by Andy Remic
The man frowned. “For discovering the Lost Island! For all those hardy, brilliant adventurers who have travelled The Lost Dunes, negotiated the monsters in the wacky, dangerous Caves of Hades, walked the long echoing avenues of The Secret Tunnel, and finally emerged here, battered and bruised, but happy and filled with adventure! This is the reward! The carrot, leading the donkey! This is why we’re here.” He seemed a tad smug.
“Of course,” said Amba, turning back to stare at the neon monstrosity on the cliffs. “It’s... a very special looking place.”
“Authentic,” said the tourist.
“Genuine,” agreed Amba.
“It is quaint,” said the tourist.
“Picturesque,” agreed Amba.
“Well,” said the tourist, pulling on his boots. “Time to go and explore,” he grinned, and standing, lifted two walking sticks from where they rested against a rock.
“Why do you need those?” asked Amba.
“It takes the pressure off my knees on long-haul treks.”
“I suppose you’re quite the expert walker and climber, aren’t you?” said Amba, smiling brightly.
“I certainly am, little lady.”
“Doesn’t it get lonely, all this exploring and walking, on your own?”
“Sometimes,” agreed the tourist. “But it gives me a good bit of time to think, to ponder over the complexities of the universe, to muse over the conundrums of our very existence - being such tiny and insignificant human beings.”
“I never thought about it like that,” said Amba, her smile fixed in place.
They were silent for a while, while the man laced up his boots. He stood, stretched, shouldered his pack, grasped his walking sticks in readiness. “I say,” he said, “Maybe you’d like to accompany me up to the Monolith Ride Museum? Many have claimed it holds the wonder of Theme Planet’s ride technology, and a working model of the computer that controls it all - the SA34000RAH. Well, the first incarnation, that is. Model v1.0. I think it grew into something a lot more sophisticated since way back in the hey-day of Theme Planet’s inception.”
“Accompany you to see the original SA34000RAH, you say?” mused Amba. Then she gave a nod. “Yes, I’d love to accompany you. It’s been a long and lonely journey to get here,” she said. “What’s your name?”
The old man grinned. “You can call me Bob,” he said, and held out his hand.
“Amba.”
“A pretty name. But then, you’re a pretty young thing. Not like some of these monstrous over-fed pigs of tourists, eh girl?”
“I try to stay in shape,” smiled Amba, and they set off on the long trek across rocky ground, following narrow trails on a steep uphill towards the Monolith Ride Museum.
~ * ~
A drone hovered by the entrance. It was a small cube, an early derivation of the PopBot machines which had recently been flooding the Quad-Gal with their rudimentary AI and, some would say, acerbic wit and nasty sense of humour. This drone had a face made up of lights, which flickered into different “expressions” on the face of the black cube. It was making a buzzing sound as Amba and Bob approached, Bob’s walking sticks clacking on the rocky ground like an extra set of feet.
“Yeah?” said the drone, face flickering into an array of white lights which, Amba assumed, was a snarl.
“Hello there, good sir!” beamed Bob, ever the optimist. “We’ve come a long way from Theme Planet Adventure Central, all the way through the Caves of Hades and the Secret Tunnel, emerging here to discover this, our wonderful reward!”
“Bog off,” said the drone.
“What?”
“I see lots of your sort,” warbled the machine, its voice high-pitched and tinny. “Bloody sun-tanned wrinkled adventurers, think ‘cos you’ve done a bit of trekkin’, you’ve conquered the world or something!”
“Er...” said Bob, unsure of how to take this.
Amba stepped forward, glancing up at the huge portcullis. Inside, she could see long smooth halls of marble, suits of armour, fast-food burger stands. “What’s your name, squib?” she said.
“I am known as Drone,” said the drone, quite haughtily.
“Do you always address visitors with insults?”
“I do what the fuck I like,” said the drone.
Amba shrugged. “You are very rude.”
“Well, you’ll just have to wake up in the morning and think, ‘Gosh, he was very rude,’ won’t you, love?”
Amba moved in close and dropped her voice. “Or I could take Bob’s walking stick and beat you around this castle entrance hall,” she said.
“A-ha-ha-ha,” said Drone, woodenly.
“A-ha-ha-ha,” grinned Amba, reaching back to take one of Bob’s sticks. It was quite a hefty lump of wood, and she weighed it thoughtfully. “It’s got quite a swing to it, this stick.” She squinted at Drone. “And I see your casing is of cheap Taiwajapapean construction. Like a radio alarm clock. Like a ggg carry case. Like a burger carton. Should crack pretty well, I would think. Might even spill your digital guts out onto this fine marble.”
“No need to get violent,” said Drone. “I was only trying to help. “
“By insulting us?”
“That’s just my little way,” a smile lit up on his cube face.
“So we can come in?” said Amba.
“Oh, yes. I was never going to stop you. I just find it personally satisfying to insult visitors who come here thinking they’ve conquered the fucking world. Or something. It’s all part of the service. “
Amba turned to Bob, and shook her head as if to say, cheap fucking Taiwajapapean AI circuitry, but Bob was standing, face deadly serious, pointing a gun at her face. Amba breathed out slowly, and allowed her body to relax. She picked out the tiny sounds of the drone’s movements behind her, tracking him, as she analysed the muscles of Bob’s face, and the look in his eyes.
