The planet Ratatouille was a hostile, inhospitable place. An ugly place too, its blistering surface covered in debris from its ancient volcanic origins.
Dark sand the colour of old bruises baked in the midday glare of two suns. The still, dry air shimmered as roasting heat radiated from every exposed surface of the barren landscape. With the suns directly overhead, what little shade there had been was now gone.
In the distance the land rose to meet the low, ragged spine of bedrock which provided the only possibility of shelter from the solar inferno; the sand-blasted stone was riddled with shallow caves. Beyond the pockmarked ridge, land and dust-laden sky seemed to merge into one another.
Nothing moved. Most living things had gone to ground to wait out the hottest part of the day. In this harsh climate, even 'bots would cook and grind to a halt if they ventured too far, their servos choked with fine particles of hot dust, their coolant evaporated or clogged.
The silvered sails of the moisture collectors hung limply in the heat. Until the suns dropped a little lower in the sky, there would be no moisture for them to collect.
Apart from the squat dark towers of the homestead's moisture collectors, the two baked mud domes were the only visible signs that people actually lived out here. Almost the same colour as the sand around it, the smaller of the two domes was typical of the region's few scattered moisture farms. Standing within the dome, at the top of the steps which led down into the cool, dark interior of the subterranean dwelling, Lurk Splitwhisker shielded his eyes with one raised hand and squinted into the blinding light beyond the doorway.
Lurk's youthful features lent him the appearance of innocence; his unruly blond hair added just the right hint of angelic purity. His blue eyes twinkled, and his cleft chin was just enough to add a touch of manliness to his otherwise pretty face. He was dressed all in white; his loose-fitting tunic falling to mid-thigh, his legs clad in loose, comfortable trousers. It was obvious at a glance that he was destined to be a hero.
Shame about the name, though!
"Lurk!" called a woman's voice from somewhere within the adobe abode. "Lurk!"
Lurk sighed. After a moment he turned away from the brilliant glare and descended into the gloom, blinking his grit-filled eyes to help his vision adjust to the dim, soft lighting.
"Coming, Aunt Beryl," he called.
He peered into the small kitchen where his aunt was slicing an orange root vegetable, the sharp knife moving quickly in her practiced grip.
"Lurk, have you seen your uncle?" she asked without looking up, raising her voice over the snik snik snik of the blade as it cut through the vegetable and lightly kissed the scarred wood of her favourite old chopping board.
Lurk shook his head. "Not recently. I think he went out to check on the number seven collector, the one with the bent vane. He should be back as soon as things cool down a bit out there." Lurk waved one hand vaguely in the direction from which he had just come.
Beryl nodded. Lifting the board, she swept the orange slices into the pot which simmered gently on the hotplate.
"Well, when you see him," she said as she selected another vegetable and began to slice, "remind him we need a translator 'bot that speaks Blotchy."
"I don't suppose we'll have much of a choice," said Lurk, "but I'll let him know."
Beryl looked up, a smile lighting her weary, pleasant peasant face. After a moment, the faintest hint of a frown furrowed her brow. "You're a good boy, Lurk," she said, "but I do wish you would get dressed occasionally, rather than wandering around in your pyjamas all day."
"But they're comfortable, Aunt Beryl," whined Lurk. "And besides, this was all the style in Moss Iceberg a few years back. I know it will come back into fashion sooner or later."
"Yes dear," said Beryl. She shook her head fondly, and returned to chopping vegetables.
Lurk stood a moment in silence, watching as his aunt continued her preparations for the evening meal. When it seemed she had nothing further to add, he slouched on down the hallway to his bedroom. The rounded doorway was covered by a thin curtain; Lurk slipped past it and, with a loud sigh, threw himself down on the narrow bed. He stared up at the low ceiling, bored and frustrated with the tedium of a moisture farmer's existence. I should be out there, he thought, among the stars. Not here in the dirt. He shook his head. Adventure and excitement, that's what I crave! And there's precious little of either around here!
Gradually his weary eyes closed, and he slipped into a shallow doze.
"Oh yes, take me now, you hunk!" mumbled Lurk.
With a startled cry he sat up quickly and looked wildly, guiltily around, relaxing only once he'd confirmed he was still alone in the small room. He breathed a deep sigh of relief, and wiped one hand tiredly across his sweat-drenched forehead.
As the last remnants of the dream slipped from his mind, he became aware of a deep, muted rumble that bypassed his ears and resonated directly in his chest cavity. A crawler: the Yahoos were here! Lurk leaped up from the bed, pushed past the curtain, and ran along the corridor and up the steps. Emerging into the brilliant afternoon suns-light, he blinked and turned until he saw it.
