Pieces of Gax Page 8

  One brief (but thoroughly hair-raising) hover-taxi ride later, we arrived in the middle of Omega Doy Zarius's machinery district. It was, if anything, even noisier and stinkier than the rest of the city. Spuckler had actually been to the Stripped Gear once before, and after a good half hour of hunting through dozens of crowded streets and steamy back alleys, he delivered us safely to its grime-stained double doors.

  Stepping through those doors was like stumbling into a poker party in some strange alien basement: it was dark and smoky and reeked of last week's carryout. Sitar-like music blared from a spherical jukebox, and an enormous fish tank on one wall filled the room with spooky blue-green shadows. It was hard to see any more than the silhouettes of the creatures that were in the place, but at least half had eyes on stalks sprouting out of their faces, and several of them were so tall their oblong heads smacked against the ceiling every time they laughed.

  Spuckler got a table and ordered an enormous amount of food for each of us. It was easily the most disgustingly greasy slop I'd ever encountered in my life, but I gratefully devoured it anyway, having not had a bite since the bowl of bognut meal at Hoffelhiff's. When the waiter brought the bill, Spuckler asked if he'd seen a pal of his called Thirgen in the place recently.

  “A pal of yours?” said the waiter. “Some pal. He's sittin' right behindya, buddy!”

  We all turned our heads to see who the waiter was referring to, but there was no one behind Spuckler apart from a couple of robots chatting with one another in the corner.

  Mr. Beeba eyed the Gax-like robot on the left. “But of course. The absolute ideal customer for the item in question, come to think of it.”

  “You mean …,” I began.

  “Precisely,” said Mr. Beeba. “Thirgen is neither a humanoid nor an alien. He's a robot.” He paused and added: “And a Gax unit, at that.”

  Spuckler and Mr. Beeba immediately began arguing over who would handle the delicate matter of negotiating with Thirgen. Spuckler claimed he knew the lay of the land in Omega Doy Zarius better than any of us, whereas Mr. Beeba insisted Spuckler's impulsive behavior at Mrs. Slarf's place had disqualified him from all future dealings “with civilized society, robotic or otherwise.” Finally I proposed that Gax handle things, since he would be able to converse with Thirgen as one Gax unit to another.

  “An inspired suggestion, Akiko,” said Mr. Beeba. “What do you say, Gax?”

  “I THOUGHT YOU'D NEVER ASK.” Gax tipped his head back and let out an indignant squeak. “I'D BE DELIGHTED TO.”

  Spuckler picked up Gax and stepped cautiously over to Thirgen and his robot friend. Gax straightened up as best he could and, in the custom of robots, got their attention with a few beeps and whistles and a well-timed boop.

  “FORGIVE ME IF I AM MISTAKEN,” said Gax, “BUT ARE YOU NOT THE ILLUSTRIOUS GAX UNIT KNOWN AS THIRGEN?”

  Thirgen turned to face us and I got my first good look at him. He was similar to Gax—well, pre-dismantled Gax, at any rate—but with a number of important differences. He was older than Gax, and far more beat-up and battered. He rattled and squeaked with every move, and looked ready to break down at any moment. I felt that we were looking at a kindly old grandpa version of Gax: what Gax would look like when the stress and strain of daily life required him to move more slowly, and when his most vital components were on the verge of giving out for good.

  “I AM INDEED,” said Thirgen, teetering unsteadily toward us. “WITH WHOM DO I HAVE THE PLEASURE OF COMMUNICATING?” I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. After the dangers of dealing with Fofo and Dr. Gridstump, it seemed we had finally found someone quiet and gentle to work with.

  “I AM GAX-62–381,” said Gax, using his full name for the very first time (while I was within earshot, anyway). “IT IS AN HONOR TO MAKE YOUR ACQUAINTANCE.”

  “MY CONDOLENCES ON YOUR MISHAP,” said Thir-gen, having noticed Gax's lack of wheels. “I WISH YOU A SPEEDY RECONSTITUTION.”

  “THANK YOU, GOOD SIR,” said Gax. “AS IT HAPPENS, I BELIEVE YOU WILL BE ABLE TO HELP ME IN THAT REGARD.”

  A look of understanding came into Thirgen's robotic eyes. “OH NO. PLEASE SAY IT ISN'T SO.” He produced an agitated buzz and rolled back a few inches on his wheels. “NOT THOSE WHEELS I BOUGHT YESTERDAY. THE SALESMAN ASSURED MY PURCHASING AGENT THEY WERE DISCARDED.”

