++

This is the last chapter of this serial.

Told you it would be short.

Going through the chapters again, I feel that it’s probably one of the more accessible things I’ve done; quite a fast pace, picaresque in the Candide style, confused MC confronted with various sides of left wing theory that doesn’t go too deep into the weeds.

Did the satire work?

I don’t know. I originally wrote this in 2015, so the Hong Kong stuff is obviously a little dated, and the essentialists I presented in the novel have now split into factions [from the US perspective], with some joining the Bernie Sanders wing cos AOC and the squad is there. Of course, the cynic in me thinks it’s cos they don’t believe the DSA left can win anymore, which makes it an easy pick [most of these people are PMC/privately educated, so their class interests cannot allow them to veer left in the European sense]. Still, the core of the original Id-pol theory is solid, if you factor in class/poverty level/ZIP code.

Tankies?

Feels like i’ve left them out a bit. Probably cos they’re already too ridiculous to satirise.

My representation of Tehran?

A complete façade. Hong Kong with an Iranian bank logo.

As with the other 2 serials I’ve done – Fritz Lang’s Destiny and Void Galaxia – I’ll give it another edit at some point and release it as a free PDF novel. Not sure when that’ll be, I still have to do Void Galaxia and that’s over 200,000 words.

Next up: a spiritual sequel to Planet Rasputin meshed with autofiction and a stab at an Anarcho-Communist version of the year 2273. Should be around the same length as Planet Rap, 170,000 words, maybe a bit longer if I get inspired. Give me a week or two to mentally recover and I’ll start putting it up.

But first, the final chapter of Sonic Death Bot…

++

The island was about one hundredth the size of Cuba and mostly deserted in the rural areas.

Noble flew over the landscape/ terrain, scanning for Cubans, and found nothing but rogue Japanese until, that is, she passed over a beach ostracised from the rest and picked up a different signal.

She landed and looked around for human sludge.

+++

For the first hour Noble flew in circles, trying to choose a destination, vetoing every name suggested, until finally she decided to test a theory she’d thought of while looking at one of Debit’s grey paintings in West Hollywood.

Is it possible to fly into space?

All the way to Triton perhaps?

Picturing a moon-base on ice lake construct, she aimed vertical and switched the rocket boots to conservative power, but the higher she climbed, the more the picture started to shift to the journey over to Triton, which would be decades, and

now that she thought of it

that time in space would literally be life in space, constant flying with no end reference points, no map to guide her the right way as the planets were in continuous orbit, no people to talk to

good or bad.

At an altitude of 40,000 feet she did an abrupt U-turn and headed east, swooping down low as she approached Lantau to avoid the airport sensors.

Total flight time: four and a half hours. Not bad for a relic.

+++

Her old flat had been taken, which was expected, but the same area had other flats lying empty, most of them bought in batches by wealthy mainlanders.

She selected one at random, landed on the roof of the building and switched to dormant mode. The flames from her rocket boots turned dark, the green LEDs went off and no one in any of the windows opposite seemed to notice. Checking her arms and deeming them safe, she walked to the edge of the roof, positioned herself and jumped.

+++

The next day, Noble prepared herself mentally for an awkward continental [philosophy] breakfast but, surprisingly, Miriam was in a good mood. She didn’t say a word about their argument the night before, just complained about having to work and not being able to show her around Tehran.

‘I’ll be okay,’ said Noble, accepting some weirdly-shaped bread.

‘True, you are metal. And preternaturally strong.’ She sipped coffee, winced at the bitterness, phased it into a nod. ‘Don’t promote it though. Some people might have short circuiting tools.’

‘What are they?’

‘Trouble. They’ll break you down for scrap if they know what you are. Stay small and unconfident, it’s better.’

Noble nodded and ate the bread.

‘You got any money?’

‘Some.’

‘Iranian?’

‘No.’

‘There are some coins in the jar over there. Spare key to the flat too. You can take it, if you’re coming back tonight. Sorry, I really gotta go.’

‘Bye.’

Noble stayed on the Misato beanbag for a while and ate more unorthodox bread. Despite the shape, it was pretty good. Later, she went outside and looked for more. The shops were hard to distinguish, but she managed to isolate a bakery and find the same type. However, the woman inside spoke neither English nor Spanish, so the bread was bought with grunts and muttered fucks.

An hour later, Noble was embarrassed again in a café [failing to understand do you have points, being rescued by a guy behind] and decided, right, time to absorb Farsi.