The crawler was a massive box-like vehicle, its tremendous weight carried across the undulating dunes on sixteen enormous treads. It sat a short distance beyond the second, larger dome of the farm complex, its idling engines shaking the ground. So huge was it that it could have rolled completely over the dome beside it and crushed it into oblivion without even slowing down.
Dwarfed into insignificance beside the matt black metal monstrosity stood the figure of a man dressed in loose, flowing robes of tan and brown. Lurk's Uncle Rowan was walking up and down a ragged row of 'bots, pausing now and again for a closer look. Gathered around him, dwarfed by the human, were three of the tiny Yahoo traders, clad in their traditional purple robes.
Lurk trotted across the sand, feeling a sudden chill as he entered the shadow of the crawler. He joined the older man as he stopped before a battered old translator 'bot, its humanoid shape seeming out of place amongst the assorted mish-mash of functional robotic shapes.
"You, I suppose you're programmed for etiquette and protocol," barked Rowan.
"Oh yes, sir," twittered the 'bot in reply. Its metal skin gleamed dully, with a hint of yellow which suggested it would clean up to a sparkling gold finish. "I am aware of seven million possible place setting arrangements to suit any..."
"I have no need for a catering 'bot," Rowan interrupted brusquely. "What I really need is something that talks the binary language of my vapour collector controllers."
"Of course, sir," said the 'bot excitedly. "My first job was officially 'programming binary haulers', very similar to..."
"Do you speak Blotchy?" Rowan cut the 'bot off.
"Why of course, sir," gasped the 'bot. "My secondary function is translating. Blotchy is like..."
But Rowan had already turned away from the talkative 'bot. "Okay," he said to the waiting traders, "I'll take this one. Lurk, take it down to the garage and get it cleaned up." Rowan began to rummage around inside his voluminous robes, searching for his money pouch, as Lurk turned away and began to lead the humanoid mechanoid towards the nearby dome which housed the entrance to the garage.
Before he had taken three steps, an excited barrage of bleeps and whistles burst forth from the line of 'bots. Lurk turned. A stubby blue astrobot was rocking from side to side, clearly fighting to break free from the electronic restraints of the inhibitor nuts the traders had applied to its domed head. One of the Yahoos, shorter even than the astrobot, ran forward and pressed a button on the small remote unit held in its hand; the astrobot's wild activity immediately subsided.
"If I might make a suggestion, sir?" said the translator 'bot. "That little astrobot is in prime condition. A real bargain. I've worked with her before. She'll give you many hours of trouble-free service."
Lurk looked at the astrobot, then at his uncle. "Uncle Rowan, what about that blue one?"
"Don't be silly, lad," growled Rowan. "This is a moisture farm, not one of your dreams about that damned Imperial Academy! What would we do with an astrobot?"
"Um..." Lurk looked down at the dry sand underfoot; he scuffed one foot idly in the sand, raising a small puff of bruised dust. "Good point, Uncle Rowan," he mumbled. Sheepishly he turned away and gestured for the humanoid 'bot to follow him. Before he had taken another three steps, an excited barrage of bleeps and whistles burst forth from the line of 'bots. Again. Lurk turned back again. The stubby blue astrobot was rocking from side to side again, still clearly fighting to break free from the electronic restraints of the inhibitor nuts. One of the diminutive traders ran forward and pressed a button on the small remote unit held in its hand; the astrobot's wild activity immediately subsided, and not for the first time.
"If I might make a suggestion, sir?" said the translator 'bot. "That little astrobot is in prime condition. A real bargain. I've worked with her before. She'll give you many hours of trouble-free service."
Lurk looked at the astrobot, then at his uncle. He frowned, bemused. "Uncle Rowan, what about that blue one? Whoa! Deja vu!"
Rowan looked at his nephew as though he had lost his mind. Lurk cringed inwardly. Rowan opened his mouth to say something, then blinked in confusion. He closed his mouth and opened it a couple of times; Lurk would have been reminded of a goldfish if the concept of having enough water for creatures to actually live in had not been so completely alien to him.
"Yeah, okay," said the older man, surprising them both. Turning back to the Yahoo traders, Rowan said "What about the blue one? We'll take that one."
The Yahoos jabbered excitedly amongst themselves. Their trade language had no word for "love", but 317 different words for "money." Quickly they came up with an outrageous price, and as Rowan launched into the early stages of the bargaining process Lurk turned away once more and led the translator 'bot towards the garage. After a moment he heard the quiet hum of the astrobot's wheels as she caught up with her taller companion.
Behind him he heard the translator 'bot say something in a low voice, and the astrobot's whistled response. They bickered back and forth as they crossed the short stretch of hot sand to the garage entrance, and as they began the descent down the ramp into the cooler depths of the structure, Lurk sighed quietly to himself. Great, he thought. Lover's tiff. That's all I need...
After a moment's quiet reflection, he allowed another thought to surface: What in Hell's Handbasket just happened?