Chronicles of Isambard Smith 05 - End of Empires (7 page)

‘Just point it at my face!’ Carveth cried.

‘Three cones, my good fellow,’ Smith said. ‘And some sort of bucket for my pilot.’

The robot dispensed three cones and a sundae glass. ‘Shall I do a Flake on those, sir?’

‘I think we’re alright, actually.’

They sat and watched several worlds go by. A butterfly dragon swung down from the sky, stared at them for a moment, and disappeared in a buzz of wings. On the far side of the street, one of the Ravnavari Lancers bobbed past on the back of a shadar, the crowd sensibly parting before his mount.

Smith leaned back in his chair. He found the sight of Rhianna eating ice cream strangely fascinating, and didn’t want her distracted.

Suruk suddenly clapped his hands over his mandibles. He screwed his eyes shut and shuddered.

‘Suruk, what is it?’ Rhianna asked, leaning forward. ‘Are you okay?’

The alien grimaced. ‘The ice cream,’ he replied. ‘I have sensitive fangs.’

‘Ooh, that’s bad,’ Carveth said. ‘Which teeth is it?’

‘My canines,’ Suruk groaned. ‘All forty of them.’ He sat up. ‘I will live. Pain is an illusion to a true warrior.’

‘So,’ Carveth said, finishing her sundae, ‘all this stuff on that poster about oppressed masses and all that. Are there any?’

‘Hundreds of years ago,’ Smith replied, ‘but not now. Back in the over-empire, Britain was exploited by a small gang of crooks. But then the people overthrew the underlings of the over-empire under whom they had been overcome – something like that – and established the guilds we have today. Nowadays, no British citizen is oppressed, regardless of race, creed or class. We have aliens and robots for that.’

Carveth looked at Suruk. The alien gestured at the ice cream vendor, mimed the bill, and nodded surreptitiously towards Smith.

‘Mazuran,’ Suruk said as Smith rummaged in his pockets for change, ‘sometimes, the art of the hunter lies in knowing not when to strike – but when to wait.’

His hand shot out. Suruk snatched something from the street, lifted it up and dumped it onto the table: a robot no bigger than a football, its seven mismatched legs soldered together from scrap. It flailed like an upturned crab, gears clattering.

‘And so the prey is snared,’ Suruk said.

‘Ease off, guv’nor!’ the scrapbot warbled. ‘I wasn’t doing nothing!’

Suruk reached out and flicked a switch on the machine’s underside. A tiny panel slid back, and a stream of coins tinkled onto the tabletop. ‘Oh,
indeed
,’ the M’Lak said. ‘This device was following us,’ he explained. ‘No doubt it intended to steal our possessions.’

‘Leave it out!’ the robot protested. ‘I’m just tryin’ to provide for me young peripherals, what’s been struck down by the cockney virus. I’ve done no ’arm!’

Smith scowled. ‘Nonsense. I’ve had my valuables pinched in a crowd before. Very discomforting business. Right, then… spill the beans.’

‘Not the beans! Don’t send me back to the canning factory, guv’nor, please!’

‘You used to work in a canning factory?’

‘I used to be a can! It’s no life for a robot, being full of beans.’

Rhianna leaned forward. ‘It’s okay. We’re looking for a bunch of guys called Popular Fist. Do you know them?’

‘No, miss. But I know someone who might.’

‘Then you can take us to them,’ Smith said.

Carveth glanced over her shoulder. ‘Good idea. You guys go and check, and I’ll keep watch. And I’ll be in disguise, hiding my face behind several ice cream cones.’

‘No, you’re coming with us,’ Smith replied. ‘Remember that time you said you’d rather be dead than fat? Well, you might not end up dead today. But if you keep eating…’

‘Oh, alright.’

Smith nodded to the ice-cream robot. ‘Thanks. And you didn’t see us, if anyone asks.’

‘Of course. I saw nothing, sir. I was preoccupied with a blockage in my pipes.’

‘I could help with that,’ Carveth added.

The robot rolled back, adjusting its straw hat. ‘Madam, please. Have you no dignity?’

Smith reflected that, having seen Carveth eat, the robot ought to know full well how much dignity she possessed.

* * *

‘This way, squire,’ said the pickpocket. They wove their way through the crowd, past hawkers of weapons, tools, services and food for a dozen species. Suruk was carrying the thief by two of its spindly legs. ‘Take a left at the next stall,’ the robot squeaked.

‘He’d better not be leading us into trouble,’ Carveth said. ‘I can hardly run away from anything after all that food,’ she added grimly. ‘I don’t trust his sort.’

