LotS/The Story/Puny Human Birthdays II/MrForsythsCake
"A germ!"
Vernon Forsyth stabbed his accusing finger towards the dining room table. His eyes were wild behind his thick visor, made bizarre and alien by glowing green lights reflected from its display.
Nurse Hatchet inspected the table.
"My sensors indicate that this surface is clean, Mr. Forsyth."
"Damn your stupid sensors! I see a germ! Do something!"
The robot nurse raised her right hand, palm outwards, and doused the table's gleaming surface with a stream of disinfectant from her internal reservoir. The liquid foamed and bubbled like a lake of cleansing hellfire.
"It's still there!" he said.
"Mr. Forsyth, this product kills 99.99999999999999999% of all known germs."
"Then this one's part of that 0.00000000000000001%! I can still see it!"
"Your GermFinder Visor may be unreliable."
"Ridiculous! It's made by TermGerm! Who knows more about germs -- them, or some stupid metal whore?"
"As I've stated before, Mr. Forsyth, I'm not a pleasure bot. And my voluptuous chassis was engineered at your personal request. Furthermore, since TermGerm is the biggest manufacturer of disinfectant products in-"
"Get rid of that germ!"
Nurse Hatchet sprayed another barrage onto the table. Vernon Forsyth leaned his head towards it, whilst still maintaining a safe distance, and scrutinized it with his emerald glare.
"Finally!" he said. "Bomb the room to make sure there aren't any more lurking around here."
"That's quite unnecessary. I cleaned this room an hour-"
"Do it!"
Mr. Forsyth stormed towards the doorway. Or at least it began as a storm, then had its momentum ruined when he paused to inspect the floor, walls, and ceiling for any signs of his nemeses. After satisfying himself that no germs were lying in ambush, ready to pounce on him, he departed.
The robot nurse pulled a TermGerm Terminator from her belt, pressed the green button on the sphere's surface, made for the same exit as her master, and tossed it over her shoulder. The door closed behind her just before the whoosh of the grenade's detonation and the eruption of germicidal fog in all directions.
"Is the incinerator fired up?" Mr. Forsyth demanded.
"Yes."
"You know what you have to do."
"Yes, Mr. Forsyth."
But just like every year, she waited to receive superfluous instructions.
"Kill every last one of them. I don't care if they're a paparazzo, a journalist, or a pizza delivery boy who's got lost. Kill them all, and throw them in the incinerator. And do it quickly! Last year you left one of the corpses on the grass for a minute! A minute! Do you know how many germs a corpse has?"
"No, Mr. Forsyth."
"When's my cake coming?"
"It should be here any minute now."
As if on cue, the nearest intercom terminal bleeped. Nurse Hatchet pressed a button. A woman's face appeared on its screen.
"Pandora Bakery," she said. "We have a delivery for Mr. Vernon Forsyth."
"And in lighter news..." Chad Delran's 'serious face' vanished along with the images of the UHW Assembly on the big screen behind him. He flashed a broad smile at the camera. "...today marks the seventieth birthday of former actor and socialite Vernon Forsyth."
The picture of a young, handsome man in a tuxedo appeared on the screen. He was standing at a glass podium, brandishing a gold statuette of a spiral galaxy, his mouth open in a cry of elation.
"Forsyth, seen here accepting a Galactic Academy of Film and Television Award for his starring role in Hyperspace Hoplite, was one of the most popular celebrities in all of human space."
That triumphant image disappeared. It was replaced by one showing the same individual, still wearing a tuxedo and standing near a similar transparent podium. But this incarnation was a few decades older. His hair was an elegant shade of silver, and his face bore lines that might have given him a more rugged handsomeness -- if he hadn't been wearing an expression of murderous fury and firing a pistol down at an unseen target.
"But his career hit the rocks on the night he co-hosted that same award show. After the winner of the 'best supporting actress' category kissed him on the cheek, Forsyth had what his agent would later describe as 'an unfortunate psychological episode'. He screamed about germs, threw the young lady off the stage, drew a pistol, and shot her seventeen times."
Chad shook his head from side to side, though he continued to beam at the camera.
"He was tried for murder, though he was acquitted when his lawyer controversially but successfully argued that an unsolicited kiss was an act of biological warfare, and that Forsyth had therefore acted in self-defense."
The actor's picture was usurped by an aerial shot of sprawling verdant countryside and a white-walled mansion.
"Since then, Vernon Forsyth has lived the life of a recluse in his home on Berundus Prime -- and has never been filmed or photographed, despite the many paparazzi and journalists who've tried to infiltrate the building for a look at the galaxy's former brightest star. But maybe that'll all change tonight! Let's take you to our reporter on the ground!"
Chad Delran rotated his chair and looked up at the screen, which flashed to a feed showing a platinum blonde woman in a low-cut blouse. Thick bushes filled the backdrop of the shot.
"This is Melina Richards, reporting for the Perseid Entertainment Network," she whispered. "I'm just a hundred yards or so from Vernon Forsyth's mansion."
