SCRAP, page 3
And it was blinking with a red light.
“What…?” June said, checking her belt to find one of her grenades missing. “Sneaky, thieving junk case grabbed one of my boom-bang-a—”
“Disarm it!” Terry yelped. In a panic, he tossed the grenade. As it flew over June’s head, she reached up and grabbed it, stumbling back towards Scrap’s house and colliding with his front door.
“Wait!” uttered Scrap. “Don’t go in there, that’s my hou—”
In an instant of bright white light and searing heat, the grenade exploded, immediately detonating June’s entire arsenal. Scrap found himself being thrown through the air. He only knew he’d hit the ground when he saw his left arm fly off in an entirely different direction. As he skittered to a halt, he peered through a haze of heat and smoke to see the hunter, Terry, cradling his sister’s disembodied head in his arms. As he howled June’s name in anguish, Scrap looked past him to his house – or rather its smouldering remains.
His new home had been obliterated in the blast.
“N-no…” Scrap stuttered, his battered brain-frame struggling to process what had happened. Then suddenly there were the humans, standing either side of him, hoisting him to his feet.
“Let’s go, junk case,” Paige snapped. “Now.”
“My -zk- house!” wailed a dazed Scrap as he found himself being half dragged, half pushed across the Pile. Before he knew it, he was being hauled on to the back of one of the hunter’s flight-cycles.
“We should have left him,” he heard Paige hiss as they hefted him aboard.
“No!” Gnat firmly replied. “He saved me – I got actually saved by the King of the Robots!”
“He’s just some junk case! He is not King of the—”
“Is too.”
“He can’t be!”
“Can too.”
“Ugh, you’re impossible,” Paige groaned.
“That’s the most best thing about me,” insisted Gnat. Paige clambered into the flight-cycle’s pilot seat and pulled Gnat up behind her.
“Whereyoutakin’me? -zk- letme -zk- off!” Scrap wailed, coming to his senses. He struggled to dismount, but barely had control of his remaining limbs as Paige powered up the flight-cycle. “I’m not … goin’ -zk- anywhere…” He trailed off as his systems began to fail, one after the other. He was about to pass out, or worse. “I’m -zk- stayin’…” he wheezed. “I’m stayin’ on the Pile -zk- forever…”
Scrap never set foot on the Pile again.
As everything went dark, Scrap’s brain-frame began to flood with data. Though he could not say his whole life flashed before his eyes, his mind filled with memories he had tried to forget … memories of the life he’d lost … memories of her.
“Stand back, Dandelion,” said K1-NG. “I’ll handle this.”
The robot rolled his shoulders. A satisfying whirr of servos echoed through the air. He towered over his maker, a steel colossus almost three metres from metal head to toe, with armoured panels covering an impractically brawny torso and hefty, strapping legs.
“King, wait,” said Dandelion Brightside, putting her hand on the robot’s arm. She looked up at her creation. “Don’t you see it? Don’t you see what’s happening?”
King stared up at the city. This city, New Hull, that the robots had spent so long and worked so hard building for the humans. Amidst a wilderness of pale rocks and orange-gold sand, it stood as a bright and shining example of robotic endeavour. Every building was made up of dozens of grey-white cubes. They were stacked upon each other in numerous different configurations, sending dozens of blocky, irregular buildings up into the sky, to be met with high, angular walkways, criss-crossing above the city – branching, converging, like a canopy of trees. It looked exactly as it should, built to house the humans destined to occupy it, and the robots destined to serve them. Just like all the other Somewheres scattered across the galaxy.
But this time something was different.
Hundreds of robots had gathered just inside the city gates. There were too many to count – King guessed two thirds of the ’bots that had travelled to Somewhere 513 all those years ago now blocked their way, a metal wall of defiance.
At the front of the gathered robots stood a dozen or so K11s – hulking, powerful sentries, each almost as broad and muscular as King himself. Behind them, smaller robots held up placards that told him everything he needed to know.
