The Medida War Read online

  They worked day and night, and didn't appear to have any kind of social life. But they were pleasant enough, although they kept very much to themselves. They were mainly involved in the design and manufacture of new components that were to be fitted in the new, improved Strider. What these new components were was very much a jealously guarded company secret. They were produced in a now highly restricted section of the factory known as Area 66. This included huge locked hangars and a cordoned-off external test ground that was watched over by armed guards. It was a no-fly zone and this was rigorously enforced by the new owners.

  Fred had been curious about what was going on there and asked Mr Le Guerre about it.

  Mr Le Guerre's smiling face seemed to change for a moment. Fred could have sworn he was staring at an ancient female, ancient beyond anyone he had ever seen before. She was wizened and wrinkled with fissures, cracks and craters that ravaged her, just as Mars was ravaged. Momentarily she stared at him with utter malevolence, chilling his blood, as if he was something from another planet. Which, of course, he was.

  Then the face reverted to the affable, smiling features of Mr Le Guerre. "It would be better not to ask any more questions, Fred," he smiled.

  Fred was happy to acquiesce. He was about to throw away his company Sunset Boulevard (you couldn't even give them away now) and had bought himself a top of the range Cartier saloon.

  He had left his middle-aged wife and found himself a young beautiful girlfriend. Or rather she found him. Fred would never forget that wonderful romantic first weekend they had spent together, shacked up in a Big Mack off exit 580C on the Trans-Martian Highway. They had been completely oblivious to their surroundings.

  His wife had taken it reasonably well. All she had done was to cut up all his clothes. And that was okay, because he needed a new wardrobe now he was going out with a trendy young thing who wore designer outfits by Pharaoh and Tutankhamun. Mrs Ravine had also tried to destroy his Sunset Boulevard by stabbing the tyres and taking a sledgehammer to the bodywork, but that, of course, was impossible as the Sunset Boulevard was indestructible. So Fred had far more important things on his mind right now than what was going on in Area 66.

  Later, Fred disposed of his Sunset Boulevard by dumping it out in the desert, round the back of the factory. He'd pushed it down into a deep crater and was happily walking back to work when he saw something odd going on in the test ground.

  Mountains and high screens encircled it, but one of these screens had come away.

  And Fred thought he saw one of the new high-speed Striders pursuing some of Mr Le Guerre's people. A jet of flame shot out from the machine and incinerated them all. Then the screen was hastily replaced, obscuring his vision.

  Back at work, he was surprised to see the very same people he thought were killed carrying on with their normal duties as if nothing had happened.

  Or they seemed like the same people. It was hard to tell as they all looked so similar.

  Fred remembered Mr Le Guerre's warning about not asking questions. He realised he must have experienced some optical illusion, a mirage, a trick of the desert. The mind sees only what it expects to see. And what it wants to see.

  Especially when you're being paid half a million E a year.

  There was the occasional request from the factory inspectorate, the Health and Safety Executive or other nosy government departments that wanted to visit the factory and see what was going on at the Sunset Motor Company, now it was under new management. Because they said, despite the tight security, there were a lot of rumours going round about what was being produced at the factory, now that it was not the Sunset Boulevard. But it was surprising how a visit from Mr Le Guerre with his black bag soon satisfied their curiosity.

  For three years the automated assembly lines worked day and night producing the mysterious new Striders. These were stockpiled in Area 66. It was too soon after the headlines "Botwrights go Belly Up!" to launch them onto the market, Mr Le Guerre explained to Fred. They would have to wait until the time was right.

  They were clearly going to be very different from the traditional vehicles with which the Botwrights built up the family firm. But people might well have need of a portapoo when they were finally revealed.

  EIGHTEEN

  Joe Pineapples had begun to investigate Diaz's past. What he discovered was not reassuring. The mysterious accidental deaths of his first two wives, for instance.

  And the insanity that was believed to run through some of the Foundation Fathers' bloodlines. These psychological problems could have been caused by the rigours of the long journey from Earth to Mars, and the radiation they had been exposed to, or their subsequent isolation in their domes. Whatever it was, many of them began to act somewhat strange, like the inbred aristocrats on Earth.

