Two unarmed figures pelted down the corridor, shouting and waving their arms madly in the dim emergency lighting to protect themselves from being shot out of hand.
“MAJOR BAWTRY! MAJOR BAWTRY, SIR! WE’VE LOCATED THE ROBOT!”
The Major, who was supervising the creation of a makeshift barricade behind the arch supporting the access way in to the main reception hall, observed his guards’ weaponless state with displeasure. “Did you locate it, or it you?”
“Uh, arguably more of the latter, sir. It took our weapons. It has the serving staffer you sent us down to the cellar with.”
“What sort of a robot was it?” said Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus. “Was it anthropomorphic?”
“It said it came from Venus, sir. It asked for you personally.”
“Ridiculous,” said Major Bawtry. “Venus is entirely agricultural. It was never a militarized zone, even in the Great Big War.”
“But Helen was the gift of Venus, mythologically speaking,” mused Mrs. Reborn-in-Jesus. “She was Paris’s reward for giving the golden apple to Aphrodite. Who is also known as Venus,” she added hastily.
Bawtry stared lengthily at Mrs. Reborn-in-Jesus.
“I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “Does this give me any information I can use?”
“It’s not armed with anything more dangerous than its claws,” said Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus. “Its claws are very dangerous,” he added.
“Thank you,” said the Major, and began bawling instructions at his personnel.
“It’s coming.”
“It’s coming right into the trap.”
“It’s got no choice. We’ve welded over all the other access points.”
The conversion of the reception area into a military strongpoint had only taken minutes. Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus was thoroughly impressed with Bawtry’s performance as an officer. Not only had welding gear, EMP mines, and bags of ballistic gel been readily located, they had clearly been set aside for the use of Security alone. The welding laser had arrived with fully charged xenoxide cannisters, and the laminate armour panels had been stored in secure caches entirely distinct from the ones used by the Clinic janitors. Everybody, however, including most of Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus’s adult family, was now concentrated in one, albeit heavily defended, location.
“Any movement in the bar area?” said Bawtry sotto voce to one of his lieutenants, who was hunched over a portable surveillance client.
Miss Nobel shook her head. “She’s sitting there drinking her water. We could have a squad there in twenty seconds. The lights are still on down there,” she added.
“Of course they are. He’s only put the lights out here. He knows that’s where we are.”
“Who’s he?” said Unity disingenuously.
Major Bawtry frowned. “The Enemy,” he said. “Whichever enemy killed the lights.” Unseen, an emerald insect settled on his shoulder.
“Are all these weapons strictly necessary to defend against one man?” said the European gentleman in the kimono.
“I was led to believe,” harrumphed the lady wearing her face on her shoulder, “that this establishment was secure.”
“I was informed of no Penitentiary on this world,” complained the telesatanist. “I feel this whole experience has been misrepresented. An adept must feel safe in his lair.”
Despite the elaborate nature of Major Bawtry’s fortifications, Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus doubted they would be more than a momentary distraction for what might be coming through them. Mr. Suau, now bundled into the redoubt along with the other staff and guests, seemed to be of the same opinion.
“It won’t hold but a second when the Warden arrives,” he said. “Wardens are extremely solid units. They have to be, manning unmanned stations single-handedly out in the wild black starry yonder.”
Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus nodded. “It might hold the Stalin Seven, though.”
“Slow it down enough for Bawtry’s men to engage it, possibly. The AP grenade functions on their weapons are rated to deal with armour of that thickness.”
“What would that be like,” mused Shun-Company. “A world without the Devil.”
Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus drew an arm about his wife. “We will find out what we will find out.”
Bawtry’s men trained their weapons on the one open door—and some of them on the multiple closed ones—winking to shift their vision between scopes, set to fire-on-movement, and the real world.
“Remember,” said the Major, “it’ll come faster than you’ll believe when it comes, maybe even faster than you can see. Just unhook your safeties, keep the weapon pointed the right way, and trust the target acquisition to do your firing for you.”
Shun-Company looked over at God’s-Wound, Testament, Apostle, and Unity, who were crouched in imitation of Bawtry’s fire team.
“Zounds. Get up.”
God’s-Wound, without moving, flicked the safety off on the battered assault weapon she held, and powered up the sighting system. “It’s the Devil, mother. It killed Sodom. It’s killed almost everyone we cared about since you came to this bastard planet.”
Shun-Company gave the statement due consideration. “It killed Sodom,” she said, “because Beguiled put Helen of Troy inside it. Your Uncle Anchorite’s machine would never have harmed Sodom. And this bastard planet,” she added delicately, “is my home.”
“It’s still Helen of Troy now,” said God’s-Wound. “And as far as Uncle Anchorite is concerned, a man who leaves a hand grenade lying around his house can hardly be surprised if a small child pulls the pin.”