“You’re good,” said Bob. “But you didn’t fool us.”
“Good?”
“You’re an android. Androids are prohibited on Theme Planet.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Nice try,” whined the drone, “but I have android-spotting technology built into my cheap fucking Taiwajapapean AI circuitry.” It registered with Amba that this machine could read her mind, at least on some superficial level. “Yes, I can,” continued Drone. His voice wasn’t as high and nasal any more. And the look in Bob’s eyes said the wiry old man was licensed to kill...
Amba felt the change in air density, and ducked as Drone slammed towards the back of her skull. She felt the tiny machine skim her head, and it was moving so fast it couldn’t halt its impact with –
Bob.
The drone hit him square on the nose, and carried on. His face imploded like a collapsing star, folding in on itself like fluid, which it had surely become. Drone exploded from the back of Bob’s head in a shower of brain and skull debris, which pattered down onto the ground; it whirled in an arc as Bob’s limp body slapped the tiles. Blood fell like rain, pattering to an abrupt halt.
“Did you read this?”
The FRIEND was out, pointing at the hovering machine. Its facial lights flickered off. No point pretending to be nice and pleasing the tourists anymore, was there?
“How did you do that?”
Amba smiled. “My little secret.”
Our little secret, corrected Zi.
I suppose you have your uses, said Amba, and narrowed her eyes.
~ * ~
This is impossible this cannot be happening I have the ability to monitor all androids and this bitch is certainly an android. [malfunction]. Look. Bob is dead. Bob and I worked together for a long time, a very long time, years and years spotting androids for [malfunction], Scanning. Scanning. Scanning. What is this strange firewall that stands before me? Where has her mind gone? This is an impossibility! We have a mind-to-mind circuit and I...
~ * ~
There was a blam. The FRIEND kicked in Amba’s hand, and the drone expl
oded, shattering into a million tiny black pieces that flew out in random directions. Fragments of the drone’s core hit the ground, fizzing and sparking.
Good riddance, said Zi.
“Hmm,” said Amba, and turned, scanning the Monolith Ride Museum. The noise of the FRIEND had reverberated off the walls, but now only an eerie silence rushed in; like a room filling with cyanide gas.
Do you think he’s here?
Napper?
Yes. Terry “Smoothface” Napper, Head of Monolith Secret Police. You realise he’s going to be as slippery as an electric eel in a vat of grease, don’t you?
So where are his soldiers? His guards?
You tell me.
I thought you were the great AI, with all the fucking answers? Like that bastard drone... the ability to read electronic minds. Ha! No wonder we’re never going to make it in the universe; no wonder we’ll never find God. Androids are a doomed species. Androids are a doomed fucking race.
Zi said nothing, and Amba headed away from the corpse of Bob - who, she suspected, was also an android. After all - it takes one to know one, and every android was an expert in spotting their own kind; they had that certain aroma. Supposedly.
Except...
Except that didn’t always happen, did it? How many times had Amba been unable to spot an android and nearly died as a result? Five? Ten? Probably nearer to twenty times. But she always succeeded in the end. Because she was an Anarchy Model. And Anarchy Models never, ever stopped.
~ * ~
Dex fired the Makarov, and a bullet hit the huge, slathering, and wholly unconvincing rubbery monster between the eyes. It gasped, looked at him as if it had just discovered him up to no good with its mother, then fell on its side and started quivering. Dex frowned, ejected the clip, and reloaded the pistol. He rested a cautious hand on his SMKK; he didn’t want to use the machine gun down in the tunnels and caves, but it had been tempting. Damn tempting. When the purple and green-spotted rubbery monsters came wobbling out of the darkness, growling and moaning, Dex knew, knew it was part of the “whole experience,” knew it was one of Theme Planet’s “little games,” their little “themed areas,” but deep down something had gone click and Dex didn’t even trust dodgy rubber reality any longer. Reality had twisted, turned, and spun around like a Chaos Cube. He certainly didn’t trust purple and green monsters that went “grwwwww” and extended claws to him as if about to try and rip out his throat. He’d shot the first one between the eyes, and continued in the same manner throughout his meanderings through the labyrinth of The Caves of Hades.
Now, he could see a deep, rich blue daylight up ahead. It had to be evening. Dex trudged up the tunnel, wary, waiting for some Grand Beast, some End Level Boss, who would no doubt be ten times harder than the other guys and have special vulnerable spots where it was, well, vulnerable. Dex patted a grenade in his pocket. He’d soon take care of that...
Dex emerged on a cliff-top. It was that time of the evening when the sun is just a fiery half-disc glimpsed over the curvature of the ocean. The sea sparkled in an incredible panorama as a breeze of salt and ocean ruffled Dex’s hair and he took a deep breath; and for once, almost felt normal.
He shook his head in disbelief.
“What a crock of shit. When will the ‘fun’ ever end?”
