by Simon Haynes
"The robot. Jeremy can take a look right now, if we can get it there."
"Where?"
"Near Dismolle. He's got a place on the outskirts of the city."
"Alice will have to fly us there." Harriet looked around the office, then made a decision. "We can't leave the station in this state, and there's something else I have to do before we go home. Tell him Alice will bring the robot over there now."
Birch spoke into the commset, then put it away. "Okay, I told him thirty minutes."
"Knowing Alice, she'll be there in ten."
"I'll get someone to help carry. We'll put the robot in the airlock."
"Don't put him too close to the hatch," Harriet advised him. She told Alice what was going on, and when she went to speak with Flint he insisted on going along for the ride.
"I want to make sure they do a proper job," he said, resting one hand on the robot's crushed chest plate. "I don't want them wiping all his memories, or putting his leg on backwards."
"Jeremy did a good job with Bernie," Harriet assured him. She was going to say more, but Moira and Martin Caldavir came to say goodbye. "Are you off?"
"Yes, Worthy organised a van for all the gear."
Caldavir snorted. "He had to ring five different companies before he could book one. Bit of a shortage, apparently."
Harriet shook their hands. "I can't thank you enough for your help. Really. You both saved the day."
"No, thank you," said Moira. "That was the best time we've had for years."
They left, and Harriet turned to see Captain Timms studying her with those shrewd grey eyes. "You've done well, Harriet. Your superiors will be proud."
"Thanks, Captain." Harriet had never met her superiors, apart from Bernie, and she wasn't sure they even knew she existed.
Timms gave her a salute. "I hope you don't mind," she said, gesturing at the mess in the office, "but I really should get home. A neighbour is looking after my cat, but they're not particularly reliable."
"No, that's fine. We're just going to clear up the worst of it before we leave."
Banville and McCluskey made their goodbyes next, and Harriet watched them leaving together, a smile on her lips. The two of them had become inseparable, and she overheard them discussing dinner plans as they flagged down a cab. After three days living under the threat of sudden death, it was nice to hear people planning dinner dates and worrying about their cats.
That only left Alice, with Birch and Flint having taken Scrap to the roof. The office was suddenly quiet, although if she closed her eyes Harriet could still hear the gunfire, and the shouting, and the exploding grenades.
"I didn't push her out," said Alice suddenly.
"You already told me."
There was a pause.
"She'd have come back, you know. A week from now, maybe a month, she'd have brought ten times more people."
"Wouldn't have done her any good," said Harriet. "Apparently, there's a shortage of vans in the city."
They both laughed at that, earning them a puzzled look from Birch when he came down the stairs. "What's so funny?"
"We were just counting the cost of Darting's little invasion," said Harriet.
Thud!
They all turned at the sound, and Harriet smiled as she saw Bernie stepping out of a cab. The car was tilted over to one side, and as the big robot climbed out it levelled off with a rush, then drove off quickly before Bernie could change her mind and get in again. Bernie eyed the damage as she entered the office, disapproval on her face. "This won't do," she said. "This won't do at all."
"We've been tidying up," said Harriet. "It's just going to take a while."
"Then you'd better get to it," said Bernie. "This station is a terrible example to the people of Chirless."
"Sure, just give me…" Harriet's voice tailed off as a Peace Force cruiser drew up outside the station. She blinked, thinking it was an optical illusion, but the car was still there. "Steve?"
Bernie turned her head. "Oh, yes. Yesterday, I suggested he might come and collect me."
"You made him drive all the way from Dismolle?"
"No, I made him drive the rest of the way from Dismolle. Apparently, he was still parked in that layby, enjoying the view." Bernie turned and strode towards the entrance. "Keep tidying, Trainees. I expect a report on my desk in eighteen hours, give or take thirty seconds."
Harriet could only stare as Bernie climbed into the cruiser, and she was still staring as it departed with a roar from the after-burners.
"Sucks to be us," said Alice, glancing around the station. "Well, I can't hang around. I have a robot to deliver."
