The Road to Mars: A Post-Modem Novel (1999) (36 page)

Carlton is still alive.

NOW. In my time. Eighty years later. How foolish of me. I had of course forgotten the most important element of robots.
They don’t die
. Even so, I could hardly have expected them to keep him around so long past his sell-by date. I mean thanks to the technological growth curve most machines are outdated within two years of manufacture and are broken down for reuse. At best you find these old ’bots opening bridges or taking tolls in third-world backwaters. I had no inkling that wouldn’t have happened with Carlton. But no! He lives. The little tintellectual has been preserved. He is in an old computers home. A kind of sanatorium. Wouldn’t you know it? Sod’s law in action. The spirit of fuck-up in the universe prevails once again.

I went to the PDHQ with very mixed feelings, but after a fruitless morning of being passed around from computer to computer and referred back and forth between various departments, I was finally rewarded with the great news that there was no trace of
De Rerum Comoedia
on police files. I breathed a sigh of relief, and it was only some stupid sixth sense that made me enter Carlton’s name and coordinates to make sure there wasn’t a reference to his work anywhere else. After all, a potential Nobel Prize winner and honorary doctorate and best-selling author (not to mention a triumphant avenger of a deserting mistress) does not wish to be embarrassed publicly by some sleazy tabloid story that he has plagiarized the entire thing. So, yes I checked. And to my utter surprise, shock, and horror, up popped a number, a picture, and a current address.

Now what do I do? I’m well and truly hoist. I don’t care how much metal fatigue he has, he’s hardly gonna miss the publication of his thesis. I mean we’re talking massive publicity here. He isn’t about to sit by and watch me nick his life’s work. He’s not going to send me flowers when he sees me up there modestly thanking the Nobel Committee. And I can’t turn back. It’s too late. I’m committed. Apart from Messrs. Mehta and Asher, who are preparing to publish in simply massive quantities, and who are knocked out, ecstatic, over the moon, thrilled as parrots, etc., etc., by the cleaning-up potential of my book, there’s the interview schedule, there’s a press conference booked for Monday, there’s the Nobel Committee who have asked to see me, and there’s two-timing Molly the bitch from biology. What else can I do but go forward?

So I am going to see him. I spoke to some semi-demented nurse—a prim little woman with her hair drawn back and loose teeth—who gave me visiting hours and directions. It’s a very out-of-the-way place. Not many inmates. It should be perfect for my purpose. Naturally I’m nervous. What a moment it’s going to be, face-to-face with my subject. I feel like a fan. Too bad it has to be this way. I know you’ll think the worse of me, but really, what choice do I have? I’m not going to interrupt the narrative flow any more. I am going to see him for the first and last time. Because, gentle reader, I have to kill him.

I think being funny is not anyone’s first choice.

—
Woody Allen

“Look at this,” said Dunphy in the vehicle. “This robot has equations for comedy.” He was glancing through
De Rerum
as they hurried to the address where the Bodyslogs had so publicly carried McTurk. “There’s a whole series of laugh graphs. He seems to have developed an entire geometry of comedy.”

“He should be locked up,” said Kyle.

“‘Gravity bonds,’” read Dunphy, “‘whereas levity expands. Although the audience is united in the laugh, it is the mutual expansion of minds in a single laugh that gives levity its explosive force. Gravity attracts: levity distracts.’”

“What’s he talking about?” said Kyle, gazing moodily out of their carriage. They were using Bodyslogs to avoid attracting attention.

“‘The direction of gravity is inwards’,” continued Dunphy, “‘the direction of levity is outwards. It is en-lighten-ment as opposed to the ultimate darkness of a black hole which swallows even light. It is the light force rather than the dark force. Life over the grave. The bright side over the depressing. Optimism over pessimism. As Alex Muscroft once said, “I am idiosymbiotic: I am stupid enough to get along with anyone.”’”

“Where is Alex Muscroft?” said Dunphy suddenly.

“He seems to have vanished,” said Kyle. “Can’t find him anywhere.”

“Ain’t he supposed to be on the Woolley show?”

“I tried there. They said he’s canceled.”

They arrived at the park square. Walls of high-rise apartments shot up all around, but the park itself was tree-filled and pleasant. About fifteen floors up it terminated in a solid transparent bubble. They went up to the fourteenth floor and were shown into a wide apartment, which commanded a spectacular view. It was buzzing with cops and high-tech equipment.

