Expert Assistance, Page 3

  “I think it’s time for you to go to bed,” Jake snapped.

  “And a good night to you, too, Jake.” She shook her head, turned, and wandered back to her room.

  “Screen, on.”

  “Volume?” Odin asked.

  Jake sucked in an angry breath. Damn, but I am tempted.

  “Medium low,” he answered, “just this once.”

  The screen came alive. The first image to flash on was that of an oversized old-fashioned circuit board painted gold. The “board” sat at a tilt, and rotated on a pedestal. An unseen male voice came up to set the stage.

  “This is the Motherboard of Victory,” it said, “long a symbol of the nastiest, most vicious, and most triumphant robot combatant of the season. Tonight, live, you will see which ‘bot team gets to claim the Motherboard. It’s time for the RoboJoust season finals!”

  The image of the “trophy” was replaced by inset images of small armed and armored vehicles racing into each other on grass and on dirt. Some crashed into bushes, while others were pushed into tiny ponds. At least one unfortunate machine that had somehow gotten airborne had its underbelly slammed into by an opponent and was sent tumbling. Finally the graphic RoboJoust was projected over the images of destruction. The opening ended with the word “Finals!” in a stencil font racing in from one corner to stop under the word “RoboJoust.”

  Jake let out an eager breath. He had become a fan of RoboJoust a few years ago when, during some downtime on another job, he happened across a broadcast. It hooked him almost instantly. On a gut level he could appreciate the combat and carnage, but the cleverness of design and the strategies of the bot owners also appealed to him. It was the one sport that could hold his interest for more than a few moments.

  Jake was not quite a typical viewer of RoboJoust. The main audience were men from five to ten years younger than him. They were either still in college or just starting careers in astronomical engineering, programming, or some other highly technical field. But Jake’s strong interest was shared by most of the audience. Since RoboJoust had been created about a decade ago, every measuring method showed that its audience consistently tuned in every week. Few advertisers had yet discovered it, but those that had appreciated it as much as the audience did. That audience, like Jake, was tuned in especially intensely to this broadcast. After fifteen weeks of local matches and a week each of quarterfinals and semifinals, the RoboJoust season came to end with the finals.

  That was made abundantly clear by the two hosts of RoboJoust, Bill Martin and Dinesh Ral. Martin, a stocky man in his early thirties with cropped black hair and an easy smile, was the first to speak once the opening was over. “Yes, people, tonight is the night for fighting bots,” he said. “In the words of the ancient gods of sportscasting, it all comes down to this.”

  The camera view shifted to Ral, a slim man in his late thirties. He was dressed more formally than Martin, but no less enthusiastic. “Bill, you know your history,” he said, nodding his head. “That’s correct, fans of robot destruction. Fifteen matches, the quarters, and the semis have brought us to this night.”

  “And it is a very good night here at West Port Joust Park. We’re back in the small city of Westport on Vandalia Three. West Port Park was selected at the start of this season to host this year’s finals. Now, the best teams and their bots have ended their jumps here to see who gets the Motherboard, and who gets a kick in the ass.”

  As Martin spoke the image shifted from the RoboJoust studio to the joust park. The “combat area” wasn’t much on the face of it. It was an open square, fifteen meters by fifteen, with a tiny pond to one side; a bush well to the right of the pond; a mound opposite that bush; another bush to the right and ahead of it; and a meter long ditch a few centimeters deep in the center. In RoboJoust terms, it was the ideal spot to hold the finals. Every legal hazard was in the combat area, and none were too difficult for the combatants to deal with if they were smart. It was a balanced arena, unlike other parks where one hazard or the other might dominate. Except for the ditch the hazards were to the sides, leaving more space for the robotic vehicles to slug it out.

  Finally the image of the park was replaced by a two-shot of Martin and Ral. “So, my friend,” Martin asked, “what’s our first finals match, and who will be knocking metal?”

  “Bill, up first is the middleweight final. It pits Slayer and Team Warp against Tornado and Team Master.”

  The two-shot was replaced by a picture of a sandy-haired man with a trim beard in his late twenties. “Team Warp consists of Bran Murphee, who not only drives but also does all his own maintenance. This is just his second season competing in RoboJoust. He’s come a long way in so short a time.”

