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Presented below
is the original text story, as published in the 1981 annual...
Pain bites through my circuits. I stare straight
ahead. I try to force the sluggish oil more quickly through my tubes.
My city is in flames behind me. The air crackles with heat. But
deep in my circuits I feel cold.
'Faster you dogs!' Viktor, my platoon commandant, shouts at me
- all of us. But our electronic hearts are heavy, our positronic
brains are aching. We are fleeing. We must escape our city before
the accursed ABC Warriors launch their final attack.
Our army is beaten, our country has almost lost the war. But we
will not surrender. We will run away, we will hide
Perhaps
one day we will return to our city, Volgow the Beautiful.
Volgow
Volgow
If robots could cry, my tears would flow.
I feel a flash of red anger rip through my wires. I did want to
be in this war! I was happy as a baker's droid. Humans always came
back for my cakes.
'Bak-94, your cakes are delicious," a foreign colonel's wife
once told me. 'Nowhere in the world have I tasted cakes like here
in Volgow.'
I was happy as a baker's droid. Even though there was a war on.
We didn't even notice it. We were far from the front. War was something
citizens watched on their vid-screens.
But then things started to go badly for us. They came to
Volgow, like a press gang of olden times. We call them The Grabbers.
We hate them.
At first they just talked to us. 'Our country is losing the war,'
they said. 'Our loyal droid forces have been decimated. We need
more fighting-droids. We need you! Volgow needs you.' I argued.
'I am happy as a baker-droid,' I told them. 'I am not programmed
for war. I do not wish to fight.'
The Grabbers sneered. 'From now on,' they said with contempt, 'Volgow
needs even cowards.'
I did not want to go. I did not know how to make war. I was afraid.
But The Grabbers did not care. They laughed at my spindly frame.
They told me and the other servo-droids that the ABC Warriors would
over-run the whole country if we did not fight. 'Even window cleaner
droids will be programmed to kill,' they said.
I did not scream when they took me to their H.Q. Some of the other
droids did. A little dentist-droid screamed loudest. He was afraid.
I was afraid, too, but I did not call out as they clamped the wires
to my head. They sent the volts surging through me. In my head things
changed
They took me from the machine. They sneered at my
spindly frame. 'It will have to do,' they laughed. 'We have no spare
metal for a new frame. Your skinny body will not last. But now you
know how to fight.'
I had been reprogrammed. It was if I had always known how to load
and fire the lazooka. It was if I had been launching deadly 'Monkey'
bombs all my life. I knew all the generals' names as if the data
had always been a part of my positronic brain.
They gave me a gun. A BlaaZ-19 Magnum. It was big in my skinny
hand. I had never fired a shot before, but now I could kill a human
at a range of a mile without even aiming. I was a soldier.
But the others called be Baaka. In Volgan, that is a joke. It means
spidercake. They called me Baaka because I did not have a new soldier's
body.
Their taunts did not worry me. I think my new programming was working.
I started to be like the other soldiers. I hated the ABC Warriors
and the forces of the Free West. I had never even seen an ABC Warrior.
Once, when there was a truce in the war, a western colonel came
to Volgow. His wife came to my baker's shop. I gave her a Ural Horn,
a pastry mountain filled with cream. Now I will kill her if I see
her.
Some of the others do not like the war. They were new soldiers,
like me. Some were even spindlier.
We did not fight. We waited. We were the last resort. We would
defend Volgow in its final hours.
I used to listen to the old war-droids swapping tales. They spoke
of names of legend. They worshipped General Blackblood. He led the
guerrilla attacks in the Pacific Islands. He conquered half the
southern seas for our great country.
They spoke of Old Horney, the very first Volgan war robot. He was
a splendid sight, they said. His eight horns gleamed in the glare
of battle. He waved his zabre high and urged his troops to sing.
'Volganayyyyyya,' they chanted. The old droids said it, and my heart
felt proud.
But Old Horney fought at the front. I was just a baker-droid who
knew how to kill. I sat every day in a high tower and watched the
flames on the horizon. I watched the explosions. I watched the rainbow
death the ABC Warriors sowed.
Then one day a message-droid brought the news. I watched him race
towards me on a Kossak Hell-bike. I trained my gun on him. It could
have been a trick. But I knew him. The Hell-bike skidded to a halt.
'News for Marshall Volgod,' he yelled. 'The ABC Warriors are breaking
through!' I could not believe it. The bike raced on, and I waited
for my logic circuits to make sense of the news. It was not logical.
The enemy could never break through our lines. Old Horney never
lost a battle!
I was ordered to join my platoon. We were a strange crew. Only
one of us was a properly-programmed war-droid. He was Viktor, the
commandant.
'Horney is dead,' he told us. We could not believe him. 'He made
an attack on the Chateau Volgski, which had been taken by the enemy.
He met Hammer-Stein.'
Hammer-Stein! The worst and toughest of all the enemy's
war-droids. Red-eyes, they used to call him. Hammer-Stein, so co
close to Volgow! Surely our city was lost!
Our men were disheartened. Old Horney dead
the dreaded Hammer-Stein
and his forces so close. I was afraid. I knew how to kill but I
was afraid. 'We will remain here,' Viktor told us. 'Marshall Volgod
will have the Flame Barrier erected. We will be safe.'
The Barrier went up. The heat was like a furnace. Some of my plastic
melted, even though we were miles away. Viktor would not let us
fall back a little. 'Our orders are to stay here,' he shouted. I
do not think he knew why. I do not think he cared. He was well programmed.
We hid from the heat as best we could. It was like the sun. Some
droids' circuits overloaded. They tiny dentist droid started running
around in circles, muttering dirty words. His drill-fingers whirred,
and he stuck them in his audio receptors. 'The heat,' Viktor explained,
and he deactivated the little robot. He shot him. I watched Viktor
do it. Perhaps soon I would have to fire my gun. I knew how to kill.
The order came soon after. Retreat. Retreat? Surely we must stay
and fight. Even if we must die, we must stay and fight. But Viktor
hit me, and explained. 'We retreat so that we can fight again another
day,' he told me. 'Now move, stupid Baaka. Move, you scrap-jobs!'
We moved. We joined a stream of robots that soon became a flood.
The blazing barrier was lowered to let us through. I wondered what
was happening to the north of the city. Were the flames holding
back the enemy? Could Hammer-Stein be held back by that solar heat?
Then rumours ran along the line. There was another ABC robot. He
was called Steelhorn. They said he could not be destroyed. They
said he was programmed to kill Marshall Volgod.
We tried not to think about it. Surely no-one could kill our supreme
commander? Why did we run away if that was to happen?
But Viktor hit us and forced us on. He explained. 'The Marshall
has an escape route planned. He will flee in his imperial jet. Do
not bother your circuits. Just march. We will fight again another
day.'
I have not fought at all yet. I am marching along an endless road.
Around me is a tattered robot army. We are fleeing so that we can
fight again another day. I have not fought at all yet.
I march along this road and the heat hurts me inside. My legs are
weak. Pain bites through my circuits. I stare straight ahead. I
try to force the sluggish oil more quickly through my tubes. My
city is in flames behind me.
The air crackles with heat. But deep in my circuits I feel cold.
FOOTNOTE: After the Volgan robots' inglorious retreat, the ABC Warriors
broke through into the city of Volgow. There was indeed a robot
called Steelhorn. And he could not be destroyed. He killed Marshall
Volgod and the Volgan war was over. It is not known what became
of Bak-94.
Text copyright 2003 Rebellion.
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