"What about tidying up?"
"You and Dave can handle it, right? I mean, you've got coffee and everything. See you!"
Alice ran up the steps before they could argue, leaving Harriet and Birch alone.
"I suppose we'd better get to it," said Birch.
Harriet shook her head. "I've got another errand to run first. Come on, let's get a cab."
Chapter 29
Alice and Flint carried Scrap across the car park to Jeremy's workshop, which was an old brick building with a slate roof. The windows were barred, and the door was a solid-looking affair made from riveted steel. Alice was surprised at that, because from what she'd heard Jeremy was a bit of a junk collector, and she wasn't sure what he could possibly have that would be worth stealing.
Jeremy must have heard the jet, because he opened the door as they approached. He was about thirty years old, with an unkempt beard and dark hair tied back into a ponytail. He had bare feet, despite the chill, and wore baggy trousers and a faded blue T-shirt. "Hi guys," he said brightly. "Come on in."
They followed him inside, where they saw a small office with a wooden counter. There was an impressive computer setup against the wall, with a dozen screens filled with scrolling text and status displays. Immediately, Alice realised why the front door and windows were secured. The computer must have cost at least twenty grand. "Is that a—" she began.
"Yeah, it's the latest model," said Jeremy. He gestured at the screens. "Hosting and tech support are what I do for a living. The handyman stuff is just a hobby."
"A hobby?" said Flint sharply. "Do you know what you're doing, son? This robot is important, you hear? I'm not letting some amateur—"
"Relax, grandad. These old models are simple. You should see the new ones, all glued together and jammed with resin so you can't fix 'em."
"I don't want a new one, and don't you grandad me."
"I'm sorry. Look, why don't you have a nice cup of tea while I get to work?"
"No chance. I'm not leaving Scrap's side."
Jeremy smiled. "All right, then. Come out the back, both of you."
They carried Scrap through a side door, and stopped. The rear of the workshop was huge, the entire area filled with metal racks, and the racks were crammed with tubs and crates bulging with components. Alice could see any number of robot limbs, ground car panels, even winglets and thrusters from space ships. "I thought you said it was a hobby?"
"I like to keep a few bits and pieces around. Most of it was slated for recycling, so I got it cheap."
"But what do you do with it all?"
"I catalogue everything, sort it by function and serial number, and list it online. You'd be surprised what people will buy at auction."
Alice wasn't surprised at all, since she'd picked up an entire ship for three credits.
They carried Scrap to a big metal workbench and laid him out, and then Jeremy took up a tool and began removing farings around the robot's damaged leg, sorting fasteners into a series of small pots. He worked quickly and efficiently, and Alice could see Flint relaxing as the work proceeded.
"Okay, the leg's totally wrecked," said Jeremy at last. "No chance of repair. Everything's crushed."
"That's it?" said Flint. "You're giving up?"
"Of course not! We just need another one." Jeremy took out a thinscreen, typed a part number, then scrolled through a lis
t. "I've got one from an older model. Same shape, but it's silver instead of bronze."
"I don't care about the colour," said Flint. "Just tell me it'll work."
"Yeah, it's a direct replacement." Flint showed Alice the screen. "Go to this bay and look for a big blue barrel on the floor. There'll be half a dozen legs in there - you want the silver one, and it should have this number on the tag."
Alice set off across the warehouse, moving between racks until she came across the row she needed. There were seven or eight legs in the barrel, standing up like umbrellas in a stand, and she sorted through them until she found the silver one with the correct tag. She tried to pull it out, but all the feet were all tangled in the bottom of the barrel, and in the end she had to remove half of them before she could get the silver one free. Then she put the others back and carried her prize back to Jeremy and Flint.
When she got there, the robot's chest was exposed, the crushed chest plate lying on the bench alongside, the serial number XG-87 all but scraped away by the impact with the van. Jeremy had donned a pair of powerful magnifying lenses, and was touching various parts of the robot's circuits with an electronic probe. The probe beeped and buzzed, but Jeremy's expression gave nothing away, and it was impossible to guess whether the sounds were positive or negative.
