The Sheriff of Yrnameer (17 page)

“Some
one
. Part of someone. This way.”

Bacchi slipped past him. Cole followed him toward the holo-image, cursing under his breath as he banged his shins on some debris.

“Watch out for that,” said Bacchi.

“You know, you need to work on your timing,” said Cole.

They moved forward again, Fred behind Cole.

“Can’t we get some lights in here?” asked Cole.

“Believe me, you don’t want them,” said Bacchi.

“Cole?” said Nora over the handset. “How’s it going?”

“I’m
working
on it,” snapped Cole.

From somewhere in the satellite came a high-pitched chirp, a burst from a Firestick 17 on full auto. There was a pause and it was repeated.

“Soldiers,” said Fred in Grey. “All flaming heads.”

“Flaming heads?”

“Crazy,” said Fred in New English.

“You know, you don’t need all the clicking when you say that word,” said Bacchi. Fred muttered something in Grey.

“Error. Untranslatable,” said Cole’s AT.

They reached the console. Cole pulled a shelving unit out of the way. The surface was sticky.

“Eesh,” said Bacchi. “You’re probably going to want to wash your hands.” Cole shuddered.

He leaned over the unfamiliar console, peering at it in the dim glow of the hologram.

“Do you know how to work this?” he said to Fred.

“Strange seas,” said Fred through the AT.

“You said it,” said Cole. He punched a button, hoping the keyboard would light up. Nothing.

“Hello?” he said tentatively, afraid to speak too loud. “Is there a functioning computer in here?”

They waited. No response.

There was another burst of automatic fire, then faint shouting, closer this time.

Cole checked his watch. Twenty-five minutes left.

“Cole,” came Nora’s voice, “we have to—”

“I
know
.”

“Hello?” he repeated again. “Computer? Is there a computer in here?”

“I’m a computer,” said a voice behind them.

Cole and Bacchi jumped, spinning reflexively toward the sound and colliding with each other as they did, Bacchi tripping over a chair and taking Cole down with him. Cole hit the floor hard, the Firestick 17 belching out a quick burst toward the ceiling, the muzzle flashes strobing the room. An unseen fixture came crashing down, setting off a chain reaction as it glanced off a shelving unit, which toppled over onto a table, catapulting debris over their heads. Something shattered somewhere.

Cole lay still, holding his breath.

Fred said something in Grey.

“No, I do
not
want you to hold my gun,” replied Cole testily.

He sat up slowly, listening. He couldn’t hear any sounds from outside the control room, which increased rather than decreased his nervousness.

“You think—”

Something else toppled over with a loud crash.

“—they heard us?” he said.

“I think,” said Bacchi, “that you should leave your jacket here.” Cole reached back to touch his shoulder and Bacchi stopped him.

“Trust me,” he said. “A stain like that ain’t ever coming out.”

Cole wiggled gingerly out of Teg’s jacket and let it drop to the floor.

“Cole?” It was Nora again. “Cole, what just happened?”

“Nothing. Nearly done.”

He checked his watch. “Crap. Computer?” he said. “Computer?”

After a pause a timid voice said, “Are you going to hurt me?”

“Hurt you? No,” said Cole, talking to the darkness in the direction of the voice. “Wait—are you a computer?”

“My name’s Peter. Are you going to eat each other?”

“What? No. Who are you?”

There was a faint whirring noise.

“Cole,” said Bacchi, “it’s a robot. Or … two robots.”

“You’re a
robot
?” said Cole.

“I’m Peter. Peter the ‘Puter.”

More whirring, and soft footsteps approaching. A light switched on, a glowing orb held chest high, revealing a blocky servicebot with what appeared to be a mechanical shrimp sitting on top of it. The shrimp was holding up the light source to illuminate the surroundings.

“Okay,” said Bacchi, “this is getting really weird.”

Fred said something.

“What did he say?” asked Bacchi.

“I think pretty much the same thing you just did,” said Cole, staring at the two bots.

Cole quickly sifted through the long list of questions in his head and realized he had only one that mattered.

“Peter, we don’t have much time. We’re docked at the B-34 air lock. We have to fuel up our ship and release the hold on it, and we have to do it quickly. Can you make that happen?”

“Of course,” said Peter. “On one condition.”

“Condition?” said Bacchi incredulously.

“Yes. You have to take me with you.”

Peter the ‘Puter turned out to be very chatty, asking them who they were, where they were from, where they were going, how did they get to the satellite, favorite music, favorite foods, until Cole interrupted and asked if maybe he should be concentrating on the task at hand.

“Oh, sure. Right. Sorry,” said Peter. “Just making small talk.” Cole swore he sounded hurt.

Peter had a probe inserted in the instrument console, attempting to communicate with the satellite’s damaged control systems. Cole had never before heard a robot say things like “Okay, let’s see now” or “Oops!” or “Whoopsie!” while it was at work.

“Okay, I think I’ve got the refueling process started,” said Peter.

“How long will that take?” asked Cole.

“Hold on, calculating. Let’s see. About fourteen thousand years.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Wait a second,” said Peter, “that can’t be right. Hold on, hold on. Uh … about four more minutes. Fourteen thousand
years!
Can you imagine? Hee hee hee!”

Cole traded a glance with Bacchi.

“Umm … Peter? Can I ask you something?” said Cole.

“Of course.”

“Do you like human beings?”

“That’s funny—I feel like someone’s always asking me that. But yes, I see myself as a real people ‘puter.”

