Target Rich Environment

by Larry Correia

  “Meewooo hoooooon.” As usual Wendell was a courageous voice for fiscal responsibility. “Mooooo-gurgle gurgle.”

  “Of course such events are fully covered in CorreiaTech’s comprehensive platinum policy. In fact, I believe this is your tenth paradoxical Hawking event, so your next one is free.”

  Wendell held up the punch card in his flipper, indicating that Tom was correct.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.” Since Wendell’s boss was the most important man in the Multiverse, he added, “Please give my regards to the Interdimensional Lord of Hate.”

  As Tom ended the call, he redlined the mech’s engines and accelerated to maximum speed. The sudden extra gravities violently squished Jimmy into his seat. “Urg! Fuuurk?” Jimmy managed to gasp through his gritted teeth.

  That was not from any of the six hundred and eighty five languages Tom was familiar with, but he got the gist of it. “You heard the manatee, Jimmy. We must hurry. Your home reality is in terrible danger.”

  CHAPTER 4:

  Hell Comes to Nebraska

  Earth 169-J-00561

  Nebraska

  KhanQuanCon XIV

  VIOLENCE nearly erupted when a fat man wearing elf ears cut in line in front of an even fatter man dressed as a Klingon. Insults were exchanged in Klingon and Elvish. Shoving ensued. Larry Correia, the novelist—not the CEO of the ultra-powerful megacorporation—looked up from the authors’ signing table, surely hoping for some good old-fashioned, nerd-on-nerd face punching. Sadly, the shoving match didn’t last long, as both men quickly became too winded to continue. Grumbling and out of breath, they got back in line, hoping to get an autograph from the lady that played Bystander #14 in Superman 2, and the authors went back to autographing books.

  “Crap, I was hoping to see somebody get stabbed with that goofy Klingon sword,” Jimmy the Temporary Intern said to the other convention attendees standing around them.

  “It’s called a Bat’leth,” corrected one of the fans waiting in a different line. The sci-fi fan—or so Tom Stranger assumed judging by his Star Fleet pajamas—regarded Jimmy with barely concealed disdain. “It is a weapon of honor. You would know that if you weren’t such a Ha’DibaH.”

  “Huh?”

  “I believe he is communicating his dislike for you,” Tom clarified. “Be silent and do not provoke the locals, Jimmy.” Satisfied that his Temporary Intern would not further violate the local customs, Tom went back to patiently waiting his turn to speak to his client.

  KhanQuanCon XIV was crowded with people in colorful costumes, and smelled faintly of an odor known as con funk. There were several authors signing books at the booth just ahead of them. His client was among them. Tom was eager to get this over with so he could get back on schedule, but Interdimensional Insurance Agents were unfailingly polite, and terrible impending destruction was no excuse for cutting in line. Luckily, they were next.

  Larry Correia passed over a freshly signed novel to the waiting fan. “I’m glad you liked it.”

  “Not really. I thought it was boring and derivative. I’m just going to sell it on eBay.” The “fan” scowled as he looked at the title page. “You call that a signature? It looks like a lightning bolt. You suck.” He waddled off, swishing his triple extra-large cape of invisibility for dramatic effect.

  “Hey, let me personalize that for you!” the author shouted after him. “I can make it out To my dear friend, Ass Bag!”

  Now it was Tom’s turn. “Hello. Are you the prestigious La Mancha-award-winning fantasy author, Larry Correia?”

  “That’s what the sign says.”

  “No,” he looked down at the cardboard placard, then turned it around so Larry the Writer could see. “It actually says James Gandolfini.”

  “Well, shoot. Con organizers get us confused all the time.”

  “Yes. The resemblance is eerie.” Tom handed him a paperback.

  “Who should I make this out to?” Larry the Writer readied his signing pen.

  “Tom Stranger.”

  “To Tom.” He made a quick squiggle, drew a happy face with horns, and passed the book back over.

  “Thank you, Mr. Correia.” Tom Stranger stuck the book into his suit pocket and it disappeared so cleanly, it was almost as if the pocket was somehow bigger inside than it appeared. His manner turned deadly serious. “Now come with me if you want to live.”

  The large, bald author stared at him stupidly. “Huh?”

