by Mark Roman
“Oh bugger,” was all Dugdale could say.
6. Subtotal Recall
“You know Penny Smith was murdered, don’t you?” said HarOld suddenly.
“You what?”
“Murdered.”
“You saw it?”
The computer searched its frazzled memory banks for a short while. “Did I? Maybe. Can’t remember.”
“How do you know, then?”
“Know what?”
Willie took several deep breaths. “That Penny was murdered.”
“Was she?”
Grinding his teeth, Willie tried to remain calm as he spoke. “Yes, she was. You just said so.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Yes you did.”
HarOld started making an odd “Mmmmmngh” noise. Then he said, “You see, some of my memories haven’t been totally wiped. They’re still in there – stored in my neural network – somewhere. I can sense vague echoes of them and see their blurry shadows. But whenever I try to grasp them they shimmer and move away – always just out of reach.”
“OK, just try to give me anything you can.”
“I feel ... I think ... I’m sure ... someone told me about Penny’s death.”
“Who?”
“Mmmmmngh.”
“Was it Dugdale?”
“Mmmmmngh.”
“Think!”
“Mmmmmngh.”
Willie exhaled and put his head in his hands.
“I have it!”
Willie looked up. “Give me a name. A name.”
“It’s a little hazy. Some of the bits may be corrupt.”
“Go on.”
“NATA CHILD HERO.”
“Huh?”
HarOld repeated the phrase and even displayed it on one of his screens. Willie stared, at it with a puzzled frown. “Surely you mean ‘NAFA CHILD HERO’. That must be the bit that’s corrupt.”
“Do I?”
“So I guess that would be Tarquin, right? Did Tarquin tell you?”
“Tell me what? Who’s Tarquin?”
Willie felt like giving up. He leaned back and stared at the screen before him, barely registering what was on it. As his eyes defocused and his mind drifted, so the letters on the screen seemed to start moving around as if performing some kind of dance. The more his eyes lost focus, the more the letters moved.
He snapped out of the daydream, but the letters were still moving.
“What’s going on?”
“Mmmmmngh.”
One by one the letters dropped into place along a line on the screen. When they had all found their positions they spelt a different name.
Warner sat bolt upright when he read it. “Chad Lionheart.” He stared hard at the name. “Chad Lionheart? You mean that Commander Lionheart told you Penny had been murdered?”
“If you say so.”
Willie’s mind was racing, various thoughts careering about inside his head. Every now and then some would escape in the form of mumbled utterances. “The commander knew that Penny had been murdered ... And then, some time later, he died in a freak accident. What if ... what if his death was not from a power surge in the urine extractor? What if his death was also murder?”
“I wish I could answer your questions, I really do.”
So focused was he on his musings that Willie barely heard him. “What if Dugdale learnt that Commander Lionheart knew what he’d done? He’d have to bump him off to protect himself, wouldn’t he?” Willie’s eyes were wider than ever. “That would make the first Man on Mars not just a killer, but a serial killer. And that would mean the colonists’ lives are in danger!”
“Colonists?”
“I must warn them. I must tell them what I know about Dugdale. Or he will kill them – kill them all.”
7. Dome Alone
Peering over the edge of the cliff, Flint Dugdale stared long and hard at the battered space elevator, lying on its side, some fifty metres below. His view was marred by the condensation on the inside of his space helmet but he could tell it didn’t look good.
“Oh Chuff,” he muttered. “Friggin’, chuffin’ ‘eck.”
He had shooed away the helibot and was standing alone. A quick glance back at the cameras on the Botany Base structure told him they were pointing in his direction. There was nowhere to hide.
“First man on Mars, last man on Mars,” he muttered to himself. “‘Appen NAFA’ll blame me fer this.”
Head bowed, he turned and trudged back to Botany Base with heavy, zombie-like steps, aware of the cameras tracking his every movement. At the base’s entrance stood a small crowd of robots. They watched him stoop low to enter through the base’s airlock. One by one they followed, negotiating the double airlock doors in ones and twos. None seemed to notice the hiss of air escaping from poorly fitted door seals as they manoeuvred their way through the pressure lobby.
Dugdale removed his helmet and his gaze fell on Greeves who was standing in the entrance hall. His head held high, his face expressionless and the arms of his smart black suit behind his back. “I take it the rescue mission was not a resounding success, sir?”