“Okay,” explained Rogers to Dunphy, “that’s McTurk’s apartment on the ground-floor corner, right across from the park.”

“The bedbots say there were up to eight men sleeping there.”

“And they didn’t report it as unusual?”

“Hey, this is an emergency. There are people sleeping everywhere.” He nodded towards the park, where tents were stretched out and people wandered round makeshift camps.

“Besides, they like McTurk. He keeps them amused.”

“How?”

“He likes to guess their codes.”

“Their security codes?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice game.”

“Bedbots. Not much brainpower.”

“All right,” said Rogers. “Is the A Team ready?”

“Everyone’s in place,” said Kyle.

Rogers looked through the big window. He couldn’t see them, but he knew the B Team was hidden all round the park below him. Every entrance to the building was covered. Every exit from the park was being watched.

“Okay, everybody on my signal in ten seconds. And people, whatever you do, don’t forget to look away from the action. Don’t look at what is going on. Look for reactions. Look for people exiting. Look for people running away, look for people communicating. Are you ready? Then go.”

The raid was spectacular. The front door completely disintegrated, and the apartment itself seemed to expand as white noise deafened anyone unfortunate enough to be in there. Red smoke billowed out, and heavily masked and hooded men, behind heat shields, poured through a hole in the wall that hadn’t been there two seconds ago. As a diversion, it was gob-smacking, terrifyingly effective. The whole park seemed to freeze. Despite himself, even Rogers’s eyes were drawn to the action. He cursed and forced himself to look away. Quickly he scanned the park. For a split second everyone seemed transfixed. Then they began to run in all directions. Some in panic, others rushing to help.

“Anything?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing yet.”

They were intent, watching for reactions.

“Kyle?”

“Negative.”

“Dunphy?”

“Zero.”

“Anyone on B Team, for God’s sake?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Three minutes and they’re gone for sure.”

Then he saw him. A red-haired boy, talking urgently into his palm. He nudged Dunphy.

“Could be just a passerby calling for help,” said Dunphy.

“Could be. Let’s see.”

People were ducking, scrambling away from the smoke and noise. Some were comforting children.

“Okay, go for it,” said Rogers. “Activate the message.”

A calm voice filled the park. “There is no need to panic. This is a police raid. Stay calm and no one will get hurt.”

“That did it,” said Rogers. At the sound of the voice the red-haired boy turned and was moving away rapidly.

“That’s our boy,” said Rogers. “Follow him.”

“Nobody home,” reported the A Team from the debris of McTurk’s apartment.

“Well done. You can clear the area and stand down. We have our target.”

They kept a discreet distance from the boy hurrying through the park. Careful patrols painted him in the infra-red. He was locked in, targeted, and discreetly pursued by B Team. His image, reduced to a small blip, beeped on their scopes.

“He’s gonna lead us straight to them,” said Rogers.

“With any luck,” muttered Dunphy.

They could see the red-haired boy between the trees, heading for the far corner of the park. He looked around him as he moved.

“Anxious little bugger, isn’t he?”

He altered direction a couple of times, walked around a tree once or twice, checked back hurriedly to see if he was being followed, and sat down unexpectedly for a few minutes. Each time Rogers knew the watchers waited.

“You spotted any of ours?”

Dunphy pointed to a woman with a pram. “That one.”

“Nope.”

The red-haired boy seemed to feel reassured. He stood up and set off at a fast lope towards the exit. As he approached, he stopped dead in his tracks. Ahead of him there was an enormous glare of lights.

“What are they doing?” said Rogers. “Who told them to pick him up? They’re going to scare him off.”

“It’s not them,” said Dunphy.

“Oh shit,” said Rogers, “I don’t believe it. It’s Brenda Woolley.”

A huge crowd was following Brenda into the park. The boy slipped into the throng around her.

“Can you see him?”

“No.”

“Damn her,” said Rogers. “We’re losing him.”

The crowd was cheering. Brenda was nodding graciously, like European royalty. She was distributing tickets. They held out their hands towards her in supplication.

It’s like communion, she thought. “Bless you,” she said, handing a nice pair in the balcony to a highly photogenic young woman.