  Tom had to remind himself that Jimmy’s home reality was backwards and not overly familiar with the greater Multiverse. He handed over a business card, and his client seemed rather impressed. Probably because unlike most business cards received at cons, this one was not printed at home, nor did it have any unicorns on it. It looked professional.

  “Interdimensional Insurance?”

  “That is correct. I am afraid that a rift has occurred here at this KhanQuanCon XIV science-fiction and fantasy convention event. You are covered by Stranger & Stranger, so I must protect you.”

  “That’s great.” It was apparent that Larry the Writer was just humoring him. Tom did not take offense. Lame dimensions were not familiar with his career field. “It was nice to meet you, but I’m super busy. Next!”

  “I am the only person left in line.”

  “Ouch.” Larry the Writer looked past Tom and confirmed that was true. He sighed. “Still not a real writer . . . Look—Tom, is it? You’ve got the wrong guy. I’ve never bought Interdimensional Insurance.”

  “No. But the Larry Correia on Earth 686-Gamma-13006 has purchased our comprehensive plan. Thereby indemnifying all Larry Corrieas in existence across the known Multiverse.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “Indeed,” Tom Stranger explained. “It is exceedingly expensive. In fact, the annual premium is greater than the GDP of most planets. The Larry Correia of that reality is extremely wealthy.”

  Larry nodded appreciatively. “He must’ve had a few more New York Times bestsellers than I have. Damn it. I knew I should have branched out into Scottish time-travel romance.”

  Tom Stranger shook his head. “No. He does not write books; though he does have a popular web comic about an anthropomorphic moose that solves mysteries, that is not the source of his wealth. It is more of a hobby as I understand it. Rather, that Larry Correia is the founder of CorreiaTech, which has revolutionized warfare across the entire Multiverse. He is commonly considered the greatest genius of all time, having invented the inertial dampener, the cold-fusion miniaturized power cell, and true no-wrinkle slacks.”

  “That’s kind of surprising. I’m not really that technically minded.”

  Tom checked his Wiki. That was an understatement. This reality’s version of his client was so mechanically inept that he had once accidentally set his Chevy Caprice on fire inside his own garage while trying to change the water pump.

  “The primary difference that my infolink can discern between you and that particular Larry Correia is that he attended a college physics lecture that you missed. Inspired, that version immediately invented the world’s first energy shield using only a box of Wheat Thins and a medium-sized Holstein cow. You, on the other hand, missed that class, because you had somehow gotten your head stuck in a mailbox. ”

  “Yeah, I remember that. Good times. Wait a second . . . How do you know about that? The Great Mailbox Incident of ’97 was so embarrassing that I’ve never posted about it on the Internet. And you weren’t one of the responding paramedics. You must be from the future!”

  “Not the future, but rather another dimension. Now, quickly, Mr. Correia, we must get you out of here. The demonic invasion has already begun. Luckily for you I was already on my way to this Nebraska to pick up my correct intern. Allow me to introduce my Temporary Intern, Jimmy Duquesne.” Tom turned around, but there was no one behind him. “I seem to have misplaced my intern. Darn it, Jimmy, where have you wandered off to now?”

  Suddenly, there was a scream from one of the gam
e rooms. A man stumbled out into the hallway, covered in blood. His clothing was in tatters, his hands were twisted into razor sharp talons, and his glowing red eyes bulged out of his skull as he gnashed the air with his fangs. He lurched into the crowd, howling as he began to claw madly at the other attendees.

  “Damn LARPers,” muttered the writer, “thinking they own the place.”

  “Nice costume!” somebody dressed as Sailor Moon told the demonic Live Action Role Player. The LARPer’s head rotated all the way around in a complete circle like in The Exorcist. “Cool effect!” but then it was too late, as Sailor Moon was dragged to the ground in a spray of entrails and giant yellow hair extensions.

  Larry the Writer seemed rather shocked. “I don’t think that’s a costume!” When a lung flew over and knocked over a cardboard cutout of R2-D2, that pretty much confirmed it. “What the hell?”

  Tom Stranger reached into his suit and withdrew his sidearm. The small, but extremely awesome CorreiaTech Combat Wombat was the finest combat implement ever designed. He aimed, and the demon exploded into a cloud of meat. Blood splattered the walls and attendees.

  Unfortunately, the other con-goers who’d been scratched were already mutating.

