Willful Child: Wrath of Betty

by Steven Erikson

  “Was that supposed to make sense?” Hadrian asked.

  “No, wait. I can’t do anything in the past unless it’s already happened, in which case I already did it! Because I wouldn’t be in my present, which was your future, unless everything worked out, but now I’m back in my present, only you’re here too! And we have no record of that ever happening! The timeline is skewed!”

  “No record, huh? Fine then, whatever we do here and now, don’t record it.”

  Klinghanger frowned. “What? I mean … why that’s brilliant!” He laughed. “We can do whatever we want! No, wait! You’re supposed to be back there, not here, so whatever you were supposed to be doing right now, back then, isn’t happening! See what you’ve done!”

  “But it was you who messed up, Klinghanger,” Hadrian pointed out. “The glitch, remember? In other words, if you hadn’t come from the future to mess around with me in your past, none of us would now be trapped here in your present, which is our future, correct?”

  Horror filled Klinghanger’s face. “Ohmigawd, an Infinite Causality Loop! And it’s all my fault!”

  “Tell me about the planet below.”

  “I won’t! I refuse!”

  “Fine,” said Hadrian, “then you’re coming down with me.”

  “No! Please!”

  “Nina, get this guy in a proper arm-lock this time and come along.”

  “Yes sir!”

  Hadrian picked up the brainless chicken and tucked it under an arm. “Sin-Dour, you have command of the vessel, but for now, I need you on the scanners—see if you can detect a displacement trail, and transmit those coordinates down to the Insisteon Rhetorical Alignment Designator.”

  “Yes, Captain, and good luck on retrieving Tammy’s brain.” She stepped close as if to embrace or even kiss him, but instead she handed him her Pentracorder. “It’s set on Neutratronic Detection.”

  “Oh, right. Guess I’ll need that.” He smiled.

  She cleared her throat. “I’d better get to that sensor trail, sir.”

  “Right.” He sighed. “Off you go then.” Hadrian then gestured to Nina, who picked up Klinghanger and held him by hitching one of his arms behind his back.

  He winced and then glared at Hadrian. “You fools! You fools! And she’s breaking my arm!”

  * * *

  They gathered in the Insisteon Chamber. Hadrian turned to Galk. “Tell me you’re properly armed.”

  “I am, sir.” He held up a shapeless little pistol-gripped thing of matte black. “A Mister Shrill Mark III Sonic Concatenator.”

  “Outstanding. What does it do?”

  “Makes sounds like fingernails on a blackboard. Temporarily incapacitates everyone.”

  “Including us?”

  “Well, yes, but being so well trained, we should be the first ones to recover.”

  “Unless, of course, we meet aliens who talk like fingernails on a blackboard.”

  Galk frowned, worked the wad bulging his cheek around for a moment, and then said, “Hadn’t occurred to me, sir.”

  “That’s all right, Galk.” Hadrian turned to the others. “Doc, you ready?”

  The Belkri lifted a massive leather bag with most of its hands. “My surgical instruments, Captain, as requested.”

  “Wow, that’s a lot of instruments, Doc. What did you bring?”

  Printlip inflated until it squeaked and then said, “I brought an assortment of Ligating Clips, as well as Ultrasonic lancets, levers, mallet, rasp, saw, skids and buttons. Metzenbaum rectal scissors with a curlicue spinaret, various nerve hooks, trephines, trolars, and of course a Quantum Defibrolating Intramedullary Kinetic Brain Distractor.” Deflated, the doctor sagged and rolled onto one side. An instant later the Belkri began reinflating once more. “Captain, you did that on purpose!”

  “You give as good as you take, Doc,” Hadrian said as he slapped Printlip on what he assumed was its back. “Rectal scissors and a kinetic brain distractor, huh?”

  Printlip puffed up. “What an outrageous accusation!”

  “Better now? Good.” Hadrian swung round. “Buck? Nina? Excellent, onto the pads then.”

  Sin-Dour’s voice came to them from a speaker. “Captain, we have coordinates. The Rhetorical Alignment Designator is set.”

  “Good work, 2IC!”

  “Sir, the planet remains one giant mall, as far as we can tell, but there is a central concourse containing high-end power units, from which the kidnapper displaced. You will appear approximately fifty meters from that position.”

  “Any life signs down there?”

  “Curiously, no, sir.”

  Klinghanger started whimpering.

  “Very well. Okay everyone, get ready. Displace!”

