They were picked up by Harry Bailey of the Hanged Man, who had crammed half the village into a hired vix.
“Hello, Lord Langton!” he cried. “Oh, Mr Foster. I didn’t know you were political.”
“Neither did I,” Josh said as they climbed inside. “What are you getting me into, Alfred?”
A dozen voices answered at once.
“Sodding Mayor’s cuts -”
“He’s shutting down the Well clinics -”
“Stopping child support after the third kid -”
“Bet that’s a blow, you horny sket.”
“And he’s closing libraries.” This was Gwyn’s friend Estelle. “He doesn’t think they’re commercially viable.”
“He’s siphoning public money into these blooming Games,” Harry said. “No wonder Lila’s bankrupt.”
“Spending any money left on effing bots -”
“Wilbur,” Alfred said quietly. The old man saw Josh and shut up. Looking around the demoralised faces, “How about a singsong?”
After a few false starts they launched into a tuneless rendition of Rose of Lila.
“I’ve never been to a protest,” Josh whispered.
“You’ll like it.”
“I hope so!”
“Wilbur always messes this part up - yes, there he goes. We’ve rehearsed it Thea knows how many times.”
Josh fished out his hipflask. “You might need this.”
He grabbed it and necked it. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
They arrived in Lux three hours later, pitching outside the Summer Temple. Protesters thronged the streets, swapping news and erecting placards.
“I make that five hundred tents,” Josh said.
“That’ll wipe the smirk off Jerry’s face,” Alfred agreed.
He’d spent hours working on his sign, a zombie Mayor teetering on a tightrope, and hung it outside their tent. Others proclaimed ‘Games = Shame’, ‘Down With Bots’ (Alfred glared at the owner of this sign, who removed it), ‘3 Million Unemployed’ and similar.
“Any vultures?” Alfred asked.
“None,” Alphonsia Bailey said. “There’s someone coming - some kind of minister.”
Alfred looked through his binoculars and swore. “Father Fondle Me.”
“That’s never his name.”
“Cedric Donnelly. My school minister. Nonce.”
“He’s not going near Holly.” She checked: her daughter was still by the Bailey’s tent, helping Harry paint his sign.
“His tastes run more to little boys.”
Eddie the locksmith spat. “That’s sick! Why was he never reported?”
“We tried, believe me.”
Josh hadn’t understood the conversation but as the clergyman fixed his haughty gaze upon him, he felt an overpowering wave of nausea. He choked.
Alfred touched his arm. “Are you alright?”
“Swallowed a fly.”
“Then swallow a spider,” Eddie said.
“If you can’t think of anything useful to say, shut up,” Alfred snapped.
Perhaps it was that, perhaps it was indignation at Donnelly. Whatever the cause, Eddie lobbed a yellow sphere at the departing minister, filling the air with pungent smoke.
“Everyone down!” Alfred roared.
Every human clamped scarves, hands, anything over their faces to block the stench. It was an amalgam of the worst odours Josh had encountered: fresh muck on the fields, the Centre furnace, a sheep with its belly ripped open.
The minister carried on another few steps. As the smell hit, he twitched like a fish on a line, then collapsed. Within half an hour Eddie was in custody for assaulting the Bishop of Hale.
Josh enjoyed his time as a protester. It wasn’t without sticky moments. One man, full of drink and bluster, demanded to know what right Alfred had to participate. “You’re a nob! You’ll go back to your cushy life like this never happened -”
“You’re wrong,” Alfred said quietly. “I might be a ‘nob’, as you put it, but I’ve tenants who rely on public services. This lady -” he nodded to Estelle - “might have her library closed, while my friends -” gesturing to the Baileys - “lose business if the licensing laws are changed.”
The wino blinked. His companion, a slattern with a rat king of hair, pointed at Josh. “What about him? While three million are out of work, bots nick the jobs -”
“That’s not true!” Josh blurted.
“Josh, keep out of it,” Alphonsia Bailey warned.
