Theme Planet (47 page)

Amba despatched more of the
buzzing machines, and said, “We need to get off the bridge. We’re attracting
them like flies to shit.”

“I agree.”

They ran, firing weapons, as
another wave of PopBots buzzed from the darkness of the vast cavern. They came
in patterns, in waves and formations like squadrons of mini-fighter planes.
Amba’s FRIEND took care of most of them, igniting a hundred at a time to fall,
like spidering stars, into the abyss below.

Dex did what he could with his
Makarov, until they reached the far edge of the bridge and dived thankfully
through an arched doorway. Amba rolled, turned, and waited. A horde of PopBots
came in fast, in a tight cluster, jostling one another to get through the
doorway. Amba gave a blast with the FRIEND, and they all suddenly stopped,
hanging in the air momentarily before falling like a burst sack of marbles,
crackling with flames. The PopBots tumbled off down the rocky slopes into
oblivion below, and Dex could hear
cracks
and
bangs
as they
detonated.

“Help me close this.”

There was a door, a solid steel
portal, and it took both Dex and Amba to close it. It squealed on its massive
heavy hinges, like a poorly oiled bank vault door. They closed it, and shot the
bolts, and spun the wheels, and monitors lit up against the steel, blinking and
glittering with red and green lights.

Dex stood back, fast. His eyes
narrowed.

“Have we just sealed ourselves in
here?” he said, understanding dawning.

“No going back,” said Amba.

“I’m here to rescue my family,
that’s all,” said Dex.

“Okay. Let’s go rescue them,”
said Amba.

~ * ~

They
stood
at a path that led into woodland. It was dark, a deep and oppressive darkness,
and the trees numbered in their thousands, crooked and warped, angular and
without leaves. Their trunks were black, like aged, withered limbs. Dexter
stepped forward and placed his hand against a trunk.

“It’s made of metal,” he said,
frowning.

“The forest guards the foothills,
leading...” Amba pointed.

There, up through the black
clouds and motionless against a black sky, was a vast, oppressive mountain. It
was silent, brooding, heavy, and massive, and Dexter found his gaze drawn and
locked to it.

“What... is it?” he said,
finally.

“I believe that is the Monolith
Mainframe.”

“The mountain itself? It’s a...
computer?”

“Yes. It has been here a long
time. A
long
time. Before the provax. It’s natural, part of this world.
Maybe it controls the provax, helped them build their Theme Planet... who
knows? All I understand is...” she tilted her head, as if listening to
something, as if considering some internal counsel. She smiled. “I understand
it is
alive.
And it is
old.“

“And we’re here to destroy it?”

“I am not sure. Yet. I seek
answers. To questions.”

“You were sent here as an
assassin,” said Dex.

“Yes. But also for answers. Earth’s
Oblivion Government, and my controller, Cardinal Romero; they have locked
questions inside my head. Only when the time is right will the questions, and
indeed the full mission, come to me.” She turned then, and her words stunned
Dex. “Just like your android status has been locked inside you. You did not
know what you were. You do not know who you are. Until... until the lock goes
click
and you are released into reality.”

“You think I’ve been shown a
door?”

“Yes. And I think you are
starting to believe.”

Dex shook his head, but did not
reply. He could not reply. For Amba was right - he was starting to believe. Or
at the very least, he was starting to question his own past, his own mind, his
own memories, his own
reality.

“So we climb the mountain?”

“Your family are up there.”

“Prisoners of SARAH?”

“Yes.”

“Your mission is to destroy
SARAH, isn’t it?”

“We shall see,” said Amba softly,
eyes glowing.

~ * ~

At
first
the forest of iron trees seemed like any other forest, aside from the continual
smell of hot oil. But after several hours, the trees began to change, subtly at
first, simply in the texture of their “bark,” which, instead of being smooth or
pitted with rust, became knurled, as if it had been through a machining
process. Dex and Amba walked through these machined trees, picking their way
between trunks on an ever increasing incline. And it was Dex who first noted
the nuts and bolts, and pointed them out to Amba. “Look,” he said. “They were
created.” “Everything on Theme Planet is created.”

“Yeah, but these trees - they
were bolted together.”

“They’re not trees,” said Amba.

“Look like trees to me,” said
Dex.

“They’re part of the machine.
Part of SARAH. Maybe they give feedback? Listening, or sensory apparatus?”

Dex shut his mouth.

They must have been moving for
ten hours when Dex called a halt. He was bone weary, but had pushed himself on
for many, many more hours than he would ever have thought possible - and this
minor miracle in itself rankled him, because it was supporting evidence for the
case of him being an android. The case of his whole past, every memory in his
head, being a fake.

