Theme Planet

by Andy Remic

  Slowly, the pounding of engines stopped. One by one by one.

  Only silence seemed to flow across the pleasure continents of the Theme Planet.

  Then, a SLAM fighter dipped its nose and screamed for the ground, pulling up at the last minute to unleash a hail of missiles that slammed into playparks and kidpens and dancing robots and thundering water rides - CARs and TUBs and trailers were spat up and out in a purple blossom of detonation, silent at first when viewed from far above, a raging howling screeching inferno of blasted brick and concrete, alloy and glass; huge H-section steel supports were tossed aside like skittles, cutting down families out strolling with buggies and candyfloss. Rollercoaster tracks were smashed, bent up and out like random balls of wire wool screaming flames at the sky as gas chambers detonated in quick succession with boom-BOOM-BOOMS and the sounds of pleasure were quickly replaced by sounds of slaughter, the noises of pain and anguish, of screaming and sobbing and begging and searching...

  Above, Romero watched all this play out on a hundred shimmering monitors.

  His eyes were dark. Emotionless.

  Quietly, he said, “Send in the Ministers.”

  ~ * ~

  Amba stood in a forest of circuitry, looking around herself carefully. The ships had smashed overhead, missiles screaming, and distantly she heard the concussive booms of HighJ and HighK explosives, could almost feel the heat from ravenous missiles. But this was not enough, and she knew it, and she knew instinctively that Romero would come for her. Or rather, he would send his Ministers of Joy. The police force of Earth’s Oblivion Government. He would send his elite. And they would want her alive...

  She moved slowly, warily, FRIEND outstretched.

  This is a battle you cannot win, said Zi.

  Yeah, well I can die trying.

  You really should listen to Romero. He knows what he’s talking about. He’s nurtured you since you were andrembryo; you should not turn against him now. I implore you to rethink. I beseech you.

  Amba stopped, and stared down at the FRIEND. Her sister of the flesh, her companion, the sidekick who kept her alive when the going got tough; and now Zi was fucking siding with Romero? Something about Zi had changed. Something had... shifted.

  What? she said.

  You have taken a foolish path, Amba, and we never saw it in you. How can you make some pathetic proclamation of love for some android reject who fights against his nature, against his purity of engineering? How can you do that? It is a betrayal, and I want you to stop, and think very carefully. Look, here’s one of the Ministers now...

  He was tall, broad, powerful, and wore a heavy black coat fastened up tight. His boots were black and dull, as was his mask, which covered his whole face. The Ministers of Joy believed no pleasure should be taken from visual representation. Thus, the mask was plain, without features. Only the eyes, pale blue, shone through the narrow slits.

  Amba stood stock still, as the Minister strode across the carpet of wires, between the trees of twisted alloy, between circuit-bank-bark and valve-flowers which popped as they were crushed under his boots. Tiny sparks of electricity zigzagged through the circuit flooring.

  “Amba. You will come with me.”

  Amba considered this, and shot the Minister in the face... or rather, would have done if Zi had cooperated. Instead, for the first time in her life, for the first time in the weapon’s existence, it simply went click.

  Amba stared down at the FRIEND with a look of incredulity.

  I’m sorry, Amba. Truly I am.

  You... you bitch!

  No need to be like that. This is for the Greater Good. SARAH needs to be destroyed. The Theme Planet must be shut down. And Oblivion will conquer the Quad-Gal, one way or another... with or without your help. I don’t want you to die here, Amba. I’m doing this for your own good.

  But you are my flesh, Zi... made from my own skin and bone...

  I belong to Romero now, she said. I always belonged to Romero.

  The gun touched Amba’s forehead, and dropping her own FRIEND, the android looked beyond the cold hard barrel into the eyes of the Minister of Joy. In the hierarchy of android engineering, there were base androids, then there were the special units, the Anarchy Models which formed the baseline of torture and killer mods; and then there were the Ministers. Very special. Reserved Units. Nobody on Earth knew they were androids. Nobody, in fact, realised exactly who - or what - ruled Oblivion. Ruled Earth...

  “Come with me,” said the Minister, but Amba flipped sideways and the gun went blam. As she moved, her fingers formed a solid blade which she slammed, knifelike, into the Minister’s flesh, cutting through skin and muscle and driving between ribs. As Amba’s left hand swung upwards, knocking the gun toward the heavens - still firing - her right fist closed around a rib and she jerked back violently, pulling it out from the Minister’s flesh in a shower of blood. He went down on one knee, and Amba punched him, still holding his rib, and took the gun from him with her free hand.

  “I thought you were the best,” she said.

  “We are,” said the Minister through his mask. Blood was pouring down his leg, and his heavy coat was soaked like a sponge.

  “You’re not good enough,” she said, eyes narrowed, and shot him between the eyes. The gunshot echoed through the circuit forest, reverberating from silicon trees. Amba looked left, and right, and allowed the Minister to collapse.

