Twisted Metal (35 page)

They were in the command room, looking up at the partial map of Shull that was engraved directly onto the steel wall of the basilica. The southern part of the continent rose twenty feet up the same wall and was picked out in great detail. The former city states conquered by Artemis were now bound to Artemis City by the lead chasing of railway lines. For ten years now Spoole had gazed at that same, nearly unchanging, map. Only now was any detail of the section to the north of the central mountain range being filled in. The path taken by Kavan’s nuclear excavation of the mountains had already been engraved on the map, and now the branching lines of the railways were expanding outwards, the detail of the surrounding countryside being slowly etched in as survey data was sent back bit by bit.

Spoole gazed with pride at the growing map, visible testament to his success as a leader.

‘Testament to Kavan’s success,’ remarked Gearheart, as he joined her in the glassed-in office at the southern end of the vast room. ‘They’re all saying it. General San-dale, the commanders, the computers, they all know the truth.’

‘Peace, Gearheart,’ replied Spoole without heat. He was used to these outbursts.

The battered robot was propped up in a chair overlooking the vast floor of the command room. The ranked desks of the computers could be seen, steel robots studying a constant stream of sheets of copper foil. They scanned their contents and made marks on still more sheets of foil that were collected and summarized and collated, and so produced reports on the growing wealth and strength of Artemis City.

‘I will not be quiet,’ said Gearheart, bitterly. ‘You take the credit, but it is Kavan who drives our forces north into emptier and emptier territories. And all the while there are decreasing amounts of metal flowing back into this city, and you know it. Kavan will break himself on those empty hills, and then you will claim the credit for the conquest he has made.’

‘I do what is best for Artemis,’ said Spoole simply.

‘You do what is best for yourself,’ replied Gearheart. ‘The same is true of this whole city now. We hide here in safety and send other robots to do our work for us. We have forgotten Nyro’s way.’

‘What we are doing is successful, Gearheart. How can what you say be true whilst Artemis still grows?’

‘We both know I speak the truth, Spoole. Look at me – what use am I now, in this broken body? If we were true to Nyro then this body would be taken away and melted. The metal of my mind broken down so that it could be spawned anew, and a new robot could walk on Penrose.’

‘Your mind is your mind, Gearheart. It is a unique and beautiful thing. I realize that now –’

‘The beauty of my mind was expressed in the metal that I could shape. Look at my body now.’

She waved the bent metal of her hooked arm in despair at the dented and scratched shell in which she sat.

‘My mind was made to twist metal, but what metal can I twist now? I missed my opportunity, Spoole. I should have made a mind with you, and I never did, through foolish pride. What a child we could have made together, Spoole! What a way to serve Nyro that would have been. And now that chance has passed.’

Spoole gazed at the growing map at the far end of the room. ‘It is not Nyro’s way to mourn at what might have been,’ he said.

‘I was a fool,’ said Gearheart bitterly. ‘I remain a fool. I taunt you constantly, Spoole, and you allow me to. You’re a better servant of Nyro than I shall ever be. You have achieved so much. Leave me, Spoole. Your metal should not go untwisted.‘

‘I won’t leave you, Gearheart,’ said Spoole softly.

‘But that’s not Nyro’s way!’

Spoole didn’t answer.

‘Find another woman. Make a child with her. Your metal is strong.’

Spoole gazed at Gearheart, so upset, and he himself felt so guilty. Guilty at what he had done to her, guilty that he really was betraying Nyro by thus keeping her alive.

‘Make a child,’ repeated Gearheart.

‘But I did once make a child,’ replied Spoole.

The Story of Spoole’s Child

Spoole was young and ambitious and going nowhere
.

Artemis was growing by the day, leaping across the continent, snapping up all in its way, and Spoole seemed doomed to spend his time trotting along behind, making do with what scraps were left for him, and this filled him with such a cold, aching jealousy that he was scarcely able to remain civil to those around him
.

Spoole had been bred for greatness, his mind had been woven for leadership. Surely it was his purpose to command Artemisian divisions to the greater glory of Artemis, yet it was his destiny to always arrive too late, to see the choicest posts and promotions going to the less intelligent, to see the best opportunities offered to the less deserving
.

Tonight had been the nadir of his progress. Finally put in charge of a division, Spoole had commanded with diligence and flair, sending his troops forwards again and again against the Bethe defences, only to see them cut down. Too late he had realized what his part in the grand assault was intended to be: a diversion and nothing more. The main force had attacked further to the north, and whilst Spoole and his remaining troops had languished on the plain, the rest of Artemis had poured into Bethe, claiming honour and glory and spoils for themselves
.

This realization was too much for Spoole. He had abandoned his command and walked off into the night, feeling lost and alone. Lightning arced across the sky, gravel and stones skittered across the plain, kicked by his metal feet
.

‘Nyro,’ he called out, ‘what would you have me do? Why have you had me built like this only to deny me my purpose?’

As if in answer, a tearing noise began in the east, white light spreading across the night like a curtain, waves of photons washing across the continent, pummelling him, pummelling his eyes, pummelling his olive body. Suddenly Spoole was very frightened. He had called out to Nyro, and it seemed as if she was answering
.

‘Nyro,’ he said again. ‘Nyro, I know you are long dead. I know that you cannot be speaking to me.’

Who was he speaking to? wondered Spoole. He didn’t believe that Nyro could hear him, and yet he continued to shout into the night. ‘Why weave my mind and not put it to use? What is the point of that? I was made to lead, to command, to strive for the honour and glory of the great state of Artemis and yet, at every turning, Artemis denies me this. Why make me, then?’

The tearing noise became louder and louder, Spoole’s fear increased. What was Nyro trying to say? And then an answer came
.

