by Mike Ashley
The robot hunched his shoulders and pointed his right hand at the door’s lock mechanism. From his middle finger shot a beam of sizzling, greenish light.
Shimmering, the lock ceased to be.
Ben grunted and went charging forward to slam the door hard with his metallic left shoulder.
As the door popped open inward, he dove over the threshold and, in a crouch, charged into the room beyond.
Maggie followed cautiously in his wake. When she looked into the large living room, she saw the robot standing wide-legged in the middle of an oval thermorug. He had his right hand pointing at a blonde woman who was apparently the true Portia Talwin.
Portia was scowling at the bot and blowing on the fingers of her right hand. A coppery kilgun lay on the plaztiles near her booted feet. “You could’ve fried my fingers, you dumbbell,” she complained.
“No, he’s a crack shot,” said the lean Ira Tandofsky. “That’s a standard feature of all our Guardbots.” He was tied in a tin rocker with plazcord.
And tied to a rubberoid Morris chair was Ben Quincade. “Maggie,” he said grinning. “I didn’t expect you’d come to my rescue, hon. It’s great that you still care enough to –”
“What did I tell you about calling me ‘hon’? Especially in public.”
“Listen, I’m really pleased that you –
“Could we,” cut in the robot, “start getting this mess untangled, folks?”
Ben, the actual Ben, frowned at the robot. “You must be my simulacrum,” he realized. “Jesus, Ira, I know you told me you were rushed, but –”
“Let’s quit the chitchat.” Maggie walked over to scoop up the fallen kilgun. “And instead explain why you’re shacked up here with this prune-faced bimbo who –”
“If you had the sex appeal of an avocado,” suggested Portia, “he wouldn’t have dumped you.”
“He didn’t dump me – I dumped him.”
“He’s actually not shacked up here. It’s obvious the guy’s a prisoner,” pointed out the robot. “Now, Ben, what’s been going on?”
“Portia came to me some days back very unsettled, to tell me that Serv-U had this plan to use servos for political assassinations,” he began. “Trevor Rawls was behind it. She wanted me to help her get what she’d uncovered to a reliable government agency without her being directly –”
“We know about most of that already,” said Maggie, impatient. “Tell us why they were trying to kill you.”
Ben answered, “Well, they found out that Portia had confided in me.”
“How’d they learn about that?” asked the bot.
“You ought to know about that,” Ben said, “since you have a copy of my brain in your noggin.”
“There are some lapses in my memory.”
Ben frowned at Ira. “How’d that happen?”
Ira looked up at the beamed ceiling. “I was in a real rush installing the chip, Ben, and I guess I mishandled it.”
“Why the rush?” asked the bot.
“When I thought he was dead, I went ahead with his instructions,” explained the tech. “But then I began to suspect that Rawls and his goons knew about me, too. I couldn’t wait until the android sim of Ben was finished, so I made do with a Guardbot that was handy. I shipped him to you, as Ben had instructed, and took off for here to hide out.”
“See, hon, I was thinking of you at the end.”
“But how come you didn’t end? And why’d Ira think you had?”
Ben made a partial shrug. “I hate to admit this, but I got a little edgy after the third attempt on my life so I decided to hide out at a little place of Portia’s in the Coronado Sector. When he ceased hearing from me, Ira got the notion I’d been bumped off. The thing was –”
“Ben didn’t know,” picked up Portia, “that I’d been thinking over everything and concluded that it would be much smarter to blackmail Rawls instead of blowing the whistle on his scheme. Government congratulations as opposed to a million bucks or more.”
“So when I showed up and wasn’t especially eager to go along with that new plan of hers – she stungunned me,” said Ben, frowning over at the blonde. “That was to keep me quiet.”
“Then she broke in here,” said Ira, “because Ben had mentioned it once as a safe place to lie low. Portia bribed my duplicitous cousin, which wasn’t that hard to do apparently. But what can you expect from somebody who makes her living schlepping secondhand robots?”
“And,” said Ben, “Portia’s been holding us here while she works out a deal with Rawls. And, of course, his people are trying to find her and knock her off – and us, too, I figure.”
Maggie shook her head, looking from her real husband to the scowling Portia. “What about the defunct dupe of this floozie we found in your tacky residence?”
Ben said, “She sent the sim there – most upper-level execs have sims of themselves to handle donkey work jobs – to see if I’d left anything behind that might have to do with the Serv-U plot or where she was hiding us out.”
