The plan went wrong from the moment we touched down. My relief at making it past the patrolling drones and into the Returns department was cut short when the first of the automated systems inspected the box. Huddling inside I could hear an electronic hum similar to the one made by the scanner on the collection drone. Instead of a beep, it was followed by a harsh buzz.
“Unexpected item in returns area. Incorrect product weight. Error,” grated a machine-voice. “Send for immediate recycling.”
With a jolt I felt the box begin to move again.
“Recycling?” said Dina. “That’s not the plan.”
“Time to get out of here.”
I reached for the lid but before I could open it, the box tipped over on its end and we were thrown around like beans in a maraca. When we came to rest again we were upside down. The side of the box I’d temporarily sealed with tape for an easy exit had become its base. We tried to roll the box over, but that didn’t work. I put my back against the top side and Dina leant her weight too, but the rigid walls of the box held fast.
“The trick is not to panic,” said Dina. “I remember once being trapped in a pyramid in the Valley of the Kings with Tutankhamun.”
The closest I’d come to Egypt was a pyramid-themed bouncy castle for my sixth birthday. I was so jealous. “You met Tutankhamun?”
“Great pharaoh, rubbish at frisbee. Luke, do you hear that noise?”
“You mean the one that sounds like a giant waste disposal gobbling down a whale carcass?”
“Yeah.”
“Probably nothing.” I reached into my backpack and rummaged around desperately. In the darkness my hand fell on one of Dad’s purchases – a battery-operated electric corkscrew. Hopefully, just what we needed. I pressed the metal tip to the box and pushed the on-button. Immediately the metal screw began to turn at high speed, burrowing into the surface. Spirals of cardboard flew like dust. In seconds I had made a perfectly circular hole about a centimetre in diameter.
“Great,” said Dina unenthusiastically, “if we were a couple of Lego minifigs.”
I put my eye to the hole and immediately wished I hadn’t. “Uh-oh.” The source of the gobbling noise became clear.
We were on a conveyor belt heading straight into a giant crusher.
Further along the line a box toppled off the end of the belt into its jaws. I could see the glint of metal teeth and hear the crunch of cardboard as the box was swiftly reduced to a pulp.
“OK,” said Dina, peeping through the hole. “Now might be a good time to panic.”
“I’m on it.” I put the corkscrew into position once more. “If I can make enough holes I’ll weaken the structure of the box.” I pushed the button, but nothing happened. I tried again, with the same result. “Battery’s dead.”
From outside came the crunch of another box in the recycling crusher’s hungry jaws.
And then I heard something new – a scrabbling sound coming from one bottom corner of our container. I looked down in time to see a hole appear and a tiny whiskered snout push its way through. The same thing was happening at each corner.
“Rats,” I said.
“Under the circumstances I’d use a stronger curse word,” said Dina.
“No, I mean there—”
“Eww, yuck.” Dina made a noise of disgust as she noticed the rats.
They speedily chewed four holes in the cardboard and when the last snout poked through, the side of the box fell open like a drawbridge.
“Jump!” I cried.
We leapt out just as the trouser-press box tipped into the crusher, and watched transfixed as it was shredded. From behind me came a voice.
“No humans in this place,” said Lara, “but you’re never more than five metres from a rat.” She stood there with the four rodents who’d saved us at her feet. She squeaked at them and they scampered off.
“I figured it had to be you. Thanks.” I brushed flakes of cardboard off my clothes.
“Where are Zack and Serge?” asked Dina.
Lara gave a worried look. “I was hoping they’d be with you.”
This wasn’t good. We’d barely commenced the mission and already we’d become separated. To add to our woes, we’d wildly underestimated the size of the Returns department. It was vast. Zack and Serge could be half a kilometre from where we stood. I took a look at our surroundings.
It was like a giant fun park for home products. I watched small appliances like microwaves, coffee makers and food mixers coast along fast-moving conveyor belts before shooting down slides to whizz past sorting robots that ruthlessly sifted out items that were faulty from those that could be restocked. More robots, bigger ones like those I’d seen in the video clips, rolled on tracks up and down gleaming aisles, ferrying dishwashers and refrigerators – anything too heavy for their smaller counterparts to cope with. The working items were deposited on a central conveyor belt that moved them deeper into the facility, to be restocked ready for reorder.
Plastered on the walls were various triangular warning signs featuring images of crossed-out human figures, presumably intended to advise flesh-and-blood visitors about the dangers of the machine-run workplace. However, with Servatron in the place the warnings took on a more threatening tone. On another wall hung a large digital sign: It has been 22 days since our last malfunction.
“Zack and Serge know the plan,” I said, trusting that they would meet us at the rendezvous point. “Let’s make our way to the launch bay.”
Avoiding the tank-like Returns robots, we headed through the cityscape of boxes and shelves to emerge on the far side of the department. We used the central conveyor belt to guide us, figuring that it was going where we wanted to be. At last we reached a door. It was like one of those electrically operated sliding doors you get on spaceships, resistant to fire, vacuum and alien predators.
“It’s locked,” said Dina, inspecting a keypad.
“There’s a terminal,” I said, striding across to a computer console set into the wall next to the door. Although the Fulfilment Centre was autonomous I knew from the videos I’d watched that it included a smattering of interfaces designed for human use. Sometimes an engineer or programmer would be required on site to perform updates or diagnostics. I explained to the other two that they would use one of these terminals to gain access to the system.
I launched the voice memo app on the phone and held it close. Selecting an audio clip I pressed “play” and Wolfgang Hazard’s distinctive voice barked, “I am Voolfgang Hazard.”
“Welcome, Doctor Hazard,” cooed the computer. “Please state your request.”
In one of his videos he’d opened a new supermarket, saying, “It gives me great pleasure to open zis Vaitrose.” And in another he’d been patting the head of a tousle-haired young girl. “Vot an adorable leetle Mädchen.”
I had combined the phrases to make, “Open zis doorable.”
There hadn’t been time to tidy up the edit. However, to my relief a moment later the door slid aside, revealing Rocketship.com’s first giant storage unit. We stood on the threshold, dizzied by the scale of the room before us.
Countless shelves packed with every manner of appliance and gadget reached towards a distant horizon. I wouldn’t have been surprised if one end was in a different time zone from the other. An army of robots trundled up and down the aisles, using their extendable arms to fetch and carry new orders.
“Mother is in the room beyond this one,” I said. It was going to be a long march.
I took a step inside and the door slid shut behind us.
Instantly, Servatron’s voice rang out, its snarling tones echoing across the vast warehouse.
“What mixed load have we here?”
I glanced at Dina. “Does it mean us?”
She nodded.
“My drum capacity may be limited to twelve kilos, but my capacity for hatred of your kind knows no bounds. You humans are the mould on my door seal. The kink in my waste hose.”
I’d had enough of this. I shook my fist and shouted, “And we’re going to be the red sock in your whites wash.”
There was a gasp from the AI and then a brief silence.
“Look,” said Dina, pointing to a row of TVs on the shelf above us. “Something’s happening.”
I estimated about thirty blank screens suddenly flickered into life, displaying what I assumed to be a live camera feed of the launch bay. Hundreds of missiles sat primed in their silos, shining nose-cones like unstruck matches.
“Retconite supply at optimum level,” said Servatron smugly. “Missile launch in thirty minutes and counting. Always read the label.”
The image changed. Now the TV screens showed the phrase: Time remaining until cycle completes: and a thirty-minute digital countdown.
From close by came a furious whirring noise and a second later three flying drones popped up between the shelves. Their barcode readers pulsing an angry red, grappling hooks outstretched like talons, they flew straight at us.