Big Son (who used to be Little Boy) wrote the story below in P6. It has never been published. I hope readers enjoy it.
It is year
3012, the year of despair for all the unemployed. At the turn of the century,
an inventor by the name of Robert Taylor had invented what the press dubbed
“mankind's greatest innovation thus far”. Strangely enough, it was created with
the single purpose of enslaving men. The robotifier was a small circular plate
with a few buttons, a USB port and minimal cost. However, with suitable
machinery, one could insert it into the head of any human. This would strip him
or her of all emotion, will, opinion and thought whilst causing the wretched
victim to be entirely devoted to any chosen master at the press of a button. In
short, he or she would be reduced to an “It”, an opinionless slave, an
emotionless machine ––– an organic robot.
So the race was
on, as companies and nations dashed to haul outlaws, pickpockets and murderers
alike from their dark and dank cells for the operation. Shrieks of terror and
spurts of blood escaped from the operation room as the convicts leapt from the
frying pan into the fire. These robots of flesh and blood were soon found
nearly everywhere, from dark-as-dungeon coal mines and smoggy factories to rich
households and posh restaurants. Nevertheless, there was a limit to the number
of crooks they could find. Demand soon outgrew supply. The prisons were soon
barren, the click of the guard's footsteps ringing loud through the deserted
corridors. The moans of the depressed old men, mingled with the hoarse shrieks
of distressed young lads were replaced with eerie pin drop silence. Within a
decade nearly all felons and jailbirds had been robotified.
A couple of
years later, the solution was found. They turned their attention to the people
living in poverty. Sweeping through the slums, they nabbed the pitiful,
woebegone people and seized their meager belongings. Driven by the fear of
capture some took the easy way out with a knife through the chest, whilst
countless others turned on each other in desperation and despair. The scourge
of terror broke more men than the scourge of robotry ––– as the process had
been named. It was during one of these immoral campaigns that a young man named
John was abducted.......
Gulping down
the revolting mug of stale beer, he grabbed the improvised dagger he had
crafted for himself and staggered to his feet. Clutching it tightly, he creaked
open the half-rotten slapdash door. With adrenaline pumping, he peered out into
the repulsive pigpen of a dirt track. He was scanning for signs of danger. It
was imperative in those days. His neighbour went insane just the other day and
stabbed a friend. Two men down the road were killed, having been mistaken for
being organic robots. Seeing that the coast was clear, he sidled onto the
street. Verminous, vile muck sloshed over his bare feet as he waded through the
sea of filth. An enormous rat scuttled past. There were probably more rats than
humans in the slum. Arriving at his only friend's door, he rapped on it. Nobody
barged into houses lest they be mistaken for an organic robot and found a knife
in their eye. From within came the raspy voice, “Come in.” Swinging the door
open, he found a sharpened stick leveled at him. The decrepit old inhabitant
then lowered the spear as recognition showed on his face. “Welcome John,”
murmured the ancient man. Gazing into the bloodshot eyes fixed on him, John
thought back to his knowledge of this hardy survivor. He was the oldest man in
the slum who had not succumbed to illness or the pall of gnawing fear and
suspicion which lingered in the air.
His train of
thought was broken by an ear-piercing yelp. He snapped out of his reverie in
time to see a man stumble to the top of the hill before crumpling to the
ground, a dart in his back. Within the blnk of an eye, a truckload of organic
robots drove over the hill. They were armed to the teeth with dartguns and
knock-out gas. Faced with this dire situation, a variety of reactions were
displayed. Some were paralysed with fear, rooted to the spot and frozen in time
when they saw the shadow cast by the vehicle in the afternoon sun. Others fled
like madmen, racing as fast as their malnourished bodies could take them. John
leapt for the ditch at the double. Cowering in the mud, shielded by the sides
of the ditch he witnessed the chaos and havoc wreaked by the intruders. The
hunted were picked off with astonishing accuracy. Columns of smoke rose from
all around obscuring vision. A platoon of organic robots emerged from the
fumes.
Grasping a
steel pole, with the strength of a tiger and the fury of a fiend, John swung it
in a wide arc, striking an advancing attacker on the forehead. The emotionless
creature stared blankly at him, with crimson blood trickling down his pale face
and attempted to raise his weapon. With a fluid swipe, John lopped his head off
before plunging his knife into the robotifier of the next assaulter. A surge of
blood gushed from the open vein with an explosion of electrical sparks. Gawking
at him with bewildered, pleading eyes, the dazed man let out a pained groan
before collapsing to the ground in a jumbled heap.
He had killed a
man.
