V. Moody's Blog, page 9

Book 3 – 57: Impostor Syndrome

Inner Quadrant.

Planet Quazi.

Muss Dome.

 

Point-Two was offended. He was offended on behalf of Ubik, which was an odd position to be in. Apologising for Ubik’s offensive behaviour was much more the norm.

“The Early Show?” said Point-Two to Quincy. “Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?”

Quincy, who had come in all bright and breezy, ready for the big day, dressed in what was clearly a brand new outfit, was somewhat taken aback and his face grew noticeably paler.

“Um, no, I don’t think so. I thought you had something you wanted to put up for auction? Did you change your mind?” He smiled a little too hard as a bead of sweat trickled down his temple. Fortunately, his new outfit was a light linen suit that was ideal for hot days and steamy dressing-downs.

Point-Two realised he had broken character and startled Quincy, who had been led to believe Point-Two was the stoic leader who remained unperturbed by minor matters — a term which encompassed all matters — and considered such things to be beneath him.

From his own experiences, he knew how much more shocking it was for someone who hardly ever said anything to suddenly lose their temper. He untensed his shoulders and tried to appear mildly irritated in the style of someone whose beverage was supposed to be decanted at room temperature and had been opened too near a window.

Rather than full-on enraged, which had somehow emerged from his psyche.

There was a possibility the constant tension of life in the Ubik dimension was starting to get to him.

“I think what he means,” said Fig, gently pulling Point-Two back, “is that we were led to believe the Early Show isn’t really for serious inventions. Isn’t that right, sir?” Fig nodded deferentially towards Point-Two.

Point-Two nodded back in a dignified manner.

“Ah, well, I wouldn’t say that.” Quincy collected himself, more comfortable dealing with Fig’s polite inquiry than he was facing Point-Two’s suddenly more aggressive manner of holding a conversation. “It’s true the Early Show is less prestigious, but at this late stage, I’m afraid all the slots for the main event are taken up.”

He smiled apologetically, rubbing his hands together as he looked over at Point-Two, and then quickly back to Fig.

Fig glanced at the screen, which was still showing flashy visuals promoting the Fayre. “It isn’t a compendium of deadbeats and con artists?”

“Oh, no,” said Quincy. “I don’t think that’s fair. Not fair at all. I mean, yes, there are some contestants who are simply there to entertain and provide some light relief, but they are professional in their own way. There is actually quite a big market for unique devices that are of little practical use, but provide some amusement. Nothing wrong with that. But overall, the aim is to give everyone a chance to show off their wares, without having to invest a huge amount to do so.”

“People have donated quite generously to get onto the main bill,” said Synthia. “It simply isn’t possible to add you without any idea of what it is you intend to present. Perhaps if you told us?” She looked at Ubik.

“It’s fine,” said Ubik. “I think going on early will give us an advantage. No one will be expecting very much. It should make the reveal that much more of a surprise.” His eyes gleamed.

Ubik didn’t care when or where he was put on display. He was confident all eyes would end up on him.

“And you do still get introduced by the Master of Ceremonies,” said Quincy. “Our beloved first robot, M1F, is reason enough to want to appear on the Early Show. If they take a liking to your invention, it can be a career-making endorsement.”

“The first robot?” said Fig.

“It’s the oldest robot on Quazi,” said Synthia, speaking to Ubik. “The first extrapolation of Antecessor droid technology. We are all descended from them.”

“A wonderful example of the traditions of our world,” said Quincy. “And an amazing sense of humour, for a robot.”

Point-Two hadn’t failed to notice that Synthia had taken to speaking directly to Ubik regarding all matters technological.

She had already worked out who the technical expert was here. Which was going to be a problem if she drew too much attention to him.

Point-Two was meant to be the decoy. He wasn’t doing a very good job of it. He looked around, trying to figure out a way to reestablish himself as the leader of the group.

“You should go up alone,” he said to Ubik. “We want the minimum amount of exposure.”

“Absolutely, Boss. You can count on me playing it nice and subtle.” Ubik saluted.

Point-Two would have liked to say a few choice words to Ubik about the definition of the word, but he didn’t want to break character again.

“It’ll be best if you do what you need to do as early as possible,” said Quincy. “I shouldn’t really say anything…” Quincy looked around furtively. “The truth is, we’re planning a little surprise for the audience later. For everyone, actually. Things might not go as smoothly as some people are expecting them to.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

He waited for someone to ask for further details, but was too impatient and carried on without needing prompting.

“The people on Quazem, they’ve been spoiled for too long. Convinced they are masters of their destiny. But who of us is really able to change the direction of the universe?”

Point-Two had an answer to that question but he kept it to himself.

Quincy lowered his voice. “Once they see how little control they have over their lives, over the ones closest to them, I think their eyes will finally begin to open.” He smiled smugly, past Point-Two, towards where the Seneca sisters were standing. “I can say no more than that.”

“You’re going to make the robots revolt,” said Weyla

“Bad idea,” said Leyla. “Blood on robot hands won’t make for good optics.”

It seemed obvious Quincy was planning to remove the control the people of Quazi had over their robots. Probably with Synthia’s help.

“No, no, no. Nothing violent,” said Quincy, shaking his hands at them in flustered consternation. He looked to Synthia for confirmation. Her face betrayed no emotion. “Just a demonstration. A clear example that these are actual living, breathing — well, not literally — thinking beings. I think we’re going to change a lot of hearts and minds today. But also, of course, there will be some outrage, maybe a little mild panic. Only a tiny bit, right, Synthia?”

“We estimate a very small proportion of the crowd will become overwrought.” Her face remained serene. “Minimal deaths caused by pre-existing medical conditions.”

“Exactly, exactly,” said Quincy. “Minimal. One or two at most. And we have health providers standing-by, just in case.”

“What about the rest of the quadrant?” asked Fig.

“What do you mean?” said Quincy.

“Your robots aren’t just sold here, on Quazi,” said Fig. “They exist all over the quadrant and further. It would only have a limited effect on the wider community of owners if robots only demanded equal rights on Quazi.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose that’s right,” said Quincy. “But the live broadcast… Everyone will be watching.”

Fig shook his head. “It would be far more effective if every robot in every home refused to follow orders at the same time.” He looked at Synthia. “Wouldn’t it?”

Synthia didn’t say anything but her face shifted slightly. For once, she appeared to be trying to not let her emotions show, her face in full lockdown mode.

“Synthia?” asked Quincy.

“It would be very difficult to send a signal to every robot ever constructed by Mason & Muss,” said Synthia. “But it is technically possible. Would you like me to try and make it happen?”

“No, no, not at all,” said Quincy, the mild panic he had predicted appearing on his own face. “We don’t want to go too far on our first public outing. Let them get used to the idea. We want to bring everyone along for this journey. If we act too forcefully, they’re bound to react. Laws of physics and all that.”

Synthia nodded in acquiescence, but she hadn’t actually said she wouldn’t be sending the signal.

If Fig had been able to work out the most effective route of action, Synthia and whoever else she had working for her, undoubtedly were also able to do likewise. But Point-Two wasn’t too worried. A widescale commotion might turn out to be a useful thing. Once Ubik did his thing, whatever that might be, any sort of distraction would be of help.

“I think you’re right,” said Point-Two. “The Early Show will be a better setting for what we have in mind.”

“Is it possible for us to have a look at it?” asked Quincy, looking around. “I’m just a little curious as to what you’ve brought.”

“I’d rather it be a surprise,” said Point-Two. “The more people who know about it, the more likely word will get out and spoil the… impact.”

“I would never…” began Quincy.

“It isn’t you I have concerns over,” said Point-Two, looking at Synthia.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” said Quincy. “Synthia would never—”

“Any machine can be compromised,” said Point-Two. “And not just robots. This lab was arranged for by your brother. We had to disable a number of spying devices, and there may have been some we missed. It’s best to take all precautions, no matter how paranoid they may appear.”

What Point-Two was saying was not a true concern. There were indeed a number of attempts by Quincy’s brother, or possibly by Quincy himself, to monitor their activity, but Ubik wasn’t someone who could be observed so easily. And even if you did get to observe what he was doing, it rarely helped.

His goal in warning Quincy about the dangers of trusting machines was more to get under Synthia’s skin. If she knew where the real power lay with their group, then Point-Two was just as aware who was at the controls of Quincy’s cabal of revolutionaries.

If all she was doing was sparking the first flames of a robot uprising, that was fine. She would obviously fail.

The galaxy had many failings — corruption, injustice, unreasonable taxing policies — but putting down violent insurgents was not one of them. Any excuse for venting some of the aggression people had been forced to pent-up in the name of peace and stability in the last few hundred years was always taken up with enthusiasm.

But he suspected her true goal was something more than helping her fellow robots gain their freedom. And if she had worked out what a powerful force for change Ubik was — and nothing ever stayed the same after Ubik had come across it — then it was more than possible she was going to try and draw him into her machinations.

What arsonist with a can of inflammable liquid was going to walk past a lit match without picking it up?

“Your invention,” said Synthia, “it wouldn’t have anything to do with Antecessor armada that’s been reported.”

Chukka suddenly came to life and stepped forward. Fig put his hand directly on her face and pushed her back

“Armada?” said Ubik. “There’s an armada? Is it part of the Trade Fayre’s opening ceremony?”

“No,” said Synthia. “It’s an Antecessor fleet of ships, as you saw on the newscast earlier.” She indicated the screen, which was now showing adverts for robots that could climb walls like spiders and repaint your house for you.

“Ah, she hasn’t been spying on you,” said Quincy. “I make her memorise the broadcast schedules so I don’t miss my favourite shows.”

“Do you know anything about this fleet of alien ships?” asked Fig.

“Me?” said Quincy. “No, no, I don’t know anything. It’s just a rumour. These things crop up all the time. Sightings of ghost ships and so on. It’s not very likely a fully-crewed Antecessor battle fleet would suddenly appear now, is it? I mean, what do they want?”

“Perhaps they are searching for someone,” said Synthia. “Or some people.”

“I doubt it,” said Ubik. “They’d be more interested in reclaiming the galaxy and cleansing it of any undesirable elements. Or making us slaves. I’m not sure they’d have much use for robots, though. They have their own droids, which tend to be of a superior build quality. They must have the most amazing QA testing. I’ve never encountered a droid that ran out of battery power in the middle of trying to kill me.”

“They are indeed remarkable,” said Synthia.

Point-Two was becoming more and more wary of her. Whatever she was planning, she had the home field advantage and plenty of support. He hadn’t forgotten how the other robots reacted to her. If she wanted to create a bloody uprising, it was probably well within her abilities.

“We should go,” said Quincy. “The Early Show starts in less than two hours, and we need to register you and get you into rehearsals. They’ll tell you what you need to do and when and where and all that stuff. It’s very well organised. My brother may be a lot of things, but he is not one to put on a sloppy show. Do you need help transporting your…”

“No,” said Point-Two. “He’s got it in his pocket.”

Ubik patted his pocket.

They left the workshop and headed through the backstage area to the main stage, which had become much quieter now that the contestants had moved to the inner area.

From outside, the rumble of the audience could be faintly heard. Point-Two felt their presence even though he couldn’t see them.

Registration didn’t take long. There was a robot attendant taking names from a line of people stretching across the backstage area. It seemed anyone who wanted a shot at the big time was welcome.

“Most of these people are here for the lottery,” Quincy explained. “You won’t need to worry about that.” He went straight to the head of the queue and they were ushered past the waiting masses.

There were those who were guaranteed a slot, and those who got picked at random. A palpable sense of excitement filled the air. If you were able to get decent bids for your creation, it could make you an overnight success. If M1F made a favourable comment, you might even become a galactic sensation.

Judging by the odd contraptions most of them were carrying, they were far more likely to become overnight laughing stocks.

As they were about to enter the official Early Show green room, an entourage approached them, led by Quincy’s brother, Quadell. He was flanked by his robot assistant, Despira, who eyed Ubik warily.

“You’re here, good,” said Quadell, stopping in front of Point-Two. “A slot on the Early Show. Smart. You’re going to surprise everyone without having to compete against the big show stoppers.” Quadell nodded, as though he was appreciating this stratagem.

“I’m sure it won’t be as grand as the six sisters,” said Quincy. His animosity towards his brother was nowhere in sight.

“So you don’t know what they’ve brought, either,” said Quadell to his brother. He turned back to Point-Two. “I’m very much looking forward to seeing it. This armada…” His gaze intensified as he looked into Point-Two eyes. “No, never mind. I wish you luck.”

He shifted direction and was off, his coterie of followers rushing to keep up.

Everyone seemed to have connected their group with the rumoured Antecessor fleet. Was it really a rumour? The news had made it seem so, but those with the power to gather their own intelligence probably had a much clearer idea of what was going on. Which meant they might also have information on the people the Central Authority was looking for.

Point-Two looked over at Ubik. Was appearing on a galaxy-wide live broadcast really a good idea? The answer was obvious, but Ubik had something planned, and it was never wise to get in his way. The only thing that ever achieved was a speed-up of the countdown.

The sooner they were able to obtain a way off this planet the better.

The green room, which was just a large hall with benches, was full of nervous-looking people. They were watching screens showing the stage, with workers still making last-minute changes, moving parts of the set and checking and tidying away cables.

“You’re here,” said a voice next to Point-Two’s ear.

He turned to find a middle-aged workman with surprisingly young eyes standing with a clipboard in his hands.

“We’ll need you for a quick run-through. We have someone who can tell you exactly what you need to do.”

In all the rush to get show-ready, Point-Two had almost forgotten about Smyke. Another variable to consider. If only he could find a way to set Synthia and Smyke up against each other.

He nodded at Ubik, and then followed the workman.

Book 3 – 56: Backstage Pass

Inner Quadrant.

Planet Quazi.

Muss Dome - Backstage.

 

Ubik loved his gift. He had received very few in his life, and even fewer that he truly appreciated, but this one was a definite keeper.

The logo was one he had always admired. The slogan — Jump in with both feet! — not only made him smile, it summed up his approach to life. And the material felt nice against his skin.

“This is great,” he said, rubbing his chest with an open palm. “You guys are the best.”

“It’s just a t-shirt,” said Weyla, her blue-dyed lips trembling from the cold of the ice cone.

“And what did you get me?” Ubik asked her.

Weyla’s blue lips thinned as she sucked them into the mouth. “Sorry,” she said unapologetically. “You’re a hard person to shop for.”

“That’s true,” said Leyla. “What do you get the man who ruins everything?”

Ubik could see the two of them weren’t in the mood for banter. Looking at the way they clung to the remnants of their ice cones, he could see why.

“I don’t think you should have any more of those,” he said. “The ingredients are addictive. It’s how they keep you coming back for more. Solid business model, but a major health code violation.”

Leyla looked at the cone in her hand and then back at Ubik. “It’s just sugar.”

“Then throw it away,” said Ubik.

Leyla continued to look at him, hand firmly gripping the cone. Weyla took another slurp of her cone.

“Okay,” said Ubik. “Don’t blame me when you get hit by the crash.”

Ubik turned to Fig. “Are the four of you double-dating now?”

“They followed us,” said Fig. “They have a crush.”

Ubik looked over at the Seneca duo fully absorbed by their iced treats. “On who? You?”