She nestled the recoil absorber up against her shoulder.
A constellation of laser dots stabbed suddenly out of the dark, fixing every person holding a weapon with an aiming mark right between the eyes.
“Easy,” warned Bawtry, dropping a polarizing visor into place. “They do that to unnerve the inexperienced. Remember, even construction bots have measuring lasers, but they’re perfectly harm—”
A massive moving something swept up the corridor, triggering the firing system of every gun trained on the dormitory entrance simultaneously. Guests of a nervous disposition shrieked, and the weapons, firing five different types of ammunition simultaneously, bucked in their firers’ hands, but produced nothing but a cat’s cradle of flashes as the corridor in front of them suffered horrible, possibly irreparable damage. Then the air was suddenly full of clinging, invisible threads, unbreakable as steel wire, drawing tight about flesh if, and only if, the owner of that flesh struggled. God’s-Wound found herself bound to a table, the assault gun knocked from her hand and flattened against the fountain by a silvery web that held her like an insect in amber.
As slowly as a prowling tarantula, the spider that had spun the web sailed into the redoubt, playing a disco strobe of target acquisition lasers onto the faces of every other armed person in the area.
Wordlessly, Bawtry’s other guards dropped their weapons.
“ATTACKING A PROXY UNIT ACTING ON THE AUTHORITY OF CENTRAL GOVERNMENT IS A CRIMINAL OFFENCE,” said the Warden, its carapace slightly discoloured from several direct hits. “CONCEALING THE WHEREABOUTS OF AN ESCAPE FROM CENTRAL GOVERNMENT CUSTODY IS A CRIMINAL OFFENCE. WHERE IS,” it hesitated slightly, “PROFESSOR VON TRAPP’S MIND?”
Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus cleared his throat. “He is suspected of uploading his personality to a customized Stalin Seven model combot, thereby technically escaping custody. The personnel you see here had fortified this location to protect themselves against that Stalin Seven, and fired on you solely due to a tragic misunderstanding.”
“THEY WILL REMAIN IN RESTRAINT,” said the Warden, “UNTIL VON TRAPP’S HOPES, DREAMS AND DESIRES ARE REAPPREHENDED, OR UNTIL MY ORDERS ARE RESCINDED.”
Mr. Suau rose out of the waters of the fountain, into which he had dived to escape the spray of threads, which seemed incapable of forming in water. He coughed out a mouthful of chlorinated, fluoridated, lavender-scented liquid. “Do you expect your orders to be rescinded?”
“I SUSPECT A MALFUNCTION IN MY PENITENTIARY CONTROLLER UNIT. IT IS NOT BEHAVING AS IT SHOULD. I HAVE ALREADY PHYSICALLY APPREHENDED PROFESSOR VON TRAPP, FORMERLY LISTED AS MR. TRAPP IN MY RECORDS; HE IS RESTRAINED IN A BELOW-GROUND SHAFT SOME SIXTEEN KILOMETRES FROM HERE, IN MUCH THE SAME WAY AS THESE MEN AND WOMEN ARE. TECHNICALLY, NO FURTHER ACTION SHOULD BE NECESSARY. HOWEVER, I HAVE ALSO BEEN ORDERED TO LOCATE AND DESTROY AN AUTOMATED UNIT CONTAINING HIS PERSONALITY ANALOGUE, WHICH IS MOST IRREGULAR. I MUST OBEY MY CONTROLLER, BUT HAVE REQUESTED AN ENGINEER BE CALLED OUT TO CONDUCT A DIAGNOSTIC—”
A scream sounded from the dormitory corridor entrance.
“Mizz Llewellyn Revilla,” said Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus.
“The Stalin Six,” said Suau.
“Or Christmas,” said the horribly scarred childoid. “Take your pick.”
Suau turned to the Warden. “Officer! We suspect that scream to have been produced by a victim either of the Stalin Six referred to earlier, or of a recent Penitentiary escapee, Mr. Father Christmas of Spender’s Delight, New Earth. It is your duty to investigate either.”
The Warden was silent for several seconds.
Then, its YES light blinked.
“I WILL INVESTIGATE,” it announced; and it rotated in place to do just that.
“It won’t find Christmas,” said the child-thing. “Bowker has copious experience of avoiding bumbling automated security units. If a machine could do a man’s job, I’d never have had to catch him personally.”
“It was him who caught you,” said Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus.
“I am not proud of that,” said the child-thing.
“Excuse me,” said one of the billionaires from the huddle of guests and staff, “I believe we’re entitled to know what’s going on.”