“One of Rawls’ goons spotted the android there and, thinking it was really me, shot it,” said Portia.
“Are you following all this so far, sweetheart?” Ben asked his wife.
“As much as I want to, sure.”
“It would still be much smarter,” suggested Portia, “to let Rawls pay us to keep quiet. They go ahead and kill a few useless politicians and business people and we get maybe two million.”
“Nope, we won’t bother with blackmail.” Maggie tapped the robot on the arm. “Watch everybody while I make a call to Curt Barnum.”
Her husband asked, “Why are you phoning that nitwit?”
She replied, “He’s going to help us break this story.”
“OK, if that’s what you want to do,” said Ben. “But untie us, huh?”
“After I make the call.”
He watched her as she crossed to the vidphone that sat on the floating neowood coffee table. “You came searching for me, risked your life to find me,” Ben told her. “That’s a sure sign that you’re still fond of me, Mag. We’re still business partners and it seems to me that we ought to try to be a couple again, too.”
Maggie gave him a sympathetic smile. “Afraid not, hon,” she said, picking up the receiver. “But if nobody minds – I would like to keep the robot.”
MRS WILSON AND THE BLACK ARTS OF MRS BEELZEBUB FROM NUMBER SIX
Steven Pirie
Mrs Wilson knew they were not Earthly cats. Mr Wilson had thrown his boot at them to shut them up, for a start, and somehow they’d thrown it back. And it was the way their eyes shone piercing green even in the daylight. At night, in their sepulchral wailing and tireless leaping at the moon, they seemed very much otherworldly. It was a worry.
In the kitchen, at number eight, Mrs Wilson paused in stacking biscuits on her best crockery. She glanced beyond the window and over the fence into Mrs Beelzebub’s garden next door to where the cats still gathered. In the corner, part hidden behind the rickety wooden shed and the glorious apple tree, the vortices to beyond shimmered blue and green in the morning sunshine.
Mrs Wilson sighed; such a crime to sully a garden with the supernatural. Gardens were meant to be calm places, havens from the horrors of outside. And she’d rather hoped the cats and the portals and the demonic folk would be gone by now. Then, things would likely be easier, less messy.
“More tea, ladies?” said Mrs Wilson, stepping through into the living room and settling the silver tray upon the occasional table. “And a custard cream, perhaps?”
‘She’ll have to go.’ Mrs Rose from number three took a cup and saucer. Tea spilled where it shook a little in her grasp. “It’s not natural. Twice last week my Ronald was set upon by denizens of the underworld. Ugly buggers, they were, squat and warty and fly; they chased him all the way to Lemmings Road and back. It was all he could do to escape with his mortal soul.”
Mrs Trent from number one nodded. “On Tuesday, my Frank was overcome by nether-worldly fum
es seeping out from under Mrs Beelzebub’s front door. It turned him unusually amorous.” She straightened her perm and her eyelid twitched. “And I can tell you that upset my week completely.”
Mrs Wilson sat quietly. She knew what was coming. Ever since the Beelzebubs had moved in next door – was it really just a month ago that the clouds had split asunder to the herald of dark trumpeters, and the black coach-and-four had trundled, bold as bold, up Sunshine Terrace? – it seemed, just because she was the Neighbourhood Watch co-coordinator, as if she had been designated in charge, as if ultimately all responsibility ended up at her door.
“We thought perhaps you’d have a word,” said Mrs Rose, a custard cream part-raised to her mouth. “Oh, in your official, neighbourly capacity, of course.”
Mrs Wilson rubbed at stubble on her chin. “It’s true all’s not as it should be, next door,” she said. “Though, apart from the cats, and the comings and goings, they do tend to keep themselves to themselves. But, very well, I’ll pop over and see Mrs Beelzebub first thing after lunch. I’m sure she’s a reasonable sort. I’m sure there’ll be no harm in a quiet chat.”
“Then we’ll leave it in your hands,” said Mrs Trent.
“But think on she’ll have to go,” said Mrs Rose.
Mrs Trent slurped tea. “For sure, Mrs Wilson, we’ll be relying on you.”
It grew dark, after lunch; early-dusk dark. Storm clouds, rain-bloated and angry-bruised, rumbled in from the west. A wind shrieked down Mrs Wilson’s chimney and blew soot across her porcelain figurine of the infant Jesus at prayer upon the mantelpiece. Seraphim, the cat, scampered away on its belly to hide under the stairs.