"You're lucky," said Jeremy at last, flipping up the lenses. "The damage is just cosmetic."
"But those hoses …" began Flint.
"That's nothing. I'll soon have those replaced."
"What about the leaks? It was getting into everything."
"Relax, it was only coolant, and he must have shut down before he overheated. Nothing's damaged, trust me."
"Good lad!" Flint clapped him on the shoulder, the blow knocking Jeremy's lenses down over his face.
He pushed them up again, then cleared his throat. "There is one thing." He saw Flint's expression. "Oh, it's nothing to do with the damage. I just found a few anomalies when I was checking him over."
"What sort of anomalies? Is it serious?"
"There's degradation in his memory. His long term storage seems to be a little flaky."
"Join the club," muttered Flint.
Jeremy continued. "It's fine for now, but the unit will need replacing down the line. When you do … he's going to forget everything."
Flint looked down at the robot. "You know, that might be a blessing in disguise. He's very attached to me, and I won't last forever. I've been worried about him, but if I leave instructions to have his memory upgraded after I'm gone …"
"But he won't remember you!" protested Alice. "You can't do that to him! It's not fair!"
"It'll be a kindness," said Flint.
"He's right," said Jeremy. "Robots don't handle our deaths very well, you know. Grief can end up destroying them."
Alice was about to argue, but she realised they might just be right.
Jeremy glanced at his thinscreen. "We'll need a new chest plate," he told Alice. "Try aisle four, third rack down. There's a tub with half a dozen in. They're all the same, so grab the best one."
Alice nodded and set off again. She found the tub, and gingerly sorted through the chest plates inside. They were stacked on edge, thick with grime and dirt. She couldn't even tell what colour they were until she rubbed each corner clean, but once she had a couple of bronze ones she took them out and checked them over. One had a nasty crease across the shoulder, while the second seemed to be straight and true. So, she put the first back in the tub and returned with the second chest plate. She placed it on the bench then inspected her hands, grimacing at the dirt.
"Yeah, sorry about that," said Jeremy. "Some of this stuff has been stored for years. I clean it up before shipping it out, but otherwise it just sits there." He passed her a rag, then continued working on Scrap's leg. "Do you want to clean off that chest plate while I'm doing this?" he asked Flint.
"Of course. Anything to help."
Alice passed him the rag, and Jeremy indicated a bottle of thinners. Flint moistened the rag, then worked it over the chest plate in circles, cutting through the grime to reveal a scratched, bronze surface. When he got to the upper right corner, a serial number appeared, the black lettering faded but still legible: XG-99. Flint paused at the sight, then glanced across at Scrap's old chest plate with its faded 'XG-87'.
"You can always paint his old number on the new chest piece," said Alice.
Flint shook his head. "I don't care about the serial number. I just want him up and about again."
There was a solid click as Jeremy detached Scrap's damaged leg, and Alice watched him lining up the new one. When it was safely in place, Jeremy began fitting the wiring connectors together. He worked quickly, with a deft touch, and it seemed like no time had passed before he was refitting the farings. The leg looked a little odd, being a different colour to the rest, but Alice supposed nobody would mind a robot with mismatched legs. After all, it would still work just as well. Hopefully.
Once the leg was connected, Jeremy turned his attention to the chest. He replaced the tubing, then filled a reservoir inside the chest cavity from a small plastic bottle. When he was satisfied, he set the bottle aside and took up the newly polished chestplate, crouching to make sure the lugs were lined up. Then he fastened it down, checking each of the little compartments opened and closed properly. Finally, he took a rag and wiped his hands. "Okay, we're ready for testing," he said. "Let's get this guy booted up."
Alice saw Flint's nervous expression, and she felt a certain amount of nerves herself. Robots contained a lot of energy, and if any wires were crossed it might go off like a bomb.