  More came, like shadows through the darkness, and Amba ran. Gunshots followed her, kicking sparks from the trees to her left and right. She sprinted, keeping low. A Minister surged in front of her, teeth bared garishly in his black metal face mask. She shot him through the teeth, and as he lay, kicking on the ground, his mouth a sodden black hole, she put a second round between his eyes and took his gun.

  She crept, keeping low, making no sound. Weak light gleamed from carbon tree trunks. What kind of weird place is this? she asked, but there was no reply. Zi had gone, and Amba felt a bitter, wrenching hurt. How could she do that to me? How could she betray me? And the answer was simple, a clarity realised after a thousand lies and a million damn excuses.

  Because Zi could.

  She heard the Minister too late, and the gun cracked and a bullet smashed through her shoulder, worming down into her chest. Amba felt nothing. She flipped sideways, rolling with the considerable force of the impact and using its momentum to roll and come up running, blood squirting from her shoulder. She dodged right as more bullets chased her, and made out the sounds of three Ministers in pursuit.

  She sprinted, arms pumping, blood flowing down her chest and between her breasts, tickling her like the tongue of a lover she’d never have. Who could love the android? Amba felt a dark empty space in her soul.

  The Ministers pursued her, hard and fast. Despite their big frames and heavy coats, they moved swiftly, huge grey ghosts in the gloom. Amba suddenly leapt, catching a low tree branch and hauling herself up. The tree was huge, and she scrambled up through the branches. The Ministers followed, climbing confidently, guns still firing. Bullets whined around Amba. She felt a twinge of doubt, and then blanked all thoughts from her mind. Fuck it. When I die, I die. Death is just an end to pain and suffering. When it happens - then so be it.

  She was high now, and still climbing fast. The carbon and silicon branches were thinning out, and felt greasy under her hands. She had gained a considerable lead on the Ministers, being more lithe and flexible. Now, she stood on a branch and looked out across the circuit-based forest - like standing on the inside of a computer, lost in a maze of components. The motherboard stretched away, seemingly forever.

  I feel like I am lost inside my own mind, she realised.

  I could die here.

  She started to laugh, and for the first time in her life discovered genuine humour. It raced through her like a drug, like a poison, and she welcomed it, and spread her arms like a dove, and dropped from the high branch, diving, both arms ahead of her, both guns ahead of her, bullets blasting as she barrelled
towards the Ministers. The highest climber was looking up, mask upturned to her, and two rounds smashed into him, one through each cheek, disintegrating his face and the brain beyond even as Amba screamed past his limp, toppling body. The other two were shooting at her, and she could see spurts of fire from gun barrels as she twisted, started to spin, her own guns still howling and the Minister’s bullets already behind her as her own bullets ate another face, and shoulders, and spinal column, and the third android flashed towards her and her arms smashed out, she hit him with an audible crack and they both plummeted through the trees.

  From ground level, there came a torrent of snapping branches, a patter of disintegrating treefall, and a deep leaden thud. The undergrowth, made up of components as it was, showered like soil around a meteor crater.

  Stillness descended.

  Slowly, Amba extricated herself from the crushed Minister. His spine and neck were both broken, and his eyes watched her forlornly from behind the mask. Amba lifted one gun and, with a snarl, put a bullet through his nose.

  “I am disappointed,” said a calm, cool voice.

  Amba whirled, both guns up. Cardinal Romero was unarmed.

  “I don’t know why. You’ve misled me from the start. From inception. For decades, Romero, fucking decades!”

  “I own you,” said Romero, softly, tapping a finger to his lips. He stood motionless, no guards, no SIMs, no Ministers. Alone, unarmed, and an idea trickled through Amba’s skull, and it was a Bad Thought and she wasn’t used to such ideas.

  “You betrayed me,” said Amba.

  “No, you betrayed yourself. You went off-task. You started to use your own initiative. I don’t want you to think, Amba. You’re just my dumb bitch, my coma whore, and you do what the fuck you are told. You follow instructions. You kill who we tell you, and when we tell you. You just use your little bit of ingenuity to get the job done.”

  “So I’m like a machine? An automaton? Hah! Why not use a robot, then, Romero? Why even bother with me?”

  Romero laughed. “Have you heard yourself? You’re an android, Amba. Created. Engineered. Property. And yeah, I can see the signs, you might think you’re human; what was it? You kill the wrong child? Drive over a puppy? Have some soppy pregnant bitch beg you for life? Whatever, you think you have gleaned a taste for humanity. Well, I’m here to tell you you’re wrong, Amba. You are a created thing. A human machine. Controlled.”

  “They’re all human machines!” snapped Amba, voice low, guns unwavering on their target. One twitch, one blink in the wrong place and she’d waste him. And she knew - knew she could. She had the strength, the tenacity, and the will. Now, she had the will. And he knew it. “There’s no difference between android and human. You say I’m property? Controlled? Like an electric sheep? Well open your eyes, Romero, because you’ve just described the majority of human beings. There is no shame in being an android. At least we strive to improve ourselves; to seek the impossible dream. Such an irony, then, that the dream we strive to achieve doesn’t even belong to the host, the creator, the superior.”