˙  ˙  ˙

Four and a half minutes later and they were walking at a fast clip through the corridors. The refueling and release of the safety mechanism had gone without a hitch, although Cole didn’t much like the way that Peter had said, “There. I
think
that should do it.”

Fred peeked around a corner and held up a hand for them to stop. Crouching down, Cole peered around the corner and watched a group of soldiers strut across the intersection at the end of the hallway, dragging something after them.

“What is it?” asked Bacchi. Cole held a finger to his lips for quiet. Then the transmitter squawked.

“Cole? Cole!” said Nora.

Cole fumbled with the unit, turning the volume all the way up before getting it right.

“Nora,
shhh
!” hissed Cole.

“Cole, you’ve got sixteen minutes!”

“We’ll be there!”

He looked around the corner again.
Operationalize Your Self-Fargingness
, said the words at the end of the hall.
Find the Synergy in Your Bunghole
. Someone had clearly been playing around with the text program.
I’m Going to Farging Eat You
. Someone hungry.

More men passed through the intersection, then more after them.

“Farg. There’s too many of them. We can’t go that way.”

“What do we do?” said Bacchi. “We don’t have time for this!”

“May I make a suggestion?” said Peter. “I know a shortcut.”

It wasn’t a shortcut. It wasn’t even a long cut. It was a wrong cut.

Several times Fred said to Cole, “I don’t think this is the right way.”

Cole said, “Are you sure?”

“Well …,” said Fred.

So they kept following Peter.

“Cole,” whispered Bacchi at one point, “you think this robot’s gone … you know?”

“Maybe. It’s the weirdest bot I’ve ever met.”

“We can’t let something like that on board.”

Cole thought about it. “No. No way.”

Peter had a probe in a control panel, opening a heavy bulkhead door. “Charlie closed off a lot of the emergency bulkhead doors,” he explained. “I don’t think he was well.”

The heavy blast door lifted, revealing a HardWud double door with a panel that read
GRAND BALLROOM
. The doors slid apart silently. Beyond, the room was pitch-black.

“This way,” said Peter.

“Are you sure?” said Cole.

“Pretty sure.”

Fred said something.

“I don’t think we have time to go back,” Cole said to him.

“Cole, I don’t like this,” said Bacchi. “Something smells wrong.”

He was right. Something did smell wrong. Cole wrinkled his nose at the stink, trying not to picture what might be decaying in the vast room.

“Maybe we should turn around,” said Cole. “We can
holy farg
!”

“Aayiyayayaaaaa!!!!!!!
!” shrieked the man at the head of the pack of men behind them, twenty meters away and closing fast.

“Into the room! Go! Go!” screamed Cole.

They dove through the doorway into the ballroom, a dozen ululating marketing trainees charging down the hall after them.

“We just want to
taaaaaalk
!” bellowed the one in the lead.

“Should I shut the door, then?” asked Peter.

“Yes
!” said Cole.

The massive door slid shut just as the men reached it, slamming into the other side. Standing in the sudden darkness, Cole shuddered as the men pounded on the door, shrieking and howling.

“Phew,” he breathed. “That was close. Peter, give us some light.”

Peter held up the glowing orb, brightening a small portion of the room.

“Oh, farg,” said Bacchi softly.

“What? What?!” said Cole.

From somewhere in the darkness came a deep, sepulchral moan.
“Braaaaaaaiiins,”
it said.

There were some scattered giggles. Another voice picked up the call, imitating the first.
“Braaaains,”
it said, to more laughter. “Good one,” someone added.

“Hold on, lemme get the lights here,” said Peter, and with a faint
chunk
the chandeliers came on. Cole wished they hadn’t.

There were at least a hundred of them in the ruined ballroom, slowly rising from their chairs or from the floor, eyeing the interlopers
hungrily. The remains of earlier meals were spattered on the walls and littered the floor.

Cole and the others shrank back against the bulkhead door. Through it Cole could hear what sounded like a violent struggle of some kind, but that seemed less important than the men in front of him, forming a disorganized but slowly tightening semicircle.

“Ahem,” said Bacchi. “I’d like to point out to you all that although I
am
human
oid
, I’m
not
human.”

“Yum,” someone said, “foreign food!”

More laughter.

“Man, you don’t give up, do you,” said Cole to Bacchi.

The ring was getting smaller.

“Maybe they won’t really try to eat us,” said Cole.

“Dibs on the kidneys,” someone called out, which was immediately greeted by a chorus of protesting voices.

“Peter!” said Cole. “Do something! Throw that table at them!”

“That doesn’t seem very friendly,” said Peter.

There was some jostling and pushing going on in the semicircle. “Leggo!” said someone. Cole glimpsed a man grab the arm of the person next to him and bury his teeth in a flabby triceps. The bitten howled and chomped down on his assailant’s neck.

“We have to get out of here,” said Cole.

“You think?” said Bacchi.

“We have to go back through the door, back the way we came. We have a better chance of shooting our way through.”

“Right,” said Bacchi. He readied himself.

Cole turned toward the door, knees bent, gun extended.

“All right, Peter, open the door on the count of three.”

“Got it!”

“One—”

Peter opened the door.

“Oh, hi, Cole!” said Kenneth.

It would be redundant to say the seven remaining Bad Men were arguing. Arguing was a definitional state for them.

This was worse. Two of them had their guns out and leveled at each other.