"Do you want to do the honours?" asked Jeremy. "Just turn it on here, inside this compartment."
Flint approached, and with shaking fingers he activated the switch. At first, nothing happened, but then there was a beep and light gleamed through the robot's joints. Seconds later, Scrap opened his eyes and looked up at them. Then, without assistance, he sat up on the bench. He examined his chest, then twisted his new foot from side to side, before raising and lowering it. The motors whirred smoothly, and when his inspection was done, he turned to Flint. "I hope you've been taking your pills."
Flint gave a shout of joy, and enveloped the robot in a big hug. Then he helped Scrap to his feet, and watched, entranced, as the robot took his first few steps. Scrap walked to the office and back, moving freely apart from a clunk-clunk-clunk every time he moved the new leg.
Flint laughed. "You want to be careful, or I'll start calling you Clunk."
"I've been called worse," said Scrap, with a wry smile.
— ♦ —
Harriet ran up the steps to the grand entrance of the Chirless Residents' Association, with Dave Birch right behind her. She walked straight past the reception counter, pushed through the double doors leading to the rear of the building, and headed for the carpeted stairs leading to the next floor.
"Hey, you can't go up there!" shouted the receptionist, but she was far too late. "Security. Security!"
Harriet found the door she was after, and burst into Foster's office unannounced. There was a startled oath, and she saw Foster with a slice of cake halfway to her mouth, about to take a big bite. The older woman put the cake down and gave Harriet a poisonous look. "What do you think you're doing? You can't just—"
"Shut it," snapped Harriet.
"This is an outrage! I'll have your badge!"
"Stop speaking, or I'll jam that cake in your face so hard they'll still be digging it out next week."
Foster swallowed fitfully, but said nothing.
"You're done with treating the Peace Force like scum," said Harriet evenly. "We just saved your city from a major threat. Three days facing almost certain death, and you're sitting here tucking into cake!"
The door burst open and a couple of uniformed guards charged in. Quick as lightning, Birch covered them with his blaster, and they stopped in their tracks. "We're just here to talk," he said pleasantly. "Let's not turn this into a s
hooting match, all right?"
They nodded.
Harriet hadn't taken her eyes off Foster. "I don't care what you do with your restaurants and your fancy offices, but you're going to find room in your budget for some proper Peace Force funding. Is that clear?"
"You want us to pay … for you?"
"Exactly."
"But … our funds are limited!"
"So close your fancy restaurant, or move out of this place into an abandoned warehouse. Your association is a parasite feeding off this planet, and it's about time you did some good with all the money you're collecting."
"Very well! I'll, er, table a motion at the next meeting. I'm sure we can set up a working party to consider—"
"No working parties, no meetings," snapped Harriet. "Bernie will send through an estimate, and you'll pay it. I'm sure you're used to rubber-stamping things, so I'm betting it won't be held up."
"But—"
Harriet leaned across the desk, eyes narrowed. "You'll do this, or I'll report your little agreement with Darting to the Peace Force top brass."
"Wh-what agreement?" said Foster. "We had no agreement!"
"Lady, you need to brush up on your poker face." Harriet took out her commset, scrolled through the menu, then hit play. Harriet's voice played through the speaker, as clear as a bell.
"You can't just turn up and appoint yourself sheriff."
And then it was Darting's voice.
"Why not? Nobody else wants the job." There was a pause. "I've already spoken to the Chirless Residents' Association, by the way. They intend to make this official at an upcoming meeting."
Foster stared at the commset, and she couldn't have looked more surprised if it had grown a pair of wings and flown away. "That's illegal," she said at last. "You can't record conversations."
"Actually, I can. Peace Force directive eight-niner-two dash six." Harriet prodded the desk with her finger. "Now, if you don't find room in your budget for the Peace Force, I'll have you arrested and jailed, and then I'll take over your exclusive little club myself."
"You wouldn't dare!"
"Don't tempt me. I could certainly use a free restaurant."