  “I AM SURE YOU AND YOUR PURCHASING AGENT ARE ENTIRELY BLAMELESS IN THE AFFAIR,” said Gax. “BE THAT AS IT MAY …”

  “NOT ANOTHER WORD, MY MECHANICAL BROTHER,” said Thirgen, rolling forward and patting Gax on the helmet with a quivering robotic arm. “THOSE WHEELS ARE YOURS, AND I WOULD NO SOONER KEEP THEM FROM YOU THAN HAVE MY VERY OWN CARBURETOR TORN FROM MY HULL.” He apologized to his robot friend for breaking short their meeting, then turned his attention back to us. “PLEASE FOLLOW ME, MY FRIENDS. WE WILL GO TO MY HOME—WHERE I HAVE THE WHEELS IN SAFE STORAGE—AND RECTIFY THIS UNFORTUNATE SITUATION IMMEDIATELY.”

  “A free-range 'bot,” Spuckler said to me as we stepped back into the busy walkways of Omega Doy Zarius to follow Thirgen. “You see more and more of'em these days: bots that ain't got no master cept themselves.”

  “You mean Thirgen lives alone?” I said. “Who fixes him when he breaks down?”

  “Free-range 'bots do their level best not to break down,” said Spuckler. “They practice somethin' called rotational part replacement: they keep stockpiles of spare parts and swap in fresh components whenever they need 'em. Even before they need 'em.” He paused and added: “I reckonThirgen's been pretty good at the game. He's a third-generation Gax unit—you can bet that's where he took the name Thirgen from—and that's about as old as they come. Gax is tenth generation, and most folks think that's older than the hills.”

  We turned a corner and climbed a ramp leading up to Thirgen's home: a small windowless structure at the very top of a boarded-up warehouse. By now the sun had almost set, and the cool evening air made me eager to get inside.

  “Check out Thirgen's wheels,” said Spuckler as we neared the top of the ramp. “They're in real good shape.”

  They were indeed. Thirgen's wheels, as far as I could see, were the only parts of him that didn't need replacing.

  “He must've been plannin' years in advance, buyin' Gax's wheels,” said Spuckler. “Still, ya can't be too careful, I suppose.”

  Thirgen invited us in, apologizing for the lack of chairs (robots don't have a whole lot of use for chairs), and immediately rolled into a different room to get the wheels.

  “I WON'T BE A MINUTE,” he said. “MAKE YOURSELVES AT HOME.”

  A quick examination of the room offered ample proof that Thirgen not only practiced rotational part replacement: he was pretty much obsessed with it. One whole wall was given over to helmets of various shapes and sizes. A smaller section was devoted to necks. Out of curiosity I pulled a drawer open and found dozens upon dozens of robotic eyes. “Man,” I said. “This guy is stocked for the next century.”

  “THE NEXT SEVERAL CENTURIES, ACTUALLY,” said a new and not very friendly voice. The voice belonged to Thirgen, who had now returned to the room.

  His appearance had changed so much he was almost unrecognizable. The kindly-old-grandpa Thirgen had been nothing but a disguise. The battered, ratty exterior had shifted aside to reveal a shimmering armored surface beneath. His eyes were sharp, wide open, and darting back and forth with unnerving precision. The rattles and squeaks had utterly ceased, leaving nothing but a cool, steady hum: the high-tech buzz of cutting-edge hardware in top-notch condition.

  And he was not holding Gax's wheels.

  He was holding a laser pistol.

  “CAN'T BE TOO CAREFUL.”

  Spuckler threw gam into my arms and leaped at Thirgen without a second's hesitation.

  PYOOM! PYOO-PYOOM!

  Three expertly fired laser blasts brought Spuckler crashing to the floor. He was injured—not critically, thank goodness, but enough to keep him from rising to his feet anytime soon.

  Mr. Beeba put his ha
nds up. Poog hovered silently in space. I dropped to my knees and huddled with Gax on the floor.

  “I HAVE NO INTEREST IN INJURING HUMANS, TOOGOLIANS, OR”— Thirgen cast an eye at Mr. Beeba— “OR WHATEVER IT is YOU ARE.” Mr. Beeba simply stood there shaking, too frightened to be offended. “I HAVE NO DESIRE TO INJURE ANYONE OR ANYTHING. ALL I WANT…” He locked his mechanical eyes on Gax. “… IS YOUR ROBOT.”

  Thirgen rolled forward until he was within a foot of Gax and me.

  “TO THINK I WAS HAPPY JUST TO HAVE ACQUIRED THE WHEELS. BUT YOU HAVE BROUGHT ME SOMETHING FAR MORE VALUABLE: A COMPLETE TENTH-GENERATION GAX UNIT. SO VERY HARD TO COME BY. WHY, I'LL BE SCAVENGING PARTS FROM HIM FOR MANY YEARS TO COME.” Thirgen cocked his head to get a better look at Gax's neck. “ONCE I'VE DEACTIVATED HIM, OF COURSE.”