“I believe,” said the child-thing, “in the nicest possible way, that I will shoot you if you speak again. We need to think carefully how we are going to save your and our skins, and we can brook no interruption.”
“Are you aware of just how pluperfectly I can sue you?” said the billionaire hotly. The child sighed, walked to an assault weapon imperfectly secured by clinging strands, tugged it loose, reset it, and shot the guest in the leg.
The billionaire crashed to the ground, caught himself on his hands and one remaining serviceable knee, and looked up at the girl, astonished.
“Little girl,” he said, “I am the major shareholder in EasyWorld, the affordable no-frills terraforming consortium. We guarantee breathable air and an absolute minimum of acid lakes and volcanoes. If you think that you can shoot me in the leg—”
She shot him in the head. Instead of crying out, he made tentative AK-AK sounds in his throat, and finally collapsed onto the finely polished floor, doing ruinous damage to his expensive dental work. Blood, however, was conspicuous by its absence.
“He is, of course, dead,” lied the small child convincingly. “Be warned, ladies and gentlemen, that I am also dead, and hence unlikely to be swayed by threats of legal action. I intend to save your lives and the lives of these good people here. We must assist the Warden in hunting down Christmas.” The little girl flicked several switches, and the assault gun turned deadly once again. “He will have left what looks like an easy DNA / infrared trail from the site of the murder. Commonly, he urinates in a stream leading up to the site before committing the actual act, thereby leaving a false trail for an unintelligent robot unable to distinguish blood from piss. He will also take steps to conceal his actual exit trail; in a bar area, he may rub ice from the cooler on his shoes. On other occasions, he has set small fires purely in order to prevent police sniffer units from picking up a spoor. He will retire to a pre-prepared safe location with several escape routes, often booby-trapped, and wait for his next opportunity—”
The little girloid’s speech was interrupted by a grown man covered in blood flying through the air from the dormitory entrance and colliding with the concrete of the far wall. The man collapsed into a blood-sodden heap at the base of the Clinic’s Christmas tree. Huge-framed and titanically-muscled, he still wore the flashing black-and-orange prison fatigues of a former inmate, torn into rags about him. The clothes had not been slashed off him with so much care as to avoid cutting his flesh.
“MURDER,” said the voice of the thing that had thrown him, “IS A CRIME AGAINST THE GODS.”
Mr. Suau, who had cowered down into the water again at the sight of the robot, rose just far enough out of it for his mouth to break surface, and said:
“... your majesty.”
The robot undulated into the reception area in a manner that reminded Mr. Suau of a stage burlesque act. Undeniably, it was moving in a manner that could be described, however grotesquely, as feminine. “WE SEEK LORD HADES. WE BELIEVE YOU REFER TO HIM AS ‘UNCLE ANCHORITE’. WE FURTHER BELIEVE FROM VARIOUS OVERHEARD CONVERSATIONS THAT HE IS NOT GOD, BUT MAN. THIS PUZZLES US. WHO RULES HERE?”
Miss Valentin stepped forward nervously. “I believe I can answer that. I act as Chief Executive Officer of this establishment—”
“YOU?” Though eyeless, the robot looked Miss Valentin’s beautiful herringbone business suit up and down contemptuously. “YOU, DRAB MOUSE, CONSIDER YOURSELF A QUEEN?”
(“Doctor Bamigboye,” whispered one of the Clinic nurses, an uneducated gamin from the slums of Dropoff on New New Earth, “is that not a devil? Can you not summon your angels to neutralize it?”
Dr. Bamigboye mopped his brow with a seraphically white handkerchief and wolfed down a handful of breath mints. “Mr. Sphinx is telling me that we have been sinful. Yes, a great sin has been perpetrated here, and someone—” his eyes rotated like gun turrets round to the Reborn-in-Jesus family and Miss Valentin—”has to pay. This is a punishment sent to test us, and we must be strong. Were it a simple matter of achieving self-affirmation, or assisting in the grieving process, Mr. Sphinx would be of eager assistance. But today he cannot help. God has told him he cannot.”)
The Devil strode forth like a Greek tragic heroine or a Lady Macbeth, murderous claws clasped behind its back. “I AM TOLD THIS UNCLE ANCHORITE IS THE TRUE RULER OF THIS DOMAIN. WHY WILL HE NOT COME FORTH? DOES HE FEAR A MERE WOMAN?”
Mr. Suau bowed his head. “Your Majesty,” he said truthfully, “you are no mere woman.”