‘But he’s a robot, just like you,’ Rhianna replied. They passed a stall advertising the services of Martin Poole: ratcatcher and master pie-maker. ‘Don’t you think of robots as part of the same, er, ethnic group as yourself?’

‘What? I’m an android. He is a tin can propped up on cutlery. I can’t have feelings for anything that doesn’t look like a person.’

‘Except for your electric toothbrush,’ Suruk put in. ‘Quite often at night, I hear a revving sound –’

‘Shut up, Suruk.’

‘Just here,’ said the pickpocket. ‘On the left.’

They looked at a dark and narrow doorway. Steps led into a dim room, strewn with cushions and drug paraphernalia. ‘Careful, men,’ Smith said. ‘This looks like the dwelling place of either hardened criminals or media studies students.’

He took the lead. In the weak light, he made out ports in the walls, where a variety of down-at-wheel scrapbots lurked. Three automatons lay sprawled in a corner on standby, slowly passing round a cable connected to an opium simulator.

‘Boss!’ the pickpocket called. ‘Boss, it’s me!’

A head slid out of an alcove on a jointed neck. Following it came long, slender arms built from angle-poise lamps. Each ended in spindly fingers, like an insect’s legs. It was wearing three pairs of fingerless gloves.

‘What’s all this?’ it demanded.

‘We have your scrapbot,’ Smith said.

Part of the furniture seemed to come alive. A heavy body rose up with a whine of servos and turned to them. Its head was a metal skull, painted with a chipped Union Jack. Massive nail guns clacked like pincers. ‘Give,’ it grunted. ‘Or I’ll smash yer.’

‘Easy Bill, easy!’ the spindly robot cried. ‘Gentlemen, please. Let’s do this like civilised people. Come, take a seat. This is my companion and esteemed business partner, William Sticker, formerly of the advertising trade. I am Mark Twelve, acquisitions and resale expert.’

‘Isambard Smith, space captain. These are my crew: Suruk the Slayer, Rhianna Mitchell, ship’s – er –’

‘Health and wellbeing counsellor,’ Rhianna said.

‘And Polly Carveth, ship’s android.’

‘Hoity-toity fleshbot,’ Bill growled.

‘Now Bill, let’s not be hasty, eh?’ Mark Twelve’s head came forward and scrutinised the visitors. ‘Yes, I believe that is one of my charges you’ve got there. You see, gentlemen, and dear ladies, I am a device of benevolence. Here I keep a home, free of charge, for whatever unfortunate robots are tossed by life’s iniquities onto the scrapheap of – well, scrap. I care for ’em, you see.’

Smith looked at the slew of limbs, springs, joints and sensors around the alcove. ‘From the looks of it, you make them as well.’

‘You’re most observant, Captain Smith. These are hard times to be a robot, you know. What with the Robot Ripper dismantling units of easy virtue and the cockney virus running rampant, things could hardly be worse. Why, only last week Bill here caught a dose of rust right in his –’

‘Oi!’ said Sticker.

‘A thousand pardons, William. But I won’t delay you any longer, Captain. Thank you for bringing young Charlie back. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to fix a spocket or two.’

Smith shook his head. ‘Not so fast. “Young Charlie” tried to pick Suruk’s pocket. If you want him back, we want something in return.’

Twelve’s head retracted. ‘Well, that changes things, doesn’t it?’ His processor clicked. ‘Contemplating variables... reviewing situation... alright, what do you need?’

‘Information. There’s an organisation called the Popular Fist. We want to find them.’

‘That could be difficult.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, they’re very small.’ Twelve looked at Sticker. ‘Also, they meet in dangerous territory. Do you know the old Picture House?’

‘No,’ Smith said.

‘It’s in the docks. And the Cranes have the docks.’

Rhianna said, ‘You mean that the docks have cranes.’

Sticker loomed up beside her. ‘Nah. Rom and Ram Crane. They own the docks. And their boss has all the rest – the Ringleader, they call him. He used to run a circus, taming lions. If anything goes on here, they take a cut. Or else they take a limb. And there’s only so many times you can get your limbs soldered back on.’

‘Cranes?’ Smith said. ‘Would they happen to know a – well, a sort of digging machine?’

Mark Twelve jerked upright in a flurry of limbs. ‘Ben the Builder. He’s one of the best-connected thugs in the robot underworld. They say that if there’s a card game, or a shadar-race – Ben can fix it.’

‘Yes, he can,’ Bill Sticker growled.

‘It is he who requires fixing now,’ Suruk said. He smiled.

‘Thank you,’ Smith said. He nodded to Suruk. The alien lifted the robot pickpocket, looked it over, and tossed it on the ground. It scurried over to hide behind Sticker. Suruk shrugged. ‘It has no skull. You are welcome to it.’