“I agree what the government has done is terrible. But I’ve seen the functionals. They work all day, no breaks, then when they’re not needed -” He couldn’t go on. “Forgive me.” He ducked inside their tent, shaking.
When the debate finished, the flap in the tent slid open. “Are you okay?” Alfred asked.
“Surviving.”
Josh lay on top of his sleeping bag, looking round at the space that had been their home for the past few days. A folding desk, a rail for clothes, a wash basin, a cookstove. A few books in case they were bored.
Alfred crouched beside him, his concern plain. “You don’t look it.”
“It’s nothing.”
“If you’d get some sleep -”
“I can’t.”
“What, at all?”
“Not unless you switch me off.”
It had been disquieting, discovering this thing the humans shared. When Alfred dropped down on his sleeping bag and murmured, “Night,” Josh had assumed he’d had too much to drink. But as night shifted to dawn, and he heard the rumbles from the other tents, he saw it had been kept from him.
“I can’t do that.”
“Then no. There’s no use arguing.”
“Mrhmph.”
His favourite sound in the world, the Langton snort. It could be used on a range of occasions, have any number of meanings, but usually augured ill for somebody. Hopefully it would be CER.
Alfred liked to get a paper every day, to ‘keep on top of things.’ The evening of the fourth day, he picked it up and exclaimed, “Harcourt already? Fancy a flutter?”
“What’s Harcourt?”
“Only the racing event of the year! Let’s bet on a horse. Whatever we win will be yours.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“When you put it like that -” Josh pulled over a stool. “What do we do?”
Alfred spread out the pages. “Here are the horses running. These are the odds. Don’t take them as a rule of thumb. My dad bet on one that had fantastic odds but dropped dead at the first hurdle.”
“Yikes.”
“Yikes indeed. He’d put 100Q on it. - You could put a pin in the paper, that’s what Gussy did. Or - this sounds silly -”
“Go on.”
“I choose mine by name.”
“What do you want, a funny name or a fanciful name?”
“Let’s have one of each.”
They spent a quarter of an hour poring over the list. Just as Alfred was about to flip a coin, Holly Bailey stuck her head inside the tent.
“Lord Langton, Mr Foster. We’re having a cook out and storytelling. Do you want to join us?”
Josh shrugged. They’d spent the day with the protestors, couldn’t they have some time to themselves?
Unfortunately Alfred thought differently. “Sounds terrific. We’ll be along in five.”
The little girl ran out. “Mummy, two more plates!”
Alfred folded up the newspaper. “You were going to say no, weren’t you?”
“So?”
“You can’t go through life avoiding people. You’ll never make friends.”
Josh wanted to say he didn’t want to make any more friends, but realised it sounded strange. “Okay,” he mumbled.
“Come along, little sulky. You might enjoy yourself.”
“Yes, big grumpy.”
Josh couldn’t join the eating - a fried egg was the most he could manage - but scored a hit with the stories. Since he didn’t have the touc
h for comedy, he chose a horror story instead.
“‘She crept across the city roof tops, staring into windows with her frozen eyes,’” he said. “‘When she found a suitable child, she stole away with it to the factory.’”
It was about a witch who was turning a city’s children into robots. The main character - a young man investigating the disappearances - suffers the same fate. “‘As mercury seeps into my heart, I know humanity no more.’”
He looked up to see blanched faces staring at him. Even Alfred shivered. “We’re not going to sleep after that.”
Alfred embarked on a story, also about a witch, but comic. She’d been spurned by a student and wanted revenge. When he asked for her help winning another girl, she saw her chance. She promised to gather some of the beloved’s hair. Once he’d performed the necessary charms, his dream girl would be his.
“Our hero did as he was told, down to the last widdershins. As the cock crowed he threw open his front door, expecting his beloved. Instead it was a scruffy old dairy cow, gazing at him with besotted eyes. Wherever he went after that, through forests and streams, hills and valleys, the lovelorn cow followed.”
“Did he give in?” Spadge asked.
“Don’t get any ideas!”
