Robot Wrecker

by Paul Tomlinson

  "Not bad," she said. "How'd you guess?"

  "It's your father's car," I said.

  "My mother's actually," she said.

  I tapped another icon and pulled up the nav-pilot.

  "Destination?"

  Janine leaned across and entered a code: a pre-programmed route.

  We headed north again, the car driving itself now. As we got higher into the hills, the view through the windscreen became wilder, a fractal landscape of broken sandstone and ferns and barbed wire strung between weathered wooden posts. I could feel civilisation slipping further and further away behind us.

  "This is all natural," Janine said, looking out of the side window. "Computers didn't select the combinations of colours and textures, or the width of the road, or the height of the trees. It all just happened. Isn't it great?"

  "Terrific."

  "You know what I really like about being out here?" Janine asked.

  "Hearing the hounds howling on the moors?"

  "There's no security, no surveillance."

  The road levelled out again, and we emerged from between steep claustrophobic hills into what you'd probably call a picturesque little valley, if you were seeing it in a picture. The scenery was okay, I guess. But she was right about the freedom, knowing you weren't being watched. The car drove on, almost silent, for three-quarters of an hour. It went north for a while, and then it took several turns which I suspect were meant to disorientate me, prevent me from realising that we were actually heading back towards the city but from a different direction.

  "Can I ask you a question?" I asked.

  "Sure."

  "Why do you have such strong feelings about robots?"

  Janine stared straight ahead, out the windscreen, and I didn't think she was going to answer.

  "I think robots have their place," she said. "I just don't think that place is in the home or the school."

  "Why not?" I asked.

  "I don't want my son to grow up thinking that machines are people, or that people are just complicated machines."

  "Do you think there's a real risk of people confusing people and robots?"

  "Someone I cared about was hurt by a robot," she said. "I don't want to talk about it."

  I don't think she meant physically harmed. For no good reason, I was reminded of a story about a woman who had fallen in love with a robot. Her perfect man. I'd always thought it fanciful, a fairytale. Maybe I'd just never met the right robot...

  There wasn't much on this side of town, a lot of flattened lots that Nature was reclaiming. We could have been anywhere. I think we were approaching the city from the north-west, but I wasn't certain. Janine had blanked the dashboard so I couldn't see the maps or the compass.

  The Insurgency had made its home in an old storage bunker. Moss-covered concrete on the surface, most of it was underground, carved into the sandstone or maybe just built over one of the natural caves. There was a high wall at the front and a fortified loading bay. The rest disappeared back into the red cliff.

  "Do we go over the wall?" I asked.

  "Only if you want to be shot down," she said.

  A huge iron gate, topped with coils of razor wire, rumbled open. It was like driving into a high security prison.

  Inside, the bunker was fitted out with all the comforts of home: the gang were all sitting around a big screen tv and polishing their guns. They became restless when the cartoons finished and the news came on. There was report about more attacks on old robots. Someone walked in and turned off the TV.

  "I guess those attacks aren't your work then," I said. The new arrival didn't smile: instead he favoured me with a well-practised sneer. I didn't tell Dale Reuben that I was pleased to meet him either. Did I envy him because he had the charm and charisma of a revolutionary leader? Or did I just dislike him because he was an arrogant turd?

  "We've heard a lot about you, Houston," Reuben said. What he'd heard had obviously impressed him, not at all. "What we need from you is publicity for The Insurgency. We want news coverage that'll make top story on the national news; something that'll make these 'Jack the Wrecker' attacks look like amateur night. Nathan seems to think you're up to it. Time to prove it."

  The gauntlet had been thrown. Dale Reuben wanted a big production number, and Nathan had come up with the perfect plan to give him one. All I had to do was make it happen. The hardest part had been the choreography for the robot chorus line... The briefing that Nathan and I gave went down pretty well, we were a good team, and even Dale Reuben forgot to sneer once or twice. After some pointed – and some pointless – questions, the plan got the thumbs up.