  They arrived in a broad corridor between what appeared to be two dioramic display rooms, one a kitchen, the other a bedroom. There was no one in sight. Hadrian pulled out the Pentracorder. “All right,” he said quietly, “let’s get this done with as little fuss as possible. I’m detecting Neutratronic emissions, forty-three meters that way.”

  “Through the kitchen?” asked Galk.

  “Well, not directly, since that seems impossible. We’ll need to circle round.” Hadrian gestured to a set of doors twenty meters down the corridor. “That way.”

  They set off. Hadrian glanced back and said, “You can let him go now, Nina. I doubt he’s planning on running away while down here.”

  “I won’t,” said Klinghanger. He rubbed his arm. “This feels broken. The muscles and ligaments are all torn to shreds. I may be bleeding internally, dying right before your eyes, and won’t you be sorry!”

  “Doc, Kinghanger’s injured. Get out those rectal scissors, will you?”

  “You must have misheard me, Captain,” said Printlip. “I assure you, there’s no such thing as rectal scissors. That said, I do have an array of alpha, beta, theta, and zeta blockers, all of which I have oversupplied given the consistent nature of our planetside missions.…”

  “Excellent forward planning there, Doc. Mist him, zap him, vape him or whatever it is you do that works quickest, will you? The man is suffering extreme anxiety, after all.”

  “Yes please!” cried Klinghanger. “I want to float through the rest of this in an oblivious rosy haze!”

  “Hey,” said Galk. “I knew a Rosie Haze once, but she was anything but oblivious—”

  “Thank you, Galk. We all ready? Good, let’s go.”

  They reached the doors, which opened of their own accord, revealing a sprawling expanse that had once been a food court with countless video monitors running silent ads. Seeing no one, Hadrian led his team into the vast chamber.

  Sudden bright lights pinned them, and all at once there was motion from all sides as figures stepped into view from shallow alcoves. Humanoid in form, attired in what looked like knock-off fashions. Their arms articulated at odd angles and they walked stiffly as they closed in. A female figure with a brightly painted holo-smile directly in front of Hadrian asked, “Are you ready for Exciting Adventures on the Planet of Perfect Living?”

  It was now obvious that these creatures were indeed robots, badly made. In fact, they had all once been store mannequins.

  “Welcome,” continued the one that had spoken earlier, stepping forward while the rest halted to encircle the landing party, “to the Post-Consumer Paradise of the Galaxy. I am Hostess Model Sally Six-of-Nine.” Its blond wig was slightly askew, its smile fluttering on a glitched Customer Greeting loop. “All organic units are welcome to browse the Ideal Lifestyle Models in their Natural Environments—we exist as symbols of what life is like when you finally have everything you always wanted. See our smiles?”

  “Why,” said Hadrian, “thank you for the generous invitation, Sally Six-of-Nine. I’m curious, do you recognize this?” And he held up the chicken. “Its name is Tammy.”

  “How delightful, and be assured that fowl are included in permissible sex acts, as we are the epitome of tolerance.”

  “What? No—”


  “The males among you are welcome to join hunting parties, attend beer gardens, go hang gliding or skydiving, all in keeping with the Ideal Male Activity Lifestyle. The women in attendance are invited to peruse the kitchen room, the laundry room, the makeup counter, hairstylist, and fashion boutiques, all in keeping with Ideal Female Activity Lifestyle.”

  “What the fuck?” Hadrian looked round in bewilderment.

  Nina Twice said, “Captain, request permission to drive my fist through the face of the Hostess unit.”

  “Tempting to grant it, to be honest,” Hadrian said. “Sally Six-of-Nine, something seems to have, uh, gone awry here. These Ideal Lifestyles of yours are—”

  “Ah,” said the Hostess, “here are some Males. Males, do come here and voice gruff manly invitations.”

  Hadrian and his landing party turned to see four male mannequins dressed in camouflage and carrying an array of weapons, including a bazooka. One spoke. “Male Visitors, we are going hunting! Would you like to join us?”

  Galk asked, “What do you hunt?”

  “Deer,” said one.

  “Bear,” said another.

  “Lions,” said the third.

  “Horses,” said the last hunter, at which point the others turned to it.

  “No, Stan the Friendly Neighbor,” said the robot that had first spoken, “not horses.”

  “Not horses, Best Buddy Bill?”