  They saw their domes as castles and heavily defended them. They would do anything to protect them from outside scrutiny. There were stories of bizarre and murderous acts that went on within them, far from the public eye.

  Some of the domes of the senator's ancestral home, Camp Diaz, dated back to those early days. The Diaz family had added to them over the centuries. It was a home on an island surrounded by sand seas.

  "That's where Juanita will be living," said Joe.

  "And loving," added Blackblood.

  "I'm not having it," said Joe.

  "We know that," said Blackblood. "But can't you find someone else? I'm told this is the perfect place. Apparently they have a lot of business guests who come here for three-hour conferences with their secretaries."

  They had taken over a biol Bunkhouse as their operational headquarters while they were in Viking City and their dubious reputation seemed to amuse Blackblood greatly.

  Joe ignored his jibes and decided to keep his own counsel. And make his own plans. He had to see Juanita and find out the truth from her - face to face.

  Normally he would have been cool, calm and extremely secretive. But, as Blackblood said, "Love makes fools of all of us." That is, love makes fools of everyone except Blackblood, whom no one could fall in love with - unless they were a sentient torture rack or robotised iron maiden. So the other ABC Warriors could pick up Joe's thoughts.

  "Where are you going, Joe?" asked Hammerstein.

  "I need to check on a couple of trouble spots."

  "I don't think so," said Hammerstein, standing in the doorway.

  "No," confirmed Mongrol, blocking the light from the windows.

  "Absolutely," warned Deadlock, entering from his inner sanctum where he had been further communing with Medusa. "We cannot allow one of our team to get involved in a romance that could jeopardise the success of our mission here on Mars."

  "But do try," said Blackblood, tapping his road drill leg hopefully and already fantasising about ramming it into Joe and getting away with it.

  "Are you saying I'm lying?"

  "Joe, we've all known each other for hundreds of years. We know each other backwards. We can't fool each other."

  "You don't tell me what to do. None of you do. I'm my own boss."

  Who the actual leader of the ABC Warriors was had always been a bit of a grey area. Theoretically it was Hammerstein. But this was because Deadlock believed in the dictum: "A wizard rules, but he does not govern. Instead he contents himself with ruling the governor." Certainly Mongrol, as an officer, would have liked to have been the governor but this had led to some sharp clashes with Hammerstein. Of course neither Blackblood nor Mek-Quake were ever serious contenders for the leadership. Joe was just too cool to tell others what to do. He sneered at bosses and thought they were on some kind of power trip. But now the question of who-told-who what to do in the ABC Warriors had become very important indeed.

  "We work by the Law of Khaos," explained Deadlock.

  "Rather than follow the antique ways of order, we make our decisions by mutual respect, mutual consideration and mutual agreement."

  "So just shut up and do what you're told," added Blackblood.

  "Loo
k, Joe," said Hammerstein reasonably. "If you burst in on Diaz and try and speak to Juanita, you will be playing right into their hands."

  "Just forget her, Pineapples," confirmed Mongrol authoritatively.

  "Sure," said Joe, turning away, which didn't convince any of them. "Sure." They waited tensely for his next move while they tried to figure out how they were going to stop him.

  Mek-Quake, who was in killdozer mode, and had been listening to the conversation, leered in through the window. "Yeah. You don't mess with Mek-Quake. When he gave an order, he expects it to be obeyed. Just remember, Pineapples. Mek-Quake, he is the boss."

  The barely-sentient machine's intrusion distracted Mongrol for a moment. He turned towards the killdozer, leaving a small gap, which Joe feinted towards. Mongrol instinctively swung around and punched out towards Joe who was ready and ducked the punch. Instead the power paw slammed into the wall.