“All I see is a mess of malfunctionin’ machines, boss,” King said. “They need some sense knocked into ’em, and I’m here for it.”
“They didn’t malfunction … they grew,” said Dandelion, equal parts admiration and horror. “These robots are changed at their core. They evolved.”
“Revolution isn’t evolution,” scoffed King. “These ’bots need their brain-frames examinin’.”
“Is this a joke? Tell me it’s a joke,” said a voice behind them. King turned to see Tripp Gander join his wife. “What am I looking at here? Revolting robots?”
“They’re revoltin’ all right,” said King. “This is no way for self-respectin’ ’bots to behave. I’m goin’ to have to teach ’em some respect.”
“But this isn’t possible, is it?” added Tripp. “Dandy, your robots – I mean, no ’bot can suddenly decide to please themselves … can they?”
“Just because something hasn’t happened yet, doesn’t mean it can’t – or won’t,” Dandelion replied. “This? This is what FreeWill™ looks like.”
“That tech is supposed to make our lives easier, not land us in some mechanical mutiny,” huffed Tripp. He gestured behind them. In the distance, nestled between two tall outcroppings of rock, was a rocket ship, a silver teardrop on the horizon. “Now I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but I’ve got one hundred and two colonists waiting back there, tired and grumpy from months of space-sleep, and very much looking forward to starting their new lives in New Hull. As captain of the Black-Necked Stork, I am responsible for each and every human being on that ship. They need Somewhere to call home. FreeWill™ or no FreeWill™, we need to get these ’bots back in line.”
“It’s too late for that,” said Dandelion. “These robots have staked a claim on this world, and they’re not going to give it up.”
“What do they expect us to do, pack our bags and leave?” Tripp laughed, throwing his hands in the air. Dandelion glanced back at him, and shrugged. “Wait, they expect us to pack our bags and leave?” Tripp gasped. “I didn’t cross half the galaxy just to be sent packing!”
“They’ll back down, Captain – for me,” King assured him. “It was my job to get you here, and it’s my job to get you what you deserve. This world belongs to you, and to the colonists … and to Dandelion.”
“They’re going to fight for it,” said Dandelion gravely.
“Against me? They can try,” scoffed King. “By teatime you can all get back to doin’ what you’re meant to be doin’ – makin’ Somewhere Five One Three somewhere to live.”
Dandelion put her hand over her stomach. “You’ll lose … we’ll all lose,” she said.
“Lose?” King repeated, a little hurt at the suggestion. “It feels vulgar to say it out loud, but I’m the most powerful robot you ever built, Dandelion. I’m goin’ to live forever. With this case, I’m unbeatable.”
Dandelion reached up and placed her hand on King’s chest.
“But it’s not your case that makes you unbeatable, King, it’s your core,” she said. “The core I gave you will last forever, which means you’ve got forever to live with the decisions you make.”
“I’ll take time to naval-gaze just as soon as I’ve got you your planet back,” noted King, clenching his fists. “Go back to the ship – I’ll call you when it’s over.”
“You need to wake up,” said Dandelion.
“What?” King uttered. “What’s that supposed to—”
“Wake up,” Dandelion said again.
Or was it someone else?
“That’s it … focus on my voice.”
Whose voice? thought King. It felt like it was coming from everywhere and nowhere. “Who is that…?” he muttered. “What’s -zk- happening?”
“You died,” the voice said. “Now it’s time to wake up.”
Scrap opened his eyes and sat up with a start.
“That’s better,” said a voice. “I knew you were in there somewhere. Tell me, is this the first time you’ve died?”
“Died…?” Scrap muttered. He immediately glanced at the place where his left arm used to be.
He had a new one. This red appendage, though clearly second-hand, was clean and oiled. It was, however, even spindlier than the last, with an unwieldy-looking three-pronged claw in place of a hand.