  Dale Reuben's last question was: "When?"

  Chapter Thirteen

  The robot showroom was meant to be The Insurgents' finest hour. It was supposed to get them two days' worth of news features on the national networks, and least one full-length documentary. As it turned out, the whole thing surpassed even their wildest expectations. Nathan's plan had been a sort of extension of some of the things he and I had engineered in the past. It was also his attempt to make an impression, to improve his ranking in The Insurgents' hierarchy. When he had first explained the idea to me, I could see the sequence of events in my head, and was planning how to bring it off even before he had finished.

  We had chosen a medium-sized robot sales franchise. Not a small independent whose business would be ruined, but a well-insured main dealer who would be fully supported by the franchise parent, Minos Technologies. It had to be large enough to be news-worthy when attacked, but not so large as to employ its own armed security men. We found the perfect target in the Robot Warehouse store on the Ropewalk.

  The place was furnished with the same kind of restrained style found in game show sets: too much light, too much glitter, and too little substance – it could have been a West End musical. A hologram in the window spelled out the showroom's name in scrolls of fake pink neon, and there was a faux-neon animation of two cog wheels performing endless revolutions.

  A large window display showed a line of robots in a variety of costumes, intended to give an impression of the range of household chores and fantasy roles the machines could perform. Other robots on display inside were posed in mock-ups of garden and kitchen scenarios, while others stood like sculptures on little pedestals. Smart salesmen in dark suits with bow ties and carnations scurried about, showing customers the goods on display and practising their ingratiating smiles.

  Nathan and I watched the showroom for a month, at the end of which time we knew everything about the business, and the building, the street and the neighbourhood which housed it. We knew all the routine activities, all the routes taken, and how long every task took. We had schematics for electrics, plumbing, air-conditioning and security systems. And a blueprint of Blackpool Tower I called up by mistyping a file number. We knew every employee and everyone who visited the showroom in a service capacity, from garbage disposal to the sandwich seller.

  We hacked into their computer and security early on, and had control of their business for a whole week before we actually made our move. The phones took a little longer to work out, since that involved a little rewiring, but it was less than a night's work.

  Dale Reuben and a couple of the others went down to the showroom on the day, as observers. They would record the video we would later post on the web, which the networks would then pick up for their news bulletins. Janine, Nathan and I would actually be controlling the operation, by remote control.

  At 7 am, we switched over control of the showroom's robots from their computer to mine: there were forty-eight active machines in all, the most I'd ever tried to co-ordinate.

  Nathan was our eyes, watching the images from the showroom's security monitors, keeping track of the movements of everyone and everything. Janine had a similar view of the showroom. All of the staff and robots were tagged on her screen, and she also had feeds from local police and MinoTech security communications. If trouble came our way, we'd have advance notice
of it. In theory.

  It was my task to control the movements of the showroom robots, individually to begin with, and then simultaneously as they made a mass exodus and formed a chorus line up the main street outside the showroom, culminating in a final pre-programmed dance display which would disrupt the traffic at a major cross-roads two minutes down the road. We'd leave the dance program on continuous loop and make our escape before anyone could trace us.

  The showroom activated the muzak and opened its doors at nine, but we waited until 10.30 before we made our move: we wanted the showroom and the street outside to be filled with shoppers. What's the point of a show without an audience?

  "There's our man," Nathan said, a couple of minutes before half-past.

  The security camera image of a man entering the showroom came up in a window on my screen. Janine tagged the man, and he became a small animated figure on her schematic.

  "Ready?" I asked. I flexed my fingers and paused them above the keyboard, like a maestro about to conduct a symphony of mayhem. I think that's what they call hubris.