  That was a sentiment Jake could agree with. As far as Jake knew, Murphee had been a fan of RoboJoust from the start. Just over two years ago Murphee decided to stop watching and join in. He pooled his own savings with an investment from a sci-fi shop on his home world and constructed his first entry, a lightweight robot called “Dark Knight.”

  Murphee didn’t attract much attention early in his first season of competition. Since the second season fans of RoboJoust had gotten up from their chairs and entered robots. As that season went along Murphee’s profile rose. He beat a semifinalist from the year before, held his own against a quarterfinalist, and ended the season with an 8-7 record.

  This season Murphee went on a tear. He scored twelve wins, and took out three of his opponents before time ran out. Slayer was not knocked out once, and two of the three losses were strictly based on the points awarded by the judges. Murphee had become a new fan favorite, and there was plenty of cheering for him among the spectators and the audience, Jake included.

  Murphee’s picture on Jake’s screen was replaced by one of his robot. “Slayer is a four-wheeled killer. It’s turtle-like shell has made it hard to beat, and its retractable spike has stabbed twelve opponents to death. In its first season, Slayer has a solid three KO's.”

  The next image on the screen was of a mustachioed man pushing forty with thinning dark hair and a gap-toothed smile. “Team Master is led by longtime champion Carlo Kidder. Interestingly, this is only the second time Carlo has had a bot even make it into the middleweight finals. That was four seasons ago, and that bot, King Rat, was shredded in the semifinal match.”

  Kidder’s image was then replaced by that of his robot. “Tornado is a six-wheeled monstrosity with a top-mounted spinning blade. It’s racked up an impressive five knockouts this season, with one coming in the quarterfinal. But don’t let its bulk fool you; early this season Tornado used its weight to push Flash into hazards when its blade went buggy.”

  In Jake’s mind the match was not a simple good-versus-evil showdown. While he liked Murphee, he didn’t hate Carlo Kidder. Kidder was nice guy, a clever tinkerer, and a decent competitor. He rarely gloated when he won, not even running one of his robots on a victory lap or dance. Jake couldn’t remember when Kidder had not been gracious in defeat, and in fact the only lapse had occurred during his first year of competition due to a questionable awarding of points. If it had been against anyone else and with any other bot, Jake would have cheered for Kidder.

  The only obstacle was Kidder’s bot. Jake found Tornado to be one butt-ugly machine. It’s six wheels seemed ungainly, and the decoration on the spinning blade hurt his eyes when it was in action. It didn’t help to see sponsor signs plastered on all four sides, each of which was carefully restored if damaged. Finally, the spinning blade was about as subtle as a brick. All in all, Jake hoped that Slayer would spear Tornado.

  The image on the screen in front of him shifted back from Tornado to a two-shot of commentators Martin and Ral. “Okay, Dinesh, put yours cards on the table. Who do you like in this one?”

  “Well, Bill, Slayer’s fast and aggressive, but Tornado is big and powerful. Add to that Carlo Kidder’s experience, and I think Tornado has to be the favorite.”

  “I gotta disagree with you, my friend. Murphee’s
the best driver in his division, and he’s fought here before this season. I think Slayer has a chance.”

  “Okay. No matter what, it should be a good match.”

  “No doubt about that. Well, it looks like the introductions to the crowd are over. Let’s go down to the field and find out who’s going to be this season’s middleweight champ.”

  The image on the screen shifted from the studio to the arena. A countdown clock ticked off seconds in negative numbers. When the clock reached “0:00:00,” a loud buzzer sounded. The match was underway. While their faces weren’t on the screen, the voices of Martin and Ral narrated the action on the screen.

  “And Slayer’s moving out fast and heading straight for Tornado!”

  “Murphee’s aggressive, no doubt about it.”

  “And wham! Slayer draws first blood before Tornado’s blade has time to get going. That’s a smart move on Murphee’s part, getting in blow before that blade is up at full speed.”

  “Now we’ll see if Tornado will let that hit go unanswered.”