He glanced around, wary of SIMs, guards, soldiers, the police, or whatever the hell else Monolith Corporation, or the Provax Government, or the Earth Oblivion Government - hell, even the flora and fauna - wanted to throw at him. In a rare moment, Dexter Colls realised that he now trusted nobody. Not a single living creature on this whole damn planet! Not one fucking atom. And that was, ultimately, a very sad place to be.
Totally alone, feeling inhuman.
Dex dropped to one knee, not wanting to cast a silhouette against the horizon, and surveyed the landscape down below the cliffs. There were rolling valleys and several forests crammed onto The Lost Island, as if scattered by the hand of God. Dex shifted his eyes left, drawn to a magnificent building - it was a huge castle, a medieval fortress of some kind - he’d seen the filmys - only scarred by Theme Planet’s usual tacky tat.
He made out the neon letters of the Monolith Ride Museum. Jim said Katrina and the girls were being held on The Lost Island; and whilst Dex knew he had a lot of ground to cover, a lot to explore, one possibility was this castle - because a castle had dungeons, and dungeons were a traditional holding cell for prisoners. Maybe too obvious? Dex didn’t care. It was a possibility. Either the dungeons or the penthouse suite; that was where ail power-hungry egomaniacs hid out. And if nothing else, there’d be somebody there he could torture for information. He gave a sickly smile. Things were on a downward spiral now...
He pocketed the Makarov, and pulled the strap on the SMKK tight, so the machine gun wouldn’t flap, and flicked off the safety switch. He looked around. I don’t trust this place. It smells funny. Smells of... aliens. An alien world. An alien dream. An alien... Theme Planet. Well, they certainly knew how to take my dream away; certainly understood how to make my world collapse. And now they want rid of me, dead, fired off into space and lost in an eternity of cold hydrogen. Well, I’ll show them. I’ll show them exactly what I can do.
Dex headed off into the gloom, wandering down a narrow track between rocks. He picked his way carefully, heading for the cliffs and away from the obvious main exit, one hand on his gun, eyes wary, scouting for trouble... because he knew. Trouble was going to come to him. It always did. Always did.
He moved slowly, alert, constantly on the lookout for SIMs or the police. He was at least happy with one thing; Jim was dead. That bastard. How could he do that, how could he betray the humans? Betray his position of power and authority? Ha. But then there would always be the corrupt, those willing to sell their own fucking granny for a lousy dollar. Dex shook his head. It’s just the way the world is, baby. One huge comedy horrorshow.
Dex tracked down from the ridgeline, then headed slowly for the Monolith Ride Museum’s wild side. He fancied he might come across a few tourists, which could keep him safe - but then, after the slaughterhouse in the forest with Robin Hoodie and his Merry Backstabbers, he wasn’t so sure anymore. Had they really been rogue SIMs on a crazy mission of extermination? Or had they been instructed that way? Dex knew how anally retentive the Theme Planet creators were about bad exposure. You didn’t want people getting shot up on the rollercoasters; that’d bring nothing but catastrophe to your business balance sheet.
Just like a rogue cop with a kidnapped wife and children, on a mission of rampage with a fucking SMKK machine gun, shooting up SIMs and policemen and tearing around in a military chopper. Now, loose with a pocket of grenades and enough bullets to take out a battalion, here he was trying to set the world to rights.
Or at least, find his family.
Dex thought about Molly and Toffee. He thought about Katrina.
He missed them terribly.
Mouth a grim line, he headed away from the tourist paths. He headed for the cliffs...
~ * ~
Amba blinked. Something was strange. Hell, something was downright weird. The world felt wrong. Like she was pushing through cotton wool. It was dark, the air oily and filled with rancid grease. How did I get here, Zi? What happened? No answer. Zi? Fear now. Zi had always been with her, was her companion, through thick and thin, through life and death, through murder and mayhem. Zi was a part of Amba. An integral element of the Anarchy Android...
Amba’s hand flashed up, and she realised with heart-stopping horror that Zi, the FRIEND, was gone. She patted her chest for a few moments, but there was no disguising it; the FRIEND had vanished. And that was impossible. How could she have not known? How had she not felt the pressure, on body, mind and soul?
She stopped dead, boots sliding a little in oil. She looked around. Took a good look around. The walls were complex, mesh upon mesh upon mesh. There were girders and support struts everywhere, most gleaming with oil and grease. There were huge flywheels a
nd cogs and gears, some still and dripping oil, many moving slowly, turning, gears clicking as they shifted and changed and slicked neatly into finely engineered new positions. It was like being inside a giant clock. Like being inside a vast machine.
How did I get here?
How did I come here?
There had been no transition. No change. In a moment of panic, Amba tried to recall her memories, but could not. Then the panic settled like nuclear fallout, into a roadmap back into her past; a roadmap through murder.
You are in the machine, came Zi’s voice. And Amba remembered. The Ride Museum. She was looking for Terry Napper, head of the Monolith Secret Police. And it had been so easy. Quiet corridors, no guards... no guards. No. This place was guarded with something different. Something... alien. An entity, or presence, across which Amba had never before stumbled. Or been pushed.