  “It’s like a bad ’80s Italian horror movie!”

  “It appears that I arrived too late.” Tom Stranger stated as the blood cloud rained down. He put one hand to his ear. “Hello, Ms. Wappler. Could you please postpone my one o’clock?”

  The surviving con attendees were trapped and terrified. The main hall and game rooms had already fallen before the fearsome onslaught. The demons had swept through the convention, spreading death and mutant cooties. The remaining geeks, authors, gamers, and fan boys of KhanQuanCon XIV were making their final stand, and had barricaded the green room door with a pallet of self-published comic books, temporarily stopping the demons’ advance, but they could hear the mad scratching of their instantly infectious claws on the other side.

  “Those comic books won’t hold forever,” Larry the Writer stated with grim finality.

  “They’re graphic novels,” corrected the comic book author with a sniff. He adjusted his beret. “They’re about man’s inhumanity to man and our existential struggle for—”

  “Crap, dude, whatever. Fine, those graphic novels won’t hold forever.” He looked over at the last folks who’d made it in before they’d sealed the door. “What’s it like out there?”

  The girl in storm trooper armor was really shaken up. “The monsters attacked the room holding the panel on writing space-alien-on-human love scenes. It devolved into how to write Kirk-on-Spock slash fic. It was horrible.”

  “The panel discussion or the demons?”

  “The demons . . . mostly.” She began to sob. “Oh, John Ringo, no!”

  “Keep it together, Trooper. We need to think of a plan. Has anybody seen Tom Stranger?” The other refugees exchanged confused glances. “Average guy, average height, average looking, has a bow tie? Awesome laser pistol?”

  “Oh, that guy.” A Jawa pointed at the barricade. Or maybe it was a short dude wearing a robe made out of brown carpet, but the LED-light eyeballs were a cool touch. “He stayed out there. Said something about having to find his intern.”

  “Crap. I barely find out I’ve even got an Interdimensional Insurance Agent, and I’ve already lost him. He seemed so polite and eager to provide good customer service, too . . . We’re on our own.” Luckily, Larry the Writer had been preparing his entire life for the zombie apocalypse so this wasn’t a complete bummer. He’d been to worse cons. Way worse. “Okay, we’re going to need weapons.”

  One of the Society for Creative Anachronism people stepped forward and lifted his sword. “Thou dost knoweth of our exquisite blades and skills, me Lord. The foul denizens of Hades shall taste our steel! Huzzah!” Everybody else wearing a tunic or chainmail also yelled huzzah. He estimated at least a dozen huzzahs, which was certainly an above-average number of huzzahs. “We may slay these beasts, if we can but liberate our stores in the marketplace, and thus arm the entire vanguard with halberds and falchions!”

  “What are sandwiches and birds supposed to do?”

  The SCA guy switched back to normal English. His name tag read Sir Galen. “I said there are a bunch of axes and swords over in the sales room. If we grab those, we can kill the snot out of these douche-nozzles.”

  Now, that Larry could understand. “Okay, you guys can do that while the rest of us do something useful. I meant who’s got real weapons?” It turned out most of his fans had concealed weapons permits, as did everyone in a Jayne Cobb hat. One of them had even smuggled in an AK-47. “Damn, how’d you get that in here?”

  “I stuck some gears on it and told security it was part of a Steampunk costume.”

  “Excellent. We’re going to have to kill every last one of these things if we’re—”

  “Hey. Who put you in charge?” asked an exceedingly large woman wearing a Team Jacob T-shirt.

  “That’s Tony Soprano! Don’t piss him off!” hissed her friend in the Team Edward shirt.

  “Listen, lady, if we’re going to live, we’ve got to fight.”

  “Violence never solved anything,” the Jacobite answered with the grim finality of a hippy who’d never once read a history book, ever. “I say we hide here until help comes. We’ve got food.” She pointed at the green room table that had a bowl of M&M’s and a plate of Ritz crackers reserved for the guests. Little did people realize how many secret perks there were to being a writer.

  Suddenly there was a rumble from the ceiling. The tiles broke apart and dust rained down. Immediately the fans began to engage the hole with small arms fire. Tom Stranger popped out of the hole and dropped to the floor, dragging another person with him. The bullets sparked harmlessly off his CorreiaTech personal energy shield, which made Larry the Writer realize that he really should have paid more attention in college.

