Bandwagon

by Andrew Fish

and the police were sniffing around. He’s not interested in being generous – he just wants to be richer.’

  ‘I thought that bouncer said he’d gone straight.’

  ‘There’s a world of difference between going straight and becoming an angel. If it’s true – and I doubt it – all it means is that he’s going to make his money legally, not that he’s going to be nice to people.’

  A flicker of doubt crossed Ben’s face. ‘But… but if he knew you, wouldn’t he know you had owners?’ he said. ‘Why would he have suggested the tour?’

  ‘Who knows. Perhaps he’s up to something – perhaps he thinks we’re runaways. Perhaps he just doesn’t care.’

  ‘Perhaps he thinks we’re the best thing he’s ever seen and he’s prepared to do anything to promote us,’ said Ben. ‘Perhaps you just don’t want to believe that.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Riff. ‘But then perhaps I’m the son of a binbot and you’re a monkey’s uncle.’

  A low groan from Keys interrupted them. ‘Can we just drop it?’ he said. ‘I mean, this is all very thrilling, but Vid and I do have to get back to the store before we open in the morning.’

  ‘Why are you two so scared of this guy?’ Ben demanded. ‘Does he attach wires to you in the morning and give you electric shocks?’

  ‘No,’ said Vid. ‘We don’t like to talk about it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Vid and Keys exchanged looks.

  Ben glanced at both, his eyes registering impatience. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What’s this big secret?’

  There was another glance and Vid drooped slightly. ‘There was another robot,’ he said. ‘In the store that is. He was a bit of a party animal – out all hours, that kind of thing. Anyway, he snuck out to some high society bash one night and didn’t get away by midnight. Turns out the boss came back to the office late that night and found out.’

  ‘What, and he turned the robot into a pumpkin?’ Ben snorted.

  ‘Almost,’ said Keys. ‘He sold him off as scrap to a fruit canning plant. He figured it was worth the loss in order to prevent anyone else from getting ideas.’

  ‘And that’s what you’re afraid of? Getting canned?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be?’

  17

  Vid and Keys walked quietly along the road outside the Turret. There was a low white wall here and the maintenance robots fought a continuous battle against local vandals to keep it that way13. As they passed, a robot was applying paint to the latest graffiti using a pair of rotary brushes. Caught by the activity, Keys glanced in the robot’s direction.

  What he saw made him pause: a freshly painted scrawl just ahead of the robot spelled out the words ‘Riff is the Supreme Being.’ Keys tapped the maintenance robot on the arm. The bot paused in its labours and looked up uncertainly and unspeakingly.

  ‘Any chance you could leave that one?’ said Keys.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ The words came haltingly as if from lack of experience.

  ‘The graffiti.’ Keys pointed. ‘It’s about a friend of ours.’

  The robot blinked, looked at the wall, turned back and blinked again. ‘The one with the gee-tar?’ It mimed the action of playing a few powerchords, spattering Keys with white paint.

  Keys ignored the spray and nodded. ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘I su-ppose I can leave it,’ said the bot thoughtfully. ‘My mates think he’s great.’

  ‘Your mates?’

  ‘At the department of maintenance. We’re going to form a band.’

  ‘Really? What are you going to call it?’

  ‘Robots at Work.’

  ‘Good name.’

  The bot suddenly seemed to realise something. He looked Keys and Vid up and down. ‘You in the band?’ he asked, turning his brushes back to the task of erasing a particularly offensive lyric.

  ‘For the moment, yes.’

  ‘I thought so. You play the keyboards, don’t you?’ The voice was a little more certain now, more conversational.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Keys.

  The bot turned to Vid. ‘And you’re the one with the flashy face.’

  Vid smiled at the acknowledgement and animated a couple of fish swimming across his face for effect.

  The bot flailed slightly in its excitement. A spray of paint gave the hedge a stripe that would confuse local horticulturalists for a week. ‘Can I have your autographs?’ it asked.

  ‘Autograph?’ Keys queried. ‘I don’t think I’ve got one.’

  ‘You must have an autograph. You just have to write your name.’

  Keys shrugged, not entirely clear why anyone would want his name written on anything. ‘OK. Have you got any paper?’

  The bot shook his head. ‘I can set my brush to red,’ it said. ‘You could sign my wall.’ It tweaked its arm and the brush detached. Keys took it and approached the wall cautiously. He felt odd, yet somehow important. He couldn’t just write Keys. He looked to the comment about Riff, but he knew deep down he wasn’t important enough to write anything in keeping with that. In the end, he drew a picture of a keyboard with his name spelled out on the white notes. He then passed the brush to Vid, who simply signed his name in a precise Data 50 font. The bot received its tool back with pride.

