Return to Mech City

  “Oh my!” Star gasped. “I take it we’ve found the Big Kahuna.”

  “Yes, apparently we have,” Winston said.

  “That’s Ajax’s noggin, all right,” Iri said. “I’d recognize it anywhere.”

  “Better let me handle things now,” Winston said.

  He gathered the remnants of his shredded dignity about himself. Granted, he couldn’t have looked very impressive, covered as he was with bug scratches and missing part of one leg.

  But he still had his two medals, right? They had to count for something – even if they’d been awarded to him by a schmuck.

  Remember who you are, Winston. You’re The Boss, and you represent legitimate authority.

  Star dropped her hand from his elbow, and Winston approached the dais alone with as much bearing as he could muster. The he paused to offer a formal, though not overly obsequious, bow.

  “Greetings, your headship,” he said. “We have come to – ”

  An attack squadron of birds hurtled down at him from the rafters.

  “Yow!”

  Winston flung an arm over his head and retreated back to the others as fast as he could hobble. The birds broke off their assault, returning to their perches with an indignant flutter.

  “Oh, you poor baby!” Star cried.

  “That didn’t work too well,” Iri said. “Looks like those birds don’t like anyone getting too familiar with the Big Kahuna.”

  “You want to try next?” Winston asked.

  “No way, buckaroo,” Iri said. “I’m still in one piece, and I like it that way just fine.”

  43: Back at the Ranchero, Again

  Fascista Ultimo stood like a colossus on the rim of the bomb crater – feet planted well apart, hands on hips, his diminutive chin thrust out aggressively. A breeze tousled the ostrich plume sticking out of his helmet, then blew on to ripple the surface of the fetid pond which occupied the crater center.

  A sheer cliff dropped away below his feet, dramatizing his leading-edge persona. A glorious future beckoned to him from out of the desolation.

  “This will be the site of my first great building project!” He boomed.

  Fascista looked dramatically over his entourage. The mech wolf Squadristi all stood at respectful attention, as did their leader, Commander Clawfurt. Even Comrade Drone seemed to have a reverent expression on his blank face, but it was really just a trick of the light.

  Fritz, Edwina, and the smaller Youth League members gazed back at Fascista with total adulation. They formed an orderly rank, upright in their crisp brown uniforms, drums at the ready, their banner flapping in the wind from its spiked pole. Their metal man lackey, Albert, stood off to the side with his musical boom box on his shoulder.

  Albert glanced over at Fritz who was standing ramrod straight with one hand grasping the Youth League banner staff. The boots Albert had polished for him gleamed dully; the uniform Albert had pressed for him jabbed out its knife-like creases. Albert imagined himself planting a kick on the arrogant troop leader’s rump.

  Fritz turned toward him and barked an order: “Play number 5, metal man.”

  “Yes, my leader,” Albert said, nearly gagging on the words – electronically speaking.

  He punched a button, and the pompous strains of a march blared out of his boom box. The Youth League drummers played along, and everyone stood at dramatic attention. Albert jerked himself into a semblance of formality.

  He didn’t know the original title of the music, and he doubted that any robot had composed it. But now it was called The March to the Future, a bombastic, aggressive work pointing to the glorious years ahead under Roboto Fascism.

  Everyone was facing toward the vast maw of the crater, however, which seemed to Albert like a more appropriate metaphor. He stared at Fascista Ultimo with pure hatred coursing through his circuits.

  It wouldn’t take much to push that big bum over the edge, he thought acridly.

  He calculated the distance between himself and Fascista and the time it would take for him to traverse it. Too far, unfortunately. They’d reign him in before he could cross half way. Then they’d dismantle him, or worse.

  Being destroyed in a heroic leap into the crater with Fascista Ultimo was one thing, but having his existence snuffed out to no effect was quite another.

  My time will come, sooner or later.

  Jimmy was also unimpressed by the spectacle. He stood apart from the others, flanked by Squadristi, and viewed the proceedings with complete indifference. His posture, while not really insolent, lacked the subservience appropriate for his position.