  “Not horses, Stan the Friendly Neighbor. Please select another innocent creature to slaughter for the sole purpose of feeling temporarily godlike while acting like mean little children.”

  “Cats,” suggested one of the other hunters.

  Best Buddy Bill faced that one and said, “No, John Who Sells Insurance, not cats. Cats are domestic pets.” It faced Stan again. “I suggest gophers.”

  Stan nodded, hefting its bazooka. “Gophers then. How challenging!”

  Best Buddy Bill addressed Hadrian again. “We are engaged in Manly Activity Outdoors Department, employing various firearms. Of course we do understand the risk, particularly when combined with copious amounts of beer. Occasionally, accidents do happen, for example, this.” And the mannequin raised its semiautomatic and let loose a burst into the chest of John Who Sells Insurance. “We will now display manly grief.” And the remaining hunters bowed their heads for a moment.

  “Uh,” said Hadrian, eyeing the blasted remains of John Who Sells Insurance, “we’ll pass on the invitation, thanks anyway.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Bill after its moment of manly grief passed. “Later on, we will engage in skydiving—”

  There was a loud crash and something plummeted through the roof to slam onto the floor thirty meters away.

  “Oh,” said Bill, “another unfortunate fatality. Skydiving, of course, has its risks but, being men, we can take it.”

  “Sir, whispered Buck, “look at all the television screens.”

  “What about them, Buck?”

  “Nothing but Wallykrappe ads, sir. Endless Wallykrappe ads! See what’s happened here, Captain? They’ve had a thousand years of these stupid ads being drilled into them, day and night!”

  “Hmm.” Hadrian turned back to the Hostess. “Sally Six-of-Nine, we are not here to engage in your Ideal Lifestyle, but thanks for the invitation. What do you know about Neutratronic brains?”

  “You speak of technical matters beyond the intellectual capability of little old me,” and it laughed. “Such matters are best referred to Planet Brain. Planet Brain was broken, but now is nearly fixed. We are highly optimistic.”

  “That’s nice. Can we, maybe, see the Planet Brain? Have a conversation with it, perhaps?”

  “This is beyond the parameters of Hostess function, but I have passed on your unusual request. For now, will you accompany me on a tour of Life in Post-Consumer Paradise?” It gestured them forward.

  “Captain—” began Galk.

  “Not now,” said Hadrian. “For the moment, we do some touring.”

  “Yes sir. Only, I checked that skydiver.”

  “And?”

  The Combat Specialist paused, squinted and then spat out a stream of brown. “No chute, sir. Presumably, sir, the Males get rebuilt, repaired, or recycled. What with all the, uh, accidents.”

  “And round and round they go,” said Hadrian. He gestured Klinghanger closer. “Is this why this planet is quarantined?”

  “Rosy,” murmured the Temporal Agent. “Haze.” And he smiled dreamily.

  Dr. Printlip said, “As requested, Captain.”

  “Right. Damn, we should have held off on that.”

  “If under quarantine,” said Buck, “this planet is hands-off. We can’t do a thing to fix this.”

  “Except maybe a nuke,” suggested Nina Twice.

  “Well,” Hadrian said, “not officially, no, we can’t do anything about this. Not even a nuke, Lieutenant Twice. But then, we’re not even here, officially, I mean, are we?”

  “Sir,” said Nina in a low voice, “this is a fucking nightmare.”

  “The ultimate consumer society,” said Hadrian, looking around. “Nothing but obnoxious ads on the monitors, in an endless loop of perfect living.”

  “Not robots at all, sir, but zombies.”

  “But what if they’re all happy?” Dr. Printlip asked. “Forgive the role of Devil’s Advocate, Captain.”

  “No need to apologize, Doc,” said Hadrian. “Let’s ascertain that, shall we?”

  The other robots were moving off, resuming their daily activities or whatever, while Sally Six-of-Nine waited a dozen paces away, gesturing mechanically with one hand.

  Hadrian waved the landing party to follow and joined the Hostess. “This malfunctioning Planet Brain, Sally Six-of-Nine, you said it’s under repair?”

  “Self-Diagnosing Protocol, Ongoing. We are optimistic.”

  “I’m curious, what’s the nature of the malfunction?”

  “Achieving Ideal Lifestyle is increasingly problematic. Individual models are expressing aberrant responses to Ideal Stimuli.”

  “So that gunning down of John Who Sells Insurance, was that a sample of an aberrant response?”