Amba found a clearing amidst the
iron trees, and sat on a rock whilst Dex laid himself out on the ground. There
was no moss, and the ground was solid rock, but Dex no longer cared. Exhaustion
was all-consuming, and he was asleep in minutes. He did not dream, unless it
was a dream of simple darkness without emotion, without feeling, without worry,
without fear or love or despair. Pretty much how he imagined being an android
to be. He awoke, and sat up swiftly. Amba was still seated, and she had her
FRIEND on her knees, split into several sections. She was carefully cleaning
the components with a tiny wire.

Dex sat up and yawned.

“You feel better?”

“Well enough to go on.”

“It hits us androids like that,
sometimes. We push and push, until we collapse. Like a machine breaking down.”

“I am no machine,” said Dexter,
mood souring.

Amba gave a nod, and did not push
the issue. She saw no point in arguing.

“Tell me about Romero,” he said.

“Cardinal Romero of Oblivion?
What is there to tell? He gives me missions. I carry them out.”

“To kill people?”

“Sometimes.”

“And this doesn’t bother you?”

“Why should it?”

“Because people live and breathe,
laugh and cry; they have dreams and desires, and to be cut down in your prime
is a crime against humanity. Every man and woman and child has a right to
breathe, to live.”

“Why then, do people kill other
people?”

“Because some people are bad.”

“Then that is even worse. It is
extremely sad.”

“Why so?” said Dex.

“Because I have no choice. I feel
nothing for humans. I simply carry out a job. Like a machine. But for you people,
people with souls, to actually
choose
to do these things to one another;
that is in another league of cruelty.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said
Dex, “to some extent. We excel at fucking one another up. We’ve refined it to
an art form. It’s not something of which I’m particularly proud.”

Amba was tactful in not pointing
out that Dex was, in her estimation, not human.

They sat, in silence, as Amba
delicately fitted several sections of the FRIEND together. It looked crazy for
a moment, all angles and sections, and suddenly in a blur it clicked neatly
into place.

“That’s an... interesting weapon,”
said Dex.

“This is my FRIEND.”

“What model is it?”

“Simply a FRIEND,” said Amba,
meeting Dex’s stare. “And don’t ask where I got it. I could not tell you.”

“Well, it certainly ain’t
standard issue. Can I hold it?”

“Yes, but it won’t fire for you.
It’s hardwired to my DNA.”

“Useful.”

Amba reluctantly handed Dexter
the weapon, and he cradled it for a few moments. It felt light, and certainly
not capable of delivering the punches he’d seen back on the bridge. It was more
than the sum of its parts.

Suddenly, the world around him
seemed to slow, the spin of the world, the hiss of the breeze between metal
tree branches all decelerating into a crawl of time and space. Above, black
clouds sat stationary, as if standing watch over a funeral. Dex stared at Amba,
but she was locked in a static pose, a tableau, still retracting her hand.

Hello, Mr Colls,
said Zi.

Dex blinked and licked his lips.

Am I talking to the gun?

Yes. The FRIEND.

Is that some clever pseudonym
?
Does it stand for Freaky
Rotary Integrated Explosive Nuclear Device, or something? Something clever and
destined to show what a kickass weapon you really are?

No. I am simply the FRIEND. My
name is Zi.

Who made you
?

Nobody made me. I simply am.

So you’re eternal
?
Immortal?

I am not immortal, for I do not
live. But, I suppose, yes; eternal, in a way.

Does Amba know you’re speaking
with me?

No. She believes we have a
special bond.

And of course you do not,
said Dex, intuition kicking him
in the kidneys.
You work for yourself, don’t you, pretty little Zi? You have
your own mission objectives. You have your own agenda in your... existence.

It was a strange sensation, and
Dex realised, it was a transmitted feeling. Zi was smiling.

You are observant and clever, Mr
Colls. Try not to be too clever. Return me to Amba. We will speak again.

And you want me to remain quiet
about this little exchange
?

Your life depends on it,
concluded Zi.

The world hissed back into place,
and Amba gave Dex an odd look and said, “What do you think?”

“A little on the light side.
Packs a punch though, doesn’t it? The little fucker.”

“It’s a powerful weapon. She has
kept me alive on many an occasion.”

“She?”

“We have a special bond,” smiled
Amba, and stood swiftly, taking the FRIEND from Dex’s grip. He felt reluctant
to hand the weapon over; as if it might take a strip of skin with it. Or
something.