  Why did I bring that irritating metal man out today? F.U. wondered. He’s dampening our Fascist ardor.

  The march tune came to a blessed end. Fascista adjusted the helmet strap under his scrawny chin and turned back toward the crater. Then he stabbed his riding crop out in a dramatic gesture.

  “Over there will be the new Roboto Fascist Party HQ,” he proclaimed.

  “Such magnificent inspiration!” Fritz cried.

  Fascista glanced toward Jimmy, hoping to illicit a flicker of approval, but got none. Undeterred, he waved his crop over the ruined square behind him.

  “And this area will be expanded to make the ‘Plaza of Revolutionary Heroes.’ It will contain a double life-size statue of myself, along with the memorial to Comrades Fang and Ripper.”

  At the mention of their slain brothers, the mech wolves all bowed their heads. Fritz dipped his banner in salute. After a suitable period of somberness, Edwina clapped her hands.

  “Make it so, Dear Leader!” she cried.

  Fritz whipped the banner erect, the mech wolves snapped their heads back up. Fascista beamed with satisfaction. The ceremony was going well, but a glance at Jimmy wiped the smile off his face.

  “Eh?” Fascista said. “What do you say, construction specialist?”

  “The available building materials will not suffice for such an ambitious project.” Jimmy’s voice was toneless, matter-of-fact. “Even if we did manage to erect the Party HQ, it couldn’t be made of the ‘highest quality marble’ per your specifications.”

  “Specifications!” Fritz shouted. “What do those matter to a Roboto Fascist?”

  “If the Dear Leader says we’ll have a marble HQ, then we shall have it!” Edwina cried.

  Jimmy crossed his arms and refused to reply.

  Fascista’s mood soured. It galled him that he had to defer to Jimmy’s opinion, especially in front of his entourage. Why did the only available construction specialist have to be a damned metal man? Jimmy was much smarter than he was, too, and Fascista didn’t like that.

  Try as he might, Fascista could not feel superior to the dignified builder robot. An unpublished section of the Manifesto came to mind. He’d written it in a burst of insight, but had subsequently deleted it from the final version:

  A true Roboto Fascist must always have two groups of enemies. One group he can despise because they occupy an objectively inferior level of existence. The various slave classes filled this role in human times.

  The second group of enemies is objectively superior. They have more talent, more success, and greater intelligence than the dedicated Fascist. The principal of hating what one admires comes into play here. Such hatred serves to keep political ardor at white heat.

  As insufferable as the idea was, Jimmy definitely stood in the second group. Fascista dangled a face-saving way out of the dilemma.

  “How long will it take to fill in the crater and prepare the site for development?” he asked.

  Jimmy considered the problem carefully, taking much longer than was suitable for his station.

  “With available labor resources, I’d estimate 26 weeks, minimum,” he said. “If no special issues arise, that is. There could always be problems with drainage and the water table, of course, or perhaps ...”

  “Very well,” Fascista said, “that will provide us time to explore all avenues for obtaining building materials.”
/>
  Jimmy threw cold water on the idea, too.

  “I don’t see how we can proceed,” he said. “We have no qualified drivers, no powered trucks, even. We can’t just drag tons of stone here with our bare hands. And where would we find it in the first place?”

  Fascista glowered, but Jimmy continued talking with his irritating reliance on facts.

  “And how about equipping the headquarters building?” he said. “We used almost all the available new carpeting and furniture redoing the REX – and it’s all in pretty shabby condition now.”

  “How dare you question the Dear Leader’s orders!” Edwina shrieked.

  “All difficulties will be overcome!” Fritz cried.

  Fascista bristled. Robots with an over reliance on facts could be a real problem. All the totalitarian rulers he’d studied had created their own facts. Anybody who disagreed was simply eliminated.

  Problem was, Jimmy was far too important to eliminate – right up there with the repair bots. Fascista could not allow such contrariness from anyone, however.

  “Take him away!” he commanded.

  Mech wolves nudged Jimmy roughly back toward the REX. Fascista left the crater rim in an ill humor and returned to his entourage.

