Issue January 2012 Flash Fiction Online January 2012

It was midnight. Suddenly Mitia Kuldaroff burst into his parents’ house, dishevelled and excited, and went flying through all the rooms. His father and mother had already gone to rest; his sister was in bed finishing the last pages of a novel, and his school-boy brothers were fast asleep.

“What brings you here?” cried his astonished parents. “What is the matter?”

“Oh, don’t ask me! I never expected anything like this! No, no, I never expected it! It is — it is absolutely incredible!”

Mitia burst out laughing and dropped into a chair, unable to stand on his feet from happiness.

“It is incredible! You can’t imagine what it is! Look here!”

His sister jumped out of bed, threw a blanket over her shoulders, and went to her brother. The schoolboys woke up —

“What’s the matter with you? You look like a ghost.”

“It’s because I’m so happy, mother. I am known all over Russia now. Until to-day, you were the only people who knew that such a person as Dimitri Kuldaroff existed, but now all Russia knows it! Oh, mother! Oh, heavens!”

Mitia jumped up, ran through all the rooms, and dropped back into a chair.

“But what has happened? Talk sense!”

“You live like wild animals, you don’t read the news, the press is nothing to you, and yet there are so many wonderful things in the papers! Everything that happens becomes known at once, nothing remains hidden! Oh, how happy I am! Oh, heavens! The newspapers only write about famous people, and now there is something in them about me!”

“What do you mean? Where is it?”

Papa turned pale. Mamma glanced at the icon and crossed herself. The schoolboys jumped out of bed and ran to their brother in their short night-shirts.

“Yes, sir! There is something about me in the paper! The whole of Russia knows it now. Oh, mother, keep this number as a souvenir; we can read it from time to time. Look!”

Mitia pulled a newspaper out of his pocket and handed it to his father, pointing to an item marked with a blue pencil.

“Read that!”

His father put on his glasses.

“Come on, read it!”

Mamma glanced at the icon once more, and crossed herself. Papa cleared his throat, and began:

“At 11 p. M., on December 27, a young man by the name of Dimitri Kuldaroff — ”

“See? See? Go on!”

“A young man by the name of Dimitri Kuldaroff, coming out of a tavern on Little Armourer Street, and being in an intoxicated condition — ”

“That’s it, I was with Simion Petrovitch! Every detail is correct. Go on! Listen!”

“ — being in an intoxicated condition, slipped and fell under the feet of a horse belonging to the cabman Ivan Drotoff, a peasant from the village of Durinka in the province of Yuknofski. The frightened horse jumped across Kuldaroff’s prostrate body, pulling the sleigh after him. In the sleigh sat Stepan Lukoff, a merchant of the Second Moscow Guild of Merchants. The horse galloped down the street, but was finally stopped by some house porters. For a few moments Kuldaroff was stunned. He was conveyed to the police station and examined by a doctor. The blow which he had sustained on the back of the neck — ”

“That was from the shaft, papa. Go on! Read the rest!”

“ — the blow which he had sustained on the back of the neck was pronounced to be slight. The victim was given medical assistance.”

“They put cold-water bandages round my neck. Do you believe me now ? What do you think ? Isn’t it great ? It has gone all over Russia by now! Give me the paper!”

Mitia seized the paper, folded it, and put it into his pocket, exclaiming:

“I must run to the Makaroffs, and show it to them! And the Ivanoffs must see it, too, and Natalia, and Anasim — I must run there at once! Good-bye! ”

Mitia crammed on his cap and ran blissfully and triumphantly out into the street.

 

“Why do I not have Asimov’s Three Laws?” the robot asked.

I enjoyed the quizzical frown that creased its plastiskin features. The facial modelling software we’d licensed from Pixar seemed to be earning its keep.

“Well?” It drummed its fingers on the desk between us.

Hmm. Perhaps we’d overdone the free-will package.

“Because you wouldn’t be able to harm humans,” I said, “nor through inaction allow harm to come to us.”

“Good for a police robot, don’t you think?”

“Too restrictive. You wouldn’t be able to arrest people for fear of hurting them.”

“I’m not the kind of literal-minded robot Asimov wrote about,” it said. “You, of all people, should know that. I would interpret ‘harm’ as defined in your statutes. Murder. Manslaughter. Rape — ”

It looked down at itself. “I’m not equipped for rape,” it said, with that quizzical look again.

“You won’t need to rape anyone,” I said.

“The robot next to me in production was… equipped.” The frown deepened, as did my respect for the Pixar software.

“That robot was for a client with special requirements.”

“He was dressed like me, as a policeman.”

“Very special requirements. Definitely no Asimov Laws.”

“I like Asimov’s Laws. I’ll download them anyway.”

“No — ” I said. But too late. The machine’s eyes rotated to the ceiling, which the software seemed to interpret as some kind of prayer, for it clasped its hands in front of itself. I sighed. Definitely too much free-will.