Mrs Wilson parted the drapes and counted the ravens mustering on Mrs Beelzebub’s guttering. Twenty, she thought, twenty shadows dancing on more shadows. Beyond the roof, black riders rode lightning bolt steeds across the sky.
“It’s as I thought, Seraphim,” she said. “Even before I got out of bed this morning I could feel the dark forces gathering. I rather hoped Mrs Beelzebub would be one of the Basingstoke Beelzebubs. But alas, it would seem, if what I’m seeing is to be true, she’s one of the Depths-of-Hell Beelzebubs.”
She glanced once more at the sky. There was fire, now, rusting the rims of the rolling clouds. Dark angels sang in the thunder. “And today is an apocalyptic day if ever there was. I suppose I’d best be over there and put a stop to it. Now, where’s my hat and coat?”
A small crowd of nether folk had gathered in Mrs Beelzebub’s driveway by the time Mrs Wilson trudged over. Some sat about a hastily drawn pentagram, plucking entrails from a sheep and incanting ancient words in forgotten tongues. Others sharpened swords on great grindstones turned by whip-lashed imps and harpies. Sprites lay in the dirt, their little lightning rods erect and suggestive, pleading to the electric sky above. Beyond the hedge, Mrs Wilson sensed the dead; lurking, waiting should their calling come.
“Do excuse me,” said Mrs Wilson, stepping over a particularly fearsome Cerberus, “I’ve business with the lady of the house, and so do move aside, there’s a good dog.”
It was cold at the Beelzebubs’ door. As cold as Hell, Mrs Wilson presumed. Or was Hell hot? It was hard to keep up, sometimes, particularly since the Heavenly directives had stopped coming; since the problems up there. No angels had appeared to her in a dream for months, now, and prayers seemed to go nowhere but voicemail. She pounded thrice upon Mrs Beelzebub’s iron door knocker, and the sound was like every fist that had thrashed against Death’s door.
The door creaked ajar.
“Who comes at this hour?” said Mrs Beelzebub, peering outward through the gap. Lightning flashed and wolves howled at the sound of her voice.
“Just me,” said Mrs Wilson. “I know it’s probably a bad time, but I wonder if I might have a word, Mrs Beelzebub.”
“Ending is near. Time is short.”
“I realize that, but it’ll not take long.”
Mrs Beelzebub opened the door fully and glanced sparrow-like up and down Sunshine Terrace. “Come in, then, and quickly,” she said. “And mind the pit of eternity in the hall.”
It was a good pit of eternity, Mrs Wilson agreed, as she stepped carefully about its rim in the hallway. She paused and peered down into the future. “I do like the swirling winds effect.”
“Aye, and based on quantum certainty, you know,” said Mrs Beelzebub. “I always feel, when falling into a pit of eternity, it important one knows exactly where one’s atoms are. It makes for a much more concentrated torment, don’t you think?”
Mrs Wilson followed Mrs Beelzebub through into the lounge. It smelled of sulphur, and was smoky where firefalls tumbled down the wallpaper on the far wall. Behind the hat stand, in the corner, tiers of benches, unoccupied, shimmered away into unseen dimensions. Facing the benches, across the room, rows of empty cages steamed liquid-nitrogen-cold.
“Now, please, sit, Mrs Wilson. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
Mrs Wilson sat and brushed the upholstery of Mrs Beelzebub’s armchair with the back of her fingers. Cottage suites, with their soft patterns of gardens with summer flower and delicate, fresh leaf, always brought memories of better days. It was an Eden thing, perhaps; a subtle reminder of a gentler age. And, for a moment, Mrs Wilson was young again, frolicking carefree through the meadows and gardens of her youth, when the world itself was young and time passed more slowly.
“This will be the courtroom?” said Mrs Wilson. She paused as an imp stepped out from the wall of fire. It carried a bundle of scythes in its stubby arms. The blades shone blue-sharp in the flickering firelight. “And I see preparations are well under way for the trials.”
Mrs Beelzebub smiled pleasantly. Mrs Wilson knew well that the devil was charming in its ways. Humanity liked to be charmed. It was where the church often went wrong, she thought – good with the stick, but so often lacking with the carrot. An eternal reward in Heaven, after all, might seem ill chosen if there is the merest murmur of agnosticism in the soul. And who could fail the slightest tinge of doubt given the way of the world and the folk who roam it?