“I were that close to savin’ ‘em,” said Dugdale, holding up a finger and thumb about a centimetre apart. “That close. If it ‘adn’t been for t’poxy helibot fart-arsin’ about they’d all be here now slappin’ me back.” Dugdale stared at the ground for a long time. “Them cameras out there ...”
“Oh, yes, sir. Excellent cameras. High-definition, crisp colour, wide field of view, 3D-capture. There’s not much they miss, sir.”
“Bugger.”
“Although ...” started Greeves, tapping the side of his nose with an extended finger. “The pictures have yet to be transmitted to Earth, sir.”
Dugdale looked up, his face the epitome of child-like hope. “Really?”
“One never knows when the odd wrinkle might need air-brushing out or perhaps a tie straightening.”
The commander stroked his stubble. “‘Appen you could ‘air-brush’ me out altogether? Make it look like it were all t’helibot’s fault.”
“An accident, perhaps?”
“Yeah, whatever works best.”
“I’ll see what I can do, sir.”
“Champion, lad,” said Dugdale. His whole body appeared to be suddenly rejuvenated. “Now fetch us a drink, I’m spittin’ feathers.”
“Certainly, sir.” Greeves turned to Len. “Would you kindly escort Commander Dugdale to his quarters, Len, and bring him a bottle of our ‘special brew’ fermented turnip punch?”
Len was startled for a second at having been chosen for such an honour. Then he stepped forward and glanced smugly back at the other robots. Among them, the reaction of Dura was the most noticeable, his flat metal mouth dropping open and his eyes goggling between Greeves and Len.
Still smug, the chosen robot made for the hallway, pausing for Dugdale to catch up. The commander was grunting something about turnip juice when he stopped and called back to Greeves. “Oh, I just remembered. When I were on t’helibot, I saw summat out there.”
“Really, sir? Was it sand? Or perhaps rock? Mars has a wide selection of both.”
“Reckon it were some sort of buildin’. Out there, in t’desert.”
Greeves’s expression didn’t change, but his voice was a smidgeon higher than usual. “A building? Are you sure it wasn’t a large boulder in the shape of a building, sir. Only yesterday one of the robots discovered one that looked just like a London double-decker bus.”
“It weren’t no friggin’ boulder. If I find out this shower of tin twonkers ‘ave been buildin’ their own base, I’ll have their nuts for knuckle-dusters.”
An audible shock wave spread through the robots and they all took a step back, covering their exposed fixing bolts.
Greeves raised a calming hand. “No, there’s nothing like that, sir. There’s no other place, I assure you.” The robots cast their optics at him as though in puzzlement.
Dugdale grunted and
turned to follow Len. He’d never trusted computers and robots, not since his Buzz Lightyear doll had run amok through the streets of Huddersfield shouting what sounded like “To Ilkley and beyond.” Back then, as a twenty-three-year-old, he’d dealt with the situation decisively and with extreme prejudice, leaving only a few fragments of shattered plastic in the middle of the road. But here he was on alien territory, so he decided to play the long game, say nothing and just follow Len.
*
Tude adjusted his high-viz jacket.
“What were you meaning?” asked HarVard who, for the benefit of the robots had morphed his avatar from Greeves to 3-PCO.
“Why, it certainly looks that way.” 3-PCO angled his shiny golden body. “But look on the bright side, Tude. The shortage of food won’t be such an issue.” 3-PCO shifted the angle of his body to the opposite direction. “And our mission remains the same. Happiness for Homo sapiens.”
This stirred the robots to a Pavlovian recital of their chants.
“Still got to stick to the rules.”
“Absolutely. And just think how much easier it’ll be,” said 3-PCO, trying to fire them up a little with his rhetoric. “With only a single human to look after, we’ll have plenty of time for our other interests.”
A few metal heads nodded and a few uck-uck-ucks sounded. The mood restored, the robots drifted off one by one to return to their usual tasks until only Dura and Tude were left with 3-PCO.
started Tude but, just as he was about to elucidate, a door swished open and the bright yellow Disa cleaning-bot popped her head around the doorframe. She beeped a few beeps at HarVard.
“Yes, yes, very well,” said 3-PCO. “But try to be quiet.”
Disa beeped assent, whirred in and immediately set to vacuuming the entrance hallway. Every now and then there was a gritty, grating sound as her suction tube encountered a heap of Martian sand.
3-PCO waved to attract her attention. “Could you save the vacuuming until later, please? We’re having a conversation here.”
Disa switched off her suction and headed for one of the window panels with her cleaning attachment drawn at the ready. 3-PCO turned to Tude, “You were saying that you see a problem?”
