the tomb from the church is blocked, I can show you another—”

  “THAT WILL NOT BE NECESSARY,” said the Warden in metallic contempt, pirouetting and moving in the direction of the church.