  Blackblood enthusiastically kicked out at Joe with his peg leg; Hammerstein swung his hammer at him, while Deadlock stayed aloof, thinking correctly that it could be a case of too many cooks. Joe expertly ducked their blows as he had done a thousand times in the combat room, but now he was very much in earnest. Joe concentrated his attention on Mongrol: he jabbed him fiercely in an eye optic with multiple phase blows that were faster than the eye could follow. It had the desired effect; it made Mongrol angry. Previously he'd been pulling his punches. The last thing he wanted to do was seriously damage his friend and colleague.

  This time he involuntarily lashed out - exactly where Joe estimated he would. He struck the same place on the wall so it blew right off, exposing it to the street outside. Joe was through the gap in less than a second, leaping down through the air, and shoving a ski-biker off his machine before commandeering it.

  "Shoot to wound!" shouted Hammerstein as his comrades leaned out the gap firing after him.

  But this was Joe Pineapples. The Galaxy's greatest sniper also made him the Galaxy's toughest target. He had already calculated the odds. He knew which of his comrades would fire which of their guns; how they would ensure they didn't hit innocent civilians; and which vulnerable parts of his anatomy they would attempt to hit to put him out of action. The calculation process took just over half of a second. He knew he had to get out of their sights fast.

  So a little pyramania was called for.

  He drove the ski-bike towards one of the smaller pyramids directly opposite, gunned his engines and roared up the wall. Shocked office workers in the pyramid looked out amazed at the sight of Joe skiing up the sheer face of their building.

  At the peak, he did a perfect forty five degree take-off. And just at that moment, he was a clear target, so he came under fire from the ABC Warriors.

  Budabudabudabuda! Pow! Pow! Pow! Thoom! Thoom! Thoom! Blam! Blam! Blam! A hail of assorted bullets, shells and lasers, flew all around him.

  One bullet, probably from Hammerstein, grazed his arm. The others were wide.

  "Sloppy," Joe thought.

  He was annoyed with himself that a bullet could wing him when he knew his companions' weapons and their trajectories backwards. He should have been able to avoid them all.

  Then he did a radical re-entry, shot down the far side of the pyramid and quickly lost himself in the traffic.

  He thought about the best way to get to Marineris City without interference from his friends. Trans-Crane was fast, but they'd be sure to be watching the loading bays at Grand Central Crane Station. And they'd be on the lookout for him on this ski-bike, too. There had been the teleporters, but the Invention Exchange had recently withdrawn them in a bid to keep down infolation.

  So he parked up and decided to go by Mars Fargo. The super-coach's huge wheels ran in the "Juggernaut Only" outer lanes of the motorway, and all traffic undertook it, so it could still eat up the kilometres. But there would always be other juggernauts in front slowing it down, such as bulk transporters shipping biol to townships that were still not connected up to the mains. Journey time was forty-eight hours.

  He would have to disguise his features, that was certain. He hated doing it, because of his fear of nanobots, but he used a nanobotox pre-programmed solution to alter the molecular structure of his face. He took off his customary shades and smeared the grey goo over his features. He couldn't help but shudder as they went relentlessly to work, making him unrecognisable as he approached security. He also had several nano-chip aliases and he got through without difficulty.

  Joe travelled "Robot Class." A heavy, bank-vault style door, marked "No access during the journey" locked him and some other sentient droids away from humans. He had switched off his ABC identifying signs and his telescopic rifle was safely concealed inside his body, along with other weapons - knives and grenades stored in his chest armoury. The security beams were not as sophisticated as the detectors at the Red House and his own anti-detector detectors were able to fool them. Inside the stark, drab compartment he looked no different from the other robots.

  One was a talklight robot, with the usual red, amber and green lights on his chest and several megaphone-like mouths projecting from his head to warn humans not to talk. He'd been sent as part of an exchange program with the Marineris City talk cones.

  There were also two stunning robot supermodels who introduced themselves as Sheer Herren Sad and Sheen Zano. Sheer Herren Sad had gaunt, miserable, skeletal features that made her popular in the world of modelling, but did nothing for Joe. And he found her pushy Teutonic voice and gloomy manner irritating. And some instinct warned him from the very outset that this woman was dangerous and could be trouble. He found himself strangely agitated in her presence.