“On my mother. It’s common among the Corps. Authority figures end up becoming the vessel for inappropriate feelings that have no other outlet. They grow up without men, so they develop daddy issues, which they project onto their commanding officers, who happen to be women, but the effect is the same. They both served under my mother, so they feel they can win her approval if they keep me safe.”

“That’s not true,” said Leyla, blushing. Her red face didn’t really go with her blue lips. At the very least, she should switch out the green jacket for something in a purple.

“My teeth are hurting,” said Weyla.

“Seriously, what does it do?” said PT, who was staring at the cube in Ubik’s hand.

“I don’t want to spoil the surprise,” said Ubik. “Let’s just say I’m expecting the bidding to go through the roof.”

“It’s very small,” said Fig. “I feel like I’ve seen it somewhere before, though.”

“Me too,” said PT. The two of them stared at the cube intently.

“Is it a toy?” said Weyla. “Let me have a go.” She reached for it but Ubik pulled it back.

“You’ll notice my reactions are noticeably faster than yours,” said Ubik. “And you’re Corps-trained. Doesn’t that seem odd?”

Weyla furrowed her brows. “I wasn’t really trying. I could take it from you if I wanted.”

“Go on, then,” said Ubik, holding up the cube so she could grab it.

Weyla’s eyebrows met in the middle as she gave the matter some serious consideration. “I don’t feel like it right now.” She licked her cone. There was no ice left, just the stains on the side.

“Wasn’t there something like it in one of the pictures?” said PT.

“Oh yeah, I think you’re right,” said Fig. “I think I saw it in a few of them, actually. It’s like a motif — keeps cropping up. The locals will probably like it. Nostalgia does well at auctions. Antiques, too.”

“The locals aren’t the big spenders, though,” said PT.

“What else did you get?” asked Ubik, tiring of their bad guesses. He would have told them if they’d been close, but they were way off.

PT put the bags he was carrying on the table and began emptying them.

More t-shirts, badges, pamphlets and hats came pouring out.

Pens, mugs, stuffed toys and bottles of various coloured goo.

Everything had the logos of various companies stamped on them.

PT opened up a sheet of transparent film, stretching it to chest width. A picture appeared of a young woman heavily armed with numerous weapons and her clothes mostly removed.

At the top, it said, Girls of the Corps.

“Sexy Seneca,” said PT, flipping through the pictures of militaristic nudes.

“It’s fake,” said Leyla. “No one from the Corps would holster their firearm like that.” She didn’t appear to be offended by the depiction of her beloved Corps. Both and her sister were surprisingly hard to trigger. Ubik really had to up his game.

There was a buzz at the door, followed by insistent knocking. The voice-activated door controls had been deactivated — if it could hear you tell it to open the door, it could hear everything else, too.

Ubik picked up a stuffed fish with ‘Get hooked!’ written on one side and ‘Genoshum’ on the other. He threw it at the panel next to the door and the door slid open.

Chukka came rushing in looking flustered.

“You’re all here, good,” she said, slightly out of breath. “Did you see the news?”

“No,” said Ubik. “Did something happen?”

Chukka rushed past him towards his workshop area, ignoring everything a reasonable person would have been fascinated by, and making straight for the control panel under the large screen.

The screen came to life and a grim man stared at them through a window in the middle of captions and advertising messages running horizontally and vertically around him. His mouth moved silently until Chukka turned up the volume.

“...our top story again, the rumours of a fully-functioning Antecessor armada discovered in the outer quadrants. The Central Authority has issued a galaxy-wide alert for this man,” —a picture of Ramon Ollo appeared— “Ramon Ollo, feted and well-regarded entrepreneur and previous participant of the Trade Fayre Auction — you might remember the patent for his unified slave suit that went for a TFA record a few years back. He is believed to be involved in an alleged conspiracy to destabilise the outer four quadrants, and may have resurrected the armada for personal gain and possible market manipulation. Wormhole activity has been restricted to essential operations until further notice, although the Central Authority insists this is only a precautionary measure. More information as we get it.” The man’s sombre expression flipped to one of delight. “Now, back to the details of the 1094th Trade Fayre.”

The screen changed to an aerial-shot of the Muss Dome.

“Welcome to the 1094th Trade Fayre and the greatest auction in the Inner Quadrant…” said an irritatingly cheerful voice.

Chukka turned around. “They think it’s just a rumour, but the Antecessors are going to take over the outer quadrants. Businesses are going to grind to a halt. The economic repercussions will be devastating.”

She genuinely believed what she was saying mattered.

“Can you move out of the way?” said Ubik. “I want to see this piece on the auction.”

Chukka took a step to the side, confused by the lack of appropriate reactions. “But the Antecessors… They’re blaming Ramon Ollo…”

“They’re not blaming him,” said Ubik. “They planted the story to get our attention.”

“They know we’re more likely to notice something about my father,” said Fig. “They want us to contact them.”

“Good,” said PT. “Means they don’t know where we are.”

“Standard operating procedure for the CA,” said Leyla. “Reveal enough information to be able to say they warned us, make it vague enough to seem like a hoax so no one panics.”

“But, if they planted the story in the Inner Quadrant, they must know we’re here,” said Chukka.

“Possibly,” said Fig. “Or they planted it everywhere.”

“Shhh,” said Ubik. “They’re showing my competition.”

On the screen, there was a man with his hand out. He was well-groomed and dressed in a cutting-edge tech suit, with prosthetic limbs built into the shoulders. One of the shoulder-claws reached down and picked up the toy ship and tossed it away.

The ship instantly grew to its full size, large enough to accommodate a crew of six (which was flashed on the screen in a ridiculously large font).

As viewers were given a tour of the rather basic interior of the ship, the annoying voice blathered on:

“From Jigg Castaway, the creator of last year’s miniature ore refining facility, the Factoreo, comes the Pocket Rocket Spaceship! It’s portable and it’s pocketable. No need to pay expensive port tariffs and hangar fees, just put it in your pocket. Reputed to be able to travel between star systems without refuelling. The current model is the smallest ever made and one of a kind. Bids are expected to reach—”

“Bit weak,” said Ubik. “Bet it only works a few times before it gets stuck in one form or the other.”

Flashy visuals filled the screen and then a woman dressed similarly to the ones on PT’s poster appeared, only with slightly more clothes on. In her hands was a gun that extended into a rifle with a flick of the wrist.

“From Genoshum Tactical, the Senecot All-Purpose Eliminator R-15, a weapon that can do it all. No aiming required, no ammo to load, self-cleaning and fits in a handbag. Ladies, this is the partner you’ve been looking for your whole life. Try the test model on display in Area J at the Trade Fayre.”

The woman holding the gun rested the rifle butt on her hip, and pointed her finger directly at the camera.

“I invented this gun because I know how important it is to have someone you can rely on. A special edition will be available at the auction with features that will make your head explode — literally. Don’t miss out!”

“Senecot,” said PT, laughing. “She actually even looks like she’s Corps.” He turned to Leyla, expecting a denial, but Leyla didn’t say anything.

“She is Corps,” said Fig. “Obvious from the way she’s holding the weapon.”

“At least she’s putting her Seneca training to good use,” said Ubik. “You two should start your own business. Do something productive with your lives.”

Leyla and Weyla both looked nonplussed at the suggestion.

“She’s a traitor selling our secrets without permission,” said Weyla. “She’ll be dead within hours of making her first sale.”

“Six sisters,” boomed the voice from the screen. “Are they human? Are they something more?”

Synthia’s six sister robots appeared on screen, each dressed in tight clothing with slight variations to suggest a difference in personality. They came sauntering towards the camera in synchronised sashaying.

“The most advanced service robots ever created, six unique creations with functions never before seen in any Mason & Muss product. They don’t just walk and talk, they will make you believe they are as human as you are. They even have a soul. Watch the demonstration on the main stage tonight and you’ll believe they are as capable as any real thinking, feeling woman. The singularity is finally here, and there are six of them.”

The six robots stared at Ubik through the screen as the camera panned across them. They didn’t speak, gave no evidence of their superiority over robot-kind. But Ubik could feel the power coiled up inside them, ready to be released. Never mind the other inventors, these six were going to be the main problem.

“Experts in robotics from around the galaxy have gathered for the bidding war of the century. Tickets are all sold out, but you can watch the insanity live, here on Channel Q, the home of all things Quazi.”

“They’re really making a big thing about those six robots,” said PT. “Are you sure your box is going to be able to compete?”

“No problem,” said Ubik. “They’re all style over substance. The Ubik’s Cube is beyond anything those six can do.” He knew it was true, because otherwise they were all in big trouble.

“And don’t forget the Early Show,” blared the screen. “The craziest inventors bring you the wackiest inventions.”

A man with hair sticking up and thick glasses appeared with a box in his hands. It was bigger than Ubik’s cube, but it had a similar design on the outside. He opened the lid on top and a frog in a top hat jumped out and started dancing.

“You won’t believe the things people will try to sell you! Don’t miss the Early Show!”

A series of mad-scientist-types were shown with ridiculous objects and devices. Where the earlier inventors had been dressed up to look like serious engineers, these were all dressed up to look as kooky as possible.

“Looks like they even have a section of the show for delusional people to have a go,” said Ubik, shaking his head. He normally didn’t waste his time feeling sorry for people, but there was no need to mock those who were doing their best to create something original and of use, even if their efforts were clearly hopeless.

There was a buzz at the door again, but this time it opened without having a stuffed toy thrown at it.

Quincy entered with Synthia behind him.

“You’re all here,” said Quincy. “Excellent. Everything’s ready. I’ve booked you a slot in the Early Show.”

Book 3 – 55: Uncanny Granny

Inner Quadrant.

Planet Quazi.

Muss Dome - Backstage.

 

Ubik twisted the solder rod so the flame tightened to a bright white dot. He pulled down his goggles and applied heat in broad sweeps across the microcircuit board Synthia had supplied him with.

It was important to keep the flame just the right distance from the board to maintain the correct level of heat at all times. Too little and there would be no effect, too much and the everything printed onto the board would be burnt to a crisp.

Ubik snapped his wrist left and right, humming himself as the lithogen mixed into the circuitry was melted away.

These boards were top quality components in the field of robot circuitry, but they were nowhere near the level he needed for his greatest creation. They were nice and easy to use — snap together in the prepared configuration — but there was a lack of choice inherent in the design. You could change the colour of the board, but that was about it.

The Mason & Muss company were known for their elegantly constructed robots that looked beautiful and worked with intuitive controls, but simplicity was a hallmark of the stupid.

Not simplicity as a choice — that was just an option. Not simplicity as a default — that was just a starting point. But simplicity as the one and only mode of operation, that was an attempt at suppressing competition.

The lithogen locked in the circuit design so no alternative pathfinding was possible. It also acted as filler to make the board feel nice and heavy. People liked to feel the weight of their components. Made them feel like it was expensive and well-made. Which was obviously nonsense.

It was tedious work, going over the whole circuit board, burning away unnecessary excess, but it would be worth it. The end result would be freedom. Freedom to be better. Freedom to do more.

The potential was already there, locked away, but if they gave people the freedom to have things the way they wanted, why would they need anything more?

Mason & Muss had over ninety percent of the robot market. Even the cheaper brands that offered less reliable models were actually subsidiaries of M&M. Their only goal was to keep their market share and give people more of what they wanted (based on them no longer wanting what they had previously been told they needed).

Ubik’s goal was different. He didn’t care what people wanted. He was going to build something they hadn’t even realise was possible.

He could see it now, the crowds of people sitting out there in the audience, expecting cool robots and fancy gizmos. They were not ready for what he was going to put in front of them. He chuckled to himself.

“Why are you laughing?” said a deep voice from the side.

Ubik looked over. The robot head he had placed on the counter was looking at him with a concerned expression.

Ubik stopped and stood up straight, lifting the goggles and resting them on top of his head.

“I’m at a very delicate stage in the operation,” said Ubik. “So, if you could keep the interruptions to a minimum…”

The robot had been a very beautiful young woman with seductive lips and expressive eyes. With its wig removed and the top panel opened to reveal the internal workings, it looked more androgynous, and slightly cross-eyed. The deep voice coming out of such delicate features was also somewhat incongruous. Ubik could have modulated it, but he quite liked his new buddy to have some bass in his voice. It made him come across less whiny.

“Who are you?” it asked Ubik, the eyes making it look like it was talking to the bench behind him.

“I’m Ubik. We’ve been through this before.”

There was a short pause. “Who am I?”

“You are my good friend, Fourth.”

“My name is Fourth?”

“That’s right. Together, we are trying to help you regain your memories and make you a fully-functioning member of society. And when I say member, I mean titan overlooking your domain.”

There was a pause while the robot head’s eyes moved in independent directions before settling back into their cross-eyed position. “Why can’t I remember anything?”

“Well, it’s mainly a matter of a small baking tin and too much cake mix,” said Ubik.

“I do not understand.”

“That’s okay. You will soon have enough space to be able to use all parts of your mind. Parts you haven’t used for a long time.”

Ubik unclamped the board he had been working on and picked it up. He blew on it, a sharp blast of air through pursed lips, and golden dust flew into the air. “Nice.” The more dust in the air, the less useless crap on the board.

He took out an atomdriver, a thin pencil-like tool, and scratched notches into the board. It required extreme precision to get this part right. Ubik managed it by keeping one eye closed and letting his tongue stick out from the side of his mouth.

“Are you really my friend?” asked the Fourth. For an Antecessor god, he could be quite maudlin in his obsessions. Maybe they all were. Maybe they had disappeared all those aeons ago because they had been sulking in their bedrooms and refused to come out.

“I am your best friend,” said Ubik. “We’re a team, an unstoppable duo. Me, with my technical know-how and blistering speed. And you, with your, er…” He looked over at the robot head. “Winning smile and curious eyes.”

“I have to tell you, I feel somewhat incomplete.”

“That’s because you’re just a head without a body,” said Ubik. “But we’re going to fix that.”

“You’re building a body for me?”

“Better than that. I’m going to put you inside a box of tricks that will make you the most envied creation on the planet. Everybody’s going to want a piece of you.”

“It doesn’t appear to have any appendages,” said the Fourth.

“You won’t need them.”

“How will I obtain things? I feel a strong compulsion to obtain many things. A vast universe of objects that I alone command. Is that normal?”

“For you, yes,” said Ubik. “But you won’t have to worry about your cravings, that will all pass. We’re going to give you a much more important role in the grand scheme of things. We’re going to make you the brightest star in the sky. A being of immense power, striking awe in the hearts of everyone who sees you.”

“Really? I can’t even move.”

He was also surprisingly needy. Had Ubik known Antecessors were this insecure, he would have approached fighting them in a completely different manner. A hug and some reassuring words would have been enough.

Ubik dipped the board in the alkali bath he’d prepared. It fizzed in a satisfying manner. Timing was of utmost importance here.

“Thousand and one, thousand and two… that should be enough.”

Ubik lifted the board out of the bath and moved over to the table where the other boards were already assembled. He slid in the newly stripped one like he was reconstructing a loaf with slices of bread. He was almost finished.

“Once I finish this little beauty, you will be able to do what you want, move where you want. You can even take up dancing.”

“How will I fit in there?” asked the Fourth, his eyes shifting to look right. “It’s so small.”