A red-haired boy caught her eye. She thought at first he was coming towards her, but he looked around and passed her and seemed intent on hurrying by without so much as looking at her.

“You,” she said imperiously. “Come here.”

The spotlights swung onto him. He looked at her, frozen. This woman with the cameras and the lights. Something like panic came into his eyes.

“Don’t be frightened. I want you to come here. Now.”

There was a split second as he looked at her. Then a slight spurt sound. Brenda crumpled.

“Jesus,” said Rogers, “someone’s shot Brenda.”

Shouts. Screams. Pandemonium.

“Go on. Pick him up. Now. Go, go, go.”

The wail of sirens. The shoving of the crowd. The red-haired boy had gone.

He was young. He was frightened. He could feel his heart beating so loud in his ears. Had he done good? Had he fucked up? He was hurrying through the cloisters. A short, pale-faced man in a dark hat and an old overcoat came towards him.

“Josef,” he said. “Thank Christ.”

“This way,” said Josef.

“They hit McTurk’s.”

“Well done, we got your report.”

“I—that’s to say—I had to shoot that lady.”

“Yes,” said Josef, “perhaps that was a mistake.”

“I don’t think so, Josef. She was trying to stop me. You said whatever I did, not to let them take me.”

“And you did good,” said Josef. “They were following you, you know. We watched them watching you. Now we have to make sure they don’t find you.”

“Thanks, Josef.”

“Down here.”

He climbed down behind some railings.

“But they’re coming,” said the boy. “They’ll find me here.”

“No, it’s okay,” said Josef. “They won’t get anything out of you.”

“Did I do well, Josef?”

“Oh, you did just great,” said Josef.

There was a soft sigh from the boy. His eyes opened wide and he suddenly sank to his knees.

Josef kissed him on the forehead, then let his body crumple and fall.

“Good boy,” he said. “You’ll be safe now.”

“Oh my god,” said Brenda, “I’ve been shot.”

She could hardly believe it. She could see the panic in their eyes. They were fussing and screaming, shoving and pointing all around her. The relentless cameras moved in on her. Bravely she smiled.

Within seconds the medics arrived. They must have been around the corner. Photographers pushed them back and fought each other to take photographs of the fallen woman in her bloodstained dress. This unseemly mêlée was finally resolved by the Paramedic Bodyslogs, who shoved aside the lenses of the paparazzi and carried her off bodily.

“Just one more, Brenda.”

“Over here, Brenda.”

But she could no longer hear them. Only see them flashing, popping, and mouthing shouts at her as she was carried away towards the vehicles with the flashing lights.

“She gonna make it?” said Rogers.

The Bodyslog shrugged.

“I want her isolated. No one is to get in to see her. Hear that? No one.”

“Sir! There’s something you ought to see.”

He followed the young cop. Under the pillars, a reproduction of porticoed Paris, a short flight of steps led down.

“We found him down there.”

He caught a glimpse of red hair.

“Holy shit,” he said. “They took him out.”

Sometimes life is very well written.

—
Barry Cryer

Lewis had grown tired of isolation. He had been declaiming passages from Ecclesiasticus for over an hour and had finally grown bored with the sound of his own voice. He was just beginning to feel sorry for himself when a piece of his door burned out. He backed off in alarm. Alex’s head appeared in the hole.

“Good morning, wankers,” said Alex in a ridiculously cheerful British voice. “This is your nine A.M. alarm call. Hands off cocks, on socks, and let’s get the hell out of here, shall we?”

“Oh man, am I glad to see you,” said Lewis. He climbed through the hole in the door and then stopped dead in astonishment as he saw the bedbot.

“Who the fuck is this?”

“Allow me to present Doris Carlton, the metal transvestite.”

“Please,” said Carlton. “This is no time for joking.”

“Oh my god,” said Lewis. “Why the hell is he dressed like that?”

“Shh,” said Alex, “don’t embarrass him. It’s a change-of-life thing.”

“Quickly this way,” said Carlton.

“Where are we?”

“Somewhere underneath the theater.”

They hurried along the corridors until they came to a heavy door with a flashing red light and a warning not to enter when the light was on. They entered anyway. There was no one around. They were definitely backstage now, for there were signs pointing towards MAKEUP, WARDROBE, ORCHESTRA, and STAGE.