  On the other hand, Sheen Zano had a sunny Mediterranean ambience about her and a beautiful smile that lit up the dark hold. Her golden metal skin was soft to the touch and indistinguishable from skin. She had wild red wiry hair, a slim boyish figure and laughing dark eyes made up in the Egyptian style. Her neck was as swan-like and graceful as Queen Nefertiti's.

  Sheen Zano looked just a little like Juanita, but it was a measure of his infatuation that he thought she looked a lot like Juanita.

  Then again, the drawing of a woman on the emergency safety procedures diagram also reminded Joe of Juanita. Even the female silhouette on toilet doors reminded Joe of Juanita. Everything reminded him of Juanita.

  The robot girls and their porters were travelling with the Pharaoh design team to the Marineris fashion show where they would model the latest collection. But whereas the human supermodels travelled first class, the robot supermodels and their carriers had to travel in the very basic conditions of Robot Class. Only in the Robot Free State would she have equal rights with humans. Travelling into Confederation territory, she had to travel cargo class by law. The Cinderella's fingers converted into sewing machine needles and they made alterations to the clothes as they talked.

  Sheer Herren Sad was sneering at the Marineris City citizens' preferences for Scargills and Lowrys over Pharaohs. She also pointed out that Arthur had sold his name to a chain who were now mass-producing under his name. "But you know from one look, they're not real Scargills."

  She said, "Have you seen the turn-ups on the gumboots? So last year! And the jacket has no style. It could be any old donkey jacket. It could even be a Michael Foot."

  Sheen Zano laughed at this. She seemed rather dominated by the other girl and found everything she said funny. But the rest of the passengers thought that was unnecessarily cruel.

  "And Scargill's 'Arm Pit' line of beauty products to 'Make your face as fresh as the coal face' is the pits," added Mein Herren.

  "Yes," said Sheen Zano loyally. "I like the Schwarzenegger range of perfumes pour femme. 'Arm Arnie' is so next year."

  Sheen Zano smiled happily across at Joe from time to time but he avoided her eyes. He went into stand-by mode as he thought over the problem of how he was to reach Juanita. The media had announced that she and her senator husband had gone to his country retreat for the weekend at Camp Diaz near
Marineris. It was surrounded by sand seas and had high profile security. It would be difficult to get through but he'd find a way.

  He came back into full consciousness to hear the talk light robot having a conversation with Sheen Zano. "So what's with the soft skin?" he quizzed her.

  "I like to be feminine," she pouted. "Why should humans have a monopoly on softness and beauty?"

  "It just makes you look like a floppy," he scowled. It was obvious he found Sheer Herren Sad's anorexic scaffolding more appealing. "We're just robots and you should always remember that."

  "Well, the latest theories dispute that," said Sheen Zano. "I believe that consciousness, the soul, looks for a suitable home whether it's human, robot, alien or animal. We may be produced on an assembly line, but our souls come from somewhere else."

  "Subversive rubbish," scowled the talk lights.

  "But it's true," insisted Ms Sheen. "The greatest designers on Mars may program emotions and intelligence into our brains, but no one can explain scientifically the extra something we all have."

  "So who was your designer?"

  "I'm by Ankha," pouted Sheen.

  "Disgusting," said the talk lights. "You should be ashamed of yourself."

  "No. She means she was designed by Ankha," explained Sheer.

  "Never heard of her," said the talk lights dismissively. It was obvious he didn't get about much.

  "Ankha's one of the new wave of robot designers."

  "Oh, yes," said the talk lights in a bored tone.

  "Her Egyptian designs are a little avant garde for popular taste," explained Sheer.

  "Human and robot males are all the same," commented Sheen. "Human males want robot women with enormous breasts. Robot males like hard shiny surfaces, with lots of wiring. It's all so kitsch. I'm a robot. There's no reason for me to have big breasts."

  "What do you think, Mr?" Sheer asked Joe, moving her girders seductively.