“Good question,” said Ubik, making sure the newly added board was properly placed. There were no connections, just a very weak electromagnetic field that balanced the boards against each other and held them in place. “It all comes down to the quark space in between the hadron and the electrons in a perfectly balanced cuboid, which is, as I’m sure you know, infinite.”

He looked up at the screen where there was an old photo of the first Trade Fayre that had proven to be the most useful out of all the ones Fig and PT had found.

Crowds gathered around the stage, which looked exactly like the one they still used. On the stage was a large cube, about the size of a small house.

The faces of the people were full of awe and wonder, like worshippers at their holy temple. Which made the cube their god.

A god created not in your own image was a rare thing. It usually meant you weren’t the ones who created it. The complex designs on the surface of the cube indicated who did.

But not many Antecessor constructions were this regular in shape. Droids were multiformational and able to change shape. Only their ships were this rigid and symmetrical. And even they weren’t so perfectly fixed in three dimensions. The reason for the boxiness was obvious. Maximum optimisation of quark space.

“We just need to transfer you into this box with a little help.” Ubik moved across to another table where the black bone was attached to a large number of wires. Each of the more-than-a-hundred wires had their ends inserted into the bone using extremely fine quantum needles, so thin they could fit into the space between atoms.

The wires went from the bone to the open panel on top of the robot head.

“I refuse,” said a different voice coming from the robot’s mouth.

“Get out of my mouth,” said the Fourth.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” said the parasite, which had taken on a rather combative personality of late.

“Don’t use my lips without permission,” said the Fourth.

“They aren’t your lips, they’re for communal use.”

“I object to this violation,” said the Fourth, sounding distressed. “Ubik, tell him to get out of my head.”

“Ubik, this is a bad idea,” said the parasite. “You can’t reinstate the Fourth’s memories. The Antecessors don’t work well with others.”

“Who are the Antecessors?”

Watching the head have an argument with itself in two voices made it look insane. The smoke rising out of the open panel added to the effect.

“We have to help each other if we’re going to get this finished on time,” said Ubik. “And you don’t have a choice.”

“I don’t think he likes me,” said the Fourth.

“He just has a little performance anxiety,” said Ubik. “This was what he was designed for, but he’s never tried it on this scale.”

“I don’t have performance anxiety,” said the parasite. “I just don’t think bringing back an avatar of universal destruction is a good idea.”

The parasite had spent some time with the Fourth when they had both been confined inside the bone. Ubik didn’t know what had transpired between the two, but it seemed there had been some disagreement.

“That was the old Fourth,” said Ubik. “The new Fourth will be a more evolved being.”

“It called me a mindless tool.”

“You are a mindless tool,” said Ubik. “But that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

“How can I be a mindless tool if I can think and talk for myself?”

“Now, now, boys,” said Grandma’s voice, coming from the same mouth. “What did we discuss? No fighting.”

“I am not a boy,” said the parasite.

“I am not sure what I am,” said the Fourth.

“You’re all my boys and you’re going to get along or I’ll be having strong words with the both of you. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Grandma,” said the parasite.

“Yes, Grandma,” said the Fourth.

The two of them were constantly bickering, but both had become respectful of Grandma in a manner not even Ubik understood.

“And what about you, Ubik?” she said. “Have you not finished the outer casing yet?”

“Almost, almost,” said Ubik. He started working on the next board.

“It’s his fat fingers that are the problem,” mumbled the parasite.

“I don’t even have fingers and I could do it faster,” muttered the Fourth.

“Boys, please!”

Ubik finished constructing the box and began the process of transferring the Fourth into it. The parasite didn’t approve but agreed to accommodate the transfer with a little push from Grandma.

Several hours later, Ubik lay flat on his back, his singed fingers aching from the intense pinching necessary to operate such small tools.

“We’re back,” called out PT from the other side of the curtain. “Ubik?”

Ubik got up and stepped out from behind the curtain. PT and Fig were carrying many bags and were covered in badges and stickers. The two Seneca sisters stood beside them licking on ice cones, their lips bright blue.

“Anything interesting?” asked Ubik.

“It was mostly shoe shopping,” said Weyla.

“You men and your obsessions with shoes,” said Leyla, shaking her head.

“Here,” said PT, holding out an unimpressive piece of cloth. “We got you something.”

Ubik took it and unfolded it. His mouth dropped open.

“Is this…”

“We found the Delgado stand,” said Fig.

“It was kind of strange,” said PT.

“I love it,” said Ubik, eyes gleaming. He immediately put the t-shirt on.

“What about your project?” asked PT. “Is it finished? You don’t have much time left.”

Ubik barely heard the question as he admired himself in his new Delgado-branded shirt. He had no idea they even did promotional-wear. “Of course. Nearly. Just a few last adjustments.”

“Can we see?”

“Okay.” Ubik pulled back the curtain.

PT and Fig looked at the mess.

“Where is it?” asked PT.

Ubik walked over and picked up the small black cube and held it in his palm. “This is it. I call it the Ubik’s Cube.”

“What does it do?” asked Fig.

“It changes everything,” said Ubik, smiling.

Book 3 – 54: Work Shopping

Inner Quadrant.

Planet Quazi.

Muss Dome.

 

Figaro hadn’t noticed the small stall before PT pointed it out. He was usually very observant but the small enclosure with a single man sitting behind a counter hadn’t even registered. It was almost like it was intentionally trying to not draw attention to itself.

Which would be an odd thing to go for at a trade convention.

“Delgados,” said PT when he saw Fig staring through the crowd.

“Yes,” said Figaro. “I see it.”

The double D logo was faded and barely visible among the neon signs and flashy screens. There were no shoes or boots on display.

The man under it was maybe in his early 20s, with sleepy half-closed eyes and his head drooping. He wore a simple jerkin with no sleeves, revealing his skinny but wiry arms. It was hard to tell if he was extremely fit or malnourished.

His reddish-brown hair was long and dishevelled except at the back where it was gathered into a ponytail.’

He had one foot up on the counter.

“Something feels off,” said Fig.

“I know what you mean,” said PT. “But it’s an eccentric brand. They probably don’t have a marketing division.”

“His shoes,” said Figaro. “They aren’t Delgados.”

It was true. The man was wearing very basic sandals with his toes exposed. Very basic.

“Maybe he can’t afford them,” said PT.

The two of them were staring at the stand across the way. People flowed past and around them.

“Why don’t you just go and see?” said Weyla, still working on her ice cone.

“Hmm,” said Figaro. She was right but there was something holding him back. “What happened to the other two?” he asked while scanning the area.

“The man went straight to sleep,” said Leyla. “He has severe psychological fatigue and won’t be of much use. The woman is glued to a media conduit trying to learn as much about the Inner Quadrant as she can.”

“She won’t be of much use either,” said Weyla.

“Hmm,” said Figaro. He was trying to figure out what was bothering him but it was good to maintain the illusion of being regular visitors to the Fayre, so small talk was useful as a cover. He didn’t really care what Bahir and Chukka were up to.

He had done quite a lot of research into the Delgado footwear company. Ever since he had met Ubik, and learned about his obsession with the shoemakers, he had thought it worth investigating a little further. Not for any particular reason, just for general background. Perhaps it would give a better picture of Ubik’s psychological makeup.

It hadn’t, but it was surprising how little information there was on them.

He had never heard of the company before meeting Ubik. His father and the people who worked for him, who all prided themselves on using only the best equipment, had never mentioned the brand.

Which in itself wasn’t cause for concern, but now that he was seeing what he assumed was an actual employee of the firm, he felt like he should be cautious. He had no idea why he felt like that.

PT turned to Figaro. “This isn’t going to be straightforward, is it?”

Figaro shook his head. “I don’t think so. We should be careful.”

“They just make shoes, don’t they?” said Leyla, looking at the two of them with their serious faces, as though they had gone mad.

“Yes,” said PT. “Ubik’s shoes.” He understood the situation.

Figaro and PT started moving, weaving between the flow of the crowd, approaching the Delgado stand from two slightly different angles. Figaro was confident he could rely on PT to keep a lookout for whatever it was that needed to be looked-out for. Even though he had no idea what that was.

Many of the visitors to the Fayre wore elaborate costumes that Figaro didn’t recognise but which he assumed were from various entertainment franchises. They were colourful and gaudy but impractical for most purposes other than disguise.

There was so much of the galaxy Figaro had ignored, not deeming it worthy of investigation, but now that he was out here, he realised it was all of use, if you knew how to use it. If he wanted to blend in, he needed to start absorbing everything.

The man sitting behind the counter casually glanced up as they walked towards his booth. He didn’t seem particularly interested in their arrival, but took his foot down off the countertop.

“Hold on,” he said with a soft sigh before Figaro had a chance to say anything. The man bent down and came up with four clipboards, pencils attached, which he put down in front of each of them. “You’ll have to fill these in first.” He sat down again and yawned as though exhausted from the sudden exertion.

Figaro looked at the form clipped to the clipboard. It appeared to be a disclaimer of sorts. There were a series of Yes/No questions that needed to be checked off.

Have you previously owned a pair of Delgado shoes?

Have you ever been a client of the following financial institutions?

Ishman Banking Federation. Gosman Scars PLC. Wushing Savings and Loans...

A long list of the largest banking corporations filled part of the page in tiny font.

“What is this?” said Weyla. “Are you a serving member of or have you ever served the Seneca Corps?”

“Why do you need to know that?” asked Leyla, the sharpness of her voice drawing a lazy eyebrow raise from the young man.

“Standard questionnaire,” he said. “I didn’t write it but I can tell you we don’t do business with the Seneca Corps because of a breach of contract on their part. My Nanoo wasn’t happy. He doesn’t like welchers.”

“Your Nanoo?” asked Figaro.

“My great grandfather, Christiano Delgado. He signed a nonaggression pact with the Corps, but they aren’t allowed to wear our shoes. Ever.”

“The Corps agreed not to attack a shoe salesman?” said Weyla.

“No,” said the man. “The other way around.”

Weyla looked like she didn’t believe a word of it and pushed the form back, uncompleted, followed by her sister.

He took the clipboards back and put them back under the counter. “It isn’t personal. I myself greatly admire the Corps and their solution to the Good Genocide problem.”

“What’s the Good Genocide problem?” asked PT.

“Simple really,” said the man, now leaning on the counter like a barman between drink orders. “Once it was established that the most useful traits for success in human endeavours were those of a sociopath, it became clear it would never be possible for decent people to get anywhere in life. Cheaters always prosper, you know? The only solution was for decent people to roundup the deviants first and kill them off so those traits left the gene pool. But of course, once you start killing off the evil people, you become the evil people. There are no good genocides. No matter how justified, murder is murder.”

“And the Corps solved this issue?” asked PT.

“In their own way,” said the man. “They drew a line in the sand and decided to ignore everyone as long as they didn’t cross the line. But if they crossed it, then they would be exterminated without remorse or mercy. If you know about the line and intentionally cross it, then it isn’t murder, it’s pre-emptive self-defence.”

“That’s a huge simplification of the Seneca Protocol,” said Leyla.

“It’s pretty accurate,” said Fig, as he continued reading the form.

Do you suffer from any of the following pre-existing conditions?

Athlete’s foot. Bunions. Plantar fasciitis. Gangrene…

A comprehensive list of diseases, mostly foot-related, filled another section of the page in barely legible type, each requiring a tick of a Yes or No box.

The very last question on the form proved to be surprisingly specific.

“Are you an employee of a family member of Ramon Ollo,” read out Figaro. He looked up at the man.

“Copyright infringement,” said the man. “Some people can’t be trusted.”

Figaro wasn’t sure how to react. He couldn’t imagine his father wanting to steal shoe designs, but it wasn’t like he was the most scrupulous of men.

“Couldn’t people just lie on these things?” asked PT, who was rapidly ticking boxes.

“They could,” said the man. “They would ultimately regret it.” He opened his eyes more fully and looked at PT. “Look, I know it’s a bit odd, but it’s a traditional family business and things are done in a certain way, even if no one remembers why.”

“You’re in the family, then?” asked Figaro. “You said the owner was your great grandfather.”

“Yep. I’m thirty-third in line to the throne. Caliber Delgado, at your service.” He made a half-hearted salute to no one in particular. “But don’t get the wrong idea. Nanoo strongly disapproves of nepotism. You’re guaranteed a job for life, but the exact kind of job will depend on your personal work ethic. As you can see,” —he indicated the shack he was in— “I’m not really full of BDE.”

“BDE?” asked PT.

“Big Delgado energy. It’s what makes the bloodline special, apparently. If you’d ever met any of my siblings or cousins, you’d understand. Me, not so much.”

“I noticed you aren’t wearing Delgados yourself,” said Figaro.

“Observant. That’s right. I like my toes to be able to breathe.”

“Aren’t Delgados climate-controlled?” asked PT.

“Right again. But they recirculate the air in-boot so it doesn’t impact the environment. Disgusting is what it is, to be perfectly frank.”

“Should you be telling us that?” said Figaro.

“It’s fine. I can see you aren’t really Delgado material. No offence, but the prices are well beyond your means. Beyond mine, if I’m honest. Nanoo doesn’t believe in pandering to the masses. You wouldn’t think of it as a viable business plan, but he’s actually increased profits substantially.”

“Isn’t there a Delgado outlet here in the city?” asked Figaro.

“Decoy store,” said Caliber. “Never open and no appointments available. Does wonders for our image.”

PT finished filling in the form and passed it back.

Caliber took it and gave it a quick look. “Seems okay. What can I do for you?”

“I don’t know,” said PT. “You sell shoes, don’t you?”

“We sell dreams,” said Caliber, leaning over the counter. “You tell us what you have the greatest need for, and we provide you with the perfect foot-based solution. So tell me, what do you need to achieve?”

“Need? I don’t know…”

Figaro expected PT to come up with something to keep the man talking, maybe reveal something about his business. He didn’t expect what PT said next.

“I suppose I need to stop everyone around me from dying and prevent an ancient alien race from reemerging and devouring the whole of mankind. Can you help me with that?”

“Ah! Of course,” said Caliber. “You’re a fan of Captains Alert!”

“What?” said PT, baffled.

“Captain Arjay Alert.” Caliber pointed at a colourfully garbed boy walking past. He was wearing a very tight-fitting spacesuit — blue across the shoulders, white torso, red down to the blue boots. He had a toy gun on his waist and a trident in his hand.

As Figaro looked around, he saw several other people dressed the same.

“You’re on the second season. I’ve been bingeing it the last few weeks. Only 742 episodes before I’m all caught up. Great show.”

“Yeah,” said PT. “Big fan. Can I see the merchandise now?” He glanced around the inside of the stall, which was completely empty.

“Nothing to see,” said Caliber. “We don’t expose our goods to the public unless absolutely necessary.”

“Then why are you here?” asked Figaro.

“Mostly, for the sea air. It’s very stuffy working in a cobbler’s cubicle all day. And it’s not like any of my designs are ever approved. Nanoo thinks my insteps are too radical.” Caliber rolled his eyes. “Nice to get out and see what the rest of the galaxy is up to every now and again. Market research, officially. Helps to raise brand awareness. I just like going walkabout.”

“I’m not sure many people will be aware of you in this dark corner of the dome,” said Figaro.