  Thirgen raised his laser pistol and pointed it squarely at my nose. “EARTHIANS ARE KNOWN FOR BEING COMPLIANT AND MALLEABLE. I TRUST YOU WILL NOT PROVE TO BE AN EXCEPTION TO THE RULE.”

  “You can't have him,” I said, straining to lift Gax as I rose to my feet (with wheels or without, he was very heavy) and moved as far away fromThirgen as I could. “You don't even need him.” I felt a cold, hard surface press into my back and realized I was up against one of the walls. “Look at this place. You've got a mountain of spare parts in here. More than you'll ever use.”

  “PLENTY OF NECKS AND BODIES AND WHEELS, YES,” said Thirgen. “BUT HEADS …” He moved forward and the laser pistol closed to within an inch of my nostrils. “HEADS ARE EXCEEDINGLY RARE THESE DAYS. I'VE ONLY GOT TWO OF THEM AT THE MOMENT”— he gazed hungrily at Gax's head— “AND NEITHER OF THOSE HOLDS A CANDLE TO THIS ONE.” He drew closer and examined Gax's head from several angles. “EXCEPTIONAL CONDITION. NO WONDER HOFFELHIFF REFUSED TO PART WITH IT.”

  “You don't scare me,” I said (though he did, in the extreme). “If you want Gax, it'll be over my d-dead body.”

  “NO, MA'AM,” said Gax, straightening his neck like a man before a firing squad. “IT'S NOT WORTH IT. I'M NOT WORTH IT. HAND ME OVER TO HIM BEFORE SOMEONE GETS HURT.”

  I looked down at Gax and spoke to him as firmly as I could. “Gax, I don't ever want to hear you talk that way again. We're a team. And I'm not handing you over to anyone.” I turned my gaze from Gax to Thirgen. “Least of all this twisted … greedy … freak of a robot.”

  “OVER YOUR DEAD BODY, EH?” said Thirgen, extending the laser pistol until its muzzle pressed into the flesh of my nose. “NOT MY FIRST CHOICE. BUT IF YOU INSIST …”

  My heart was pounding like crazy. Sweat was pouring down my cheeks. I shot a glance at Poog, who was regarding me with a strangely calm expression. He opened his mouth and uttered two brief gurgly sentences.

  “Poog is telling you to hand Gax over,” said Mr. Beeba, his voice trembling. “He has a very clever plan for outsmarting our foe.”

  Poog gave Mr. Beeba a highly annoyed stare.

  “Sorry,” whispered Mr. Beeba. “Wasn't supposed to translate that last bit.”

  “YOU CAN HAVE ALL THE PLANS YOU LIKE,” said Thirgen, “AS LONG AS YOU GIVE ME WHAT I WANT.”

  I took a deep breath and placed Gax's body in two of Thirgen's waiting arms.

  “SPLENDID, SPLENDID,” said Thirgen. “IT'S EVEN MORE IMPRESSIVE UP CLOSE.” Thirgen casually raised a third mechanical arm—one with a tiny pair of wire cutters on the end—and inserted it into a spot beneath Gax's head. Without a second's hesitation, he snipped.

  FZITCH

  Gax's head flopped to one side. He shuddered for a second, then became as limp and lifeless as a stringless marionette.

  “No!” I cried, tears stinging my eyes. I knew Gax was not deactivated for good. Still, it was like witnessing a murder.

  “AH, BUT I MUST PROTECT THE CIRCUITS,” said Thirgen. “MUSTN'T HAVE THEM BURNING AWAY INSIDE A ROBOT THAT IS GOING TO BE CANNIBALIZED ANYWAY.”

  I shot a glance at Poog. What was his plan?

  Poog stared at me with his big shiny eyes. His gaze burned into me. It's hard to explain, but I felt he was trying to … I don't know, beam a message to me or something.

  I stared right back at him, trying my best to decipher what he was trying to get across to me.

  Poog's lips were shut tight. But somewhere, deep inside my brain, I began to hear a word. It was like having someone whisper in my ear. But not my ear, exactly. Like someone whispering into a new ear, an ear in the center of my head, an ear I never knew I had.

  Move was the word I heard. Move.

  I stared at Poog, amazed. Poog simply nodded.

  Move? I thought. Move where?

  Then I understood: Thirgen's laser pistol was still trained on me. If Poog's plan was to succeed, my nose needed to be somewhere other than directly in front of Thirgen's laser pistol.

  “THE HEAD IS A BIT RUSTED OUT HERE ON ONE SIDE,” continued Thirgen, fascinated with his new acquisition, “BUT THAT'S NOTHING A SOLDERING IRON AND A BIT OF EFFORT WON'T FIX.”

  I glanced at Poog. He nodded again, reassuring me that if I followed his instructions, everything would be okay.