  Our plan called for Nathan to select a likely looking customer to be our first victim. He had chosen a small man clutching a briefcase to his pot-belly. The man's name was Ernest Celandine – he was interviewed about the incident later on tv. Celandine's dark suit was pulled taut in several places, shiny in others, and permanently wrinkled from hours of desk-sitting. His perspiring face was briefly illuminated by pink light as he paused in the showroom doorway, surveying the place – probably thinking it looked like a game show set – before he waddled inside. He stopped just inside the doorway, and his head swivelled on his neck as he took in the size of the shop floor: maybe he hadn't realised there were so many varieties of robot to choose from.

  "Yes, sir. How may I help you?"

  Startled, Ernest turned to face an ingratiating smile; behind it stood an oiled salesman with a pencil-thin moustache.

  "Er... yes... I'd like to buy a robot."

  "Of course, sir." The tone of voice said: Why else would one enter a robot sales room?

  "Yes... a... humanoid robot. One of those life-like ones," Ernest said suddenly, decisively, his fuddled mind throwing him a straw to clutch: he'd seen MinoTech's humanoid robots advertised on television recently. In the ads, Karl Starzz beamed his dazzling smile, his jet-dyed hair greased back like liquorice shoelaces.

  "We took our latest humanoid robot into this supermarket, to see if the average person in the street could tell the difference between him and a real person..."

  Karl then pounced on some 'unsuspecting' shopper, who said "Oh, Karl, you startled me!" in a way which didn't sound spontaneous and unrehearsed, despite hours of practising.

  "Now, Chrissy. You're going to tell us which of these two is the human being: are you ready, Chrissy?"

  "Yes," she paused, trying to give the impression that she was thinking. "This – this one's real." She grabbed the arm of one of the attractive, tanned young men.

  "Now are you sure, Chrissy? You don't want to change your mind?"

  She didn't have one to change. "No, no. I'm sure. It's definitely this one."

  "Well, is she right?" Karl asked.

  The young man Chrissy had selected rolled up his sleeve and split open the skin there with a thumb nail, to reveal shiny stainless steel and wires.

  "Oh, no!" Sue gasped, clasping her hands over her mouth and making a complete dipstick of herself, as women are made to do in adverts.

  "Why not see for yourself?" Karl asked in voice-over. "Minos Technologies robots really are perfect. Visit your local showroom today. And remember, all our robots are available on a five year finance scheme with only ten percent deposit, and there's a generous trade-in on your old robot. Ask for details, and tell them Karl sent you."

  I wonder if Karl is a robot?

  "I only went in for a very basic model," Ernest told reporters later. "Nothing too expensive, or too tall: I'm only just over five foot myself, you see." Ernest Celandine was one of those peculiar people who became less nervous and more talkative when a television camera was pointed at him, determined to exploit every second of his fifteen-minute fame. "But when I saw what those new humanoid models have to offer, I thought: Ernest, I thought, you work hard, you live alone, don't you deserve one of these humanoid robots to help you keep house? And the credit terms really were reasonable."

  "Yes, but what actually happened in the showroom, Mr. Celandine?" The journalist urged.

  The little man looked annoyed. "I'm just getting to that!"

  "Is sir looking for a basic domestic model?" The salesman asked, just the correct amount of disapproval in his voice, his arm sweeping towards a plastic-looking female robot with glassy stare and nylon hair, working rather jerkily at an ironing board. "Or was sir looking for something a little more exotic?" This time the arm swept towards an archway at the rear of the showroom. There was a beaded curtain with dim red lighting beyond. The Tunnel of Love blinked above the archway in faux-neon, and the entrance was guarded by a well-built female 'droid in skin-tight black leather.

  Ernest blushed. "Oh, goodness no!" He said, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. "I'm looking for a nice humanoid one, the kind that Karl Starzz advertises."