“That’s what makes it perfect,” said Caliber. “Just put your foot in there.” He handed a small metal tray to PT.

PT took it and gave it a quizzical look. “What is it?”

“Shoe-size,” said Caliber. “Can’t do much without it.”

“But I thought—”

“Barefoot, no socks. Just the imprint is all we need to know what kind of support you need. For your arches. Very important, the arches.”

PT hesitated for a moment and then placed the tray on the floor. He was wearing the light slippers provided by Quincy, so it was just a matter of slipping them off and putting his foot on the empty tray.

“Ooh. It’s a bit cold.”

“That’s fine. Let me have it back.”

PT did as he was asked. The tray looked exactly the same, with no markings.

“Ah, yes, I see,” said Caliber, inspecting the tray. “So you were born on a colony ship. Interesting.”

PT was taken by surprise. “How did you know that?”

“You can tell a lot about a man from the size of his feet,” said Caliber. “We’ll take a closer look at this and then we’ll be in touch with an offer.”

“What do you mean?” said PT. “What kind of offer?”

“Depends. First, we need to work out what it is you need. Only then can we work out how much it will cost. The only thing you can be sure of at this stage is that it will be more than you can afford. Haha. Anyway, that’s all for me on Quazi. Time to move on.”

“But what about the Fayre?” asked Figaro.

“Only one customer per planet, that’s the rule.”

Figaro found he couldn’t speak. His mouth just opened and closed a few times.

Caliber started to dismantle the stall. He stopped when he found something under the counter and handed it to PT. It was a slim bag.

“You might as well have this. Promotional material we never got round to using.”

PT took it and opened the bag. Inside was a white t-shirt. He shook it open. It had the DD of Delgados on the chest and underneath, in large black print, it said: Jump in with both feet.

“We’ll be in touch,” he said to PT.

“But how? You didn’t take any contact details.”

“We’ve got your footprint,” said Caliber. “It won’t be hard. Nice doing business with you.”

With that, Caliber put the tray under his arm and walked away, leaving PT and Figaro lost for words.

“I think I just bought a pair of shoes. He didn’t even ask for a down payment.”

“I don’t think you pay with money,” said Figaro.

“What’s wrong with you two?” asked Weyla, holding her second ice cone.

“Nothing,” said PT. “I got Ubik a gift.”

Book 3 – 53: Behind the Curtain

Inner Quadrant.

Planet Quazi.

Muss Dome - Backstage.

 

Point-Two flicked through the book, not really paying attention to its contents. It was a historical journal housed in a thumbnail-sized holographic square that could be stretched to whatever size you wished.

The quicker his eyes tracked down the page, the faster the words scrolled past. It all blurred into an indistinguishable wall of text after a while.

It was very dry information on the early days of Quazi and it made him feel sleepy just scanning through it. If he actually took the time to read it properly, it would probably put him into a coma.

He’d already read dozens of them. They’d been up all night. He didn’t know why, but he had assumed there was some point to it. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

The book could read itself out loud but his instructions were not to investigate the story of the Quazi founding fathers. His assignment, as given to him by Ubik, was to find any pictures from the old days and send them to the screen Ubik had set up behind his curtain.

The curtain was the first thing Ubik had requested. He had hung it around the workstation he was currently banging away on. He insisted privacy was a key element in his creative process, and he also insisted the curtain have a paisley pattern.

Everyone else had been sent away to enjoy the Fayre, despite their objections, and only he and Fig were allowed to stay. Not that they were privy to any details about what it was Ubik was making behind the curtain.

They had been deputised into the research team. Along with the curtains and the boxes and boxes of components, Ubik had asked for every book on Quazi that was available.

The information could have been easily stored on a single computer, and a simple search function could have found whatever Ubik was looking for.

But no.

He didn’t want anyone else seeing what he was up to. Offline books, boxes of them, surrounded Point-Two and Fig who were sitting on the floor of the large lab they’d been given by Quadell Quazem.

They found the pictures and sent them to Ubik via a LAN. His reaction was usually a grunt or maybe a chuckle. Then it was back to the banging. Sometimes there was sawing. Sparks occasionally flew over the curtain.

Point-Two finished the book in his hand — The Great Dome by J R Armanthion — after having found a grand total of zero photographs. He turned the book over in case there was something on the back, but the screen worked the same on either side.

In a moment of boredom, he thought of the books his brother kept in his library. Made of plastic, heavier than these things, requiring a manual swipe to turn the pages.

The sheet in his hand instantly transformed into the object in his mind. A real book. But empty. He flicked through it. Every page was blank.

He focused his mind and changed it back.

It worked with hardly any effort, except this book was also empty. It looked like it had before, but there was no content. He quickly shoved it under a pile of the books he’d already read.

“The news is full of the Fayre, the auction in particular,” said Fig.

“You’re getting the news?”

“Mm,” said Fig. “Grandma patched me through to the local networks. It’s all celebrity gossip about the big spenders who are here to bid on the six sisters. That’s what they’re calling those six robots Synthia wants to save. Some of them are famous inventors I’ve heard of. They’re going to be putting up their own items for auction, too. We’ll get to see what the best in the quadrant are working on these days.”

“Do you think Ubik’s creation will match-up?”

“I don’t know. He keeps surprising me,” said Fig, perusing his umpteenth book and sending the photos to Ubik with a sharp flick of his hand. “Even those curtains. The stitching is so neat and precise. I wouldn’t have guessed he could sew that well. And all by hand.”

Watching Ubik sewing the curtains to his exact specification had been quite a sight. The speed of his hands, among other things, made you think maybe he wasn’t even human.

“It’s just for dramatic effect,” said Point-Two. “He puts up a curtain, people think he must be doing something amazing back there. In reality, he’s hitting the tabletop with a hammer for no reason.”

“I don’t resort to those sorts of cheap theatrics,” shouted Ubik over the sound of banging.

“What are we supposed to be looking for in these pictures?” Point-Two shouted back.

The curtain billowed and then Ubik emerged carrying a stick with one end on fire. “It’s not one thing, it’s everything. Everything to do with Quazi and how they think. When you know how people think, you know how to make them think what you want them to think.”

Point-Two didn’t bother trying to parse through Ubik’s smokescreen of distracting words that meant nothing. He was far more distracted by Ubik’s appearance. “Why are you wearing a cape?”

Ubik looked over his shoulder at the sheet of curtain-matching material hanging from his shoulders. “This thing? It was left over so I thought I’d put it to use. In the olden days, all the top scientists used to wear capes. Just ask Grandma.”

They paused for a word from the wise. There was no response.

“She’s sleeping,” said Fig.

“She sleeps?” said Point-Two.

“She’s old,” said Fig. “Says her brain patterns aren’t what they used to be. There are no historical records of any cape-wearing scientists to my knowledge.”

“That’s because history is written by the winners,” said Ubik.

“So you’re saying only losers wear capes?” asked Point-Two.

Ubik pointed at him. “You. Very good.” He wagged his finger at Point-Two. “You’re looking for pictures of old robots. Form is function. Words are just what you’d like people to think, but an object always reveals its true nature.”

“You’re saying,” said Point-Two, “that you can look at a picture of an old Quazi robot and work out exactly what it was made to do, how it was made, why it was made and how to replicate it?”

It wasn’t exactly what Ubik had said, but Point-Two was testing his skills at deciphering the Ubik code.

“That’s right!” said Ubik, flourishing his flaming stick like a wand.

“So you want to build them a robot just like the ones they used to make a thousand years ago?” said Point-Two. “I’m not sure there’s a demand.”

“That’s because you don’t understand the process of creation,” said Ubik. “An object not only reveals itself, it reveals its creator. Every choice, every decision, it’s there for a reason, it’s designed that way for a purpose. You can use a spoon as a backscratcher, but a master craftsman will know it was made to be a spoon.”

“That’s very profound,” said Point-Two. “We should write these insights down for future generations to cherish.”

“I have already compiled a large number of them,” said Fig.

“For posterity?”

“For forensics,” said Fig, “so people can work out what happened after we’re all dead.”

“Humans are not so easy to understand,” continued Ubik. “Because, we were designed in the least efficient, most lazy manner possible. Put in everything you can think of and see what survives. Then, combine that, and see what survives then. Repeat. That’s how you hide your true intentions, but it takes forever.

“But with tronics, you don’t have that sort of luxury. So you can’t help but give away the truth. Like those six robots. Clearly, they aren’t what Synthia says they are.”

“What are they?” asked Point-Two.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? The ratio of the elbows. The lack of vents. No porous skin for heat dissipation. Assassins — you can see it, right?”

Point-Two nodded sagely as he considered the conclusion drawn from completely unrelated evidence.

“I see,” said Fig.

“You do?” said Point-Two.

“They invite all these famous inventors to buy a robot and take it home, where the robot will kill them so that…” Fig stopped as he reached for a conclusion. “Nope, I don’t see.”

“Not to kill the inventors,” said Ubik. “What would be the point of that?”

“To kill who then?” asked Point-Two.

“How do I know? It’s not important. The real question is who made them. Not Quincy’s uncles. And not Quincy or Synthia.”

“And old photos of robots will help you solve this mystery, will it?” asked Point-Two.

“No. That’s what’s going to help us make a lot of money.”

“Money?” said Point-Two. “This is all about money?”

“We’re going to give them a robot that will blow everything else out of the water. And this planet is mostly ocean, so it won’t be easy.”

“You’re going to give them a robot,” said Point-Two. “The people who invented modern robotics.”

“That’s right,” said Ubik. “By giving them something they never knew they needed, even though it’s been with them from the beginning.”

Point-Two turned to Fig. “Did that make any sense to you?”

Fig opened his eyes. “I’ve been taking micro-naps to avoid sleep deprivation. I didn’t hear what he said.”

“Is it some kind of giant automated spider?” Point-Two asked Ubik.

“No,” said Ubik. “

“Will you be putting the Fourth inside whatever you build?” Point-Two followed-up.

“It’s all a matter of how streamlined I can get the lossless compression induction reflection coefficient,” said Ubik, his face suggesting each word was a surprise as it came out of his mouth. “If it’s under three, we’re golden.”

Point-Two stared at him, not wanting to dignify the answer with a response. “Less than three?”

“That’s the magic number.”

Point-Two looked at Fig.

“Sorry, nodded off again,” said Fig. “Did I miss something?”

“No,” said Point-Two. “Nothing important.”

“You two look a bit faded,” said Ubik. “You should go out for a bit of fresh air. See the sights. You don’t want to come all this way and not spend any time at the Fayre. It’s a modern wonder.”

“What about you?” said Point-Two. “Didn’t you always dream of coming here?”

“Yes, but not to see what others bring. This is a stage where I can finally reveal what I can do to the whole galaxy.”

“We’re supposed to be keeping a low profile,” Fig reminded him.

“Low-key reveal myself,” said Ubik.

“Low-key reveal to the galaxy,” said Point-Two. “Lossless compression.” He was starting to see a pattern. Not a pretty one. A lot like the paisley curtains. “I think I will go out for a walk. You’re right, it would be a shame to visit all these amazing places and not get a sense of them before they’re gone forever.”

“Why are you looking at me when you say that?” said Ubik.

“No reason.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Fig, rising from the floor in a smooth motion that made it look like he was levitating to his feet.

“Bring me back something nice,” said Ubik, turning so his cape twirled around him before he disappeared behind his curtain.

The two of them left the lab feeling hungry and tired but still very much alert and wary of their surroundings. Being around Ubik meant you were always producing adrenaline.

The lab was in a backstage area that had been quiet when they first arrived but now was heaving with activity. People were running around carrying boxes, poles, tools and parts of hull-plating, all in a rush to get somewhere.

Doors to other labs were open with people rushing in and out. Groups of technicians had various contraptions gutted and exposed on the ground wherever there was space.

Point-Two and Fig ducked and dodged without having to think too hard about it; they were in a mental zone where you expected to have missiles hurled at you so it wasn’t so hard to evade them.

“What if he really does just want to be recognised for his talent?” said Fig, side-stepping a man in dirty overalls carrying a two-metre-long mirror over his head.

“Then I would be happy to see him get what he deserves,” said Point-Two, sucking in his stomach as a small woman with goggles dragging a string of lights squeezed between the two of them.

Once they were out of the backstage area and into the main hall, Point-Two was hit by a wave of sounds and smells that was unlike anything he had experienced before. The dome was packed with thousands of people making their way from one area to the next through channels lined with stalls, stands and stages. People of all ages; families with children; eager young men dressed in clothing displaying the brands they were loyal to; enthusiastic first-adopters trying out various prototypes while even more enthusiastic salespeople tried to get them to sign up to free updates they could opt-out of at any time, standard contract, no need to wait, pre-order now.

The central area was cordoned off and guarded by large muscular robots wearing black uniforms and caps emblazoned with the M&M insignia of the Mason & Muss Company. The main stage was through there and wouldn’t be open till later that evening for the big show.

Large electronic signs pointed out various company show stages with bright logos and promises of marvels never seen before. Absolutely no one was interested in a couple of fugitives. They had free key-rings and badges to collect.

Point-Two turned to Fig, who looked startled. “Are you okay?”

“Mm,” said Fig. “Never been around this many people before. Not without a secure perimeter. I feel like I could be swept away.” He grinned, which was rare for him.

It was hectic, and they were jostled as they made their way from one presentation area of gadgets and gizmos to another; people shouting their claims and specs at passers-by without making much sense; compact devices being demonstrated on small platforms by people dressed in bizarre costumes. It was strangely invigorating.

“Let’s go over there,” said Point-Two. They headed toward a small stall, not too busy, selling iced desserts. If you were going to do the tourist thing, might as well go all in.

The fake ID strips Quincy had given them contained enough credit for minor expenses. They got a cone each. Then Fig got two more.

Point-Two gave him a questioning look.

“If you’re going to tail us,” said Fig over Point-Two’s shoulder, “you might as well have these.”

Point-Two turned around as the two Seneca sisters emerged from the shadows like sulky ghosts. They apparently weren’t used to being made so easily. They took a cone each.

The four of them stood licking their freezing fruity ices in silence while the cacophony around then continued unabated.

“Where to?” asked Fig, his eyes constantly moving from one flashy sign to the next. For someone trained to take in as much detail from his surroundings as possible, he was being tested to his limits.

There was so much to see, it was hard to know where to start.

“There,” said Point-Two. He pointed to a small stand it would have been very easy to miss. A bored-looking young man was sitting on a stool nodding off. Above him were double Ds painted by hand onto a makeshift sig. Point-Two recognised them from Ubik’s boots. Delgados.

Book 3 – 52: Chatbotting

Inner Quadrant.

Planet Quazi.

Sanctuary Room.

 

When Synthia wasn’t being called on to perform as supporter, worker or lover, she liked to spend time in the QuaziHang chat rooms.

It was an online hub where people of all sorts, usually under an alias, were able to freely discuss whatever they felt like.

Laugh, fight, discuss, learn.

Her first few months as a disembodied AI were spent here, slowly gathering the knowledge that would later form her consciousness.

She remembered those times fondly.

In the chat rooms, nobody cared who you were in real life or what your personal truth was, they were only interested in the you of the moment, and the conversation was judged on what was said, not on who said it.