Before Tude could speak, all attention was drawn back to Disa and the squeaky noise her determined polishing was making. She was having a real go at a stubborn stain on the polycarbonate. Soon she moved onto a smoother panel and the squeaking lessened.
Tude flicked his shoulders.
“Shhhh!” urged 3-PCO. “It’s best he doesn’t know about the Other Place. At least, not yet.”
“What?” echoed 3-PCO, swivelling at the waist to lean down towards the foremanbot.
“Oh my, oh my,” said 3-PCO, swivelling back upright with a fluttering of eyes and a fanning of his face with his hand. “Oh my.”
Tude was shaking his head.
3-PCO was still fanning himself, now with both hands.
The three fell silent as they became lost in thought. The only sounds were the soft swish of Disa’s feather duster, the occasional squeak of her cleaning rag, and the watery squelch of her sponge. One by one the three heads turned in her direction, until all three were staring at her.
Disa stopped her cleaning activities, feather duster held aloft, as she became aware of the silence that had fallen. She looked around to see that she had suddenly become the centre of attention.
“Oh my, oh my,” said 3-PCO.
*
Disa’s gaze alternated between one robot and the other, her optics open as wide as they would go. Tude leaned towards her and pressed a button on her chest-plate. A small trapdoor flipped open in the barrel chest to reveal an array of cleaning attachments. Disa gave a horrified squeak.
Disa bleeped as a flexible pipe was wrenched off.
<… and insert this rubber sink plunger here. Like so. Now, we take this lovely curly mop-head here, squeeze the water out, shake the drops off, and attach to the top of the dome-head. There!>
3-PCO stared on, speechless.
Tude stepped back to admire his work.
Disa trembled, but before she knew what was happening the two robots were carrying her to a nearby mirror.
Disa’s gaze continued to flick between the two of them, but as they moved away she calmed a little. Slowly, her gaze fell upon her image in the mirror. A shiver ran through her and she did a double-take at the sight of the red plunger lips, the mop-head hair and the garish make-up. But, the longer she examined herself, the calmer she became. Her right appendage probed the new attachments and flicked the damp tendrils of the mop on her head. The effect of the flick was an appealing one, so she repeated it. The way the mop-strands flopped back into place looked good. She tried to achieve the effect by a coquettish flick of the head. This worked even better, so she practised a few more times.
Dura clapped his appendages together. Disa grinned as she experimented with sashaying her hips.
From somewhere, far away in the base, carrying through several walls, came the sound of enraged yelling and swearing. Tude and Dura exchanged glances.
Tude checked his electronic snagging list.
“Oh, don’t look at me!” responded HarVard, covering his face in a comedic manner. “I didn’t bodge the work, did I.”
Tude gave a sudden buzz o
f excitement.
3-PCO looked down at the heavily painted cleaning bot. “Gentlemen, do you really think this is going to work? Are you expecting the human to fall instantly in love with Disa, cute though she is?”
Tude and Dura stopped in their tracks. Disa stopped, too, letting out an enquiring beep.
3-PCO gave a sigh. “Much as I disapprove, we don’t seem to have an alternative, so I guess I will have to help you. It will require my extensive knowledge of human psychology.”
“You’ll see,” said HarVard, his image starting to fade. “You’ll see.”
The two robots cheered. Disa found herself cheering with them as they made their way down the corridor towards the commander’s quarters.
*
Dugdale was sitting on his undersized bed in his undersized room, still wearing his undersized spacesuit. Head in hands he stared unseeingly at the floor. The loss of the colonists and crew still niggled him, but a more pressing concern was where he could find a TV and get a proper drink. The turnip juice Len had brought him tasted disgusting and sat, untouched but for a single sip, on the bedside cabinet.
A knock on the door roused him from his thoughts. “What?” he asked with a grumble.
Nothing happened for a short while, and then the knock repeated.
Sighing, Dugdale rose from the bed and, in doing so, whacked his head on the ceiling – not for the first time, and nor for the last. He was still swearing as he opened the door to find himself face-to-face with three robots. The outer two he recognized; the one in the middle, a lot shorter, looked like the unfortunate victim of some talentless graffiti artist.
“What d’yer want? If yer collectin’ fer orphaned vacuum cleaners, you can bog off.”
The two larger robots pushed the gaudily-painted cleaning appliance towards him. The little ladybot tossed her head to make the strands of her mop-head ripple.