  Like a shark smelling blood, the salesman caught the scent of a commission in the air, and bore down on Ernest Celandine, placing an arm across his shoulder. He steered the little man to a display where a male and female android each stood on a little dais. They were motionless and looked too perfect to be human. "We call them Anthony and Cleopatra," the salesman said, the edges of his smile disappearing into his hairline. Tony was dressed in a Roman toga and sandals, and looked like a young Marlon Brando. Cleo had obviously been modelled on Elizabeth Taylor, down to the startling violet eyes. Her hair was straight and black, contrasting with pale creamy skin, and her eyes were made up in Hollywood Egyptian style. She was dressed in a costume consisting of layers of almost transparent cloth, designed to reveal the perfection of the female form beneath.

  "It is obvious that sir is a man of discerning taste," the salesman smarmed. "These really are the best models on the market. Will sir be trading in his old robot?"

  "Er... no. I've never owned a robot."

  "I see." The salesman's smile slipped a couple of notches.

  "So I shall be paying the deposit in cash," Ernest said quickly.

  The salesman's eyes brightened and his smile jacked up again, to the sound of a cash register ringing. "Is it a female model that sir requires to... er... help him around the house?"

  "Yes, indeed."

  "Excellent. Well, if I might just leave sir a moment while I get the appropriate forms? Perhaps sir would like to consider his choice of options?"

  "Options?" Ernest asked, his expression worried. I wonder what he was thinking.

  "Hair and eye colour, height, face and body shape – all can be tailored to your requirements." The salesman hurried away, eager to get Celandine's signature on the form and make the sale official. There are those who say he deserved to die.

  Ernest Celandine stood looking up at the Anthony and Cleopatra display, and that was our cue to begin our little party. A small speaker-grille in the dais on which Cleopatra stood crackled, and music filtered out from it – soft, almost subliminal, urging the listener to dance like an Egyptian. Imperceptively at first, but with increasing intensity, Tony and Cleo moved in time to the music, dipping their shoulders and bobbing their heads, and engaging in a kind of Cairo hand jive. A soothing voice spoke over the music.

  "You are looking at the most sophisticated and life-like humanoid robot available today. Using the latest micro-motor and electronic technology, it is available in many different heights, builds and racial types. Hair colour, eye colour and skin tone can all be specified from a wide selection, providing thousands of individual combinations, making your robot truly unique." Ernest Celandine looked left and right, and then down at the floor to see if he had accidentally triggered this demon
stration. "The timbre of the voice and the accent can also be customised. The robot is programmed to respond naturally in a variety of social situations, and can sing and play nine different musical instruments, though not simultaneously, of course."

  Cleo's dais began to rotate. Still moving in time to the music, she introduced new elements to her dance: variations on that old favourite the dance of the seven veils. Momentarily startled, Mr. Celandine backed away. He glanced about him, afraid someone might be watching and think him responsible. He searched desperately for some way to end the demonstration. The dais completed its circuit and came to a halt. With only two veils left to cover her, Cleopatra stepped down and wrapped herself like a serpent around the perspiring little man. Celandine seemed to be finding it difficult to breath.

  "Back off the little man," Janine warned, "we don't want him having a heart attack."

  That wasn't the sort of publicity we were seeking. Luckily the salesman chose that moment to return, clutching the blank sales forms. He looked at Cleo's near nakedness and the veils scattered around the dais.

  "What are you doing?" The salesman demanded to know. Celandine stepped in front of Cleopatra in an attempt to hide her.

  "It wasn't me!" Celandine croaked. Cleopatra leaned forward and planted a kiss on the top of Celandine's bald head.

  "Oh, my!" He edged away. His elbow caught one of the robots in the window display, setting off a domino-reaction that flattened the whole line-up of machines there. Celandine hurried towards the door.

  "What about your robot, sir?" The salesman held out the forms, imploring. Cleo slapped the forms out of the salesman's hand and grabbed his tie, pulling him close to her.

  "Dance with me!" Her voice was husky.

  "Stop this!" The salesman commanded.

  Cleo removed his tie and let it slide between her fingers to the ground. Distracted by this, the salesman didn't immediately react when she gripped the front of his shirt and tore it open. Then he turned angrily and shouted up at the control room that overlooked the sales area. "What the hell is going on?"