Smith said, ‘Well then, it sounds as if we know where to go to find these people. I’m sure these Cranes won’t be a problem. And now, we’ll leave you to your business.’

‘You’re most kind,’ said Mark Twelve. ‘Charmed to meet you. Goodbye, and be back soon, eh?’

* * *

It was almost time for bed. Isambard Smith opened his Civiliser, peered into the cylinder and closed it up again. He thought about reading up on Popular Fist, but he felt too tired. He sat down at the captain’s desk, which was currently covered in bits of model kit, and yawned.

‘Hey, Isambard. What do you think?’

He looked up, wondering what Rhianna wanted, and was astonished. She wore a dark blue skirt with a matching jacket and highly polished boots. Her hair was neatly tied back, and there was a strip of black ribbon around her neck.

‘Crikey!’ he said. ‘You look – well – jolly good, really.’

‘You think so?’ She pulled the skirt out and spun around. Smith felt a rush of pride that someone so attractive was walking out with him, and then hoped that it wasn’t too obvious. For one thing, letting one’s pride show wasn’t terribly British, and for another, it made walking uncomfortable. ‘You don’t think it’s too much? I mean, I have to wear proper shoes and everything.’

‘Well, it looks smashing. You should definitely keep it on. Unless you’re planning on taking it off, that is,’ he added, moving his eyebrows seductively.

Rhianna laughed, which wasn’t exactly what he’d intended. ‘I’m a bit tired, really. I’ve been thinking…’ she added thoughtfully, and Smith felt a flash of terror that she had been thinking about ‘us’, ‘… about my psychic powers.’

‘Good-oh.’

‘Do you know what a premonition is?’

‘Yes. It’s a little word, like
a
or
the
.’

‘It’s when you see something bad in the future. I’ve got an amazing gift, but I don’t know how to use it for good.’ She walked into the room. ‘Do you remember when that Edenite high-priest tried to kill us all, and I made him die?’

‘Absolutely. That was brilliant.’

‘Was it? Really?’

‘Of course. He got eaten by space frogs. Served the evil bugger right.’

‘But I was, like, responsible for his death.’

‘Nonsense, old girl. All you did was knowingly direct him into a room full of killer frogs. He could have got out of there and learned his lesson. But he stayed.’

‘Because we locked him in.’

‘Well, he had a gun. And he was very rude about Carveth. All that “Whore of Babylon” stuff. I know she’s hardly a nun, but I won’t stand by when women are being mistreated, or horses, or any other animals. If anyone’s got blood on their hands, it’s the killer frogs. Except it was mainly on their teeth. A right mess, now I think about it. Anyhow, they’re gone, so’s he, and everything’s fine. Where was I?’

She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, ‘You’re worried too, aren’t you?’

‘Only about tomorrow. I don’t know what to expect from these anarchist types, that’s all.’

‘Would it help to talk about it?’

‘Hmm... could I just rest my head on your chest instead? That would cheer me up a lot. I’d still be listening, if you want to talk about your stuff.’

* * *

‘So, overall, it’s a kind of holistic thing,’ Rhianna said half an hour later. ‘I’ve always, like, believed in extra-sensory perception, but not really in a real way, you know?’

‘Mm.’

‘And auras, and psychic defence? I mean, I can actually do those now. Really actually.’

‘Mmm.’

‘So what do you think? Isambard?’

He looked up and blinked. ‘Me? Think? Well, most of the time it’s complete piffle, really. All this auras nonsense and that sort of thing. Candles made of earwax and sticking pins in things. Except when
you
do it, of course. You’re the best girlfriend I could ever realistically ask for, Rhianna, and I mean it.’

Rhianna slid down on Smith’s bed and adjusted her position against him. ‘Yeah,’ she said, after a while. ‘For a colonialist oppressor, you’re pretty cool too, really.’

* * *

Smith woke up to find that Rhianna was snoring next to him. He got up carefully, not waking her. While sleeping with girls was excellent, it still felt wrong not to be able to wear pyjamas and break wind in bed. He put his dressing gown on and left his quarters.

Carveth sat in the living room, eating breakfast cereal. ‘Alright, Boss,’ she said. ‘Give me a hand with this, would you? I’ve had three helpings of Rightos and I’ve still not seen the free toy.’

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea, eating the whole box just to get the free gift?’

‘It’s a wind-up dreadnought.’

‘Pass me a bowl.’

He ate thoughtfully, trying not to think of cardboard as he spooned the Rightos into his mouth. At least it wasn’t Shredded Wheat, which tasted like a freeze-dried toupee. As tended to happen, Carveth finished first.