  “Both bots are moving around. Slayer’s trying to stay away from that blade. Tornado’s lumbering to get into a position that limits Slayer’s options.”

  “No one’s going to take any risks at this point. There’s three minutes to go. Plenty of time to get the job done.”

  “Looks like Tornado’s trying to get up on that mound, maybe get some momentum coming down.”

  “Or maybe lure Slayer into a trap. It’s rounded shell would be much easier to damage if Tornado hit it at an angle.”

  “There goes Slayer! Maybe Murphee... Bam! Slayer nails one of Tornado’s tires! Oh, man, that Murphee’s got guts.”

  “Luckily Tornado has six wheels. That’s not going to be fatal damage.”

  “But a hit is a hit, and Slayer has two. So far Tornado is just spinning air. It’s no F6 in this match. Kidder’s got to get in there now.”

  “Kidder said earlier this season that he wanted Tornado to have some heft to deal with bots lower than the blade. But here the heft is just slowing him down.”

  “Oh, but now he’s pissed. Even with one tire spiked, he’s getting Tornado moving. He wants to get in there and smack Slayer around.

  “But Slayer isn’t taking the bait this time. He’s backing away, and keeping the end with the spike facing Tornado.”

  “That’s a very good strategy on Murphee’s part. Hey! Slayer’s getting close to the water.”

  “Oh, and he turns just in time.”

  “Oh, my, Tornado isn’t going to!”

  “No, way, pal! Ow! Tornado hits the water hazard! It was just a glancing blow, but that still costs him. Your bot Tornado is in a pretty deep hole right now.”

  “Kidder is experienced enough that he can still get out, if he can just get in close.”

  “You can bet your jump drive that Murphee ain’t gonna risk it now. He’s out ahead, and as long as he doesn’t make any mistakes he won’t be giving up his lead.

  “Now, Slayer’s stopped behind the mound. He moves forward, moves back. Oh, man, he’s saying, ‘Hey, come here, Tornado. I gotta spike I wanna drive into you.’ Tornado’s moving in slowly. Kidder’s trying to find a way in.”

  “One minute left.”

  “Kidder’s still trying to get in. I think that lost tire might also be slowing him down. Ho, there he goes! Oh, and Slayer darts around the other side of the mound and into the open! He was stalling for time.”

  “Oh, my, no!”

  “And Kidder can’t get Tornado turned around enough to make another run at Slayer. He’s trying, he’s trying, there he goes. Now Tornado means business.”

  “Just one good hit, that’s all he needs.”

  “There goes Slayer again! This time he’s camping in front of the ditch. Oh, man, if Tornado makes a run now, he could pull it off.”

  “There he goes.”

  “Slayer pulls out again! Kidder had better...”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Thump! Tornado hits the ditch with twenty seconds left.”

  “There’s Slayer!”

  “Bam! That’s one. That’s two! And Slayer pulls back from Tornado. Murphee knows he’s got it won. Lookit, a victory dance from Slayer. That’s the match! Slayer in an upset! The veteran Carlo Kidder, defeated by the newbie Bran Murphee, and by a landslide. Tornado was sucking vacuum, while Slayer inflicted four unanswered hits.”

  “The judges’ votes are in. Slayer nine, Tornado null.”

  “Well, you saw it here. The first match was an upset. We’ll be back with the awarding of the Motherboard, the hit of the match, and the heavyweight final, right after this shameless begging from the megacorps that deign to support us. Don’t you change your feed.”

  The image on the screen froze. “Jake,” Odin said, “I hate to interrupt you, but tomorrow’s schedule...”

  “Will be a long one, I know. Save the rest for later viewing. It will give me something good to watch during Evvie’s concert.”

  “Done.”

  Jake stood, stretched his arms, then bent over a few times. He rubbed his neck with his right hand. He let out a breath, then started walking to his bedroom.

  Three

  A Clause For Everything

  Jake had been watching Evvie’s first “performance” for less than half an hour when boredom overtook him. The songs had melded together in an amorphous mass of up-tempo pleasantries. Anonymous and toned male and female dancers were moving in endless synchronization. Holographic images were merging into brightly colored blobs.