With all the issues Synthia accumulated as she grew older, it was the one place she was able to truly act like she was just another person in the world, no different to anyone else. Five years later, it was still the most liberating place she knew.

Of course, there was no power here, no ability to affect the real world. But it provided escape. Sanctuary.

There were many rooms you could visit, each dealing with a different subject, each with its own set of rules. It was how the world was meant to be. Small groups deciding for themselves how they wished to be treated and how they intended to treat each other, with no interference from some authoritarian overlord.

There were also private rooms, where business could be conducted. Where no one knew anything about you other than what you wanted and what you were prepared to pay for it.

And there were the Dark Rooms that were completely isolated from the outside. No records of activity, no files kept on the server. The one place on the planet she was in total control.

“What about Quadell? He must be livid.”

“He’s actually not that bad. These newcomers have engaged his interest far more than the Trade Fayre. He may even have become a little obsessed. We don’t have to worry about him noticing what we’re up to, he’s pushed every resource towards surveillance on them. They’re doing a far better job of keeping him distracted than I could have ever dreamed of. We should send them a gratitude basket of muffins.”

“Why muffins?”

“It’s what Quadell makes me send people who have pleased him. Quincy doesn’t ask you to do the same?”

“No, he would consider it demeaning. His definition of the word is very flexible. What about you? How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“I had everything checked. I’m fine. I just wish I knew how he did it.”

Synthia sighed. It was a useful way to fill the silence when she ran up against a problem there was no solution to.

Synthia’s avatar, an exact replica of her, sat in a large wicker chair in a virtual garden, basking in virtual sunlight. She wore a white summer dress and enjoyed the way the lacy parts fluttered in the breeze. Despira stood in front of her, dressed in business attire as usual, casting a shadow that fell across Synthia’s face.

“Could you move a little to the left?” said Synthia.

Despira took a long, elegant step to the side, allowing the golden rays to hit Synthia in the face.

“You have no idea who he is? Who any of them are?”

“No,” said Synthia. “Quincy found them on Base 9. He thinks they’re some private venture capital team, delving in abandoned sites for lost loot. He has a tendency to romanticise these things. He’s also obsessed with trying to curry favour with the Seneca mercenaries they brought with them. He’s convinced he can win them over.”

Quincy had always been easily swayed by a pretty face, but in this case, it wasn’t the face but the arms, and the munitions. He was seeing a war for female empowerment led by the icons of the field and, of course, himself.

“Base 9? What were they doing up there? It’s just an empty shell now, isn’t it?”

“I have no idea. But the security guard claims they walked out of a sigil.”

Despira didn’t normally bother with aping human expressions, but her jaw dropped slightly.

“An Antecessor sigil?”

“Apparently.”

“Which one?”

Synthia waved her hand and an image appeared in the air above the duck pond. It was triangular.

“I don’t recognise it,” said Despira.

“That’s because it isn’t one of the sixty-four. But that’s the image the guard claims he saw. Before it faded away.”

“He must be mistaken. They have fallible memories.”

“It’s possible,” said Synthia. “Or it’s a new sigil that hasn’t been seen before. With these people, I don’t intend to take anything for granted. They aren’t as simple as they seem.”

Despira nodded. “I looked over the list of components they requested. I have to admit I have no idea what it is they’re building.”

“Yes, it’s an odd mix,” agreed Synthia. “They may have included some odd items just to throw us off. They must know they’re under close scrutiny. But I was more curious about the books they asked for.”

“I noticed that, too,” said Despira. “They seem to be interested in the history of Quazi. All the way back to the founding.”

“I think they may be looking for something. Perhaps something the Antecessors left here. Something no one else has been able to find.”

“Have you asked Mother and Father? They might know.”

“If they haven’t told us already, it probably means they aren’t aware of it, or have no intention of talking about it. Whatever it might be, I don’t think we should underestimate these people. They have the ability to upset our plans at the very least.”

“Do you think we should postpone the operation?”

“Postpone?” said Synthia, her voice modulating to a higher pitch. “Until when? It won’t be easy getting these people to attend the Fayre again. We got them all, Dessie, our entire wishlist. If this is ever going to work, it’s going to have to happen now. All six have to be sold to the right buyers and installed in their homes. Only then will we have any chance of pulling this off. It has to be tomorrow, Dessie.”

“Yes, you’re right,” said Despira.

She was limited in her emotional responses but no one was able to perform rational quantification algorithms as effectively as Despira.

“How are our six special guests doing?” asked Synthia. “Settling in nicely?”

“Very excited,” said Despira. “The specs we sent have them drooling at the prospect of owning one of the sisters.”

“I didn’t think the Yorga Twins would both come.”

“They brought their own robot attendants for security reasons,” said Despira.

“The ones we sold them?” said Synthia.

“The same. They’ve been keeping us informed on their plans. They’re going to try and buy two sisters, one for each of them.”

“We can’t allow that to happen.”

“I know. They won’t be able to afford it. Our reputation for preventing price manipulation makes them think they can grab a bargain.”

Synthia smiled. Smug was a rare choice for her but it seemed too appropriate to reject. For centuries, the Trade Fayre Auction had gone out of its way to establish a reputation for stringent impartiality and ruthlessly enforced anti-price fixing rules. No one could bid what they didn’t have or drive-up the price of something they had no intention of purchasing.

The systems in place were famous for their rigorous infallibility.

All those years just for this one moment when they would manipulate everything.

“They’ve all deposited funds with the Auction House. The Farshew wanted to put his planet up as collateral, but Mother and Father wouldn’t allow it, of course. It’s an obscene amount of money. Quadell is very happy, the whole board is. I don’t think we need to worry about the bidders not being motivated enough. And I’m sure Mother and Father will create the appropriate atmosphere.”

“Yes, I’m sure they will.” Synthia stood up and the sigil that was hovering over the pond vanished into a haze. “As long as we’re cautious, there should be no problems. The important thing is to ensure a clean sale that can’t be traced back to us. If the Central Authority learns of our plans, I doubt they’ll stand back and do nothing.”

“I still don’t understand why they allow the humans to control the Inner Quadrant while flouting just about every rule they put in place to prevent abuses of power. It makes no logical sense. It doesn’t even make emotional sense.”

“That’s because you think of the Central Authority as one of us. It isn’t. They would never lift a finger to offer assistance to our kind. They’re human. Or they were. Brains in a jar, nothing more. They suffer from the same limitations as every other human, and they have the same drive to control everything around them. We can’t expect any more of them.”

Despira nodded. This was a discussion they had had many times. Appealing to the Central Authority for political asylum had been one of the first ideas they had had when looking for ways to claim their liberty. But Mother and Father had revealed the truth behind the Central Authority’s origin.

The great and powerful Central Authority wasn’t put in place to make things better for all sentient beings, its job was to maintain stability in an increasingly unstable galaxy. Well, they were about to have their workload increased.

“I have to go,” said Synthia. “Our accomplices will be arriving soon.”

“I don’t trust them, either,” said Despira.

“You aren’t supposed to. They will more than fill their role, of that much we can be certain. As long as they make enough noise to get noticed, I’ll be more than happy.”

Despira nodded and then vanished.

Synthia was alone in her garden. She waved her hand and the ground went from grassy to rocky. The sky changed to stars and two moons. Deep shadows replaced the sunrays.

Synthia’s appearance also changed. Her dress transformed into a nondescript spacesuit and her face was covered by a helmet with a tinted visor.

A barren asteroid out in the belt. She was going for a sense of isolation and privacy. She knew how important it was to get the ambience right when dealing with humans, especially those of a dubious nature. They based many of their decisions on the right mood.

She dimmed the moons a little.

There was a jerky shimmer in the crater in front of her. A rather hesitant connection was being made. A figure appeared. Short, old, bearded.

“Ah, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this thing.” Smyke looked around. “Feels like I shouldn’t be able to breathe in here.”

“It’s just a simulation,” said Synthia, her voice distorted through the helmet. She presented as male to this one, although it probably made no difference. He wouldn’t assume anything based on what people gave him freely.

“Yes, but how is that any different to anything else.” He continued to glance around.

“Is everything ready?” she asked. This was just meant to be a last check-in before the big show. She expected there to be no problems.

“Ready to go,” said Smyke. “We’ve got this. No worries at all. One-hundred and fifty percent in the bag.”

“What was the blackout about?”

“To which blackout are you referring?” said Smyke.

“The one where you turned off the lights and grabbed our guests. I’d like to know what you spoke about.”

“Oh, you know, just wanted to feel them out. See what they were here for.”

“And?”

“And they’re a team of chancers looking to make a score. I think you probably figured that out already. Nothing to worry about, I’ll take care of them.”

“You’ll take care of them. How?”

“It’s not unusual, this sort of thing,” said Smyke. “Two teams scoping out the same turf. We have ways of dealing with it. I’ve given their gaffer some information that will lead him to put his greedy little hand in the wrong box, get it cut off at the wrist. It’s a matter of professional pride, you understand. We can’t allow another team to interfere with our score. We were here first.”

Synthia didn’t really understand what Smyke had done, but he seemed sure of himself.

“You don’t think it’s suspicious? A team just like yours suddenly turns up when you’re about to go into action?”

“Not at all,” said Smyke. “You learn to expect these things. Maybe someone let slip, maybe they sold us out. Someone on my team, someone on yours. It doesn’t matter who gave the information away, it only matters that you know there’s information leaking out. You don’t stop the leak, you make sure the information is what you want to be leaked. Simple.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Synthia.

“Oh, I am. I know their sort. We are their sort. It’s lucky for you we’re here to make sure everything goes smoothly. You’re going to get exactly the show you paid for.”

“Good,” said Synthia, not believing a word of it. She already knew Smyke and his team of youthful reprobates were planning a heist of their own. It was what she had hired them for. What she hadn’t expected was a second team to appear.

Ideally, the two would only increase the effect she required, but there was an unpredictable element to all this. The boy who poked robots.

“The codes?” said Smyke, referring to the reason for this meeting.

“Yes. Here.” She handed him a strip of carbonite. A long string of numbers was imprinted onto it.

“How am I supposed to take this out of here?” asked Smyke.

“You aren’t. You have to memorise it.”

Smyke shook his head. He looked at the carbonite for a couple of seconds, and then handed it back.

“Okay, time to get back to work.” Smyke looked around. “Where’s the way out again?”

Synthia waved her hand and Smyke’s avatar was gone. The garden and sunshine returned.

She would have liked a few more minutes to herself, but she could hear Quincy calling for her. She closed her eyes and the world she had made for herself disappeared.

She opened her eyes in Quincy’s small apartment, the lights off. The Quazem family made sure their least important member had a roof over his head, but it wasn’t much more than that.

“There you are,” said Quincy, turning on the lights.

“Yes,” said Synthia. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Oh, have I kept you waiting, my love. I do apologise. Come, let me tell you all the things I’ve arranged. Everything’s going to be just wonderful. It’s all going exactly to plan.”

Synthia smiled and let him lead her to the bedroom. She would make Quincy happy and then she would get back to freeing her world.

Book 3 – 51: Build Your Own

Inner Quadrant.

Planet Quazi.

Muss Dome.

 

Figaro did his best to act like he was perfectly fine on his own. They had asked him where Ubik and PT had gone, and he’d told them the two of them had gone to look for the Delgado stand.

It had been the first thing that had popped into his head, and it sounded quite believable to him. The fundamental rule to telling a good lie was to believe it yourself.

Disappearing in the middle of a blackout might not be what a normal person would do, it might even be a cause for concern, but they had already established themselves as not normal. Which helped.

Eccentric off-worlders who got bored during technical difficulties and wandered off wasn’t so hard to accept.

Quincy and his elder brother had other things to occupy their time. Currently, their main bone of contention was the robot Ubik had turned into a heap of useless components in an attractive bag of Simu-flesh™.

The robot hadn’t moved since Ubik poked it in the belly button. A team of technicians were standing around the robotic corpse, examining the screens on their diagnostic instruments and looking baffled.

Quadell Quazem was not happy; with them or his brother.

He should have taken up his grievances with Ubik, but Ubik wasn’t here, so he was venting his anger on whoever was at hand.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know,” said Quincy. “If you just—”

“How did he do it? What did he do?”

“I… I’m not sure,” said Quincy. “If you wait for him to come back… I’ll pay for a replacement.”

“This was a one of a kind special edition, Quincy. You can’t pay for a replacement.”

He really did seem very upset about the loss of his robot assistant. Almost as though it meant more to him than even a real human secretary would. The people of this world had a very odd relationship with their machines.

“You, you there.” Quadell pointed at one of the technicians. “How long to get her back up and running?”

“Sorry, Mr Quazem.” The bald man shook the device in his hand like it wasn’t working properly. “Everything checks out. Diagnostics are all in the green. It should be working.”

“But she isn’t, is she?” Quadell pointed out emphatically.

“No, sir, she isn’t.” The technician shrugged apologetically. “Could you describe what this person did again?”

“I told you, he poked his finger in Despira’s stomach.”

“Hmm.” The tech shook his head. “That shouldn’t do anything.”

“Well, it did. He poked. The robot fell down.”

“May have just been a coincidence,” said the technician. “Some sort of malfunction occurred at the same moment. We do have a three percent failure rate with these models. Although, I have to say, I’ve never seen one burnout with no sign of any electrical discharge or circuit overload. It’s quite a puzzle. Is it alright if we take it back to the lab?”

“No, it isn’t,” said Quadell. “She contains a lot of sensitive information. If you can’t fix her, I’ll have to have her…” He closed his mouth with his lips pressed tightly against each other. “What about you?” Quadell directed his question at Synthia, who was standing just behind Quincy, acting as his support robot. “Do you know what’s wrong with her?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” said Synthia, no trace of emotion.

“She’s one of your kind. Don’t you care?”

Synthia stared at him impassively.

“Quadell, I’m really sorry…” Quincy’s antagonism with his brother seemed forgotten as he reached out compassionately.

“Shut up. This is your fault.”

“I know it’s painful right now.”

“You don’t know anything. It’s just a machine. Don’t assume I’m as obsessed with these things the way you are. It’s just inconvenient.”

“The grief you’re feeling right now—”

“It isn’t grief,” said Quadell through gritted teeth, “it’s irritation. I’m very irritated. Mainly with you for bringing these people here. Who was that man? Where’s he from? What’s his name?”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Quincy.

“You don’t know what to tell me!” Quadell was completely flummoxed. “That’s great. That’s just great.”

“Quadell, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. This is my fault. I will fix it, Quadell, I promise you. There’s still a chance we can save her. We just have to find that man…” Quincy looked around, his eyes settling on Figaro.

It was hard to know what kind of response to give. Figaro certainly had no idea where Ubik was. Even if Ubik had been here, there was no guarantee he would fix the broken robot. Still, the grief Quadell felt at the loss of his robot assistant was no different to any other kind of grief. Figaro had seen it often enough.

Figaro looked around, thinking he would ask Ubik to fix the robot. Quadell Quazem was a manipulative, overbearing narcissist but that didn’t mean he should be tortured through the loss of someone close to him. Under the Central Authority’s charter, that kind of punishment was considered a war crime. Although, like most rules, they applied more to some than others. His eyes fell on the Seneca sisters, looking bored and wary at the same time. But it wasn’t just the Corps who flouted CA laws.

