Your deed has been returned. So go on, bugger off, go and do whatever it is that little metal robot dogs do."
Franco closed the door and stared at the peeling wallpaper of an unfamiliar non-memory. Shit. Where am I? More importantly, who was I with? Even more importantly, why don't I remember her tits? And even more importantly, what's that fish smell?
There was a crash. A splintering, rending of timber kind of sound.
Slowly, Franco turned. Sax was sat, surrounded by shards of door, looking sheepishly at the floor.
"Ruff?" it said.
"Bad doggie!"
Sax wagged its tail.
"No! Bad doggie!" Franco waved a stern finger.
"Ruff."
"Hell, dog, can't you say anything other than 'ruff'? I thought you AIs had bloody technically advanced minds, or something?"
Sax seemed to think for a while, angular metal dog head on one side. Then it ventured, "Sax?"
"So that's it? You've been programmed with two whole words? "
"Borrocks?"
"Sax, and borrocks," said Franco. "That's it?"
"Ruff." Sax nodded forlornly.
"Jeez," hissed Franco, and started down the steep stairs. He stepped into a teeming alloy lane, which he dimly remembered as being Pleasure Cruise Central, that happy core artery from which all hedonism stemmed. Franco glanced around. He had a nagging feeling he was late for something. Ah yes! Medical! Covert ops! Mission! Sick World! He grinned, and checked his watch. But his watch had gone. Stolen!
"Damn and bloody blast!"
He checked his pants. His wallet had gone as well.
"Triple damn and hot ring cheese bloody buggering!"
"Ruff."
Franco clenched his teeth. "Look! Sax! Will you fuck off?"
"Ruff." Sax ambled over to Franco, lifted its head, and started licking Franco's groin.
Franco leapt back. "Ahh! Geddoff! Dirty dumb mutt!"
"Sax. Borrocks. Ruff."
"Great," scowled Franco, and set off at a lope through the heaving throng. That's all I need. A hangover. No memory of last night's sex. All my cred and non-poor slots are gone, nay stolen! And now I've to chaperone a bloody robot dog. Well, we'll see what happens when I get to the internal quadrant barriers, yeah? Staff squaddies there'll fry his robot dog-ass! Let's see him say borrocks to that!
A few paces behind, like night follows day, like salmon swimming upstream, like birds flying south for winter, on sheer instinct Sax trustingly followed its new master at a steady, solid, rolling pace. The sort of pace it could keep up for, ooh, centuries.
Keenan and Pippa were emerging from their medicals when at the far end of the corridor a door opened, somewhat sheepishly, and there was a major kerfuffle. Franco barged his way in, red in the face and looking distinctly hung-over. Close behind followed a large robot dog, fashioned from silver and black alloy (and apparently beaten into shape with a hammer), which seemed to be wearing a wig. Franco was arguing with the wigged dog as he stormed past the patient queue and pushed in at the front, ignoring a range of sarcastic comments and evil glares.
The dog sat down with a clang, a few feet from the squaddie. "Borrocks," it said.
"You OK mate?" said Keenan, head tilted.
Franco beamed suddenly. "Hi Kee! Hi Pippa! Yep. Never better."
"Where did you get to last night?" Keenan, although smiling, had a face set in steel. His teeth were just a little too bared. His jaw line just a little too tense. Muscles in Keenan's jaw flexed, and Pippa placed a restraining hand on Keenan's arm and hushed him.
"Apparently, Franco," said Pippa, "Keenan's PopBot ran into a bit of trouble last night. Got trapped in the sewage canal which runs beneath the living quarters."
"Ha!" said Franco. "That'll teach him to sniff the toilet seats in the ladies quarters! Damn freaky little robot pervert."
"Franco!" Keenan's voice was far beyond warning.
"OK! OK! It's a fair cop guv'nor. But before you bust me back down to private just think of the horrific night I've had, and be thankful I'm here at all. And I've got to put up with that metal heap of
Franco closed the door and stared at the peeling wallpaper of an unfamiliar non-memory. Shit. Where am I? More importantly, who was I with? Even more importantly, why don't I remember her tits? And even more importantly, what's that fish smell?
There was a crash. A splintering, rending of timber kind of sound.
Slowly, Franco turned. Sax was sat, surrounded by shards of door, looking sheepishly at the floor.
"Ruff?" it said.
"Bad doggie!"
Sax wagged its tail.
"No! Bad doggie!" Franco waved a stern finger.
"Ruff."
"Hell, dog, can't you say anything other than 'ruff'? I thought you AIs had bloody technically advanced minds, or something?"
Sax seemed to think for a while, angular metal dog head on one side. Then it ventured, "Sax?"
"So that's it? You've been programmed with two whole words? "
"Borrocks?"
"Sax, and borrocks," said Franco. "That's it?"
"Ruff." Sax nodded forlornly.
"Jeez," hissed Franco, and started down the steep stairs. He stepped into a teeming alloy lane, which he dimly remembered as being Pleasure Cruise Central, that happy core artery from which all hedonism stemmed. Franco glanced around. He had a nagging feeling he was late for something. Ah yes! Medical! Covert ops! Mission! Sick World! He grinned, and checked his watch. But his watch had gone. Stolen!
"Damn and bloody blast!"
He checked his pants. His wallet had gone as well.
"Triple damn and hot ring cheese bloody buggering!"
"Ruff."
Franco clenched his teeth. "Look! Sax! Will you fuck off?"
"Ruff." Sax ambled over to Franco, lifted its head, and started licking Franco's groin.
Franco leapt back. "Ahh! Geddoff! Dirty dumb mutt!"
"Sax. Borrocks. Ruff."
"Great," scowled Franco, and set off at a lope through the heaving throng. That's all I need. A hangover. No memory of last night's sex. All my cred and non-poor slots are gone, nay stolen! And now I've to chaperone a bloody robot dog. Well, we'll see what happens when I get to the internal quadrant barriers, yeah? Staff squaddies there'll fry his robot dog-ass! Let's see him say borrocks to that!
A few paces behind, like night follows day, like salmon swimming upstream, like birds flying south for winter, on sheer instinct Sax trustingly followed its new master at a steady, solid, rolling pace. The sort of pace it could keep up for, ooh, centuries.
Keenan and Pippa were emerging from their medicals when at the far end of the corridor a door opened, somewhat sheepishly, and there was a major kerfuffle. Franco barged his way in, red in the face and looking distinctly hung-over. Close behind followed a large robot dog, fashioned from silver and black alloy (and apparently beaten into shape with a hammer), which seemed to be wearing a wig. Franco was arguing with the wigged dog as he stormed past the patient queue and pushed in at the front, ignoring a range of sarcastic comments and evil glares.
The dog sat down with a clang, a few feet from the squaddie. "Borrocks," it said.
"You OK mate?" said Keenan, head tilted.
Franco beamed suddenly. "Hi Kee! Hi Pippa! Yep. Never better."
"Where did you get to last night?" Keenan, although smiling, had a face set in steel. His teeth were just a little too bared. His jaw line just a little too tense. Muscles in Keenan's jaw flexed, and Pippa placed a restraining hand on Keenan's arm and hushed him.
"Apparently, Franco," said Pippa, "Keenan's PopBot ran into a bit of trouble last night. Got trapped in the sewage canal which runs beneath the living quarters."
"Ha!" said Franco. "That'll teach him to sniff the toilet seats in the ladies quarters! Damn freaky little robot pervert."
"Franco!" Keenan's voice was far beyond warning.
"OK! OK! It's a fair cop guv'nor. But before you bust me back down to private just think of the horrific night I've had, and be thankful I'm here at all. And I've got to put up with that metal heap of
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