+++

Miriam wasn’t wrong, the couch was big, but Noble preferred to sink into the life-sized Misato Katsuragi beanbag next to the washing machine.

‘You’re not uncomfortable?’ asked her host, taking off her jacket and throwing it on the dinner table.

‘No.’

‘Weird.’

‘My limbs fit better here.’

Noble stretched out her arms and legs as if to prove the point. Miriam shrugged and took the couch.

‘Where is your family?’ asked Noble.

‘Not here.’

‘In Tehran?’

Miriam looked towards the window and coughed. Or pretended to cough.

‘It’s fine if you don’t want to say.’

The words came through the reflection. ‘They’re in Behshahr.’

‘The city you just came from?’

‘Ha, city.’

‘A town?’

Miriam coughed again, straightening out the kumamon cushion on her lap.

‘What can you do there?’

‘Very little.’

‘There are no famous landmarks?’

‘Hmm. We have a waterfall.’

Noble nodded, waiting for more. It didn’t come, so she changed tack.

‘How about your family?’

‘Ha, nice pivot.’

‘I assume they were happy to see you.’

‘This time? Sure, maybe.’

‘You mean…they’re not usually happy to see you?’

‘Depends if they’ve been to the graveyard or not.’

+++

The UK had gone to shit, lost its brains, sold its brains, given up on its resources i.e. people in the north, immigrants, Jimmy McGovern, Maxine Peake, Chris Eccleston etc., so for that reason Noble felt no regret igniting the old rocket boots and heading back to Hong Kong.

But the rocket boots had been overused

the component parts worn down and

somewhere over Iran they finally spluttered out, forcing Noble down to an altitude of 2,000 feet where she cruised meditatively for ten, fifteen minutes until an ambush-missile burst out of thin air and clipped her on the hip. Unmoored and unprepared, she descended in a jagged arc, landing hard in a random mountain forest. Or, to be precise, on a surprisingly well-kept highway next to a random mountain forest.

East region or west, she wondered, looking around, scanning the small group of tree stumps two hundred metres from the edge of the highway, the larger big brothers lurking behind like debt collectors.

If it’s east, I’m fucked.

West, also fucked.

They didn’t like Americans here, especially robots, and she’d never be able to persuade them she’d been adopted by Cubans and switched to Cuban nationality, even with her high level Spanish skills so, with gun arm raised and activated, Noble walked off the highway and over to a small crop of slanted trees.

Once there, she climbed the tallest-looking one, checked the rock hills nearby, then the dirt plain in the far distance, scanned for heat signatures within two miles, saw it was all clear, climbed back down onto the dirt and started repairs on her jet boots.

It was slow work at first, and

with the sun clocking in at 33 degrees C

soon became impossible work.

And it wasn’t just the boots, it was her whole body. There were too many parts with too much rust, the left arm tendon drive was worn almost to nothing [exaggeration] and one of the actuators was just dead full stop, which probably explained why her right leg was a little stiff.

+++

The next few weeks were uneventful for Noble, in the sense that she allowed the Scientist to lead her to secret meetings in Hackney and Brixton at night and stayed in the basement at Housman’s for eight hours during the day.

Reading zines was only intermittently boring

cos there was so much variety

so many isms

though the ones the Scientist selected were often the most polemic and uncompromising.

And she seemed to have a special fixation with the anarchism of Bakunin and Goldman and Ito

which had either been dormant in the past or

indulged covertly when Noble had been fighting for her life in the sky above Slovenia

or

sleepwalking through life in Hong Kong.

+++

One night, as they were walking from Housman’s in King’s Cross to the Scientist’s flat in Old Street, a man with a beard and bubble jacket started to follow them.

Noble picked up on it first, due to her acute sensors, and as they turned into the estate where the Scientist lived, she turned and waited for the stalker to catch up.

‘What are you doing?’ asked the Scientist.

‘He’s been following us.’

‘Who?’

The man stopped, hearing Noble’s last line. ‘Me?’

‘For the last five minutes.’

‘What?’

Noble raised her gun arm. ‘Who are you?’

‘What the fuck’s that?’ asked the man, putting his arms up in a defensive stick figure pose.

‘Gun arm.’

‘Do what?’

+++

Noble’s original plan was to stay in London for one week, but four days in she found Housman’s info shop near King’s Cross and altered the plan, renting a room in Surrey Quays and spending each successive day travelling through the city to get to the zines with new or renovated ideas in them.