"Speak up, Melina!" Chad said. "So the people at home can hear you!"
"I'd love to, Chad..." Her mouth continued to smile even as her eyes glared bloody murder at him. "...but since Forsyth has all trespassers killed, I have to be very quiet."
"Ah, of course."
The host turned back to the studio's main camera, and favored it with the same exaggerated rictus.
"Every year, Vernon Forsyth orders a birthday cake from his favorite store. It's brought onto his property in a Pandora Bakery hovercar, which his robotic maidservant goes out to meet -- because Forsyth doesn't allow vehicles or delivery people to get too close to his home. And since she's the mansion's only other occupant, that gives brave journalists like Maria a chance to get inside the building and film the man himself."
"Melina!" she hissed.
Chad's chair revolved.
"What was what, Maria?"
"Melina!"
Chad leaned towards the screen and made a show of cupping his ear.
"I'm sorry, I couldn't quite-"
"My name's Melina, you grinning jackass!"
She stamped her foot. Then her chest exploded, splattering the screen with blood. Melina Richards looked down at the hole in her torso. The viewers were treated to the sight of bushes rustling on the other side of the gaping wound.
"Maria? Is everything okay?"
She looked up at the bloody camera.
"Chad, you fuc-"
Then she collapsed.
A voluptuous robot, wearing a white nurse's uniform on her gleaming blue body, stepped through the bushes. She held a pistol in her hand.
Nurse Hatchet looked down at the reporter's body. Then she stared straight into the camera, raised her weapon, and fired.
"Here's your cake! Thank you for choosing Pandora Bakery!"
The woman placed the large, round object into Nurse Hatchet's arms. Its box was transparent, displaying the delectable piece of confectionary in all its sugary splendor.
"Thank you."
The robot trotted back towards the mansion. But she stopped, and her eyes flashed. Movement in the bushes again! She balanced the cake on one arm, drew her pistol, and went over to investigate.
"...and we're going to secure the first interview with Vernon Forsyth in decades!"
A man's voice, just on the other side of the foliage. She took aim.
"As we all know," the voice continued, "Mr. Forsyth refuses to-"
Nurse Hatchet fired. The blast seared and charred its way through the leaves.
"...grant interviews. But we-"
This puzzled her. She'd aimed for the source of the sound, as she'd done when she dispatched the female reporter.
"...might be able to get inside while his bodyguard accepts delivery of his birthday cake."
She pushed her way through the bushes, holding the cake close to her body so it wouldn't fall.
"Ah, and here she is right now!" The holographic face of a man with a goatee and floppy hair smiled at her. "Happy birthday, robo-bitch!"
Something glowed at the bottom of her field of vision. She glanced down at the pulsing blue light. Then she turned and thrust her way back through the bushes.
The explosion was more of a crackle than a boom. Blue and white tendrils of electricity flashed across Nurse Hatchet's blurring vision. She staggered. The pistol fell out of her hand. But she somehow managed to keep hold of the cake.
Garbled warning sirens and illegible strings of characters swirled around her computerized brain. The cake... That was important. Her primary mission. She secured it with both arms. Mission accomplished. But there was... was more. Something... Something else. Other objectives. She had to... had to...
In the middle of her deranged, vibrating, blurry optical display, she saw a man running towards the house. From the back she could only see the floppy hair. But the image of his goatee pushed its way through her scattered mental impulses.
"Bastard!" she said. The word came out unaccented, in her default hardware voice.
She ran across the grass, stumbling and zigzagging as she tried to compensate for her haywire systems. Warning lights exploded before her electronic eyes. She ignored them.
The man looked over his shoulder. His eyes widened. His goatee parted.
"Oh, hell!" he said.
He put on a burst of speed. But Nurse Hatchet's legs pumped like pistons. He had time to begin a shriek. It ended when her metal fingers burst through his chest.
"Trespassers will be germinated," she said.
That didn't sound right... Her language systems must have been damaged. And she was sure some of her protocols had been knocked offline. She'd have to plug herself into the diagnostic unit when she got back inside, and get them all fixed. But first, Mr. Forsyth needed his cake.
Nurse Hatchet entered the mansion, went down the corridor, and headed into the living room.
"Happy birthday, Mr. Forsyth."
She held the cake out towards him. Her master stared at her, his eyes flashing green behind his visor. His jaw dangled open. He pointed at her blood-splattered body with one trembling finger.
"Germs!"
He pressed his hands to his chest, moaned, and fell out of his chair.
"Medical analysis..." she said, as she watched him writhe on the floor. "Mr. Forsyth is experiencing a cardiac arrest. Accessing... accessing medical files..."
More incomprehensible words of warning blared across her display.
"Treatment found: cake."
Nurse Hatchet tore the top off the transparent box, pulled out the cake, and smashed it onto Vernon Forsyth's face.
"Treatment administered."
The robot pivoted on her heel, then trotted off in search of her diagnostic and repair station.