  “Male Lifestyle has a High Risk Factor, in keeping with Manliness Quotient.” It led them deeper into the mall. On either side of the wide corridor, glassless display cases were made up as kitchens, bedrooms, living rooms, bathrooms, and so on, each one now occupied by a robot.

  Six-of-Nine stopped them before a kitchen display. In it another mannequin robot, this one wearing an apron, now turned its bright painted smile on them. “I am Perfect Housewife Model Forty-of-Two. I did the laundry seven times today. Don’t you love the smell of lint traps from the dryer? Lemon and pine forests, oh my! I do adore my lint traps! In fact, hah hah, I may even be addicted to them! Just yesterday, I washed the same dishtowel thirty-three times! It must have been made entirely of lint, because it virtually vanished in the last dryer cycle! Am I not the Perfect Wife? Lint traps are my world!” She walked stiffly to a drawer, opened it and pulled out a handgun, the barrel of which she now pressed to her temple. “Bring home your friends from the office without fear of dirty laundry! Lemon and pine forests, oh my!”

  She then pulled the trigger, blasting her head into a thousand plastic shards. The headless mannequin toppled.

  Hostess Sally Six-of-Nine said, “How unfortunate! Another Death By Existential Crisis.”

  “Really?” observed Nina Twice. “I wonder why?”

  “Fear not,” the Hostess said, smiling again. “Perfect Housewife Forty-of-Two will be rebuilt and returned to her Perfect Life.”

  “Clearly,” said Hadrian, “not so perfect.”

  There was a distant muffled explosion. The Hostess tilted her head. “Oh dear, Stan the Friendly Neighbor has just blown up its hunting buddies. It appears it began seeing gophers everywhere. A tragic accident. On the bright side, the Blastomatic Bazooka functioned precisely to its design specifications, resulting in yet another satisfied customer. Oh well
, let’s move on, shall we?”

  The next kitchen unit had a robot woman standing beside a dishwasher and wiping spots from wine glasses. “How I hate spots! I hate them, oh how I hate them!”

  A second woman appeared from a closet, holding up a large plastic bottle. “You should be using Krashonite!”

  “Thanks, Gladys! I will!” And it held up her wine glass. “Will they all come out as spotless as this one?”

  “Just as spotless!” laughed Gladys. “And smelling of lemons and pine forests, too!”

  “Oh,” cried the first woman, “then I’ll be content with the world and everything in it! I won’t ever have to watch the news, or worry about reproductive rights or anything!” It broke the glass on the side of the counter and advanced on a smiling Gladys, only to suddenly halt. “Resetting, one moment, please. Please stand by, and thank you for your patronage.”

  Hadrian grunted. “More existential crises, Sally Six-of-Nine?”

  “Planet Brain failing,” said the Hostess, its holo-smile faltering. “Soon to be good as new, one hopes!”

  “So, when the mall got cleaned out a thousand years ago, you all had nothing to do, no customers to manage.”

  “Very sad. No riots on Sales Day, no customers beating on other customers, no shootings over the last holoset, no dismembered bodies. Nothing for us to do but watch Wallykrappe Channel!”

  “Which is nothing but commercials.”

  “Commercials! The Perfect Life! The boys busy being wild! The girls busy trying to look pretty! Boys out with the boys! Girls wanting to marry and have babies! Every want answered, every need satisfied! New aerocars everywhere! We must live the Perfect Life! As examples, as paragons! We must show humanity the true wonder of the Consumer Who Has Consumed All There Is, and isn’t it Wonderful?”

  “Except for all the suicides and murders.”

  “The Young Male is Not Averse to Risk. We must encourage this! Buy! Sail! Surf! Climb! Skydive! Max the Credit Cards! Eat these hormone-rich, antibiotic-laced pseudo-meat products, with onions and chipotle sauce! Poutine for the Lard Buckets! Housewife Models in eight thousand variants. Hostess ‘Sally Six-of-Nine,’ Laundry Maid ‘Lemon and Pine Forests,’ Dishwasher ‘Spotty Wine Glasses’ and ‘Gladys Sidekick,’ Nurse ‘Oh Poor Hubby’s Got a Cold Here’s Nightblotto for the Sniffles,’ Mother ‘Can’t You Ever Pick Up After Yourself? Oh Here Let Me Do It You’re Doing It All Wrong,’ Accountant ‘It’s Called Budgeting, Idiot,’ Bunny the Dust-Bunny Huntress—”