  “THIS MISSING SCREW IS GOING TO BE A PROBLEM, THOUGH,” said Thirgen. “THEY STOPPED MANUFACTURING THESE YEARS AGO.”

  I drew my nose back from Thirgen's pistol. Sure enough, Thirgen was so entranced with his new possession he didn't even notice.

  “STILL, THEY'LL BE ABLE TO MAKE A REASONABLE FACSIMILE OVER AT HAZZLE-SACK'S PLACE IF THE PRICE IS RIGHT….”

  I took a deep breath, bent my knees ever so slightly, and …

  FSWIT

  … dived to the floor.

  PYOOM! PYA-PYOOM!

  I heard the laser pistol fire but had no idea what it hit or how close it came to me. I rolled and turned just in time to see Poog rocket through the air and slam into Thirgen's body.

  The two of them skidded across the room and crashed into a shelf full of mechanical arms.

  KLANG! KLENG! TRUNG!

  Dozens of robot parts came clattering to the floor as Poog and Thirgen rebounded and tumbled back into the middle of the room.

  “FOOLISH TOOGOLIAN!” screeched Thirgen. “YOU'LL PAY FOR THAT WITH YOUR PURPLE HIDE!” One of Thirgen's mechanical arms punched a large red button on the floor, and immediately a series of armored walls shot down from above, sealing off all the robot parts from the escalating battle.

  PYOOM! PYOOM! PYA-PYA-PYA-PYOOOM!

  Mr. Beeba and I leaped behind a pillar as Thirgen began firing wildly around the room with his laser pistol. Poog dodged each blast perfectly. With each attempt to hit Poog, Thirgen left a new smoldering hole in the ceiling or floor. It soon became clear that Poog was purposely tricking Thirgen into using up his ammo and laying waste to his own home at the same time.

  Finally Thirgen stopped firing and took stock of the situation. Poog hovered in space and issued a short gurgly statement.

  Mr. Beeba, cowering with me behind the pillar, poked his head out to offer a translation. “P-Poog advises you to return our friend and his wheels before there is any further damage.”

  Thirgen was unimpressed. “I AM A FREE-RANGE ROBOT. I TAKE ORDERS FROM NO ONE. AND CERTAINLY NOT FROM THE LIKES OF YOU.” He drew Gax even closer to his body and rolled back several yards, onto a ramp leading to an alcove near the ceiling. “NOW, IF YOU WILL EXCUSE ME”—he was already halfway up the ramp—”I WILL BE OFF TO PUT MY NEW ACQUISITION IN SAFEKEEPING.”

  Rather than follow Thirgen, Poog floated over to my side and spoke to me urgently in Toogolian.

  “Poog wants you to climb on top of him,” said Mr. Beeba. “Like you did back at Alia Rellapor's castle.”

  “YOU mean he's going to — ”

  “Quickly, Akiko!” Mr. Beeba pointed at Thirgen. A section of the ceiling had moved away, leaving nothing above us but open air. “Thirgen's going to make good his escape! There's no time for questions!”

  I did as I was told, allowing Poog to snuggle into my belly and lift me into the air. Looking up, I saw Thirgen, with Gax still locked firmly in
his grasp, roll into a horseshoe-shaped contraption that had been designed to fit perfectly around his body. On either side of the thing was a variety of rocket boosters.

  K'CHAK! K'CHAK!

  As soon as the machinery was attached, it roared to life …

  FFFRRRRAAAAWWWWWwwww

  … and lifted Thirgen through the ceiling. He was now a combination robot-rocket ship and could fly anywhere he wished to go.

  “Go, 'Kiko!” cried a hoarse voice from behind me. It was Spuckler, who had recovered just in time to give me the send-off I needed. “Show that sucker that Earthians ain't nothin' to be messed with!”

  The towering skyscrapers of Omega Doy Zarius rushed by on either side as Poog rocketed me through the air. The sun had now vanished into the Moonguzzit Sea, and a chill wind whistled through my hair and across my arms, giving me goose pimples. Busy neon-lit streets and sidewalks sailed past below. It was like being in an airplane, but with no seat, no window, and … no airplane. Once or twice we came frighteningly close to a fleet of passing hover taxis, but Poog was very much in control: I was never in any real danger of hitting anything as long as I held on to him with all my might. Which I did, of course, so tightly that he could probably barely breathe.

  After a minute or two of speed that made my pigtails shoot back at a ninety-degree angle, Poog and I began to gain on Thirgen. For the time being, Thirgen was unaware that we were in pursuit, and closing in on him was a simple matter of staying on his trail and flying as fast as Poog could manage.

  Gax was still firmly in Thirgen's clutches, but if I got close enough to grab hold of Gax, maybe … just maybe … I could begin to pry him free.

  Soon we were within thirty feet of Thirgen and Gax.

  Then twenty feet.

  Then ten.

  Then five.