The Road to Mars: A Post-Modem Novel (1999) (14 page)

“Bullshit. We will take some extra passengers and do what we can, but we have a schedule we must adhere to.”

“Listen to me, feller, and listen to me good if you want to have your balls dangling in the same place you last left ’em. There are about to be a thousand refugees heading for your fucking vessel, so you’d better get every blanket, every bed, every tiny piece of floor space you’ve got available right now. Every medic, every sick bay, every hospital standing by. You got that?”

“I’ll speak to Mr. Keppler.”

“You do that, and tell him its Emergency Code 437.”

“Yes sir.”

“Right, my name is Rogers, you understand. What’s my name?”

“Rogers.”

“Wrong. It’s fucking God as far as you’re concerned. Now wake your man Keppler, get him out of his silk pajamas, and tell him we have a major fucking disaster on our hands. You hear that?”

“Yes sir.”

“You inform him that from now on he takes orders directly from me. And only from me. You got that?”

“Yes sir.”

He looked at Alex.

“Fucking limeys,” he said.

“What’s an Emergency Code 437?” asked Alex.

“Beats me,” said Rogers. “I just made it up.”

I can’t do comedy.

—
Steven Spielberg

Carlton heard the first dull thud at 11:22 local time. Immediately his antenna began to pick up emergency signals. The air around him was buzzing, crackling with messages. Within minutes he had picked up the first damage report. It was bad. A few moments later came the emergency evacuation call.

He ran into the lobby of the Rialto. The deskbots were consulting evacuation procedures. The building’s emergency klaxon sounded. People in various stages of undress were pouring down the stairs to the lower levels.

“Leave your apartments immediately and proceed to the subway for emergency evacuation,” said a mechanical voice. “This is not a test.”

The crowd in the lobby swelled, a mass of humanity flowing out of stairwells and elevators. He perched on a marble balcony and scanned the crowd in vain for Katy. He must have watched for twenty minutes without spotting her. Soon the river of people dwindled to a trickle, then became small drips of late stragglers. After a while it dried up altogether. He couldn’t be sure she hadn’t passed him in the mêlée.

He went over to the deskbots. “Is the building clear?” he asked. “You’re supposed to have left,” said one of the ’bots. “Why have you not obeyed instructions?” They thought he was a human.

“Doesn’t apply to us, does it?” he asked, grinning that he’d fooled them.

“I guess not,” said the robot. “You a Bowie then?”

“Four-point-five,” he said proudly.

“Could have fooled me, brother,” said the deskbot, making a weirdo gesture alongside his head to his companion. Carlton was incensed. Why did they always do this?

“Bowies are always strange,” said the other deskbot.

“Listen, the first computer to paint was a Bowie. The first computer to beat a human at golf was a Bowie—Arnold Bowie over two hundred years ago. The first completely successful massage computer was Tracy Bowie, a 3.6. The first automatic theatrical agent was a Bowie. Bowies have always been pioneers—they lead the world in robotics, cheese-making, viticulture, disco, and ballroom dancing,” he said.

“You finished?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you’d better leave before you’re an ex-Bowie,” said the deskbot.

“I can’t. I’m looking for someone. A female visitor, name of Wallace.”

The robot shrugged. “Well then you can help us check the building.” He handed him a small meter. “If you find the Wallace woman, call me.”

“Right,” said Carlton.

It was a hot box. A simple device. When it detected life, it beeped. As you got closer, the beeping got louder. Carlton headed for the elevator. On the second floor it began to beep. The elevator stopped automatically. He stepped out and headed down the corridor. He tracked the beeps to a corner apartment. He hammered on the door. Nothing. With his metal hand he punched through the door of the apartment, reached inside and undid the lock. A man and a woman were passed out in bed. A bottle of champagne was in an ice bucket.

“Time to go,” he yelled. They didn’t stir. He picked up the ice bucket, pulled back the sheet and emptied the iced water over the naked pair. That woke them all right.

“I can explain,” said the man hastily, blinking.

“Forget it,” said Carlton. “I’m not the police. This is an emergency. Got to evacuate the building. Sorry. Come on, hurry, lady.” She was trying to get dressed. He flung her a towel. “My clothes,” she said. “Not worth dying over,” said Carlton.