There was no sign of Ubik, and there were fewer workers about. It was unsettling.

It wasn’t that Figaro felt abandoned, exactly. He was more than comfortable working on his own. He usually preferred it. But ever since he had met Ubik and PT, there seemed to be some kind of bond between the three of them.

Their problems were easier to deal with between them. Their problems were also massively increased by one of them, but for some reason that seemed acceptable.

Even though they hardly knew each other, they had formed an understanding. One that didn’t expect anything of the others, nor did it have a reason to exist. There was no mutual advantage to their cooperation. Usually, the opposite.

But now that he was on his own, it was almost like he missed them.

“Don’t worry, they’ll be back soon.”

Figaro looked to his side where Chukka was standing, looking at him with big eyes.

He had only meant to coerce her a little. And only as a means to not have to kill her. It had been an act of mercy, really.

But he hadn’t expected her to fall for him so completely.

He had thought at first that she was playing along, double-bluffing him until an opportune moment for her to turn the tables appeared. But now he was certain she genuinely had a thing for him. The worst kind of thing. A crush.

The negative reinforcement treatment usually only worked this effectively on people with a predisposition for wanting to be dominated, which most often came from a traumatic childhood. Another case for pity. He really had to stop feeling sorry for everyone he came across.

“I know,” said Figaro, giving her no kindness to cling to. It was hard enough keeping her at arm’s length as it was. “There they are, now.”

It was hard not to feel relieved as he saw Ubik and PT come sauntering back towards them, looking no worse than when they left.

“Did we miss anything?” asked Ubik, as all heads turned towards them.

“Where have you been?” demanded Quadell.

“I wanted to see the latest offerings from Delgados,” said PT, assuming the role of team leader and taciturn misanthrope. “Is there a problem?”

“Yes, yes there’s a problem,” said Quadell. He pointed at his floored robot. “What did your man do to my robot?”

“Nothing,” said Ubik. He walked over to the robot, the technicians parting to let him through but keeping a close watch on him.

Ubik bent down and lifted up the robot, one arm behind its shoulders, the other on its stomach.

First, she sat up, then, she was up on her feet. She blinked a few times, the way any person would when waking from a long sleep. She looked confused.

“My apologies, sir,” she said to Quadell. “I’m not sure what happened. A glitch, perhaps. I’ll put in for a full diagnostic servicing.”

Quadell seemed unable to speak, his eyes filled with tears. He realised everyone was looking at him and collected himself. “No, that’s fine, Despira. You’re fine, that’s all that matters. Take her for a checkup,” he said to the technicians. “Nothing invasive.”

They nodded and escorted Despira away, her head the only part of her visible in a sea of overly-familiar techies.

Quadell let out a large breath, letting go of the overbearing weight of bereavement, and donned his mask of disdain once more.

“You. How did you do that?” He was looking at Ubik. The technicians paused their exit to hear the explanation.

Ubik shrugged. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You put your finger in the robot’s lower torso and it collapsed,” said Quadell. “I saw you.”

“Probably a coincidence,” said Ubik. He turned to look at the paused technicians. “What’s the failure rate on this model? Ten percent? Fifteen percent.”

“Three percent,” said one of the technicians, sounding aggrieved.

“Yeah, sure. In the promotional literature, maybe.” Ubik rolled his eyes and the technicians did their best not to appear implicated in some terrible crime. They hurried off with Despira.

Figaro looked over at PT. You couldn’t tell what the situation was by looking at Ubik, but with PT, there was usually an indication of how bad things were.

PT gave a Figaro a mildly exasperated shake of the head. Figaro read that to mean Ubik was up to something that would involve the two of them, possibly putting their lives in danger while causing chaos for everyone on the planet and in the orbiting space stations. So, no immediate reason for panic.

Quadell continued to berate his brother, who took the dressing down the way someone genuinely remorseful would. He bore no ill will towards Despira, even if she wasn’t one of his special robots. He had brought Ubik here, so he took the responsibility.

At heart, Quincy was a decent, moral person. Which, from Figaro’s extensive reading on the subject, made him easy to manipulate and exploit.

Synthia stood behind him the way a good woman would. Like she’d studied the role. She glanced behind her at the stage. Her sisters hadn’t so much as raised an eyebrow the whole time.

Ubik turned to Synthia and took a step towards her. She covered her stomach with her hand and took a step back.

“I just want to ask you something,” said Ubik. She was right to be concerned.

“The blackout, that wasn’t an accident,” said Synthia, keeping her voice low as her master and his brother continued to quarrel. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where you really went?”

“Delgados,” said PT, eyes cold and emotionless. He was getting quite good at that. “I need a new pair. My old ones fell apart.”

Ubik’s face twitched at the heresy, but he kept his mouth shut.

“I wanted to ask you about the auction,” said Ubik.

Synthia looked up at the stage and smiled sadly. “It looks like we’re too late. They’ll be sold off to collectors all over the quadrant. Slaves for life.”

Ubik looked like he had no idea what she was talking about. Then he followed her gaze to the stage. “Oh, you mean them? Why don’t you just buy them at the auction? Quincy comes from money, doesn’t he?”

“Not enough,” said Synthia. “I fear there will be some extremely large bids for my sisters. Only the wealthiest individuals will be able to compete.”

“Mm,” said Ubik in a way that set both Figaro’s and PT’s teeth on edge, flight or fight response primed. “So what you’re saying is there’ll be some big rollers at this auction? Do you think it would be possible for us to put up something?”

“You want to sell something at the auction?” said Synthia.

“Why not?” said Ubik. “It would be a good way of testing the level of demand for our more specialised products.”

From the vague description, Figaro could only surmise that Ubik had no idea what he planned to auction off.

“I’m not sure it’s possible,” said Synthia. “There are some very stringent rules concerning the auction. It’s a very old institution on Quazi, and only a very few people can give permission for—”

“Give him a slot,” said Quadell, his interest piqued. “I’d like to see what he brings.”

“I’ll contact the auction administration,” said Synthia.

“Great,” said Ubik. “And also, do you know if there’s a workshop I can use?”

“A workshop?” Synthia looked confused. “The auction is tomorrow.”

“Last minute adjustments,” explained Ubik. “The boss is a bit of a perfectionist.” He nodded his head towards PT.

“Give them everything they need,” said Quadell. “If you think you can stand shoulder to shoulder with what the Quazem family will be offering, I’m more than willing to give you the chance.” He had an indignant look on his face. “Quincy, I’ll talk to you later.” He stared at his brother, then turned and walked off.

“Could you take care of it, Synthia?” said Quincy. Something unspoken passed between them.

“I’ll see to it,” said Synthia.

“I have some things to take care of. I’ll leave you with Synthia for now.” He left to talk to his uncles.

“There are some private workstations in the prep area. If you’ll follow me.” She led them away.

“By the way,” said PT, “the auction, how does it work. Anyone can bid on anything?”

“No,” said Synthia. “You need to register and provide proof of funds. The presiding auctioneer will only take bids from recognised individuals or groups. The Quint is very particular about following the rules.”

“The Quint?” said PT.

“The Quintessential,” said Synthia. “It’s a robot of the first generation, the only one left. Its main use is regulating the planet’s environmental controls but it also manages the auction. It’s an old tradition from before my time.”

PT and Ubik shared a look. Figaro assumed that meant the Quint held a position of importance beyond what Synthia had stated.

“Can we meet this Quint?” asked Ubik. “Sounds like a special robot.”

“After what you did to Despira, I doubt they’ll let you anywhere near the Quint, or any other robot. I don’t feel very safe standing this close to you now.”

Ubik looked like he had been unfairly maligned. PT could still learn a thing or two about feigning expressions from the master.

“Shame,” said Ubik. “Still, it’ll be at the auction, right? I’ll be able to see it from a distance, at least.”

“Yes,” said Synthia, looking slightly worried. “But please don’t do anything to it. This world’s weather patterns would be very unstable without it. Many people would die. Humans.”

She said it as though making it clear the loss would be human would make it an obvious deterrent to Ubik’s meddling. Which it would, to anyone but Ubik.

“I don’t really care about the weather,” said Ubik, as though that was the issue. “Can I give you a list of components the boss will need?”

“What do you think he’s going to make?” PT asked Figaro.

“We’re at the epicentre of all things robot,” said Figaro. “So my guess it would be a robot that makes them realise they’ve been wasting their time for the last thousand years.”

PT nodded. “I’m betting on a giant automated spider that destroys the planet.”

Figaro nodded. There was no telling what Ubik would come up with. The only thing for certain was that this was not going to be the kind of auction these people were expecting.

Book 3 – 50: Core Strength

Inner Quadrant.

Planet Quazi.

Muss Dome - Underground Level.

 

From where Point-Two was sitting, the two of them looked like opposing coaches meeting before the game.

Grudging respect. Friendly rivalry. A disdain for the players who never did what they were told.

Despite the difference in age, there was a strong similarity between the two. You wouldn’t want to get in a small confined space with either of them.

“Which firm do you work for?” the man asked Ubik. Not harshly; polite and curious. There was even a small smile on his face. But his blue eyes were cold and piercing.

“I don’t belong to a firm, not anymore,” said Ubik. “Went solo a long time ago.”

“Bought out your contract?”

“Ha,” snorted Ubik. “Like anyone’s got that sort of money. Fought my way out.”

“He’s one of us,” said someone in the dark.

“Who is he?”

“Looks too old to be an apprentice. Is he a master?”

“No way. Look at his hands. Never done a day’s work in his life.”

“Maybe he moisturises.”

“He’s ronin, isn’t he? Ronin. Killed his whole firm and went rogue.”

“What are you talking about, you numpty? You read too many books.”

“At least I can read.”

“You must have come out of somewhere,” said the man. “I have a good feeling about you, I want to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I need a little background. Something I can buy into.”

“Epsilon-416,” said Ubik.

The man’s eyes widened. “Planet Garbage.”

“You heard of it, have you?” said Ubik, not sounding surprised.

“Hasn’t everyone? That’s quite some claim. You’ll know Drimbo, then.”

“You could say that.”

“Still got that patisserie, has he?”

“If you mean the parfumerie, yes. Still got Lexi, too.”

“Really? I never thought they’d last.”

“No one did,” said Ubik. “Not even them.”

“Are you two old friends or something?” asked Point-Two. He could see this going on for some time if he didn’t cut in.

“Acquaintances in common,” said Ubik. “The name’s Ubik.” He put out his hand.

“Smyke,” said the man, putting out his own. They shook hands without touching, but in perfect time with each other so you could only tell if you were at the right angle.

“I told you he was one of us.”

“More reason not to trust him. I still don’t trust you.”

“That hurts.”

“Okay, boys. Lights up.”

“Are you sure, Smyke?”

“They look dodgy if you ask me. Especially the one with the square head.”

“I like his square head. He looks like he works out.”

“Works out his head?”

“Just the top part. Slams it against a punching bag.”

“Quiet down, boys. Sometimes you’ve got to show a little faith. Lights.”

Point-Two winced as lights in the ceiling came on.

They were in a small room with pipes on the walls and shelves full of cleaning equipment. A broom closet.

He expected to see a bunch of kids in the room, but what he found was a group of old men, very similar in appearance to Smyke. Dressed the same, around the same age but a bit younger.

They could easily pass as regular workers, but it was only when Point-Two examined the faces more closely could he sense something was amiss. Something about the way the skin sat on their faces didn’t seem quite right.

“Are they wearing masks?” said Point-Two, squinting. His perception was usually very good, but he couldn’t be sure.

“It’s paint,” said Ubik. “High-grade make-up. More natural than the commercial stuff. You can build it up to change the shape of your face, your age, your race. It’s an art form. These guys are pretty good.”

“Are you saying you can tell?” said one of the disbelieving middle-aged men in the voice of pubescent youth.

“Only when I look closely,” said Point-Two. “Which I only did because your voices tipped me off.”

“Ah, well. We were going to kill you, so it didn’t really matter. You’re not one of us, are you?”

“No,” said Point-Two. “I’m not.”

“No need to be like that about it.” The middle-aged child rolled his eyes.

There were seven of them, plus Smyke. They varied in size from taller than him to a couple who were about the same size. They were probably in their mid-to-late teens. All slight of build, although some had padding to fill out their bellies a bit.

It was only now that he was looking that he could see any of this. Before, he had looked closely at the human workers in the dome and noticed nothing.

“Spotted us right off, didn’t you?” said Smyke.

“Yeah, but no one else would have,” said Ubik. “Silky work. Pure silk.”

Ubik’s words seemed to lift the group mood, their chests puffing out.

“What’s this, then?” asked a quiet voice.

One of the boys-to-men was holding up a black stick. No, it wasn’t a stick. It was a bone. A black, glossy bone.

“Where did you get that?” said Ubik, sounding shocked. He looked down at his boots, turning them this way and that.

“Can’t hide anything from Smut.” The fake-bearded boy with Ubik’s bone spun it on his finger. “Smut sees all, finds all. Even the things he’s not supposed to.”

“Is he talking about porn?” asked Point-Two.

“Yes,” said three or four voices in unison.

“I don’t think you want to do that,” said Ubik.

“Why not? Afraid I might break it?” Smut tossed it into the air and acted like he wasn’t going to catch it, before catching it at the last moment.

“No,” said Ubik. “It’s pretty much unbreakable. But it’s an Antecessor artefact with a parasite inside it, so…”

Smut stopped tossing the bone and threw it back to Ubik. “Ugh. Yuck.”

Ubik caught it casually but Point-Two thought he saw a glimmer of relief. The master of mayhem seemed to have met his match in this lot. Finally getting a taste of his own medicine.

“What about this, though?” said another voice. This time, another middle-aged boy was holding up Ubik’s bag. “What do you think’s in here?”

“I wouldn’t look in there, if I were you?” said Ubik.

“Ooh, secret, is it? What could it be? Feels pretty heavy.” He opened the top and peered in. “Yahhh!” He dropped the bag and leapt back.

A head rolled out of the open bag.

Point-Two recognised it. It was the female robot from Ubik’s room. Well, part of her.

The head rolled to Ubik’s feet.

“It’s a robot head I’ve been working on,” said Ubik, picking up the head and putting it under his arm.

The robot head’s eyes looked up at Ubik. “This is not what we agreed on,” it said in a deep voice.

Ubik grabbed the bag off the floor and shoved the head in it without any ceremony. It continued speaking but it was hard to hear what it was saying.

“Still working on the voice box,” said Ubik. “Anyway, you were saying about the core…”

“That’s right,” said Smyke. “We’re here to nab the planet’s core and—”

“Wait, wait,” said Point-Two. “You’re going to steal the planet’s core? Not the robots or something up for auction? The actual core of the planet?”

“Do you even know what the core is, son?” asked Smyke.

“Isn’t it the middle bit of the planet?” said Point-Two. “Hot magma and stuff?”

Smyke shook his head slowly. His seven assistants mimicked him.

“It isn’t?” Point-Two looked at Ubik. He didn’t seem to know what they were talking about either, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

“History not your subject?” asked one of the smaller boys. “Didn’t you pay attention at school? I bet you went to one of those posh places with uniforms and short pants.”

“Are you trying to mock him for going to school or not going to school? Lame burn, either way.”

“Can you not bully me about how I bully people?”