“Well, you were technically very-slightly-less-than-dead – but that’s still pretty dead, robo-medically speaking. That junk case of yours hides quite the core…” the voice said. Scrap turned to see a robot hovering at eye level. She was free-floating, with a triangular body, a single eye, long arms and probes galore. She waved one at Scrap. “How’s the arm? I’m afraid it’s the best I could do at short notice.”
“Who -zk- are you?” asked Scrap. “Where am I?”
“Welcome to the Outskirts,” the robot replied. “I’m Dr Buckle – I run the surgery here at Bad Knees Outpost.”
“Bad -zk- Knees?” repeated Scrap. He realized he was on a gurney in a rundown hospital ward. A flickering light barely illuminated the room. Tools of all shapes and sizes lay on wheeled trolleys or dangled from hooks on the ceiling. Scrap rubbed his head with his new arm.
“Does it feel OK?” the doctor asked. “I know it doesn’t really go with your case, but you’re clearly not fussy about your appearance – no offence.”
“None -zk- taken,” replied Scrap, although he wasn’t sure he meant it.
“Also, I’m pretty sure that arm has a built-in grappling hook – be careful where you point it, or you might have someone’s eye out…”
“How’d I -zk- get it?”
The doctor prodded the arm with a probe and tilted backwards in the air by way of a shrug. “Here at Bad Knees, we repair ’bots with big problems and small wallets. The Piles provide. Which one are you from?”
“Which what?” asked Scrap, inspecting his arm.
“Pile – which Pile?” The doctor pointed to a large, round portal window on the far wall. Scrap peered out. The first thing he noticed were the one and a half suns, low on the horizon. Not setting, he thought, but rising. It was dawn. The days and nights were short on Somewhere 513 but Scrap knew that meant he’d been here for several hours. Before he could try to piece together what had happened, he noticed something else. Dotted around the otherwise barren wasteland were dozens of junk piles, each at least twice the size of his own. Scrap’s jaw creaked open, aghast.
“Piles,” he gasped. “They go on forever…”
“Twenty-one and counting,” said the doctor, a little sadly. “You can thank Pile Thirteen for your new arm. Upgrades cost serious charge – here in the Outskirts we have to make the best of the old cases that get sent here from the city. Whole hovertrains full of ’em. Most of them have barely been used.”
“I – I don’t understand,” Scrap said. “All those Piles are -zk- old cases? Why are the ’bots upgradin’ so much? Who’s upgradin’ them?”
The doctor laughed, until she noted Scrap’s baffled expression. “Wait, you’re serious? Where have you been for the last ten years?”
“I … keepin’ myself to -zk- myself,” Scrap replied, keen not to give too much away. With a shrug he added, “An’ not keepin’ up, apparently.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be delighted to hear that the ’bots of Somewhere Five One Three upgrade themselves – and have been doing so for more than a decade,” the doctor explained. “After the Difference of Opinion, the citizens of this proud Somewhere took control of their own cases and their own destinies – and that meant upgrading. It wasn’t long before the Piles started to grow. Demand for skilled upgraders is at an all-time high – I doubt there’s a robot on Five One Three who’s not been through dozens if not hundreds of upgrades … present company excepted.”
“Hundreds…?” Scrap murmured. “Why?”
The doctor paused.
“I’ve wondered that myself, on occasion,” she said. “I suppose because we are free to … I suppose because we can.”
“Hmph,” Scrap grunted, wondering with some envy what the robots of Somewhere 513 might look like after a decade of upgrades. Then he looked back at his arm. “How’d I get here? How did I get off the— I mean, my Pile?”
“Your friends brought you in. Paid for that arm too.”
“Friends?” Scrap blurted. “What friends? I don’t -zk- have any.”
“Try telling that to those two ’bots out there.”
The doctor pointed to a door on the other side of the room, with a glass panel cut into it. Scrap could see Gnat on the other side, pressed against the glass, still wearing her ridiculous robot helmet. Behind her, the other human, Paige, stuck close to her sister. She too had squeezed the shell of a robot’s head on to her own, and was desperately trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.