“That’s for me to say,” she said, determinedly wriggling into a designer frock. He left them to it.

He rode slowly up the endless floors in the elevator. At the forty-fifth floor the hot box began to beep again. Life. As if
we’re
dead, he thought. The elevator instantly responded, coming to a standstill. The doors slid open and he stepped out into another corridor. Clutching the meter, he walked slowly forward. The third apartment he came to set the machine beeping like crazy.

She was sitting in the window staring blankly into space. “Katy,” he said. She didn’t move. “Katy.”

She turned and looked at him. “I want my daddy,” she said. Whacked out of her skull, thought Carlton. “This is an emergency,” he said gently. “I’m here to help.” But for the car she might not have moved at all. It crashed through the window with a terrifying roar, shattering the glass. Instantly the wind was everywhere, pulling the apartment to pieces, sucking the furniture out of the room. She leapt desperately towards him. He grabbed hold of her, picked her up, and ran.

Dying is easy. Comedy is difficult.

—
Edmund Kean

The docks were in chaos. It was like a scene from hell. Hundreds of vessels of all shapes and sizes were pulling out as fast as they could. They were banging into one another, hooting and tooting, waving and shouting, all trying to cram through the tiny air lock and head for the safety of space. Orange shuttle ships from the
Princess Di
bounced around them, filled to the brim with terrified tourists. The lights kept flickering on and off. Each time the power cut, the sodium emergency lights cast an eerie yellow glow over the pandemonium.

“Jesus,” said Alex.

“Get the hell out of here,” said Rogers. “You may not have much time.” As he spoke H9 gave a great metallic groan. “Whoops,” said Rogers grimly. “I’ll be on the
Di
, if this place holds long enough.” He raced off towards the bouncing orange shuttles.

Alex was almost bowled over by a crowd surging out of the subway. They raced around him shouting and yelling in several languages. He pointed them towards the line of desperate souls waiting their turn for the orange lifeboats. British sailors in their neat white shorts were hopelessly trying to instill some order into their panicking passengers. They were saying those maddeningly cheerful British things. “Don’t worry, girls, never happen. One at a time, love. Oops, steady there. Never mind, dear, I’ve got another foot. Tis but a flesh wound. Worse things happen at sea. Always look on the bright side, eh?” He watched them calmly reassuring the little old ladies and loading them onto lifeboats as if they were organizing a picnic on the beach. A cheery cockney gave him a big thumbs-up and yelled, “Nice work if you can get it, eh, mate?”

A couple of the little old ladies recognized him and nudged each other.

“Look who it is, Doris. It’s him. Remember, Doris, ’e was the monkey. You were ever so good on the show, love.” He dutifully signed the paper they thrust at him. This was madness, signing autographs at a time like this. They might all be dead within minutes. As if to underline this insanity, H9 gave another huge groan. Good grief, it’s coming apart, he thought.

He fought his way blindly along the docks through masses of terrified people. It was hard work against the flow. Eventually he spotted the
Ray
up ahead of him in the compacts-only berth. Almost all the other vessels around it were gone. He broke into a run. As he drew near, he could see the lights were on and hear the engines were running. Thank God. Almost there. He raced up the gangplank.

Lewis’s white faced greeted him. “Where you bin, for God’s sake? We gotta get out of here.”

“You’re telling me. It’s a madhouse.”

“Okay, we’re powered up, let’s go.”

“Daddy, Daddy, wait.”

He turned in surprise to see a frightened little girl staring at him. “Oh, Alex, this is Tay.”

“Oh my God, a munchkin. Hello, Tay. I’m Alex.”

“You’re the monkey.”

“That’s right.”

“My mommy is missing,” she told him.

“She’s gonna be fine,” said Lewis. “But we really have to get out of here now.”

He raced for the controls.

“Undocking,” he yelled.

Emergency lights flashing, the
Johnnie Ray
began to pull away.

“Wait,” said Alex. “Where’s Carlton?”

“I don’t know,” said Lewis. “He was with you.”

“You mean he’s not on board?”

“No.”

“But we can’t leave without him.”

“Alex, he’s a tin man.”

“My God, he must still be at the Rialto.”

“What?”

“I told him to wait for Katy Wallace.”