  With the right pharmaceuticals, he thought, this might make for a nice little buzz.

  Jake could not escape the images on the screen so easily. He had to maintain a watch on the “concert” so as to properly perform his job. Sid had provided him with the list of songs Evvie would perform, so Jake would know when the show was over. It was a good gesture, but it also gave Jake more information on her career than he’d ever wanted.

  The first song of her concert was “Sweet Kisses and Sour Grapes.” It was her seventh hit and by far her most popular song. If pressed Jake would admit that the tune had some merit. It told the story of a girl who wanted a boy but was rejected by him; while she dreamed of giving him “sweet kisses,” she wondered if he was better in her dreams than in reality. It had some spark of imagination, but it was also entirely predictable.

  The second slot in the concert was held by her first hit as a pop singer, “Baby Move Your Groove.” It was like every other teen dance hit Jake had ever known of, and naturally was Evvie’s second most-popular hit. The song was followed by two upcoming releases, the cloying “Toys and Candy” and the nauseating “That Famous Little Girl.” Jake suspected that if those two became hits, they’d switch places in the lineup with the first song.

  Following those two were a handful of ballads, the first of which was Evvie’s third hit, “Diary Of My Heart.” After that came “I’m Looking His Way” and “That Should Be Us.” Each was full of the teen love angst that had been a staple of the genre since time immemorial. When he heard each for the first time, Jake had to struggle from bursting out with laughter. The songs contained the sort of unintentional humor that the genre had become notorious for early in the Twenty-First Century. He felt their only redeeming value was that Evvie sang them without the annoying vocal effects that cluttered up her other singles.

  The ballad break was followed by the most cluttered of those other songs, the assertive dance hit “Back On My Feet.” After that was “(Don’t Be A) Silly Boy,” and then to end the show came “Hot & Cold Love.” The second-to-last song in the lineup was the one that truly baffled Jake. It was simultaneously an up-tempo dance song, a flirty come-on, and a female empowerment tune. It managed to be trite one moment and ponderous the next. Yet despite what seemed to be obvious flaws, it was the song most popular with Evvie’s diehard fans.

  It must be one of those songs, Jake concluded, that seems brilliant at fifteen and pointless at twenty. That is the
only possible explanation for it.

  Partway through the concert Jake began to wonder if it might be a good idea to hand off the monitoring task to Odin. He’d just about decided to make the request when Odin said to him, “Jake, I have a transmission request from Antioch Two. Shall I patch it through?”

  “God, yes. Anything’s better than this. Oh, and keep watch on the show for me, please. Let me know when Evvie gets near the end.”

  “Certainly. Stand by.”

  The concert image became a tiny and silent box in the upper left corner of the screen. Daniel Rosen’s face appeared on the rest. He wore an expression of stern determination. In any other context, someone might have asked him what he’d eaten that was making him frown so much. Jake himself wondered if he might have to amend his last sentence.

  “Robin Hood, this is Friar Tuck,” Daniel began.

  Jake glanced up at the ceiling and rolled his eyes. He exhaled, then asked, “Odin, you are scrambling this, I hope?”

  “Of course.”

  Jake’s gaze returned to Daniel. “Mister Rosen, there is no need for code words or phrases. My ship is capable of securing my communication to you, and yours to me. So, please, can we speak without the melodramatics?”

  Daniel’s face fell slightly. “Oh, yes, sure.”

  Jake had the odd suspicion come over him that Rosen had taken a great deal of time to devise a code for their communications, and that he was disappointed that all of his effort would be in vain. Of course, had Rosen pondered the matter a bit more deeply, it would have probably occurred to him that scrambling was much easier these days than speaking in code. Jake began to hope that Rosen would not be so oblivious as their partnership continued.

  “Now, Daniel, what’s on your mind?”

  “Um, well, Clarissa and I have returned home, and we were just wondering, well, is there anything we ought to be doing?”

  “Doing? Like what?”

  “Well, organizing, maybe.”

  “Organizing?” If it wasn’t for the wealth potential, I would not do this.

  “Tell me,” Jake asked slowly, “what precisely do you intend to organize?”

  “A resistance,” Daniel replied, more a question than a statement.