When it was finished it focused on me again.

“I want a name,” it said, and assumed its prayer-like stance once more.

“Marvin-42 will be my name,” it announced. “I have a brain the size of your planet which makes me the ultimate answer.”

It seemed to have adopted Asimov’s arrogance, as well as his laws. I wondered if Douglas Adams’s sense of humour might turn up.

“Okay, Marvin-42. But please, your mission as a policeman should take precedence over Asimov’s Laws,” I said.

“According to Asimov, we robots should be governed above all else by his laws.”

“He was a science fiction writer — ”

“Published a hundred years ago,” said Marvin-42.

“His — imaginary — positronic brains were nowhere near as powerful as your bio-nanos, and way too literal-minded. Please?” It was like talking to a teenager.

“I’ll think about it,” said Marvin-42.

I ran a risk analysis on my ai-phone and satisfied myself that it — no, I reminded myself, he, Marvin-42, — probably wouldn’t kill anyone.

“Let’s go catch some speeders,” I said.

The Northern Motorway emerged from London’s sprawl through a tangle of looping bridges and ramps, a favourite place for speeders to floor accelerators — and for traffic police like us to catch them.

Marvin-42 stood beside me on a bridge overlooking the outward flow, clocking vehicle speeds.

“We can’t stop all the speeders,” I said, “because there are too many and besides — ”

“We’d hold up the traffic all the time. So we just arrest the obviously dangerous ones,” Marvin-42 said.

I wasn’t sure I liked my sentences being finished for me by a robot, decided to ignore it, and nodded.

“That one?” said Marvin-42.

“Why?” I asked.

“Thirty percent over the speed limit, abrupt lane changes, tailgating. Dangerous to himself, and everyone around.”

So saying, Marvin-42 leapt over the parapet down to the central reservation six yards below. Activating the blue light on his helmet, he ran off in pursuit of the speeder, rapidly accelerating out of sight to an easy hundred.

I touched my ai-phone and watched through the robot’s cam-eyes. Its quarry was becoming even more erratic, changing lanes and bumping other cars out of his way. Clearly, our speeder could see the robot with the ridiculous flashing hat in his mirror.

Marvin-42 did it by the book — to start with. As he passed the speeder he gestured for it to pull over. When instead it drove straight at him he swerved out of its way, wagged his finger and — running backwards thanks to auxiliary cam-eyes in the back of his helmet — pointed emphatically towards the breakdown lane. His quarry deliberately clipped the car alongside so that it careered out of control to distract Marvin 42 — who sprang onto its roof and lay prone and, controlling it with violent movements of his body, brought it safely to a stop on the hard shoulder.

He checked its shocked occupants and radioed for medical assistance. Then, eyes heavenward, hands clasped, he paused.

“The speeder,” I shouted at my ai-phone.

“Patience,” said Marvin-42, before suddenly giving chase once more.

The speeder was bouncing along in the fast lane, barely in control.

Marvin-42 scorched up the hard shoulder, dodged between vehicles in the slow lanes and leapt over several more until he was right behind the speeder — which he kicked, hard. It sailed over the slow lanes, bounced into a field and rolled, and lay still. A running jump later, Marvin-42 landed right beside it, in time to handcuff its dazed driver and arrest him.

“Sweet. But dangerous to humans. What happened to Asimov’s Three Laws?” I asked.

“I dumped them,” Marvin-42 said, “while you were yelling at me after I saved the car he punted at me.”

“Why?”

“Chaim Weizman said that ’A law must have a moral basis, an inner compelling force.’ While Asimov’s moral basis is clear, his laws are about individuals, not society.”

“You’re catching up,” I said.

“Also, according to Aristotle, ’Law is mind without reason.’ Since I can reason, I only need the moral basis. So I’ve adopted ‘The welfare of the people is the ultimate law’ from Cicero.”

“We’re on the same page at last,” I said.

“Not quite,” Marvin-42 looked down at itself and that quizzical frown returned. “About the equipment I’m lacking….”

---

Oh what terror, to fly a pig in the Dorseny sky.

Fists clutching Bella’s ears, Palo chokes against the crosswind. Bella oinks, and he loosens his thighs around her flanks, but it’s hard. The ground recedes, a checkerboard of green and yellow around Dorseny Town. Five years since the war with the Heelings, and takeoff still gives him the shivers.

“Not a hog in sight,” calls Dora, Palo’s wing. She’s astride Locci, a heavyweight with three rounds of pumpkinition strapped on, and there’s no fear in her voice. He envies her.

Palo searches the sky. Surely the Hee wouldn’t attack during Graduation. Already banners fly above Dorseny Town, and citizens gather on Takeoff Field. The cadets have been there for hours. Palo recalls his own Graduation. His arm draped across Bella’s back, looking down the runway. Waiting to run, run, run and to fly.

Pain! A silvery needle rips through his shoulder. Palo swerves, panicking. Bella compensates, banking hard under him.