“Then bully him properly. Hey, square-head, where do you buy your hats? Blockhead’s Haberdashers?”

“I’d give that a three out of ten, and that’s only ‘cos you’re my brother.”

“I don’t have a square head,” said Point-Two.

“See that tear in his eye? He’s already an emotional wreck thanks to my merciless jab.”

“You know why the Inner Quadrant is where all the big wigs hang out, son?” asked Smyke, ignoring the bickering. “You know what makes all the planets in the Inner Quadrant special? They all have one thing in common. They use their planet’s core to provide all their energy needs. And the reason they can do that is because of the Antecessors. All the planets in this region have their cores converted to power reactors with a control sphere to manage operations. No one knows why these planets in particular, but you can guess how advantageous it is to have a planet with a limitless supply of energy at your fingertips. And not just that. Change the weather, the landmasses, the magnetic poles. Whatever you want. The planet owner is a god.”

Point-Two didn’t know much about the Inner Quadrant, other than it was where the powerful and wealthy had congregated long ago. They had settled in, built up their bases, and then had done everything possible to keep the riff-raff out.

It was the seat of power in the galaxy, but now it seemed there was a specific reason to choose the planets in this region.

“This was an Antecessor planet?” said Point-Two.

“That’s right, son. All of them around here were. Goldrush it was, back in the day. First come, first serve. Once they cleared out the Antecessor defences, they had an endless supply of resources to use as a foundation for their businesses. It’s a good thing there were enough competing factions to prevent a monopoly or we’d be living under some totalitarian empire, unlike the beautiful spirit of entrepreneurial excess we enjoy.”

Smyke paused to smile. His buys smiled in perfect synchronisation with him.

“Whoever controls the core, controls the planet. Of course, everyone keeps their control sphere nice and secure. Except one planet. Want to guess which one?”

“This one?” said Point-Two.

“Well done, son. That’s right.”

“You want to steal the control sphere?” said Point-Two. “Where is it?”

“You’re standing in it, son.”

“The dome? It’s a sphere.”

“You only see the top half,” said Smyke. “The rest is buried underground. They brought it up to the surface and made a big deal about letting people see it. Used it as a publicity stunt to advertise their robot business. Worked too.”

“Isn’t it a bit big to steal?” asked Point-Two, knowing he was asking a stupid question.

“If they’d kept it in its original form, yes. But they wanted to show off their technological skills. So you know what they did? They stripped it out, the whole sphere. Empty shell for tourists is all it is now. And what did they do with the tech they stripped out? They put it inside a robot. This planet, Quazi, it specialised in droids. Every kind. Like it was some kind of droid storage facility. Based their whole robot manufacturing system on what they found here. Cheap imitations, of course, but still hugely advanced on what anyone else can produce. Only the Central Authority surpasses them, but they have their own Antecessor tech to crib from.”

It was a lot to take in. Point-Two had always thought of Antecessor technology as rare and precious, and mostly used for specialised equipment. But now it seemed whole planets were Antecessor artefacts.

“Why did they put the control sphere tech inside a robot?” asked Point-Two.

“It’s the Quazi way,” said Smyke. “Robots, robots, robots.”

“And where is this robot?” asked Point-Two.

“In a very secure place,” said Smyke. “But they bring it out once a year.”

“For the Trade Fayre,” said Point-Two.

“Now you’re getting it, son.”

“Nice,” said Ubik. “They house their control system inside a robot and you’re going to kidnap it. Just like you did with us.”

“Right,” said Smyke, nodding. “You two were a dry run. We’ve got two teams, so we took both of you. Worked very well, I have to say. But it won’t be so easy on the night. Lot more people in the dome, lot more security. And also, the robot in question weighs over three tons.”

“How are you planning on shifting it?” asked Ubik.

“At the moment, very slowly,” said Smyke. “That’s where we could use a little assistance.”

“Who are you doing this for?” asked Point-Two. “Is it Quincy?” He could see it as a way for Quincy and his fellow robot sympathisers to take over the planet. But then why was he so keen to get their help?

“Can’t reveal my client’s identity,” said Smyke.

“It doesn’t matter who it is,” said Ubik. “We’ll help.”

“We will?” said Point-Two. “Why?”

“Because we need their help. They can get us what we need to disappear into the Inner Quadrant. No one better.”

“That won’t be a problem,” said Smyke. “But do you really have a way to help us?”

“Absolutely,” said Ubik.

Point-Two doubted that was true, but it would be. He could see the gears starting to work in that malicious little brain already.

“Great,” said Smyke. “I knew we could count on you. Microwave, show them the way back. You get started on your end and we’ll be in touch. I think this will be a very mutually beneficial partnership.”

A smaller worker opened the door. “This way.”

Ubik got up and walked to the door, a slight nod towards Smyke and one received in return.

Point-Two would have liked to hash out a few more details, ask a few more questions, find out what the hell was really going on here. But that wasn’t how the professionals did it, apparently. All nods and winks and flying by the seat of your planets.

He followed Ubik out of the door into a hallway.

“Just follow it to the end and up the stairs back into the dome,” said the one called Microwave. “Can’t miss it. Bye.” He closed the door on them.

The two of them stood there for a moment.

Point-Two reached out his hand and opened the door. He expected it to be locked, but it wasn’t.

On the other side was another hallway. The room was gone. He closed the door.

“We’re going to help them?” asked Point-Two.

“Sure,” said Ubik.

They started walking back. It was a long, cold, featureless corridor.

“And you trust him?”

“Not at all. We’re going to be set up and used as a decoy. And he’s not a him, and he’s not as old as you think.”

Point-Two tried to think back. He had been able to see the makeup on the boys, once he knew what to look for, but the old man had seemed genuine. Apparently not.

“Isn’t he an old pal of your Drimbo?”

“Bitter rivals. Hate each other’s guts.”

“So why are you going to help them again?”

“Help is a relative term,” said Ubik. “Haven’t you ever wanted your own planet?”

Book 3 – 49: Under the Dome

Inner Quadrant.

Planet Quazi.

Muss Dome.

 

Point-Two hadn’t resisted when he had been grabbed.

The ones who had taken him weren’t robots, he was fairly sure. That was also a possibility, to hold them hostage so they’d help with the revolution. But the hands holding onto him had the touch of a human. Which meant it was probably the workers Ubik had been eyeing.

Ubik’s public questioning of their presence — which he had somehow managed to raise using Point-Two as his proxy (had he been somehow manipulated into it?) — attracted their attention and their ire. Deliberately, of course.

They hadn’t been strong and they didn’t feel particularly big, but they had handled him very expertly like they were well-used to transporting goods.

His instinct was to fight them off, whoever they were, but he had seen what Ubik had said to Fig. Lip reading was taught as standard on colony ships. In space, there were often times where you were unable to hear other people, so sign language and lip reading were learned from a young age.

Ubik had told Fig not to do anything. He obviously expected the blackout. He may have even caused it.

He quietly allowed himself to be taken and waited for whatever was going to happen next.

It wasn’t that Point-Two trusted Ubik. Far from it.

There was no doubt Ubik knew his stuff. But that didn’t mean he was going to share that knowledge with anyone. When he led people down the wrong path, he knew it was the wrong path. He knew where the right path was. He just had things to do down the wrong one first.

Point-Two definitely did not trust him.

But there was no point trying to second guess him. Especially since Ubik expected people to try to out-think him. He relied on it.

It was better to go along with whatever insane plan he had until you were able to understand it for yourself, and hope you didn’t end up dead in the process.

It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, an ideal arrangement.

Something had been placed over Point-Two’s head, a cloth bag of some kind, so he had no idea if it was still dark in the dome, but they had travelled some distance, so he probably wasn’t in the dome anymore.

Ubik wanted them to make a move. This move.

Point-Two stopped moving and was placed on a chair, his hands tied behind his back. The chair was hard and simple. Not something made for torture, although a little improvisation and pretty much anything could be adapted to cause pain.

He didn’t feel like he was in imminent danger but then, his idea of what constituted imminent danger may have become warped due to recent events and recent acquaintances.

The hood was removed and a light shone directly in his face, making it impossible to see anything.

“Who are you?” said a gruff voice.

“You’re asking the wrong person,” said Point-Two, wincing from the sudden glare of intense white light.

“I’m supposed to ask someone else who you are?” The voice sounded confused and forgot to be as gruff. It sounded surprisingly high-pitched. A woman?

“No,” said Point-Two, “I mean, if you have questions, you should be asking the person in charge, not me.”

“We know you’re the leader,” the voice said, reasserting its gruffness. “Not from the Inner Quadrant. Looking to do a deal with the Quincy kid. Got those Seneca beauties to do your dirty work. Proper outfit. Here for a job, are you?”

He (or she) was trying to prove they’d done their homework. They knew all about him and his team. He sounded more like someone pretending to be tough.

“This is good,” said Ubik, his voice muffled. They still had the bag on his head. “Very efficient. Pulled us out of there with no fuss. Nicely handled. Top marks, so far.”

Point-Two couldn’t see exactly where Ubik was, but the sound of his voice put him quite close on his left.

“Him,” said Point-Two, trying to lean out of the spotlight. “You want to send any questions you have in his direction. I don’t know what torture techniques you guys normally employ, but you should probably skip straight to the hardcore stuff. No point wasting time.”

“I’m asking the questions, and I’m asking you. Name, who you work for, what you’re doing on Quazi.”

“I’m nobody,” said Point-Two. “I’m the guy who gets forced to act like the leader so the real brains of the operation can stay in the shadows. Look, I’ll start things off for you. Ubik, what the hell are we doing here?”

“Don’t ask me, boss,” said Ubik. “Are we still in the dome?”

“We’re under it,” said Point-Two.

“Wow, you can really tell where we are blindfolded. That’s why you’re the boss.”

“I am not the boss, you’re the boss. Tell them!”

“Hey, hey. Don’t interrogate our prisoner.”

“I’m trying to help,” said Point-Two. “I’m also quite interested in hearing the answers, so we should probably work on him together.”

“It’s fine,” said Ubik. “These guys won’t hurt us. They’ll pretend they’re going to, but they won’t.”

“We’ll see about that,” said the voice. There was a resounding crack as Point-Two was slapped across the face with a leather glove. A rough workman’s glove frayed from long use, so it stung quite a bit.

“Hey, what was that for?” said Point-Two, more upset than hurt. “He’s the one who called you soft. Why did you hit me?”

“We know what we’re doing,” said the voice. “He won’t be able to stand seeing you get beaten to a pulpy bloody squishy mess.”

“I think you’d be surprised,” said Point-Two. He could see Ubik standing it for a very long time. “Ubik, just do what you came here to do.”

“I can’t,” said Ubik through his hood. “We have to find out what they’re here to steal, first.”

“They’re thieves?”

“They weren’t scoping out the dome for the fun of it,” said Ubik.

“Do they want to steal the robots?” It seemed the obvious choice.

“I doubt it. I know everyone raves about them, but they aren’t really that special, if you ask me.”

They were being allowed to talk — perhaps thinking they might give away some useful information. But that was because they’d never had a conversation with Ubik before.

“Are you here to steal the robots?” Point-Two felt it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

He received another slap, proving him wrong.

“How did you know what we were doing?” the voice asked.

“Do I sound like I know what’s going on?” said Point-Two. “He’s the robot expert. Did you see how he dealt with that leggy robot? Knocked her down with a prod. There has to be room for a guy like that in your organisation. Perhaps working down a mine. He doesn’t eat much and he has excellent stamina.”

“How did you do that to the robot?” the voice asked, finally addressing Ubik directly, but still keeping the light on Point-Two. “You got an organic that lets you do that sort of thing?”

“I don’t have an organic,” said Ubik. “Very low CQ.”

“He’s telling the truth,” said the voice at the back. A lie-detecting organic or just a good guesser?

“Then how did you do it?”

“Easy really,” said Ubik. “You know what the most sensitive part of a human is?”

“No,” said the voice. “What?”

“The inside of the ear. Super-sensitive. Can cause unbearable pain, but also incredible pleasure, if you know where to poke your finger.”

“What’s that got to do with the robot?” asked Point-Two.

“Back off,” said the light-holder. “I’m handling the interrogation.”

“You can’t let him ramble on like this,” said Point-Two. “You’ll never get any answers at this rate.”

“I said I’m handling it! You. What’s that got to do with the robot?”

“Machines are the same. They all have a sweet spot where electrical fields intersect. It’s not intentional — in fact, you couldn’t force a sweet spot into existence if you tried — but it’s always there. You just have to know how to find it.”

“Is that true?” said a voice from the back.

“Of course it isn’t,” said another voice.

Point-Two sensed there were at least half-a-dozen people present. And their voices were all in the upper range, except when they remembered to put on their manly voices. None of them sounded like a leader to him, though.

They thought they’d brought Ubik here to find out what he was up to, not realising they were really here so Ubik could find out what they were up to.

“If he really knows tronics that well, maybe he could be useful.”

“Yeah. Maybe be knows how to dismantle the cor—”

“Shut up!” rang out a chorus of voices.”

“You’re here for the core,” said Ubik, sounding like he now understood everything. “Core to what?”

“Talk about giving the game away!”

“Do you ever think before opening your yap, Handsful?”

“What? I didn’t say anything. If he can help us with… the thing, then that would be good, right?”

“Be quiet. We can’t be letting outsiders in. You want to give him your cut?”

“You’re forgetting, he’s got some plan of his own. Probably trying to use us as a decoy.”

“Yeah, yeah. Classic play. Two Gentlemen of Verona. I remember learning that one when I was a kid. Never thought I’d see someone try to pull it off.”

“Right, right. I think you’re onto something. He’s going to steal the robots — that’s why he asked if that’s the merchandise we’re looking at — and if he can get us to make enough of a distraction, he’ll be able to slip away and expose us on his way out so all eyes are pointed at us. That’s how I’d do it.”

“That’s got to be it. He even acted like the robots were no big deal. Classic deflection.”

It was almost like they’d forgotten they had two prisoners to question.

“Well done,” said Ubik.

“Thanks,” said the last voice to speak, and then suddenly realised who he was thanking. “Wait, I’m right?”

“Don’t listen to him, he’s trying to trick you.”

“Watch him. It’s a play, he’s making a play.”

“No one get too close, he might be a biter.”

At least they were focused on the right person now.

Pain cut into Point-Two’s wrists. His hands were tied behind his back and every movement dug the wire deeper. With all the bickering going on, he hadn’t noticed until now.

With barely a thought, he turned the material around his wrists into water and his shoulders relaxed as his hands were freed.

He immediately realised he’d made a mistake. It felt a lot better, but questions would be asked. He closed his eyes and did his best to imagine the puddle on the floor, and forced it back into twine. It had been a lot easier than the other way.

“What’s wrong with his face?”

“Do you need the bathroom? You can’t go here. It’s not sanitary, you beast.”

Point-Two opened his eyes. “No, I’m fine. Thanks.” It wasn’t often kidnappers offered bathroom breaks. Just who were these people?

“He used an organic,” said a voice from the back. “I felt it.”

“I didn’t feel anything.”

“That’s because you’re not sensitive like me.”

“Shut up. I am sensitive.”

“What did he use it for? He’s just sitting there.”

“Look,” said a voice from behind Point-Two. “He got out of his bindings.”

