For seven weeks now, ever since the overthrow of Fascista Ultimo and his Roboto Fascist regime, Winston Horvath had ruled Mech City with an iron hand.
Actually, it was made of titanium alloy, but the metaphor still applied. His tenure as the supposed “interim mayor” had been one of increasing authoritarianism marked by suppression of anyone who refused to “get with the program.”
Exactly how this state of affairs came about was something of a mystery to him. One day he was the darling of the revolution, the leader by unanimous acclamation, loved by everyone. Then, by small degrees, he’d morphed into a despot – someone immune to error who could tolerate no disagreement.
Well, what of it? he thought.
He’d had to take stern measures to whip things into shape after the chaos of the Roboto Fascist regime and the subsequent liberation struggle. The whole social order had been ripped apart, dozens of robots had become casualties, many beyond repair. Security and order were the top priorities.
Besides, this was only a temporary state of affairs, as he kept telling everybody. As he kept telling himself. And the glorious results of his rule were everywhere to behold!
He stood at the window of his office looking dramatically over the city, his city, undergoing a Renaissance as the capital of an independent robotic society – the only one in the world, as far as anybody could tell. The streets were clear, water flowed in the public fountains, and construction boomed.
One hand rested on a hip while his intelligent face tried to look hard and dramatic. He was a blue Humanite model robot, the size of an average human male, with large golden Mayor’s Medallion hanging around his neck.
He wore no clothing over a body that, while not anatomically correct, had many human-like characteristics. The battle scars he’d received in his various altercations were all filled in and concealed beneath a fresh paint job. Stylish red highlights ran along the outsides of his legs, like the trouser stripes of a 20th century Nazi field marshal.
Winston would have never considered himself to be a Nazi, though. Hadn’t he, personally, engineered the overthrow of the Roboto Fascist regime in Mech City? What other credential did he need to rule?
“The humans had their Winston ... Churchill,” he said, placing his hands on the window sill. “Why shouldn’t we have ours?”
In the world outside the window, a new social order was being developed. Winston had brought order and discipline out of the chaos. Everyone had work, work made them free. Under his guidance, the dreaded Che Syndrome was being held at bay. Nobody committed suicide anymore, and the scrapper gangs gave the town a wide berth. Any outlaw who dared enter the city limits was quickly dispatched by the mech wolf Guards Battalion.
The city was also receiving a badly needed face lift, starting with the new Palace of His Excellency the Mayor – an imposing marble edifice being erected next to Heroes’ Square. This structure would cast in stone forever the unbreakable bond between the citizens of Mech City and their great leader – hero of the battle against the Fascist tyranny, Winston Horvath!
Later today, Winston would visit the construction site, after he’d studied the latest materials acquisition report submitted by Jimmy, the construction foreman. Jimmy was a “damn good fellow” in Winston’s estimation, but he had a bothersome habit of neglecting the political aspects of his job. All he ever talked about was prosaic technical stuff, he lacked the proper ideological flair.
Winston turned toward his massive desk with its Excellency the Mayor placard standing sentry on its leading edge. His movements were smooth and decisive as he crossed the distance between the window and his seat of power.
He settled into the great leather-clad chair and flipped open the folder containing Jimmy’s report. His face registered deep concentration.
“Ah, yes,” he sighed, “another day of toil on behalf of my people.”