“Always said his missus was a silly moo -”
Alfred waited for the catcalls to die down. “Once he’d given her udders a good tweaking -”
The men egged each other on to tell still cruder stories. Alphonsia tutted. “Time for bed, Holly!”
“I’m not tired!” she complained. As her mother heaved her into her arms, “Night, Daddy. Night, Lord Langton, Mr Foster. I really believed you were that horrible lady.”
“Thanks,” Josh said, touched.
It must have been midnight when they wove back to the tent. Alfred was in the mellow state of drunkenness when you feel tremendous goodwill towards everyone and everything. He bawled goodnight to strangers and bowed to a fox as it scuttled from a nearby bin.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” he sighed, squinting up at the bulk of the Summer Temple. “My lady of ages, with her boobular battlements. The kind of woman Dad wanted me to marry.”
“Let’s get you inside.” He’d need more than coffee if he was going around proposing to buildings. It took three attempts to pull him into the tent.
Alfred threw himself onto his sleeping bag. “We’ll pick which horse we’re backing. You still got it?”
“You put it in your pocket.”
“I most certainly did not.”
“I saw you with my own eyes.”
“You saw wrong.”
“You stubborn -” Josh turned out his pockets. “See?”
Alfred felt himself all over. “Can’t think what I did with it.”
“Don’t tell me you did a Dr Sugar and took it into the lavatory!”
“Ah. Well, we can’t use that paper. Can you remember the names?”
Josh closed his eyes. “Little Flowers, jockey Georgie Patchett, odds 20/10. Princess Azita, jockey Idina Shah, odds 14 to 1 -”
He recited the list, opening his eyes when he had finished. For the second time that night Alfred gaped at him.
“You remember all that and you’ve only read it once?”
“Can’t you?”
“No! You’ve an indelible memory, lad.”
“Is that bad?”
“If you were human, it’d be marvellous. You’d pass any exam first time -”
“But since I’m a robot, it’s useless.”
“Talent’s never wasted. Memory, storytelling - oh, and you’re a bloody good artist. Ordinary, did you call yourself?”
They set the alarm for seven. “Ugh, fuck off,” a voice growled. A hand reached for the gun on the folding table. When Josh wagged a finger, Alfred flung a pillow at the clock.
“Hung over,” he said, tugging his eyebrows.
“Should’ve topped up with water.”
“Don’t be a git. Now the Temple’s joining in! Put a sock in it.”
“Is your girlfriend upsetting you?”
“What are you going on about?”
“Does the phrase ‘boobular battlements’ ring any bells?”
Alfred cringed. “Looks like a two flask job.”
His hangovers never lasted long. After a pint of coffee and egg bun he was operational. He shaved, bustled about and locked valuables in the trunk. Josh emptied the stove.
“Heard from CER?”
“You know, I haven’t thought about them once?” Josh picked up his beebo and watched its eyes open. “Not a thing.”
“Must know you’re with me.”
“Normally they fuss if I return a library book on my own.”
“It shouldn’t last much longer. There are far fewer tents than when we arrived.”
“What happened to Eddie?”
“Claiming temporary insanity. It’s not fair. If anyone deserves to be stink bombed, it’s that kiddy fiddler.”
They went out into the morning. The sultry weather of the last few days had given way to indecisive showers. They splashed along shining pavements, past smoking bins and rain beaded tents. Still more protesters had taken off in the night.
“I like this time of day,” Josh said. “Seeing the city before everyone’s awake.”
“Depends. Sometimes I like going for a run, others I like staying in bed with the papers. Mostly it’s up to Puss. You try ignoring a lion head butting you.”
Josh couldn’t get over how many people were about. Harassed office workers. Shop owners lifting the lattices. Unaccountable people jogging in as few clothes as possible. A ragged boy with an accordion took one look at Josh and bolted.
“Here we are!”
The grubby doorway looked exactly like the rest. Josh hung back, shy.
“Come on, they don’t bite.”
Inside the walls were studded with screens, flickering and changing. They showed the odds for every event across the country. Harcourt was the main attraction, but there were still dog races, robot fights, football and cricket games.
