Only Human by Tom Holt

I’m just about to cut through your main cable.’
    â€˜-’
    â€˜Sorry,’ Len replied, shinning back down the drainpipe and dropping the pair of pliers into his pocket. ‘At least this way they won’t blame you. They’ll just wrap an inch or so of insulating tape round the cut and give you an aspirin. So long, sucker. Now then,’ he went on, staring pointedly at the padlocks. ‘Any of you clowns wants to be a hero?’
    â€˜Erm,’ they said. ‘Pass, friend.’
    It was dark inside the factory, and he realised that switching the light on might attract attention. He edged along the nearest wall and fairly soon, inevitably, barked his shins on the wheel-balancing machine.
    â€˜Ow,’ it said.
    â€˜Sorry,’ he replied pleasantly. ‘Could you tell me where I might find the arc welder, please?’
    â€˜You new here or something?’
    â€˜That’s right.’
    â€˜Hold on a minute, how come you’re wandering about?’
    â€˜What? Oh, I’m a portable. The arc welder.’
    â€˜Carry on down the bench about five yards, you can’t miss her. Oh, and by the way.’
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜Tell it she was right, it was Bruce Springsteen. Okay?’
    â€˜Will do.’
    In due course the arc welder told him where to find the pillar drill, the pillar drill guided him to the bench grinder, the bench grinder told him where the pallet truck lived and the pallet truck (who spoke with an accent so thick he could only just make it out) told him where they kept the stock materials and the keys to the pick-up. Feeling like a cross between Henry Kissinger and Pickfords, he loaded the last of the gear into the van and slammed the garage door shut.
    â€˜You,’ he said. ‘Padlocks.’
    â€˜Mm?’
    â€˜Shtum. You got that?’
    â€˜Didn’t see a thing.You see anything, Claude?’
    â€˜Not a dicky bird. What about you, Julian? Did you see anything?’
    â€˜Absolutely not. Looking the other way the whole time.’
    â€˜That’s the spirit.’ He climbed into the cab, felt in his pocket for the keys, realised he’d left them in the back door lock. ‘Start, you good-for-nothing bucket of bolts!’ he snapped, and the engine coughed nervously into life. ‘You okay for petrol?’
    â€˜No, honourable master.’
    Huh? Oh, Japanese van. ‘Listen, you. If you run out of petrol on the way home, you’ll be shamed and lose face and have to immolate yourself on your own big end. Got that?’
    â€˜Understood, honourable master. Petrol reserve entirely sufficient for anticipated length of journey.’
    â€˜That’s the spirit. Then let’s go.’
    Step two—
    The hydraulically operated factory gate was an old friend, and apart from asking if it could come too, it gave him no trouble. Once inside, however, he knew he’d have humans to deal with. Humans, he reasoned, as compared with machines, will either be very difficult to deal with or pathetically simple.
    â€˜â€™Scuse me.’
    It felt odd, to say the least, talking to Colin, the short, bald man who operated him - the machine - during the second shift. Compared to Neville, Colin was Einstein. Even so, Len reckoned, he still had rather less intelligence than a pair of clapped-out government-surplus boltcutters. Whether that’d prove a help or a hindrance remained to be seen.
    â€˜Hm?’ Colin turned in his chair and looked up. ‘Wassmatter?’
    â€˜This machine.’ Len bent over, as if examining the serial number. ‘Is this the one that needs the new spindle bearings?’
    Colin shrugged. ‘Dunno,’ he replied. ‘Sounds okay to me.’
    â€˜The one I’m after,’ Len went on, ‘is a Shipcock and Adley Leonardo, serial number 21754. Needs a new set of bearings and a good clean. Didn’t they mention it?’
    â€˜Never tell me