Metallic Genealogy

Fanzer looked at the card. On it were long groups of numbers, a company logo, and a woman's name.

"Jeorgina Reldrinks," he read aloud.

She snatched the card away. "That's all you need to know for now." Her face was quite red and sweaty as if from exertion.

Fanzer grabbed one of her thick hands and attempted to shake it. "I'm pleased..."

"And I'm pleased that you're pleased," she said, not sounding at all pleased. She took her hand back, and pushed it quickly inside her pocket as though it were some kind of disinfectant machine rather than a place to store transient items. "But I want to get one thing straight with you. Just because you've had that one, single, good idea in your life, does not mean you get to confine Jeorgina Reldrinks to your own despotic rules set! Nor do you get to manhandle Jeorgina Reldrinks any time you see fit."

Fanzer looked around the alleyway, where they had recently moved their headquarters, unsure if the woman might be talking to someone else. However, all he saw were empty garbage receptacles and a few scurrying rodents, and he had his doubts that she was addressing them – although he would certainly not judge her if she were. When he was child, Fanzer had few sentient friends, and would often make do with inanimate objects.

He blinked loudly.

She began to point at herself, fiercely, whenever she said the letter "I" or something that rhymed with it.

For example, as in: "I am the command center. I make the choices. I make the decisions. And when needed, I will confer only with myself to find resolution." She paused for a few seconds as though waiting for Fanzer to challenge this authority.

Finally, when none came, she sat down behind the desk (which she had recently dragged out of the befouled shop), and dramatically straightened some papers (which she had also brought out for some reason) by banging the lot of them collectively on the hard surface. The visual gave the impression of not only professionalism -- at least in Fanzer's mind, who had always seen businessmen act in precisely the same manner when they were about to issue some sort of important order -- but also an air of authority. "Now," she said. "On to the first order of business: to attract suitable recruits, every good company needs … what?"

Fanzer looked at her for a few moments, and smiled in a way that he thought was respectful, but netted him only a grimace and a set of narrowed eyeballs in return. Jeorgina obviously expected something from him at this moment, however he wasn't able to determine what that something was. If he was going to win her respect he would have to come up with something quickly.

Jeorgina set the papers aside angrily, and banged her hands, which had now formed into fists, on the top of the desk.

"Well?"

Fanzer suddenly snapped out of his reverie. "Oh," he said. "I know this. Um. A key to the executive-class washroom...and OH." He raised his hand as though in school. "AND an executive-class washroom."

"No!" She pounded both of her fists on the desk, jarring some of the papers loose from the rest of the pile. In a whirlwind, they fluttered and fell to the ground. "What we need first is a good, suitable slogan!"

Fanzer went away mentally for a moment. Up to this point, he had been working up the courage to mention that because of the Program was entirely HIS idea that he should be the leader of this company -- not only because the idea was fully formed inside his very own head, but because he had come from a long line of successful businessmen. Therefore, he must genetically have a prowess for leadership.

His grandfather Morbad Stip, for example, owned several encephala-news feed broadcasting companies, and at one point controlled the entire thought patterns of most of a tiny planet. To the best of his knowledge, grandpa Morbad didn't have some strange woman glaring at and threatening him to constantly come up with slogans and executive washroom ideas.

Once he looked into the woman's fierce eyes, however, Fanzer saw that such a retort would be fruitless. Instead, he settled himself down on an empty dumpster, propped a fist under his chin for support, and tried to think. Suddenly, inspiration struck. "How about," he said, jumping to his feet, "'Destroy all machines! They're evilness! Dispose of your toasters, electric razors and..."

Jeorgina growled. "Rather something short and to the point would be better."

Fanzer sat back down again, and tried to make his mind work. He did this normally by rubbing his temples fiercely until his face got hot. And then he remembered something from his childhood and cringed. "Eggensotz," he thought, angrily. The robot had been purchased by his grandfather, and was quite old and bitter by the time it had to take care of baby Fanzer.

"Eggensotz hates children," the robot would say. "Eggensotz hates babies even more." At this point the machine would usually malfunction and spark dramatically, casting an eerie shadow on the conversation. "Eggensotz make you into a soup, eh? Baby Fanzer soup!" Then the machine would rub its metallic belly and rush off to boil some water, mumbling loud enough for the boy to hear. "Yes. Nice quiet soup."

Fanzer looked fearfully into Jeorgie's eyes, and pittered pathetically. "Eggensotz Begone!"

///

In a dark corner of town, far away from the alleyway in which Fanzer and Jeorgie were making their plans, Polyhedron-1 was discovering a great unpleasantry. Five men from his beau monde, stood aggressively above him, each a ramshackle of equanimity. They wore full length silk robes which trickled down from the top of the head. One in all black, Finarp, the leader. The others, generically disguised, in blood red.

"I believe that we told you to keep away until further notice," said Finarp.

The inexpressive hooded figure and his four comparatively dressed minions failed to move, as though merely expensively-dressed statues and not abusive thugs.

"I had a feeling...," Ployhedron-1 mewed pathetically.

"Any more declinations from you and you'll feel plenty of things -- All unpleasant!"

The faceless man nodded his head and his escorts snapped to attention.

"My students are here to give you a few samples to keep you in order."

With a nodded approval, the four soldiers proceeded to beat Polyhedron-1 nearly to the breaking point -- using objects which looked to be bricks, a tire chain and oddly, an extremely stiff opossum.

(The objects were, in fact, as follows: a Sticky Box: a cardboard receptacle containing burrs that, when struck, released painful stickers which go under the skin and cause bright red welts; a Phillupus rope, usually used to pull spaceships from quicksand, or otherwise deep, bottomless abysses; and a stiff, dead opossum.)

Polyhedron-1 dropped to his knees and promised never to do it again.

///

Finally, the only two members of the Program to Save the World decided on a suitable maxim: "Melt Metallic!" or "M2" for short.

"Now," Jeorgie said, "to stimulate the masses."

"Huh?"

"We need a higher membership count than two."

"Oh." Fanzer began to chew on his lip, which, the young woman decided, marked when the man began to process information. "How many do you think we need?"

"Eventually," she said, seemingly annoyed, "we should have all of humankind on our side! That is, after all the goal."

"Is it?"

"Of course."

"Oh," Fanzer said, innocently, and looking faraway. "I thought that we would just go around killing robots!"