  “Ach,” Fritz said. “What can one expect from a metal man?”

  “Precisely,” Edwina said.

  F.U. smoothed his ostrich plume. “Well, he’ll soon discover his proper place.”

  He looked back toward the bomb crater. Now that Jimmy was out of the way, fragrances from the great new future began wafting over his olfactory sensor again.

  “‘Campo Ultimo’ will be established over there.” He gestured beyond the crater. “It will be a training ground for our next generation of leaders.”

  The Youth League members snapped to even stiffer attention.

  “Fascista leads, we obey!” they chanted.

  F.U. reviewed their ranks. Aside from Fritz and Edwina, there were only four smaller Humanite children – plus that loathsome servant, Albert.

  Not much of a showing, he thought, but great things often begin small, don’t they? Just look how I got started.

  A picture of sniveling little Nilo, the impotent test bed machine, surfaced in his memory – instantly diminishing his greatness. Fascista’s mind tumbled back to his years of humiliation. He felt a vivid, almost physical, shrinking sensation take hold of him.

  “Is anything wrong, Dear Leader?” Edwina asked.

  “No!”

  F.U. shoved his recollections brutally aside. He turned toward his valet.

  “Comrade Drone,” he commanded, “bring the awards!”

  The idiot robot produced a wooden box. Fascista withdrew two medals dangling from colorful ribbons. He approached Fritz and Edwina.

  “For outstanding services rendered,” he pronounced, “I hereby award you both the Fascist Youth Leader medallion.”

  “Thank you, Dear Leader!” they cried.

  “Bombastic blah blah blah!” Fascista said. “And furthermore ...”

  Five: At the Imperial Court

  44: The Royal Headship

  Two and a half days dragged past in the eerie topmost chamber of Pickle Lake Castle. The prisoners could move about unmolested, provided they kept a proper distance from the head, but a mass of birds obstructed the only exit door. Another flock crowded the ceiling roosts. The overall effect was maddening and claustrophobic.

  “Thank heaven those aren’t biological birds up there,” Winston observed at one point. “We’d be buried in droppings by now.”

  His audience was not amused.

  Of course, there were always the beautiful mountain vistas outside, but they were just a taunting reminder of lost freedom. At times, when he was feeling particularly depressed, Winston contemplated a long jump to the flagstones below, but a glance at Star always dispelled such thoughts.

  At night, the gas torches threw fantastic patterns as chill breezes coming through the windows tousled their flames. The great head’s shadow wavered along the walls like an ogre seeking victims; even Winston’s modest frame projected Gorzo-like specters. The prisoners clung together, taking turns on watch during the long periods of darkness. The flickering shadows pursued Winston into his dreams.

  Throughout, Ajax’s head rested on its velvet cushion, staring at them with its baleful yellow eyes.

  “I wish that dang thing would talk already,” Star said. “It gives me the creeps.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Iridium said. “Ordinarily you couldn’t shut Ajax up once he started talking.”

  “Something had better happen soon,” Winston said, “or there won’t be anything left to reattach that head to.”

  After so many days of constant movement, the enforced waiting in this tomb-like atmosphere bore heavily upon them all. Their morale declined, and catty arguments broke out. Winston felt especially frustrated.

  “Why did you take so long to catch up with us, Iri?” He demanded at one point. “If you’d jumped into the fight sooner, I’d still have a whole leg.”

  “Well excuse me, pal,” Iri replied. “You’re lucky I found you again at all after that detour I had to make at the river.”

  “You could have ridden in the boat with us,” Winston said.

  “Now there’s a good idea,” Iri shot back. “We could have all done the waterfall boogie!”

  “Please Winston,” Star said, “Iri’s been a tremendous help. He just handles things in his own way, that’s all.”

  She stroked Iridium’s head. “Isn’t that right, Iri?”

  As ever, he softened at her touch. He closed his eyes, and a deep rumble emitted from his throat, like the purr of a giant kitten.

  “I know that.” Winston braced his back against the wall. “I’m sorry Iridium. It’s just that ... I’d give anything to walk again!”