  ‘Thanks,’ it said. ‘My mates won’t believe it when I tell them you signed my wall. I’ll never paint over that patch again.’

  ‘I hope you don’t meet too many famous people,’ said Vid. ‘If enough people sign your wall, you’ll have nothing to paint.’

  The bot blinked philosophically. ‘Plenty more walls around,’ it said. It returned to its work jauntily. Keys watched it for a moment, then shrugged and made to turn away. He was interrupted by the robot calling after him.

  ‘Oh,’ it said. ‘Did you know the papers are coming out tomorrow?’

  This seemed hardly to be news. ‘They come out every day.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s when they’re printing your review. In the arts section of The Age.’

  ‘Review? Nobody told us.’

  The bot smiled. ‘I spoke to the guy who wrote it,’ it said. ‘He photographed my wall.’

  ‘Your wall?’

  ‘He wanted to get a picture of the graffiti.’

  ‘Oh.’ Keys was about to turn away when a thought occurred. ‘He had a camera?’

  ‘Of course. He wasn’t a halfie. Nice one too – real retro pseudo-analogue job.’

  Keys was temporarily thrown by this sudden burst of eloquence, but only temporarily. ‘And he just took a photo of the wall?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘He said he’d already got plenty of photos of the gig. Why are you looking worried?’

  Keys didn’t answer. He exchanged a glance with Vid, who clearly had reached the same conclusion as he. Photographs in the paper might have sounded good to a fan, but to anyone who knew it was a disaster. And the day had started so well.

  Riff flicked through the pages of the newspaper; Nutter and Vid looked over his shoulders, whilst Ben and Keys tried to see over his arms.

  ‘You’re sure he said The Age?’ said Riff, scanning the columns with a careful eye.

  ‘Yes,’ said Keys.

  ‘He said it was in the arts section,’ Vid added helpfully.

  Riff thumbed towards the back pages and started to glance through the column inches on the right hand page. ‘Nothing obvious,’ he said. He was about to turn another page when Ben tapped his arm.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘What’s that on the left?’

  Riff made to carry on. ‘That won’t be it,’ he said. ‘That’s a leader article – big photo, the lot. Your ego’s on overdrive.’

  ‘He’s right, though,’ said Vid. ‘That’s you on the left there.’

  Riff examined the photo; sure enough, the half page shot showed the band assembled onstage, Riff and Vid on the left, Ben centre-stage and Keys to the right.

  ‘I c-can’t see me,’ Nutter complained.

  �
�You’re just behind us,’ said Riff, pointing at where one of the drummer’s arms could just be seen to one side of Ben. ‘Looks like we need to put your drums on some kind of podium.’

  ‘I can’t believe I’ve got my photo in the paper,’ said Ben.

  ‘Neither can I,’ said Keys, sounding less than impressed.

  Ben frowned. ‘What’s eating you?’ he asked.

  Keys seemed to ignore him. ‘An article we could have got away with,’ he said to nobody in particular. ‘A photo – no chance.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘The boss doesn’t really read the paper, but he does flick through it.’

  ‘You think he’ll see you?’

  Keys pointed at the page with three dramatic arms. ‘You think he’ll miss me?’

  ‘But there must be hundreds of robots that look like you,’ said Ben.

  ‘Hardly. We’re custom jobs. Besides, how often do you think you see robots like Vid and I together?’

  ‘Then surely you’re too valuable to just…’

  ‘To just what? To dispose of? You think he’s going to just say “that’s alright – so you’re sneaking out on me. It doesn’t matter if you leave me, because you’re too expensive to lose.” Wake up and smell the lubricant.’

  ‘Look, sooner or later, you two are going to have to solve this problem,’ Ben began, but Riff interrupted him with an electronic snort.

  ‘What?’ said Ben.

  ‘I’m just reading the article,’ said Riff. ‘The author is some kind of nutter.’

  ‘W-what?’ said Nutter.

  ‘No, not you. Listen to this: “the graceful cadences of the verses of Listening to Nothing are perfectly complemented by the dramatic energy of the middle-eighths, leaving a song whose parts are in perfect symbiosis”.’

  ‘S-sounds like a c-compliment,’ Nutter offered.

  ‘It doesn’t sound like anything