Lewis stared at him in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

“I followed McTurk, Carlton stayed. Then I found Sammy—dead.”

Lewis was fish-mouthed.

Another large metallic groan from the bowels of H9 brought him to his senses.

“We gotta go.”

“No.”

“What?”

“I’m not leaving without Carlton.”

“He’s a robot, for Christ’s sake.”

“So?”

“Alex, we can buy another one.”

“Not like him.”

“Are you going to risk all our lives for a tin man?”

“He’ll make it,” he said, desperately trying the vidphone.

“Alex, you’re out of your mind.”

There was only static.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Okay, that’s it. We gotta go.”

“No.” He shook his head stubbornly.

“Alex, it’s not just you here. There’s my daughter, for Christ’s sake.”

“Okay. You leave, I’ll get off.”

“Goddam you, Alex!” He beat the side of the ship in frustration. “Don’t do this to me.”

The place began to shake. The whole dockside was shuddering.

“Let’s give him five more minutes.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“I mean it. Five minutes or I get off.” Lewis looked at him. He was dead serious.

“Five minutes,” he said.

It was a very long five minutes. The whole time H9 groaned and shuddered. Huge girders fell from the ceiling, lights swayed and shattered and threw sparks across the cement floor. Way over towards the air lock exit they could see the last of the orange shuttles packing people in. Almost all the vessels were gone now. Alex said nothing, but sat grim-faced, staring at the entrance tunnels. Only a few people were still arriving, almost all now were running. Lewis held a pocket watch in his hands and breathed deeply.

“Okay, that’s five minutes, chum.”

Alex was in tears. Tay went over and put an arm round him. He patted her hand.

“I’m casting off,” said Lewis. “I’m sorry, pal.”

He went forward to cast off.

“Wait,” screamed Alex. “There he is.”

Carlton was running along the emptying docks. Draped in his arms was a female figure. One of the deskbots was with him.

“What the hell’s he got there?” said Lewis, frowning.

“C’mon Carlton,” yelled Alex, “we gotta get out of here. It’s all about to blow.”

H9 was rocking and shaking, the groaning sounds amplified now and echoing every few minutes with a loud metallic banging, as if someone were hammering on every beam and rivet.

“Oh my God,” said Alex, “he’s got Katy Wallace.”

Lewis glanced at Alex in disapproval. “He’s bringing her on board?”

“What’s he supposed to do, dump her?”

“Fine by me,” said Lewis.

“I’m gonna assume that’s a joke,” said Alex as he leapt forward to help Carlton.

“I wish,” said Lewis.

Carlton entered with the limp figure in his arms, almost stumbling in the doorway. Alex glimpsed Katy’s pale face and saw she was unconscious.

“Stick her in the sick bay,” he said. Carlton nodded.

“Hold tight. This could be a bit hairy,” yelled Lewis.

“You coming?” he said to the deskbot.

“Can’t,” it said. “Orders.”

“Oh well, suit yourself,” said Alex.

He could see the deskbot reach for his vidphone as the door closed.

As they headed for the air lock, they could see the line of waiting passengers had diminished. The docks were emptying rapidly. Only emergency crews remained, getting the last of the craft away. One or two British sailors in their white shorts smiled and waved cheerfully at them as they passed, as if they were off for a pleasant Sunday cruise. Just before they entered the air lock, Alex saw one of the sailors bend over and moon him. Fucking nuts, he thought.

“Where’s the tea strainer?”

“It’s his day off.”

—
Ancient British Joke

They shot out of the air lock in the wake of a large pleasure cruiser. Lewis put his foot down and barreled them away from there as fast as he dared. Space outside of H9 was filled with hundreds of small ships scattering in all directions. He dared not go flat-out. It would be madness to risk an accident now. As they looked back, they could see masses of debris pouring out through the hole in the membrane, leaking into space like blood from a wounded man. Great lumps of material were flying everywhere. Whirling trees, cars, buses, massive chunks of masonry. The
Ray
bounced and jolted them as they dodged the boats and the wreckage.

They could see that the rescue workers had abandoned their efforts inside the dome and were now attempting to stop up the hole from the outside. The inside of the dome was a whirl of material. It looked exactly like a snow globe.

“Good Christ,” said Alex.