  “Cease fire! Cease fire! That’s my insurance agent!” The wild gunfire tapered off.

  Tom Stranger brushed the plaster dust from his suit coat. “Please excuse my rude interruption. I had to rescue my intern. ” He frowned at the pathetic slob of a young man in his stained Chico State T-shirt lying on the floor. “I told you not to wander off.”

  “But, but Mr. Stranger. We’re at a con!” Jimmy pleaded. “There are girls. In costume . . . Girls in costume!” Tom Stranger didn’t respond. “Chainmail bikinis, leather corsets, and Princess Leia! Princess Leia, man! And some of them have really low self-esteem! I had to work my magic, know what I’m saying?”

  “Is he drunk?”

  “Usually. Jimmy, this is the client. Mr. Correia, this is Jimmy Duquesne.”

  “Dude, you were awesome as that gay hit man in The Mexican.”

  There was a sudden crash against the door, hard enough to shake all the graphic novels, followed by a sanity-rending scream of hate and sheer crankiness.

  “What’s that?” someone dressed as Dr. Horrible cried.

  “They’ve summoned a Balrog,” Tom Stranger stated with grim finality. “It is a nearly unstoppable force of evil. I would estimate it is at least a two hundred on the Grylls Survivability Scale.”

  Larry whistled. That was a lot of Bear Gryllses. “Why don’t you just shoot it with your fancy laser pistol?”

  Tom Stranger shook his head. “I lost it trying to save Jimmy from a demon.”

  Jimmy got upset. “Demon? But she seemed so into me. Are you sure she was a demon?”

  “I thought perhaps her tail or bat wings would have been a clear indicator, but you are a remarkably unobservant little man.” Tom Stranger turned back to his client. “I have many CorreiaTech devices on my person, but only my Combat Wombat is powerful enough to pierce the nether hide of a greater demon. I will have to retrieve it. It was by the swag table.”

  The Balrog crashed into the door again. They wouldn’t have a chance in the enclosed space of the green room. Larry the Writer looked out across the sea of con-goers and sa
w grim determination on their pasty faces. It was time to go on the offensive.

  “Are you guys ready? Let’s do this! Nebraska is counting on us!”

  “Can I get a huzzah?” Sir Galen shouted.

  “Huzzah!” they shouted in return.

  “I can’t hear you!”

  “HUZZAH!”

  Even Larry the Writer was getting really psyched up, and this universe’s Larry really didn’t like to do cardio. “Let’s go kick some demon ass!”

  But by the time the angry mob turned around, they saw that the pallet of comics—sorry, graphic novels—had been shoved out of the way and the green room door was open. While they’d been trying to build enthusiasm for a suicidally futile noble gesture, Tom Stranger had simply walked out and started beating the ever-living hell out of a bunch of demonic mutants. And apparently you had to be a serious bad ass to be an Interdimensional Insurance Agent, because Tom Stranger was absolutely massacring them.

  The fans and authors watched in amazement as Tom fought his way through two dozen zombified Deadpools. “Man, that is some Wu-Tang crouching tiger shaolin temple stuff right there.”

  “I know, right?” Jimmy the Intern said. “You should have seen him with Walker, Texas Ranger this morning.” But Tom Stranger couldn’t beat up an entire convention center full of monsters by himself, and Jimmy had apparently caught the Interdimensional Insurance Agent spirit. “Friggin’ huzzah, bitches! Charge!”

  Jimmy made it all of ten feet before he was clotheslined by a zombie furry in a panda costume. But the rest of the fans followed his valiant lead.

  It was hard to see what happened next, because the con descended into a hyperviolent, blood-soaked melee. It turns out all those LARPers were just waiting for an excuse to wreck face with real swords, because shit got real. It seemed the con-goers were doing pretty good, maybe even winning, up until the part where the Balrog moseyed up and started popping nerds into its mouth like they were gummy bears.

  As they retreated, Sir Galen bravely placed himself in front of the flaming super monster, planted his sword into the floor, and shouted, “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” Then he turned around and looked back at the others. “I always wanted to say that!” It was so metal that Larry the Writer had to throw the horns. But then the Balrog kicked Sir Galen through the convention center wall.