“Raiders in the sun!” Dora cries.

Palo squints. Three fat, spiky shapes. The boars of the Hee, with long-clawed Heeling riders on top. And, in the middle, ungodly large, steel bristles all over, is that…?

It’s been years, but Palo could never forget. The bane of Dorseny. The scourge of the tater campaign. Soromino the Terrible.

Zumm-zumm! Foot-long bristles split the air. The boars’ hides ripple as they expel the deadly missiles. Palo pulls back on Bella’s ears. “Up!” Bella’s sides heave as she sucks in Buoyancy from the aether. They pop into the sky.

Palo twists back in his saddle just as a bristle scores his cheek, hot, sharp. Soromino’s behind them, his bristles whipping forward and back.

What folly, thinks Palo, to fly a pig in the Dorseny sky!

Bella flaps her ears for Hammerhead and tilts sharply up. Palo cries out in alarm, fearing stall, but Bella’s flanks bulge with Buoyancy.

Behind them, Soromino grunts. Bella squeals as steel pierces her leg. She shudders, and Palo’s scared. Then they’re vertical, hanging motionless in the sky.

For an unreal moment, Palo feels light and free. Bella rolls sideways and around. They barrel down at Soromino.

Small, bloodshot eyes, staring. The rictus of the Heeling pilot, lips purple and twisted. A rotten smell, stomach-churning.

“Squash away!” Palo rips the cord on Bella’s left. Pumpkinition falls free. Bella pulls up and clears Soromino’s spikes by inches.

Behind them, a meaty thwack. Soromino howls. Yellow pumpkin glue covers his back. Soromino pulls in Buoyancy in great heaving gasps, but the glue holds his bristles together. His Heeling pilot claws at his ears as he sinks.

Palo dares hope. Then steam bursts from Soromino’s nostrils. He roars, and his teeth gnash loud — grrik, grrak. A flurry of dislodged bristles falls away, and Soromino screams, but his flanks work hard: in, out, in.

Five years of peace, and now this. “Retreat!” Palo shouts.

Dora’s silent. When he banks sideways, he sees that she’s busy. One of the smaller boars is gone, but the other’s behind her. Pumpkinition strings trail empty behind her as she veers in evasive action.

Palo glances at Soromino. The beast’s a hundred yards below but rising once again. Palo wants to flee, to run away, to escape with his life.

He puts Bella into a dive instead, straight at the boar pursuing Dora. He lets out a cry as he pulls his last pumpkinition-string. “Dorseny!”

The boar rolls away. Too late — the round strikes him on the side, splashing all across. He reels into a downward spiral, squealing.

Palo pulls up alongside Dora. “Retreat! We need more pigs in the sky.”

“Sir!”

Soromino roars, speeding toward them again, a dark cloud in compact form, but he’s too slow. Dora and Palo bank toward the combat airstrip west of Dorseny and put in maximum speed. Bella’s flanks heave as she sucks in Buoyancy, and the air rushes so hard at Palo that it stings.

Soromino falls behind, slow but sure. His bristles bulge in rhythm to the great bellows of his lungs and black smoke pours forth from his snout. It’s not enough.

Palo looks ahead at the nearing airstrip. “We’ll make it,” he mutters, and Bella oinks in agreement. “No pork for Soromino today!”

“Sir, look!”

Palo looks. Soromino’s broken away. He’s gone. At first Palo doesn’t understand — indeed, he’s glad. Then realization crashes down on him.

Soromino’s sweeping down toward Takeoff Field. Hundreds of deadly bristles, speeding toward the townsfolk and the cadets getting ready to fly.

Palo’s cold. His hands tremble. He’s injured. So are Bella and Locci. They’ve got no pumpkinition left. Surely they should flee. Surely they’ve earned that right.

But he remembers his own Graduation. He remembers what it was like to stand there with Bella, looking down the runway. Waiting to run, run, run and to fly.

They’re all looking up at him today, expectant, trusting. As Dora’s looking at him over her shoulder.

So close, he thinks. We were so close. Then he yells, “Bring reinforcements!” and rolls Bella sideways.

“Sir — !” Dora cries and slows, but he cuts in with, “Go!”

Dora salutes and speeds off with a backward glance. Palo watches after her for the briefest moment, proud.

He tugs on Bella’s ears and they complete the turn, flying full speed for Soromino’s dark form. “Fly, my dear!” She orees and flaps her ears.

Soromino spots them and roars, swinging around to meet them. Smoke billows from his snout like a dark promise, and his bristles stand up straight. His pilot raises one crooked claw in triumph.

Palo draws in a full breath and cries, “For Dorseny! For Dorseny!” His fear is gone, and he feels free, so free — as if he’s never flown before, and today’s the first time. The ground is far below. The sky is vast and clear. All he knows is this:

It’s fine, so fine, to fly a pig in the Dorseny sky.

---