The creature nodded. “YES. I FEEL IT. I HAVE BECOME MORE.” It reached out a hand and studied it in fascination, sheathing and unsheathing claws. “PERHAPS YOUR LORD HADES IS A MERE MAN IN THE SAME WAY HERCULES ONCE WAS? DO ALL GODS ONLY BECOME SO AFTER GRADUATING FROM THE RANKS OF MEN BY ACCOMPLISHING SOME MIGHTY TASK?” It laughed bitterly, a sound like static. “I HAVE BROUGHT DOWN TROY. NOT EVEN HERCULES COULD HAVE DONE THAT ALONE.” It wheeled on Mrs. Reborn-in-Jesus. “YOU! WHAT SHOULD I SAY TO THIS ANCHORITE, THIS DEMIGOD, WHEN I MEET HIM? SHOULD I COURT HIS AFFECTION? OR SHOULD I SLASH OUT HIS EYES?” The machine struck left without warning, and an ornamental Aesculapius lost its rod.
“The Anchorite is only a man,” said Shun-Company, looking the creature directly in its total lack of eyes. “I am sure he is appropriately respectful of your rank and beauty, madame. But he is old and foolish, and would not make you a good match. Frankly, there is no man in Hell fit to sit beside you. You should resign as Tartaros’s queen and receive suitors from Olympus and the great nations of the world.”
The robot looked Shun-Company over from crown to toe, reached out with fingers capable of smashing concrete, and pinched her skin lightly; she shivered at the touch.
“I DO BELIEVE,” said the machine in what sounded like wonderment, “THAT YOU ARE TELLING THE TRUTH. AND WHAT OF THESE OTHERS HERE?” It stalked about the fountain, interrogating God’s-Wound, Unity, and Testament. “IS THIS LORD ANCHORITE A TYRANT? SHOULD I PUNISH HIM FOR HIS MISDEEDS? OR IS HE A JUST RULER?”
“Uncle Anchorite is not a ruler,” said God’s-Wound sourly. “Though I suspect he may have been in the past.”
“OH?” The machine sounded hugely interested. “WHAT MAKES YOU THINK THAT?”
Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus cleared his throat.
“Speaking for myself,” he said, “I believe Uncle Anchorite is the person who is controlling that machine right now. How did you manage to overcome it, hermit?”
The machine turned and looked at Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus for an aeon.
“RATS,” it said. “JUST WHEN YOU’RE BEGINNING TO HAVE FUN, SOME PERSPICACIOUS PEON HAS TO SPOIL IT.” It relaxed into a nonchalant lean on a support pillar. “ALTHOUGH I MUST SAY I AM HEARTENED TO HEAR NOT ALL OF YOU WANT ME MURDERED.”
“Where is Beguiled?” said Shun-Company, anger gathering like cumulonimbus in her eyes.
“YOU KNOW, I REALLY HAVE NO IDEA. I THINK SHE DOES WANT ME MURDERED. WANTS TO GIVE IT THE PERSONAL TOUCH. IN RESPONSE TO YOUR QUESTION, I SIMPLY RE-USED THE TIME BRAKE TRICK I USED ON OUR MADE VISITORS. I SECRETED THE TIME DECELERATOR IN THE BASE OF ONE OF THE DOWNSHAFTS AND USED IT TO STOP TIME BRIEFLY ROUND THE UNIT. I THEN,” the machine continued, tapping the analogue redactor taped to its chassis, “TURNED OFF HELEN OF TROY. THE REDACTOR HAS AN INFRA-RED REMOTE CONTROL FUNCTION; DUE TO THE MIRACLE OF RELATIVITY I WAS ABLE TO SHINE A LASER BEAM THROUGH THE FIELD AND DEACTIVATE IT. BY THIS SUBTERFUGE,” said the robot pointedly, “I REGAINED COMPLETE CONTROL OF MY BOT.”
“What,” said Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus, “like this?”
Casually, he raised the hand laser he had been holding and shot the machine in the chest.
Ruby-red low-powered laser light glinted off the robot’s carapace, casting a bright and sharply-defined reflection on the wall. Although unharmed, the machine stood stiffly, as if in shock.
Then, it said:
“WHERE AM I? IS THIS THE HOUSE OF HADES?”
“Queen Helen,” said Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus, “welcome back.”
“I WAS NEVER QUEEN. PRIAM WAS KING, PARIS HIS SON. CALL ME, RATHER, PRINCESS. WHERE IS MY HANDMAIDEN? SHE HAS BEEN TAKEN SICK.”
“Beguiled,” said Shun-Company, “how sick is she?”
“A STRANGE SHORTNESS OF BREATH OVERTOOK HER.” The machine halted. “THOUGH NOT SO STRANGE, PERHAPS, AS THE FACT THAT I AM NOT BREATHING AT ALL. WAS SHE THE LIVING ONE, AND I THE DEAD?”
“Princess,” said Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus, with a lifetime’s experience of treating petulant teenage girls gently, “would you like to see your reflection?”