An upwelling of
sympathy blended with John's hatred and instinctive fear. For a split second,
he hesitated. That was his folly. In this hard world, sympathy was punished.
Before he knew it, a dart buried itself in his flesh. The potent potion set to
work at once. A wave of fatigue overcame his strained body. He tried to
suppress the effects, but his efforts were futile. Vision was closing in. From
his peripheral vision he saw the old man fighting for his life, downing organic
robots as they neared. Still, it was clear that he too, would eventually be
brought down. The thud of his skull on the stiff stony soil was the last thing
John felt as he passed out.
With agile,
practiced movements the nimble fingers of the organic robots bound the
unconscious men before lining them up on a separate, boxed up truck in an
orderly fashion and injecting them with Heimia salicifolia. Heimia
salicifolia is a drug which operates as a subtle sedative and tranquilizer
causing the victim to be extremely calm and compliant. During robotry, it was
used to subdue the victim in order to ensure that he does not resist the
operation. The injection of this devilish extract was done in no time flat as
organic robots were far from slow and sluggish. In fact, one of the reasons why
they were favoured over traditional workers was that they were swifter and
speedier than the average man. Another advantage is that their ability to focus
is greatly increased. However, once in a blue moon, human error will still
occur. In this case, despite weeks of prior observation, counting of population
and meticulous calculation, there was a shortage of Heimia salicifolia. As
luck would have it, due to John's opposition and struggling coupled with his
obscure hiding place, he was the last to be handled. As a result of this and
the fact that there was insufficient Heimia salicifolia, he was only
administered a twentieth of the usual amount of the foul concoction.
Two hours
later, John woke up in a terrible fright, finding himself dripping with cold
sweat. His doze had not been peaceful at all, plagued by nightmares of death
and robotry. Testing his hands, he determined that they were roped together. He
scrutinised the area for a means of escape. As his eyes adjusted to the dim
lighting, they homed in onto a shard of glass. Glancing about warily, he slowly
edged his way towards the glimmer of hope. With his hands closed around the
potential triangular piece, he spliced his bonds. He flexed his aching hands
before approaching the first captive. His intention was to liberate his fellow
captives and together, mutiny against the organic robots. But he saw that there
was a flaw in his grand plan as he noticed the uncannily calm and composed
expressions on the faces of his company.
Just then the
vehicle trundled to a hasty halt. John immediately pocketed his new-found
weapon, scampered back to his former position and promptly tied himself up. The
door swung open for the captors to file in. Helping their prisoners up
brusquely, they pushed them out into the open. They had arrived at the city
centre. It was nearly midnight. The streets were still bustling with traffic. A
bus full of people sped past, letting out strings of jeers. They clearly were
not particularly welcome. John took this all in whilst maintaining a facial expression
as close to the idiotic grins plastered on the faces of his company, as he
could manage. Then, they were shoved towards the gigantic edifice before them.
At the top of the edifice large, bold letters, spelled out “Robotry
Department”.
With his heart
in his mouth, John reluctantly passed through the doors. Glancing warily at his
guards, he proceeded down the whitewashed hallway which to him, seemed to
resound with the wails of tormented men. They entered an intimidating waiting
room. The walls were of cold metal. The floor was bare. Even the blinding white
light seemed unfriendly from his vantage point. The emotionless piercing gaze
of the soldiers made him want to retch. Numbers were assigned to the various
men. John received number thirty-eight. When they called a number, the man was
to enter the Operation Room. One after another, the crowd gradually
disappeared. Not long after, his turn came to pass through the imposing doors.
As the somber
doors slammed in behind him, he leapt into action. Clasping the fragment of
glass hidden beneath the folds of his tattered garments, he whipped around.
Swift as lightning, his hand darted out, severing the head of a guard. Spinning
back around, he meant to charge his remaining opponents when a sparkle of light
caught his eyes as it glanced off the razor sharp surgical blades assembled on
the counter. Seeing their potential as weapons, he generated a better plan and
made a beeline for them at once, frenziedly slashing and striking a path of
blood for himself. Spurred on by the stone-age instinct to preserve his
endangered life, he struck in hot blood, without a second thought. He snatched
up a scintillating shiv, before assailing the white machinery by his side with
unfaltering resolution. He did so with good reason as this was the dreaded
apparatus utilised for the insertion of the robotifer. But, outnumbered and
outarmed, defeat was certain. Within a matter of seconds he was struck down,
overpowered and restrained. The operation was set to begin.