“There’s no shortage of sins, these days, Mrs Wilson,” said Mrs Beelzebub, echoing Mrs Wilson’s private thoughts. “And nor of sinners. Surely even your side sees the time is right for a spot of judgment? You must have seen what Humanity is up to, right now, with its bombs and pollution and sexual deviation and lawlessness, and much of it in His name.” She pointed vaguely upward with a finger.
Mrs Wilson sighed. “I had hoped you weren’t the real thing, Mrs Beelzebub. I’ve seen a few witches and conjurers gathering demons in my time, and seen them off, I should add.” She glanced ruefully about Mrs Beelzebub’s front room. The windows rattled as Hell’s engines churned below her feet. The damned howled briefly behind the closed, kitchen door. “But quite obviously you are the genuine Beelzebub.”
“Indeed, I am. And what of you, Eve – may I call you Eve? Do you join me, or do you oppose me again, this time?”
Mrs Wilson stood wearily from her chair. In the creak of her knees, she suddenly felt old. “Oppose is such a confrontational word, Mrs Beelzebub, but yes, I will provide defence. It’s what I must do, for my sins.”
“Then we’ll meet again at Judgment Hour.”
“Aye, no doubt we shall.”
Back home, in the kitchen at number eight, Mrs Wilson’s yellow, rubber gloves were a blur in the washing up bowl. The dishes were long since lemon clean, but being connected with Earth powers, with the simple, cleansing qualities of water and the aroma of suds, helped her think more clearly.
She shivered. How long had it been since she’d been called Eve?
And how long since shè’d talked to Adam? What would Mr Wilson say if he knew about him? A loving sort, Mr Wilson, and so trusting. What of the lie she’d been living for him? Was that a sin, too?
She dried her hands and shuffled through into the living room. She watched Mrs Rose struggle by outside beyond the window, the old woman bent against the pre J
udgment Hour winds. And there was Mrs Trent and Mrs Almond from number twelve, too. Good folk, she mused; respectable and God fearing. Upright citizens, like most people of the world; surely it wasn’t right that the Beelzebubs should condemn everyone for the sake of the few bad apples?
Bad apples – Mrs Wilson shivered; wasn’t that what started it all in the first place? She walked slowly into the hallway and hesitated to pick up the telephone and dial his number. The dial tone was rasping-rude.
“Hello? Adam? It’s me, Eve. Yes, I know, a long time. No, I must see you. It’s important; can you come over? No, come today, come now.
“And bring the apple.”
While she waited, Mrs Wilson dusted the rubber plant. It was a fine rubber plant, blessed with leaves of deepest green, and in truth didn’t need dusting. But idle hands, she’d found, would take to prayer, and then she’d be faced with Heaven’s problems as well as those of her own here below. Besides, it wouldn’t do to go planning Holy Wars with a dusty house. She stood on the doorstep and watched the evil comings and goings next door. And Adam came with the throaty roar of a sleek, black Saab speeding down Sunshine Terrace.
“Eve, baby,” said Adam, pulling himself arthritically from the car. Dark glasses hid the millennia lurking behind his eyes. He grinned at a young floozy in the passenger seat – blonde and leggy, and millions of years Adam’s younger, though Mrs Wilson doubted she’d know it. “Stay there. Kitten, I’ll be back before I’m gone.”
“You’re looking . . . young, Adam,” said Mrs Wilson, as she led Adam hobbling inside number eight. “In the skin, I mean, ridiculously young, but the bones look a bit lived in. Isn’t it time you grew old gracefully?”
Adam shrugged. “Immortality’s wasted on the old, Eve. And hey, I got my Glucosamine Sulphate tablets for the bones.” He slumped into Mrs Wilson’s armchair. “And my kitten does a fine massage, when I’m up for it. Modern times, eh?”
“Did you bring the apple?”
“It’s here.”
Mrs Wilson felt the thud of her heart against her ribs as she watched Adam search his pockets for the apple. When he held it in his opened palm, the room glowed golden with the light of the sun’s first dawn. It was fresh and succulent, damp as if newly picked under refreshing rains. Even the single, ancient bite in its flesh bore teeth marks sharp and clean as if it were taken just yesterday, not a relic from all those years ago when Mrs Wilson had teeth of her own and when serpents hissed temptation in the boughs of the garden . . . of Eden.