“They are not my -zk- friends.” Scrap let out a frustrated grunt. “They’re not even ’bots.”
The doctor turned to him, a quizzical look in her single eye. “Not robots? What are they then?”
“They’re—”
Scrap cut himself off. Surely, he thought, the easiest thing would be to blow the humans’ cover and be rid of them. Humans were outlawed on this Somewhere after all. But then he remembered the hunters, warped and core-corrupted. One had surely survived – what if he was still looking for them? What if there were others like them? He wanted rid of the humans, but was he ready to see them captured, or worse?
“They’re, uh, a pain in the backside,” Scrap said at last. “Those -zk- robots.”
“Well, don’t be too harsh on them – those two pains paid for your new arm.”
“They – they did? How?”
“Traded it for a mobile battery – home-made, but with enough charge to keep the lights on at Bad Knees for another few days. I’d say if they weren’t your friends before, they are now.”
Scrap grunted again, determined not to feel in the least bit grateful towards the humans who destroyed his home. “Thanks for the -zk- arm, doc. I need to go…”
As Scrap hopped down from the gurney, he was suddenly wrenched into the air. He landed flat on the floor, and looked up to see a handful of wires connected to an access panel on his chest. He followed them with his eyes until they connected to a control bank dominated by flickering screens, which seemed to be monitoring his progress. Scrap dragged himself to his feet. “What is all this? What are you -zk- doing to me?”
“Easy does it! My equipment’s not as hardy as that remarkable core of yours,” the doctor replied, plucking a tool from a nearby trolley and tightening the cables connected to the control bank. “How did you end up with it? I mean, you’re just a junk case – no offence.”
Scrap said nothing, his hand hovering over his chest.
“Without it, you’d be one very dead ’bot,” the doctor continued. “You do know you suffered a catastrophic systems failure, don’t you? But even when everything else failed, your core kept you alive – or it kept you less-than-dead long enough for me to patch you up. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a ’bot with quite so much … heart. I swear that thing could power a case for a thousand years.”
A thousand years.
Scrap looked down at his core, glowing brightly.
“You’re going to live forever,” Dandelion had told him.
Forever as a junk case, Scrap thought. He clenched his new clawed hand, horror and rage making him shake so much that rust flaked from his case.
“Dandelion…” he growled to himself.
The doctor’s tool fell from her hand and clattered to the ground.
“Silly me – need to oil my probes!” she said, scrabbling to pick it up. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“…Nothin’,” replied Scrap, gripping the wires in his chest. “I – I mean, I don’t remember.”
“Memory loss?” the doctor said. “You know, your core contains a backup of every experience you’ve ever had. What’s your core-code? If I can access your memories, I’m sure I could fix your—”
“No!” Scrap cried. “I don’t -zk- remember my core-code either. I’m just … Scrap.”
With a final wrench, he tore out the wires and immediately made a beeline for the exit.
“Wait, Scrap,” said the doctor, “There are more repairs I could—”
“Got to -zk- go…” grunted Scrap. He’d already reached the door when he saw the two robot-helmeted humans staring back at him through the window. He spun on his heels and hurried over to the portal window on the other side of the room. It was open, just a crack. Enough for him to squeeze through.
“Feel free to use the door next time…!” the doctor called as she watched Scrap clamber through the window, losing a cog and two bolts in the process. She looked back towards the door to see the robot’s odd-looking companions race out of the hospital. With that, the doctor tapped the side of her head and an antenna and microphone flipped out from a panel to the right of her eye.
“Domo? It’s Dr Buckle, from Bad Knees,” she began. “I need to speak to Harmony— Fine, Mayor Highshine. Yes, it’s important. Because it is, that’s why. Look, I’ve known Harmony since she was just a— Oh, forget it. Just tell her … remind her of the mystery of the missing core. Yes, exactly. Tell Harmony … tell her I think I’ve found him.” Dr Buckle stared out of the window as Scrap wandered off. “Tell her I’ve found the King of the Robots.”
Scrap headed for the Piles.