‘If we were Artemisians . . .’

The words were faint, on the edge of hearing, distorted by the crackle of the electrical storm. Spoole’s fear was a thing so great it set up a standing wave in his mind, it resonated around his body, taking control of his arms and legs
. Nyro had answered him!

But that couldn’t really be Nyro speaking! Nyro was long dead. And then realization dawned, and Spoole felt incredibly foolish. His ears were still turned up to their full extent. He placed a hand to the side of his head, felt the overlarge housings that he had built there, the better to keep track of the battle he had commanded. The words he had heard were not intended for his ears, but he had taken them as a reply nonetheless. He scanned the night as the white light faded from the sky. And then he saw who had spoken, who he could still hear speaking now
.

Two robots were making love in the middle of an electrical storm
.

Spoole was gripped with such jealousy and hatred that he felt quite weak. Their happiness threw fresh light onto his near-despair, making it seem all the blacker. He had nothing to look forward to but a return to Artemis and obscurity, and yet there they both crouched, twisting wire, secure in their own future. What about his future? And then he realized what they were saying. They were discussing how to make their child, whether it should be woven according to the philosophy of Artemis, or Turing City
.

Artemis! What did they know about Artemis? The man’s whingeing voice cut through Spoole. What did he know about Artemis, what did he know about Artemisian philosophy? Look what it had done to him, Spoole! The woman’s reply was more measured, but still they argued. How would they make the child? The woman was giving the man the choice, and Spoole was gripped by fury. How dare they? How dare they! At that moment it seemed as if they were mocking him. He raised his rifle to his shoulder, took aim along it, and waited for the man to speak his answer
.

And Spoole realized at that point that he didn’t care what answer the man was going to give. He was angry, he just wanted to destroy. The two robots weren’t Artemisians, they were the enemy, and they deserved to die
.
He fired, and the man died
.

Susan

Susan was now a fully trained mother, and in Artemis that job brought a certain respect. Okay, she was led every night into the making room, where she knelt at the feet of yet another grey infantryman, but the attitude those men displayed had changed subtly. The contempt had gone to be replaced by something like respect, an acknowledgement that both of them were, in their way, advancing the Artemisian cause.

Or maybe that was just the way that Susan wanted to see it, a way for her to try and make her new existence bearable. Something she needed to believe in as she sought to forget her old life – to put Axel and Karel and their old forge finally out of her mind.

Not that the other women would let her do that. Though they were all, technically, Artemisians now, as they moved from the making rooms to the lecture theatre and back again there were still the looks, the silences, the intimations that she was receiving preferential treatment. It was there in their days spent in evaluating and refreshing and discussing the Artemisian mind; it was there in their nights spent in twisting it anew.

And then, suddenly, there came a break from the routine.

They were led from the making room, not back to the lecture theatre, but the other way down the metal corridor, passing beneath the single lightbulbs that divided the darkness into sections. The women were worried; they looked at each other nervously, wondering what awaited them. Had they failed in some way? Were they being led away to be disassembled?

They came to some stairs and began to ascend, up and up until they emerged into the night.

Out into the open air for the first time in so long. Around them, the suggestions of tall buildings, rising into the darkness amid the sooty snowflakes that tumbled into the dim light, illuminating the slushy courtyard in which they stood. The red light shining from the building ahead, Susan saw it and felt such an odd feeling, here in the middle of Artemis City. One of homecoming, of happiness almost. The other women felt it too. A forge? They were being led to a forge.

They headed across the square, the slush squeezing into their feet through the dents in the metal that had gone too long without adjustment. Walking through an open door into the light, the warmth, the utter joy of the forge. Susan had such a feeling of peace and happiness at the sight. They all did. The women looked around in wonder at the tools, the anvils, the plates of cheap metal that lay stacked around them. There were cans stacked on shelves and laid on the floor, filled to the brim with oil and grease and even a little red paint. It was poor fare compared to what she had enjoyed the use of in Turing City, but at this moment, for Susan, it seemed even better than a visit to Harman’s body shop.

Nettie was waiting for them in the middle of the room, her chest panelling already removed.

‘Ladies,’ she called out to them. ‘You have worked well this past month. Artemis recognizes the service you have provided. Artemis also recognizes that the work you do will be aided by healthy bodies! And so here is metal and fire and oil! Adjust your electromuscle! Hammer out those dents! Lubricate those joints! Make yourself the clean, sweet, silent machines you know yourselves to be, the better to serve Nyro’s purpose!’

The women didn’t need to be told again. They began to strip away dented panelling, to help each other adjust electromuscle, to strip down mechanisms and drop them into shallow cleansing baths of thin oil. For the first time in a night month they smiled.

All but Susan, left alone at the edge of the group, struggling one-handed to undo the electromuscle in her left arm. She looked at the other women for help, but they pointedly turned away from her.

A soft electronic moan emitted from her voicebox. No one seemed to hear it.

No, someone did.

‘Do you need a hand, Susan?’

Nettie was there beside her. Without being asked, the other woman unhooked the electromuscle from Susan’s arm.

‘It’s all kinked up. You’d be best knitting it anew.’

Susan looked at Nettie, unable to speak.
She’s lonely too
, she realized.
No one wants to speak to Nettie the traitor
.

‘Can’t do it one-handed though,’ said Nettie. ‘Tell you what, why don’t I do this for you now, and you can return the favour for me some time?’

Susan nodded wordlessly, so grateful for this small act of kindness in this forgotten place. She looked at the other robot, with her badly made body, and wondered for a moment at what sort of arm she would knit for her, then she pushed that thought aside. Who was she to feel proud of her Turing City body, with its fine paintwork? Give her a few months and she would be just like Nettie. Just another interchangeable Artemisian body.