“You go into a booth and they give you a card. You mark the card according to how you want to bet ... Where have all the humans gone?”
Each booth was manned by an S10: a pretty wide eyed woman, skin and hair varying palettes, or her male counterpart.
“Hey, you.” Alfred tapped the nearest booth. Its occupant snapped to attention. “Where are the human workers?”
She fluttered her eyelashes. “I don’t understand.”
“Oh, great. Our bet’s being handled by the robotic equivalent of a toaster.”
“Don’t be mean,” Josh protested.
“I don’t tolerate stupid humans. Why should robots be different?”
“Sorry about my friend,” Josh said, taking a slip. “He’s got a social conscience.”
Alfred snorted. “I’ll be outside.”
“It’s alright,” the S10 said.
She entered the details on the tec but there was no sparkle, no effort to make the transaction meaningful. Josh knew he was closer to this robot than the humans she served but couldn’t have felt more distant.
“Thank you for your custom,” she piped. “My name’s Stephanie.”
A cloud of identical voices chirped: “My name’s Elle,” “My name’s Jermaine,” “My name’s Kiko,” “My name’s Mohinder”- light, bright and inane. Did he sound like that?
“Josh! Long time no see!”
At first he didn’t know where the voice was coming from, then he realised Sienna was prodding his arm. “Where’ve you been? Shuggy couldn’t reach your beebo.”
“Protesting the Mayor’s cuts.”
“What?”
Everyone stared. Sienna hopping like a flamingo on hot plates was worth seeing.
“You stupid ___! Have you any idea what ___ you’ve dumped us in? I ask you to promote the company and you pull a stunt like this, you ____!”
One of the S10s pointed at a notice on the wall: ‘No S
wearing’. It was a good thing she was protected by the glass. Sienna made a murderous lunge with her umbrella.
“Calm down -”
“I’ll show you ____ calm! Whose ____ genius idea was this?”
“Alfred’s.”
“Oh, what a ____ shock! That man wants stringing up and ____ castrating! How he and Lady A came from the same ___ pod –”
The door gusted open. “I saw that woman from CER - the one who looks like a bloke in a dress -”
“_____!”
Alfred cringed. “Sorry, madam. I didn’t see you.”
“Don’t ‘Madam’ me. I blame you for this. Josh doesn’t know the first thing about politics. Why the ___ would he?”
Alfred stared at her in distaste. “What do you want me to do?”
“I’m taking Josh home. You haven’t spoken to any reporters?”
“I don’t deal with the press.”
“Thank ___ for small mercies.”
“Can’t I collect my things?” Josh asked.
“Okay. But then we go.”
They didn’t speak until she had climbed into her vix and screeched around the corner.
“You’ve liked it, haven’t you?” Alfred asked. “You haven’t wanted to go home?”
Josh could have told him any number of things but settled for, “It’s been interesting.”
“Good.”
Past the equestrian statue with its mantle of pigeons, a craft decanting tourists. Alfred took Josh’s elbow as they descended, knowing his difficulty with stairs. Down they went into the shanty town of tents. Another ring of fires had been lit. Protestors were singing.
“I’m going to miss this,” Josh said. “It’s been the first time I’ve been with real people.”
“What do you work with, jelly fish?”
“They’re odd at CER. They live in an ivory tower.”
Josh had seen the resolve in Sienna’s eyes. CER wouldn’t rest until an investigation had taken place. He imagined Malik, her monotone jeer, and Fisk. The praying mantis would bite heads off in earnest.
For now they were together. He didn’t want to waste their remaining time -
“Get down!” As Alfred jabbed his fingers into his back, he banged his chin against a waste disposal unit.
“What are you doing?”
“The word you’re looking for is ‘Thanks’.”
A tank was rolling through the tents, squashing a food vendor flat. The gun spun and blasted through an outside toilet. Sewage sprayed ten feet into the air. The protestors stampeded.
Love and Robotics Page 8