Forcing down
his saliva, he glanced apprehensively at the surgeons. Then, a gleaming needle
plunged into his thigh, within seconds, he passed out. Later on, he woke up to
find himself still in control of himself but immensely confused. The truth was
that John's rampage with the surgical knife had, in fact, knocked the power
source of the robotifier from its socket. This parasitic gadget would simply
sap power from its host the moment it settled in. However, during the takeover,
it relied on itself. So, without energy, the annexation of his mind did not commence.
He later learnt that he was in the Recuperation Hall. It was basically a long
winding hallway, lined with rooms and ending with a canteen, gymnasium and
lavatory. The rooms functioned as the dormitories of the new organic robots,
whilst the canteen and bathroom provided them with their basic necessities. The
gymnasium also allowed them to exercise, raising their value. This area was run
by a puny crew of twenty organic robots which were specifically programmed to
care for the new robots whilst these recuperated from their operations. At
first glance, this would seem like the perfect opportunity to escape, and a
terrible flaw in the robotification process.
However, when
one considered the fact that outside the Hall, were hundreds of surveillance
cameras monitoring a maze of alien corridors and thousands of guards patrolling
the perimeters, the building would turn out to be a foolproof prison. John
wisely decided to lie low and wait for a chance to make a break for it. The
Recuperation Hall allowed him and his inmates to heal from the injuries
inflicted during robotification. John was able to recover from the emotional
shock and upheaval caused by his operation. Here, the new robots were bathed,
dressed, and trained for duties.
In spite of
this chance to recuperate, John was still extremely unhappy, living in constant
fear. He knew that this blissful period would be succeeded by the market.
There, they would be sold to a millionaire with his nose in the air who would
more likely than not, be a brutal and harsh master. After an eternity in the
hospital-like ward, the time to depart eventually came. Packed into a truck,
the cargo left the Robotry Department. The vehicle left the shadow of the
looming building, but the shadow cast by the memories of that place would never
be lifted from John's heart.
Arriving at the
market, they were ordered from the automobile and on to a platform. Looking
down, he sighted a score of plush, well-to-do merchants, business men and high
ranking government officials. An overweight individual identified a muscled
young man to John's left. “Turn him off for me!” he demanded. The product was
shackled. Then, with the push of a button, the cloudy fog which had numbed the
pain faculty, the steel clasps which had gripped the emotional centre and the
iron bars which had imprisoned the young man's will all vanished into thin air.
Stunned and dazzled by this sudden change, the young man took a while to come
to his wits before the fear and rage came on. Ensuring that the goods had not
simply been drugged, the buyer nodded acknowledgement. “I'll give two hundred thousand
for all fifty.” he hollered. “Two hundred and eighty hundred thousand!”
bellowed a blubbery man, so fat that he looked like two Santa Clauses in one.
“Three hundred thousand” yelled another from the buzzing crowd. The fifty young
men were marched over to their new owner. Amongst them was John who had been
continuously watching and observing throughout the event. Grinning contentedly,
the customer marched his purchases home.
Soon after,
John arrived at the mansion. Majestic towers rose from the ground. Well trimmed
bushes lined the path. Moving forward they soon arrived at a hulking pair of
double-doors. Entering the awe-inspiring entrance, they were met with regal
chandeliers, sky-high, ornamented ceilings and a well-dressed servant. A single
glance at the stony face revealed that this worker had been robotified.
“Prepare these!” growled the Master, before hustling off. The robots were then
led to a bathroom. “Bathe.” said their instructor in a monotone. Squashed
together in the cramped up bathroom, they showered without complaint. Next the
orders were given. They were each handed a thumb drive containing the map of
the palace, their role and their daily routine. This was to be plugged into the
robotifier. John was then faced with a challenge, for his robotifier was
faulty. Making a split-second decision, he returned the thumbdrive. Mantaining
a semblance of the impassive voice his companions used, he claimed that the
thumb drive was damaged. Immediately, he was passed a hardcopy version
corresponding to his thumb drive. He had crossed the first hurdle.
Most of the
poor were illiterate, though the robotifier enabled them to read and write.
However, the robotifier was unnecessary in John's case, for he had been partly
educated and understood simple English. From the booklet, he learnt that he was
to wait on the Master in the gardens where the pompous fellow dined. This
placed him in the perfect position to observe his master. He was determined to
utilise it fully. So, throughout lunch and dinner, amongst his countless myriad
of tasks, John kept his eyes fixed on his master.
The Master was
a self-important man with a bulging head and waistline. Lounging in his
armchair, robed in extravagant clothing, the conceited singleton gorged himself
on a feast fit for a king. Another defining characteristic of this egoistic man
was that he was constantly in a temper. This was a bitter pill for John to
swallow, but he bore with it in impassive, stony silence.