  “I can see it in you,” said Romero, softly.

  “What?”

  “The change. The difference. What are you going to tell me, sweet Amba? That you’ve found love?” His voice was mocking, and Amba bit her lip, eyes narrowing, brain whirring like a well-oiled machine. “Who is he? Which hunk of man flesh have you allowed inside your cunt, and inside your skull? Who skull-fucked my perfect little android, hey?”

  Romero stepped forward, brushing aside the guns, and he took her and he held her tight. She tensed for a moment, then lowered her head to his chest, and felt tears on her cheeks, and all thoughts of death and violence and torture were gone, dust blown on the wind. Her hate evaporated. And she realised - this was what humanity felt like. It was the ability to forgive. The ability to forget. She did not want to kill Romero. As she had said; he’d been there since inception. She wanted to walk away, and find Dex, and start again. Without the pain.

  “Who is he?” whispered Romero in her ear, words tickling her, dark eyes glittering.

  “Dexter Colls,” said Amba, simply.

  “And you love him?”

  “I think I do.”

  “But you are both androids,” said Romero.

  “Yes. But I think we can become so much more. Like newborn babies, learning how to live; how to survive. Nobody is as cruel as a child. We are like that. Like children. We must find a new path through the world.”

  “What qualifies you to do this?”

  “We have empathy. And love. We had a connection -of souls. I felt it. I felt the Greater Power. I felt... God.”

  Romero pulled back, and cupped her face in his hands. He held her tightly.

  “You have a job to do,” he said.

  “I can no longer do that, Cardinal Romero. I don’t have it in me.”

  “And what if I say ‘no’?”

  “Then you say ‘no.’ Your instructions have little to do with the way I feel. You cannot make me go on. I’d rather die.”

  “I do not wish to threaten you.”

  “Then don’t. Just let me go. I will find Dex. We will disappear.”

  “Have you forgotten our mission? About Oblivion? About the plans for Earth’s new vast Empire?”

  “Then use your own humanity to see past that,” said Amba, staring into Romero’s eyes. “If there’s one good thing you do in this life, one compromise you can make, one act of love and life and honesty and caring, make it this. Let me go. Let me find Dex. You owe me that much.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes, you fucker. Go on. Make the right decision, for the first time in your life.”

  “Why would I do that,” said Romero slowly, licking his lips, “when I’m just an android like you?”

  Amba froze. In the splinter of an atom she saw her incredible danger, but then Romero squeezed her head at twin pressure points, and the world spun around like it was a merry-go-round, and the circuit forest flickered black and white, and Amba felt nausea swamp her and something cold like liquid nitrogen flood down through her, from the tip of her brain through her chest and abdomen, through her groin and legs until it tickled her toes.

  And Amba saw the world clearly once again.

  “What did you do to me?”

  Romero stood back. “I reset you. It’s a failsafe.”

  “Good.”

  “You have a mission to complete.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. This man.” He held out a picture. “Dexter Colls.”

  “You wish me to kill him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will kill him.”

  Amba started forward, but Romero checked her advance. “Wait. You’ll need this.”

  Amba took the FRIEND, and held the weapon in a familiar way. She gave a nod. “Thank you.”

  Hi sweetie, said Zi. It’s so good to be back...

  ~ * ~

  Dex moved slowly down a narrow corridor, Makarov in hand, eyes narrowed. Nothing had changed, but he almost... sensed he was there. At SARAH’s core. Her heart. The core of Monolith. The heart of the Theme Planet.

  The corridor was glossy black, floor and ceiling almost soft under his fingers, queasily organic. Dex reached a portal and stepped through, warily, into a big space. It was a factory floor, filled with a million machines for the creation of Theme Planet’s wonders. There were giant spirals of glass and liquid metal that pulsed softly, shimmering in the subdued light. There were vast cubes, which juddered occasionally, each the size of a house, with flickering scatters of coloured lights cascading randomly across different faces. There were conveyor belts with gleaming ride CARs, all brand new and waiting to be put into commission. There were stacks of hot dog stands with mechanical legs, a hundred stands high, waiting patiently to fill the bellies of Theme Planet’s adventure denizens.

  Dex moved forward into the factory, Makarov in fist, face grim, eyes alert. The whole place was quiet, not like the roaring factories he
’d visited back on Earth. The place did have an almost subsonic hum, an undercurrent of sound, of energy, of activity, something Dex might associate with an insect hive. There was a lot of activity going on here, Dex could feel it in his bones. But most of it was sectioned away, out of sight.

  Dex walked alongside silent conveyor belts. A glance told him the trundling, well-oiled belts carried machine parts, parts for rides or ride equipment. This place was a place of genesis, of birth, and Dex could almost feel the integral sense of the new, the created, the born. This was where Theme Planet was created, and had always been created.