  “Don’t worry, Winston,” Star said. “We’ll get you fixed up. We’ve already got the spare part, don’t we?”

  Yes, they did have the spare leg – thanks to Iridium again. Winston couldn’t help feeling a stab of resentment against the great canine, even though he knew it was unfair. But Iridium was so strong and capable while he, “Boss” Winston, could scarcely do anything right.

  His awkwardness with the scooter, his lack of nerve during the Vicente Towne fiasco, his bumbling performance at the river crossing – during all that time Iri had been following them with his cool, confident efficiency.

  Heck, they would have never escaped Mech City if Iri hadn’t taken down the mech wolf guards! This whole expedition had been Winston’s bright idea, but what had it gotten them?

  We’re stuck in this chamber of horrors, and I’m crippled!

  Why hadn’t he stayed in Mech City? Right this instant he could be relaxing in his luxurious reclining chair, with two good legs stretched out before him on the footrest. Maybe he could have worked out some sort of deal with F.U. and –

  The head suddenly stirred into life. Its eyes flashed red and scanned the room like an airport beacon.

  “Ka-Boing!” it said. “How may I serve my subjects today?”

  “Oh!” the captives cried.

  They all became instantly alert. Whatever gloomy thoughts which had occupied their minds blew away on a surge of excitement. Chickadees fluttered down from the rafters and gathered around the cabeza like winged courtiers.

  Winston struggled up onto his crutch. “Let’s see if we can talk some sense with that thing.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Iridium said.

  Winston approached the dais, slowly and cautiously, supported by Star on his disabled side. Iri took position on his right. They halted a safe distance away.

  “Good morning, er, Your Royal Headship,” Winston said.

  “Silence!” the head roared.

  Everyone shrank back.

  “I am the great and terrible Oz!” the head proclaimed. “... no, wait, wrong story.”

  The three robots traded astonished look
s. More birds gathered around the head, fluttering their wings reverently as if in the presence of a deity.

  “Call me Ishmael,” the head said, “and a merry Christmas to us all!”

  “What the hell?” Iri said.

  “Bloop!” the head added. “Who are you folks, anyway?”

  Winston drew himself up and adjusted the medals on his chest.

  “I am Boss Winston Horvath,” he intoned, “to my left is Lady Estrella, and to my right is the great canine Iridium the Swift. We represent the lawful authority of Mech City from whence your Headship originally hails.”

  The red eyes flashed several times. “And why are you here?”

  “We have come to reunite you with the great warrior, Ajax,” Winston said, “so that Your Headship may gain new heights of wisdom and power.”

  “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” the head shot back.

  “That thing is totally wacko,” Iri muttered.

  “Huh?” the head demanded. “What is this ‘wacko,’ a new card game or something?”

  “Uh ... no, Your Headship,” Winston said. “From where we hail, ‘Wacko’ is a title of highest respect.”

  The head fell silent. Winston leaned toward Iridium.

  “Cool it eh?” he whispered

  “Well you can’t make a silk purse ...” Iri said.

  A series of grunts, squeaks and nonsense syllables issued from the head. The birds began to flutter around in high agitation. Finally the head spoke.

  “Give me a moment to decide your fate, underlings,” it said.

  Then, a minute later:

  “Do you know the football scores by the way?”

  Then the head abruptly fell silent. Its flashing red eyes turned dull yellow again. Minutes dragged past through the gloom.

  A large mass of birds began to swirl above the podium like a dust devil. The little creatures seemed to be conferring among themselves.

  “I don’t think His Headship is going to talk anymore,” Star said.

  “What should we do?” Winston said.

  “Anyone up for a game of Wacko?” Iri said. “And what’s this ‘Iridium the Swift’ routine?”

  “It was the best I could think of in a pinch,” Winston said. “I figured we could all use some embellishment.”

  “Well, I guess it’s not too bad,” Iri said.

  “I thought you’d like it better than ‘Iridium the Vicious,’ which was option B,” Winston said.

  “I suppose so,” Iri said, “but ‘Iridium the Vicious’ does have a certain ring to it.”