That night, when
he retired to bed, he was well and truly exhausted. Yet, he could not enter the
land of dreams. Tossing and turning under the covers, he wondered at the stark
contrast between the flamboyant lifestyles of the rich and the ways of the
impoverished poor. He thought back to his old friend who had been robotified.
Despite his age, he had killed organic robots. His mind then wandered over to
the scene at the market when the robotifier was turned off. Then, a bulb lit up
over his head as a brilliant idea struck him. If he turned the robotifiers of
the other servants off, they could rebel against the Master and escape. He
would be the hero of the story, a beacon of light in an era of darkness and
repression. He smiled.
Immediately
executing his plan, he crawled out off bed and depressed a button on another
robotifier. Leaping from the bed, the man he had freed slammed him against the
wall. “Where am I?” shrieked the distressed man, “Who are you?” After
explaining the situation to him and outlining the plan, John moved on to the
next servant. One by one, he liberated his comrades. Each displayed a different
reaction. Some were relieved, some were afraid and others were furious.
Nonetheless, they all showed full-hearted support and agreement with his plot,
whether with enthusiastic shouts of approval or solemn nods of acknowledgement.
So in the dead
of night, they crept into the kitchen quiet as mice and armed themselves with
knives of every sort, serrated and barbed, pronged and spiked, whetted and
keen. The former robots who had acted as security guards retrieved their
weapons ––– pistols, rifles, batons, grenades. Antique blunderbusses and
flintlocks were dug from the “Personal Museum” of the mansion. Next, they fell
upon their master, unleashing their pent-up hatred and vengeance, slaughtered their
“owners”, massacring the occupants of the villa. With both the element of
suprise and sheer numbers on their side it was a clear victory. Kicking the
doors open, with guns blazing, they filled their victims with bullets. For some
others, they simply hurled grenades into the room and waited for the blast.
Before long, the mansion was theirs. The second hurdle had been traversed and
the skies were all clear, or so they thought......
Rifling through
drawers and wardrobes, they tried on the magnificent cloaks of their late
masters. Rummaging through the bursting larders, they feasted on savoury
morsels they had never tasted. Breaking into the cellars, they were drunk on
vintage wine. Jubilant as ever, they reveled in the sweet taste of victory. It
was a night of merrymaking and festivity lasting into the wee hours of morning.
Then, from the
North came an incessant whirring. All of a sudden throughout the mansion
thundered the rattle of machine gun fire. Whipping their heads around they were
met with a mob of choppers equipped with guns of every type, accompanied by a
score of bombers. Some were so deep in their cups that they simply lay there
like sitting ducks, waiting to be slaughtered. Those who were not drunk
senseless, scrambled for their weapons at once, fleeing to the Keep.
The Keep was a
structure which remained from the Dark Ages. Stampeding into their only safe
resort, the rebels shut the door behind them. Then a blast of heat emanated
from the upper floors. A beam of light hit the ground as the roof was torn
open. The fort was being bombed! The Keep had withstood many a trebuchet or
mangonel in times long gone, holding off more than a few invaders from medieval
times. However, the oaken supports had rotted and crumbled, the stone walls
pockmarked by millions of arrows. In this state, it was certainly no match for
the advanced explosives of modern weaponry. The stronghold was slowly being
demolished.
Not long after,
the place was reduced to rubble and the fugitives were massacred. John had also
been captured. For a rebel leader with such a poor standing in the social
hierachy and no lawyer to fight for him , the charge was clear, it would be the
“Painful Death” the contrivance of some demented lawmaker. Hauled from his
cell, John was strapped to a chair. Clips were attached to his fingers. Then,
the horror began as pain signals coursed through his nerves.
He opened his
mouth to howl but no sound was emitted. He felt a jolt of excruciating pain
course through his body. It was as if every one of his nerves were overloaded
with pain. The pain sent him into spasms though his bonds held him fast. He had
found a new name for pain, “The Obliterator”. That was precisely what it did.
It quenched every inkling and crushed every thought as it rampaged through the alleyways
of the mind, leaving a trail of destruction It felt as if a thousand needles
were piercing his skin. It flooded his mind, wresting control from him.
Barricading himself within the confines of his mind he mustered every iota of
strength remaining and gave one last, desperate effort to survive. But his
efforts were to be in vain. His resistance would be vanquished. Moments later,
the minute long torment which felt like an hour long ordeal was ended. Splayed
out in an ungainly manner, his face was convulsed in agony too terrible for
words.
He was dead.