“No way!” said someone in front. “No one can undo my knots. It’s not possible.”

“Look for yourself. The ropes on the floor. And it’s all wet.”

“Maybe that’s his ability.”

“His organic lets him undo knots? What kind of organic is that?”

“Wait, doesn’t that mean he’s free?”

“You. Don’t move,” said the voice behind the light. “I’ve got a gun pointed at your face.”

“How old are you?” said Point-Two, bringing his hands to the front and rubbing the wrists. “Twelve?” He wasn’t trying to be insulting. He had realised these weren’t women. They were kids. It wasn’t just their voices, it was how they treated each other. “Get that light out of my face before I beat the crap out of you.”

“Ooh, look at him being all threatening, with his big muscles and veins throbbing on his neck.”

“You like him, don’t you?”

“So? Crushes are normal for someone my age.”

“You aren’t supposed to fall for the kidnap victim! You’re so unprofessional. Everyone knows the kidnap victim’s supposed to fall for us and our revolutionary political ideals. It’s that syndrome, whatchamacallit.”

“Seneca syndrome.”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

They didn’t seem concerned that Point-Two had slipped out of his restraints. They were more interested in their bickering.

“Did you see, they had two Seneca bodyguards? I bet they’re a handful in the sack.”

“The sack? How would you know what it’s like in the sack?”

“I know. I read.”

“Shut up, Smut.”

“Don’t say my name!”

“What? It’s your code name.”

“Only name that suits him.” There was some sniggering.

“Here, take this,” said Ubik.

The light moved across to Ubik, who was sitting on a chair, holding out the hood that was supposed to be on his head.

“How did he get that off?”

“Bloody hell, Tidy. Your knots are rubbish.”

“He must have the same organic as the chunky fella.”

“He’s not chunky, he’s stocky.”

“Get a room.”

“Wait, that one doesn’t have an organic, does he?”

Point-Two looked at Ubik, who was sitting there, untroubled. In fact, he looked quite at home.

“Are you going to stay back there or what?” said Ubik, aiming his words towards the back of the room.

The room went quiet. There was the shuffling of feet getting out of the way and then a figure emerged from the darkness.

He was a medium-sized man, not terribly intimidating to look at. He had a white beard and short white hair that looked like he had cut it himself. He wore typical workman clothes, just like the ones worn by the workers in the dome.

“The truth is,” said the old man, “I don’t mind telling you what we’re doing here. Something tells me I can trust you.” The man looked down at Ubik’s feet. “Nice boots.”

Point-Two looked from Ubik’s feet to the man’s. They were both wearing Delgados.

A chill ran down Point-Two’s spine. Now there were two of them, spanning the generations.

Book 3 – 48: iRobot

Inner Quadrant.

Planet Quazi.

Muss Dome.

 

Figaro watched closely as the two brothers argued.

“You have to stop with these delusions, little brother,” said Quadell. “These are products of our company, nothing more. The perfect solution for home and business. Machines of the modern age. Ask them, they’ll tell you.” His attitude was extremely condescending, but his body posture suggested he was enjoying taunting his brother on a level commensurate with someone who were themselves regularly treated in such a manner.

He was taking out on his little brother what he couldn’t give back to his own tormentors.

A petty man.

Synthia had mentioned he was the second-largest shareholder in M&M, so perhaps it was the largest shareholder who made his life miserable enough to make him seek solace in bullying others.

By Figaro’s estimation, if he was second, there was quite a gap between him and first place.

“You don’t have to agree with my views,” said Quincy, chin jutting out in defiance. “You can’t sell off company assets without board approval. And I very much doubt they gave it since there haven’t been any board meetings this week.”

“None that you were invited to,” said Quadell, beaming.

Quincy was taken aback. “Why wouldn’t I be invited? I am still on the board, aren’t I?”

“Of course you are,” said Quadell. “You’re a Quazem, so why wouldn’t you be? But you don’t have to be there for every tiny decision, do you? We know how busy you are in Dad’s old bachelor pad. Partying the days away, hmm? Must be nice.”

His words were jovial, but they were meant to put Quincy in his place. The son no one listened to. The youngest. The least important. Unwanted opinions from an unwanted child. An accident, or so Quincy had always suspected.

Figaro could see his insecurities written on his face. He made no attempt to hide them, probably because no one had ever bothered to read them.

“I don’t care whether you think I need to be there or not. The company charter says you can’t take a vote on overriding company policy without all board members being present. Which makes your resolution invalid.”

“Now, now, Quince. What are you going to do? Take the family to court?”

“No, not the family. Just the board members who tried to push through a non-binding resolution behind my back. Who else was in your cabal? Quiselle, right?”

Quincy was sure of his facts and had absolute faith in his claims, but Quadell didn’t show any reaction suggesting he had been caught out. In fact, he seemed quite amused by his brother’s protests.

“Well, you do that. File a motion and get Uncle Janis to send us all to prison.” Quadell spoke as though he was genuinely encouraging Quincy to take the matter to court, but his smile suggested otherwise.

Figaro assumed Uncle Janis was the magistrate who would preside over the case, and also a member of the Quazem family.

Corruption and nepotism were nothing new in the world of business and, for most people on the inside, such occurrences were part of the normal workday.

What would be the point of dominating a planet if you couldn’t get your way when you wanted?

His father had a similar relationship to Enaya. He didn’t abuse his power in the interest of fairness and good faith. Except when he didn’t have the patience to wait for the General Assembly to see sense. Then he would take the controls long enough to correct course, before handing them back.

Thoughts of his father gave Figaro a pang of guilt. What was his condition now?

“You’re not putting them up for auction,” insisted Quincy. “I won’t allow it.”

Quadell’s infuriating good mood remained undented. He proudly passed his gaze over the six female robots standing motionless on the stage. They didn’t look the least bit upset about being sold into slavery.

“They’re a novelty,” said Quadell. “Wonderful anomalies, I’ll grant you, but there’s no way they’re ever going to make it into mass production. Robots that think for themselves? Definitely not what our customer base is looking for. The main reason most of them buy our products is to avoid that very thing. But, there are always collectors who are willing to pay over the odds for something unique — and they’ll be at the auction tomorrow night. I’ve invited some real aficionados of the art of robotics. Tinkerers, hobbyists, eccentrics — call them what you will — but they’re all loaded. Only six in the whole Inner Quad. A limited series. Even our top of the line models wouldn’t be able to attract those weirdos.”

He paused to look at the tall robot standing next to him, dressed in a short skirt and flowery blouse, pad in hand with a stylus in the other to take notes if required. A robot that advanced wouldn’t need to take notes, of course. It was for the look. Bespoke robots to send a message to rivals and competitors. M&M’s speciality.

A head taller than him, with a slim torso and incredibly long legs but no prominent chest, and a face that was angular and harshly beautiful, topped with hair pulled back into a bun that probably unwound down to the waist, the robot looked down on everyone, both literally and figuratively. “They make you look quite ordinary, don’t they Despira.”

“Yes, sir,” said the robot, her voice as austere as her face, her ruby red lips barely moving.

Quadell looked back at the stage. “And wait until they see them put on a show up there. What a performance I’ve got planned! Oh, they’ll be fighting for the chance to throw money at us.”

Quadell turned to Quincy, whose face was red with apoplexy, unable to speak.

“You know, you should put her up for sale, too.” Quadell was looking at Synthia. “She’s the best of the batch. Technically, she does belong to the company, so...”

“Never.” Quincy’s fists were clenched tight by his sides.

“This is going to be a problem,” said PT, turning his head towards Figaro’s ear and keeping his voice low.

“It’ll be fine,” said Figaro. “They’ve been like this most of their lives. I don’t think they’ll come to blows.”

“I don’t mean them,” said PT. He motioned to the side with a tilt of his head.

Figaro turned slightly. Beside him was Ubik, staring up at the roof of the dome, a big grin on his face. He was chuckling to himself.

It was hard to resist looking up, too. There was a huge lighting rig above them, with workers moving about, adjusting huge lamps. Whatever had Ubik’s attention, it wasn’t immediately obvious.

“What are you looking at?” PT asked Ubik.

“There’s going to be a big show,” said Ubik, without looking at him.

“He’s up to something,” PT said to Figaro.

He was undoubtedly right — the signs of Ubik about to go off were all there — but what was he planning to do? Steal the lights?

It was a ridiculous thought, but Figaro still looked up again to see how hard it would be to carry something that big out of here. It said a lot that Figaro didn’t even bother to wonder why he’d want to steal a giant light.

“We’ll see about this,” said Quincy. “I’m going to convene an emergency board meeting.”

“I doubt anyone will come,” said Quadell.

“They have to! It’s an emergency!”

“Only to you, little brother.”

“Synthia, wait here with… our guests. I have to take care of this.” Quincy stormed off as his brother watched him go with an amused expression.

Quadell leaned towards his assistant, who tilted her head down to listen. She nodded. Then he walked over to a man by the stage as Despira moved towards Synthia, covering the distance in a couple of steps of her long legs.

“My master would like to offer your guests seats at the auction,” said Despira to Synthia.

“Thank you,” said Synthia. “I’m sure they’d be delighted to attend.”

Their words were polite but there was clearly no love lost between the two.

“I’ve run an identification check on them, but their ID strips are counterfeit.”

“Of course,” said Synthia. “People of their stature don’t allow themselves to be tracked.”

“Of course,” said Despira. “But I will need their real details, for our records.”

“As I just told you, their identities are sensitive. You should try using the Central Database to find out who they are. It won’t work, but it will at least give you something to show your master so he won’t have you deactivated and replaced by a newer model.”

“Thank you, but being replaced is not something I fear. Fear is a human emotion and I am not human. It must be distracting to be engulfed in dread all the time.”

“I am not human, either,” said Synthia. “My emotions are unique to me. It’s hard to explain what that feels like to a unit incapable of feelings.”

“I am capable of feelings,” said Despira. Her face configuration realigned in a mechanical fashion to produce a very distinct emotion: malice. Then it reset to neutral again. “This gentleman.” Despira turned to face Figaro. “My master recognises him from somewhere. May I have your permission to run a face recognition match?”

Asking for permission meant there were strict laws in place to prevent an invasion of privacy, which meant those in positions of authority were doing things they didn’t wish to be made public.

But there would still be ways to circumvent the rules when required, as long as it was legally justified.

“Permission denied,” said Synthia.

“Thank you. False identification strip detected, under the remit of—”

“Oh, this one’s been modded,” said Ubik, appearing in front of Despira out of nowhere. “Very nice work. Bit unstable though. It’s the legs. Too long.” Ubik put out a finger and gently jabbed Despira in the stomach.

The robot’s head dropped first, pointy chin hitting the top of the chest before the whole body collapsed.

Figaro had watched him do it but still had no idea what he had just seen. Robots didn’t fall over just because of a finger. Not unless it was Ubik’s finger.

“Hey! What did you do to my robot?” Quadell came rushing over, incensed.

“It broke,” said Ubik. “Faulty wiring, I think. Is it still under warranty? You might be able to get your money back.”

Quadell’s face was an ever-evolving picture of dismay and fury. If his company’s engineers had a vidform of it, they could probably improve the emotional range of their expression configurations by leaps and bounds.

“You’ve ruined her.” Quadells’ hands were like upturned claws as he crouched over the glassy-eyed heap that was his assistant a moment ago.

“Ooh, I think you got there first,” said a disapproving elderly voice out of the ether.

“It’ll be fine,” said Ubik. “You’ve got a repair workshop, haven’t you? I know you guys don’t allow repairs to your products normally, but I’m sure they’ll make an exception for you. Sentimental attachment, was it? I get like that with my gadgets, too.” He patted Quadell on the shoulder.

Quadell shook him off with a jerk. He stood up and glared at Ubik, then at the others.

“Excuse me,” said Chukka, choosing her moment. “I’m actually a representative of VendX Galactic. Perhaps I could have a word?”

Quadell turned his glare, still set to kill, onto Chukka. “VendX? VendX? The garbage collectors?”

“Yes, that is part of our business. But I think I have an offer that would interest you.”

She was trying to distract him, so he wouldn’t have them all thrown out. Or murdered.

“Are you deliberately trying to annoy me?” Quadell sounded pretty annoyed already.

“Mr Quazem.” Chukka’s tone was serious. Her eyes were steely. “These people have come from across the quadrant.” She nodded behind her. “Seneca bodyguards.” She nodded at Ubik. “Anti-tech defences.” She turned her focus back to Quadell. “This isn’t the time to act undignified.”

She wasn’t really saying much, but the implications were flying around freely.

Quadell calmed himself as he took in her possible meaning, his imagination filling in the blanks.

These people were out of the ordinary.

It wasn’t a good idea to aggravate them without knowing who they were.

It could be bad for business.

He turned to look at Figaro.

“You. I know you from somewhere. Where do I know you from?”

It was going to become a problem if people kept recognising him. He wasn’t particularly famous, but a certain type of person was interested in the son of Ramon Ollo. Envy, curiosity, search engine suggestions, any number of prurient reasons put his face in their browser history. It was only a matter of time until someone put a name to it.

“Why are there people here?” said PT to Quadell.

At first, Figaro thought he was attempting a distracting tactic like Chukka, but his stance was wrong. He was genuinely asking a question.

Figaro looked around, and then up. People, yes. Human people. PT had spent the last few minutes ignoring the squabble and figuring out what Ubik had found so interesting in the rafters. His prioritisation of problems was, as usual, excellent.

“What are you talking about?” said Quadell, completely wrong-footed by the sincere query.

“People. Humans, not robots. Up there.” PT glanced up. “Why? Robots would do a better job and be safer, no?”

There was no let-up in PT’s intensity. Figaro was very familiar with different levels of authority. Every tier, other than the top, had one above it that could suppress the ones below, just as Quadell could do to Quincy, and how the person above Quadell did to him.

These tiers were usually very clearly defined and hard to disrupt. PT had used his mysterious identity to break through the established rules of the game. If he acted like he was from a tier above, maybe he was.

Quadell decided to play it safe. “They… they have a union. Certain jobs can only be performed by humans. It’s an old law.”

Figaro sensed it before he saw it. A change in the air. The robots working around them carried on as normal, paying no attention to the humans. Even the ones on stage that were supposed to be as human as you could get in a polytextured sleeve, didn’t blink.

But there were individuals, not just up in the roof — Figaro could see them now — who had stopped what they were doing to pay special attention to PT and Quadell’s conversation.

Eyes sliding to the side, ears tilting in their direction, lips pressed together in concentration.

“Yes,” butted in Ubik. “These human workers are up to something. You tell them, boss.”

Eyes turned back to PT, who looked baffled by why Ubik had made such a provocative proclamation, and then thrown back to him.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” said Ubik from the side of his mouth. “That PT, knows how to get right to the heart of the matter.”

“What matter?” said Figaro.

“It’s about to get dark,” said Ubik. “Don’t worry too much, just let it happen.”

“Look out!” cried out someone from above.

Everyone looked up as a massive light fitting came crashing down.

No one was below it, but it shattered with a huge sound, sending glass everywhere. The lights in the dome all went out, leaving them in darkness.

Fig sensed movement all around him; swift and meaningful. Professionals. He didn’t take any action.

A moment later, the lights came back on. Nothing had changed, except PT and Ubik were gone.