Read Online Chronicles of Isambard Smith 05 - End of Empires by Toby Frost - Free Book Online
Authors: Toby Frost
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in. ‘Quite often at night, I hear a revving sound –’
‘Shut up, Suruk.’
‘Just here,’ said the pickpocket. ‘On the left.’
They looked at a dark and narrow doorway. Steps led into a dim room, strewn with cushions and drug paraphernalia. ‘Careful, men,’ Smith said. ‘This looks like the dwelling place of either hardened criminals or media studies students.’
He took the lead. In the weak light, he made out ports in the walls, where a variety of down-at-wheel scrapbots lurked. Three automatons lay sprawled in a corner on standby, slowly passing round a cable connected to an opium simulator.
‘Boss!’ the pickpocket called. ‘Boss, it’s me!’
A head slid out of an alcove on a jointed neck. Following it came long, slender arms built from angle-poise lamps. Each ended in spindly fingers, like an insect’s legs. It was wearing three pairs of fingerless gloves.
‘What’s all this?’ it demanded.
‘We have your scrapbot,’ Smith said.
Part of the furniture seemed to come alive. A heavy body rose up with a whine of servos and turned to them. Its head was a metal skull, painted with a chipped Union Jack. Massive nail guns clacked like pincers. ‘Give,’ it grunted. ‘Or I’ll smash yer.’
‘Easy Bill, easy!’ the spindly robot cried. ‘Gentlemen, please. Let’s do this like civilised people. Come, take a seat. This is my companion and esteemed business partner, William Sticker, formerly of the advertising trade. I am Mark Twelve, acquisitions and resale expert.’
‘Isambard Smith, space captain. These are my crew: Suruk the Slayer, Rhianna Mitchell, ship’s – er –’
‘Health and wellbeing counsellor,’ Rhianna said.
‘And Polly Carveth, ship’s android.’
‘Hoity-toity fleshbot,’ Bill growled.
‘Now Bill, let’s not be hasty, eh?’ Mark Twelve’s head came forward and scrutinised the visitors. ‘Yes, I believe that is one of my charges you’ve got there. You see, gentlemen, and dear ladies, I am a device of benevolence. Here I keep a home, free of charge, for whatever unfortunate robots are tossed by life’s iniquities onto the scrapheap of – well, scrap. I care for ’em, you see.’
Smith looked at the slew of limbs, springs, joints and sensors around the alcove. ‘From the looks of it, you make them as well.’
‘You’re most observant, Captain Smith. These are hard times to be a robot, you know. What with the Robot Ripper dismantling units of easy virtue and the cockney virus running rampant, things could hardly be worse. Why, only last week Bill here caught a dose of rust right in his –’
‘Oi!’ said Sticker.
‘A thousand pardons, William. But I won’t delay you any longer, Captain. Thank you for bringing young Charlie back. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to fix a spocket or two.’
Smith shook his head. ‘Not so fast. “Young Charlie” tried to pick Suruk’s pocket. If you want him back, we want something in return.’
Twelve’s head retracted. ‘Well, that changes things, doesn’t it?’ His processor clicked. ‘Contemplating variables... reviewing situation... alright, what do you need?’
‘Information. There’s an organisation called the Popular Fist. We want to find them.’
‘That could be difficult.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, they’re very small.’ Twelve looked at Sticker. ‘Also, they meet in dangerous territory. Do you know the old Picture House?’
‘No,’ Smith said.
‘It’s in the docks. And the Cranes have the docks.’
Rhianna said, ‘You mean that the docks have cranes.’
Sticker loomed up beside her. ‘Nah. Rom and Ram Crane. They own the docks. And their boss has all the rest – the Ringleader, they call him. He used to run a circus, taming lions. If anything goes on here, they take a cut. Or else they take a limb. And there’s only so many times you can get your limbs soldered back on.’
‘Cranes?’ Smith said. ‘Would they happen to know a – well, a sort of digging
‘Shut up, Suruk.’
‘Just here,’ said the pickpocket. ‘On the left.’
They looked at a dark and narrow doorway. Steps led into a dim room, strewn with cushions and drug paraphernalia. ‘Careful, men,’ Smith said. ‘This looks like the dwelling place of either hardened criminals or media studies students.’
He took the lead. In the weak light, he made out ports in the walls, where a variety of down-at-wheel scrapbots lurked. Three automatons lay sprawled in a corner on standby, slowly passing round a cable connected to an opium simulator.
‘Boss!’ the pickpocket called. ‘Boss, it’s me!’
A head slid out of an alcove on a jointed neck. Following it came long, slender arms built from angle-poise lamps. Each ended in spindly fingers, like an insect’s legs. It was wearing three pairs of fingerless gloves.
‘What’s all this?’ it demanded.
‘We have your scrapbot,’ Smith said.
Part of the furniture seemed to come alive. A heavy body rose up with a whine of servos and turned to them. Its head was a metal skull, painted with a chipped Union Jack. Massive nail guns clacked like pincers. ‘Give,’ it grunted. ‘Or I’ll smash yer.’
‘Easy Bill, easy!’ the spindly robot cried. ‘Gentlemen, please. Let’s do this like civilised people. Come, take a seat. This is my companion and esteemed business partner, William Sticker, formerly of the advertising trade. I am Mark Twelve, acquisitions and resale expert.’
‘Isambard Smith, space captain. These are my crew: Suruk the Slayer, Rhianna Mitchell, ship’s – er –’
‘Health and wellbeing counsellor,’ Rhianna said.
‘And Polly Carveth, ship’s android.’
‘Hoity-toity fleshbot,’ Bill growled.
‘Now Bill, let’s not be hasty, eh?’ Mark Twelve’s head came forward and scrutinised the visitors. ‘Yes, I believe that is one of my charges you’ve got there. You see, gentlemen, and dear ladies, I am a device of benevolence. Here I keep a home, free of charge, for whatever unfortunate robots are tossed by life’s iniquities onto the scrapheap of – well, scrap. I care for ’em, you see.’
Smith looked at the slew of limbs, springs, joints and sensors around the alcove. ‘From the looks of it, you make them as well.’
‘You’re most observant, Captain Smith. These are hard times to be a robot, you know. What with the Robot Ripper dismantling units of easy virtue and the cockney virus running rampant, things could hardly be worse. Why, only last week Bill here caught a dose of rust right in his –’
‘Oi!’ said Sticker.
‘A thousand pardons, William. But I won’t delay you any longer, Captain. Thank you for bringing young Charlie back. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to fix a spocket or two.’
Smith shook his head. ‘Not so fast. “Young Charlie” tried to pick Suruk’s pocket. If you want him back, we want something in return.’
Twelve’s head retracted. ‘Well, that changes things, doesn’t it?’ His processor clicked. ‘Contemplating variables... reviewing situation... alright, what do you need?’
‘Information. There’s an organisation called the Popular Fist. We want to find them.’
‘That could be difficult.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, they’re very small.’ Twelve looked at Sticker. ‘Also, they meet in dangerous territory. Do you know the old Picture House?’
‘No,’ Smith said.
‘It’s in the docks. And the Cranes have the docks.’
Rhianna said, ‘You mean that the docks have cranes.’
Sticker loomed up beside her. ‘Nah. Rom and Ram Crane. They own the docks. And their boss has all the rest – the Ringleader, they call him. He used to run a circus, taming lions. If anything goes on here, they take a cut. Or else they take a limb. And there’s only so many times you can get your limbs soldered back on.’
‘Cranes?’ Smith said. ‘Would they happen to know a – well, a sort of digging
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