To cover expenses, she flew to Bedfordshire, targeted one of the medium-sized estates, broke in when the family was out and stole some silver-looking junk to sell to a local shifter she’d met in Bermondsey.

It wasn’t in line with her philosophy, and she didn’t try to distort facts to force it that way, that’s what the others did, she wouldn’t go down that route and, besides, she didn’t feel that bad about it. The family was rich off the back of the working class [and possibly the petit-b] and could easily compensate themselves by pissing about on the stock market for a few hours.

It was a victimless crime, as Hoxha used to say.

So, the rent was paid and no questions were asked, except by her flatmates, who wanted to know why her skin was ash grey and what exactly it was she did every day.

‘I teach Chinese,’ Noble lied, hiding her mouth behind a coffee cup.

‘Mandarin or…’

‘Cantonese.’

‘Isn’t that a dialect?’

‘Some people say so.’

‘And you can find students for that here? I mean, enough to survive?’

‘Sure.’

‘From where? Who are they?’

‘I have to go now.’ Noble put down the cup, picked up her rucksack and dipped her head at the Italian woman. ‘See you tonight. Maybe.’

+++

Back above ground it was daybreak and Los Angeleans were swarming around the streets, heading for breakfast or work or their beds or the earthquake crack where John Fante used to watch old men play chess and, despite being tired and injured, Noble still had enough clarity of thought to recognise the Nazi in the suit sitting alone by one of the chessboards.

‘You left me,’ said Noble, creeping up beside Frank and making him jump.

‘Untrue.’

‘Everyone up, start shooting. That’s what you said.’

‘And I shot at them.’

‘Once.’

‘The others panicked, fucked up the plan.’

‘You were the first one out.’

‘Well, as General Lee once said, retreat is often the mark of a winner.’

‘Your Mexican’s dead.’

Frank looked confused for a second, then shrugged and gestured with an elbow for Noble to sit down on the stone bench opposite.

‘Not interested in chess.’

‘Because you’d lose?’

‘Doubtful.’

‘You’re Cuban, I’m white. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘I should shoot you in the head.’

‘With your injured arm?’

Noble looked at the singe marks near her shoulder and frowned. Frank was right, she was not in good shape, though she could still grab his neck and snap it easily enough.

‘It’s a moot point, anyway. We’re clearly on the same side.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You hate them, we hate them too.’

‘Not true.’

‘Let’s join together and fight our common foe, eliminate them on behalf of a better future.’

‘Like the Armenians and the nationalists?’

+++

Ten minutes later, Noble was in a large bunker with twenty cave-tone men and one pinkish Mexican in a Conan The Destroyer t-shirt.

The only white man wearing a suit sat down next to Noble and offered her some coffee.

‘How did you make this?’

‘Sorry?’

Noble looked at the walls of the bunker around them with a quizzical face.

‘Ah, you mean where’s the kitchen? Don’t worry, my friend, we’ve got one, and very decent coffee, too. Made with our bare hands. It may look messy down here, but we’re quite competent when it comes to the basics.’ The man looked at Noble’s chest, then her face. ‘You know, you’re very pretty.’

‘I’m a robot.’

‘Especially the hair. Most bots have the cropped template and never change it.’

‘Who are you guys?’

‘Hmm, names. Okay. I’m Frank Castello, and this is Rebel Headquarters.’

‘I don’t understand.’

The man in the suit, Frank Castello apparently, raised a hand and followed the eyes of the guy next to him, who was pointing at one of the computer screens.

‘What is it?’ asked Noble, but they didn’t answer so she watched for herself.

On the screen, the two psychotic robots who’d murdered poor Debit and allowed Farrokh and Katya to get blown up were walking past the cameras this group had clearly set up in the tunnel outside. Or they’d been put there by the city council. Either way, Detroit was using his index finger as a torch while saying something inaudible to Angela.

‘Don’t worry, my friend,’ said Frank, patting Noble on the shoulder, ‘they won’t find us.’

‘They have scanning tech.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Frank guided her to another computer screen and gestured for her to sit down. ‘They can do what they want, we don’t care. Our fight is focused on our values, not the reactionary drivel they spew out.’

‘What are your values?’

‘I’m glad you asked.’ Frank held up a sponge cut-out map of Japan. ‘Do you see?’