by Duncan Long
Moments later, inside the coolness of my tent, I blinked for a moment as my eyes adjusted to the dark interior that smelled of rusty iron and leather. The two squires stood me in the middle of the tent, and proceeded to dress me in woolen padding. Then, since I was still able to stagger under the weight of the outfit, they augmented the ordeal with the addition of cumbersome armor that reminded me why iron was such a popular metal among anchor manufacturers.
As they worked, it became painfully obvious that the two squires were automatons created by the computer program I was trapped in: They named each piece of armor they bolted or strapped onto me, apparently in an effort to add “educational value rating” to the SupeR-G’s inevitable upcoming bloodshed.
I cleared my throat. “I don’t suppose you guys would consider undoing some of this so I could go to the bathroom?”
They both ignored me, instead continuing with their scripted speech.
Squire One squirted some chicken grease onto my squeaky knee joint, and then they guided me toward a table upon which was spread an imaginative collection of instruments designed for the annihilation of one’s fellow man, with the utmost pain.
“For the joust,” Squire Two said, “you may carry three weapons of your choosing,”
I had doubts about my abilities with the heavy two-handed sword. The unwieldy battleaxe looked more likely to get me killed rather than killing anyone else. I continued my search of murder weapons.
“What’s that,” I said, pointing to an antique clawed hammer on steroids.
“A maul, my lord.”
“Let’s put that in my belt. Looks efficient and I have experience driving screws with a hammer. Either of you know what Lord Huntington generally carries into combat?”
“Usually a long sword, dagger, and lance, my lord.”
“Then let’s add a dagger and lance to my armament,” I said. “Might as well die in the style to which the fans have grown accustomed.”
Minutes later there was a fanfare of out-of-tune horns followed by the din of pounding upon pig-skin drums.
“The signaling of the court orgy?” I asked hopefully.
“No, my lord. The pealing of trumpets and thunder of drums signals the joust is about to commence.”
“I was afraid that was the case. Gentlemen, if you can escort me to the nearest taxi, I’ll be on my way.”
“Pardon, my lord?”
“Damn the torpedoes. Full speed ahead.”
No response. Hands edged toward daggers.
“To my steed.”
“Yes, my lord.”
I was escorted to the wooden lists where my king-sized, armored stallion awaited, snorting and pawing the ground like the battle animal with a taste for blood. Three varlets helped my squires manhandle me into the high-backed saddle, guiding my feet into the stirrups and making sure each leg was behind the jambes.
Next my lance was hung and counter-balanced on a projection extending from my breastplate, and the midsection of the weapon thrust into my gauntlet. An iron-sheathed shield was added to my other arm already protected by a leather rerebracet.
As my helmet was screwed on and bolted into place, I gazed through the visor slit across the lists toward Huntington who sat on his steed about fifty meters in front of me and on the opposite side of the jousting fence.
He smirked as he saluted, and then pulled down his visor with a resounding snap.
I could learn to hate that guy.
A priest conducted his short pre-game sermon — mostly the usual principles of chivalry and how there would be no biting, gouging, or hitting below the chastity belt. As he droned on, I glanced upward at the morning sun that had climbed halfway toward noon, making the heat inside the armor uncomfortable.
There was another flourish of mistuned trumpets, and Huntington lowered his lance.
This is it, I warned myself, battling to get my own lance aligned so it at least pointed across the lists that separated the paths we’d follow during our charge toward each other.
“Lords and ladies,” the high-pitched Host trilled. “This will be a duel of honor, a combat to the death. Combatants have abandoned blunted lances in favor of battle armament, designed for the efficient spilling of blood. This combat will determine which of these knights is truly noble, and which lacks valor.”
I started to protest, twisting my head inside my helmet to peer at the stands. Then I spied a hooded figure with an ax, no doubt attending this festive event to dispatch any coward desiring an easy way out. I bit my tongue and said nothing.
The lord-high muckamuck in the stands held up his perfumed handkerchief and the crowd grew quiet.
And then time stood still.
I had spotted Alice.
She sat next to the Host — my Alice from Wonderland that I had thought fell to her death from the cliff. I sat in the saddle trying to decide whether it was really Alice or just a bit of code that had somehow duplicated her. Then she erased all doubt, smiling toward me before turning to whisper to the stuffed shirt running the show.
“One moment, my lords,” the Host said, his voice rising in pitch as he lowered his kerchief. “My lady has chosen a champion to carry her token into this battle.” He handed Alice’s scarf to the Chief Marshal of the List who, in turn, gave it to my squire.
The handkerchief made its way toward me, and the lad carefully affixed the yellow silk favor to my lance.
I was unsure what response was called for by medieval protocol, but bowed slightly (nearly falling from my saddle), and half saluted the stands by raising my lance and tapping it against my helmet. That seemed to suffice.
The crowd applauded.
Alice beamed.
For a moment I forgot I was about to die.
The Host raised his handkerchief once more and continued, “These two lords have come into our presence, recommended by our good grace and as humbly as they can, beseeching us to discover the better combatant through the joust. My Lords, let the contest begin!” He released the handkerchief, the horns blared a nerve-grating dissonance, and the murderous festivities began.
Huntington kicked the flank of his horse, bringing it to a trot that grew ever faster. Realizing that the battle had commenced and that greater momentum would at least make the fight quicker and the outcome less certain, I spurred my horse as well. It charged with a whiplash of speed, and would have spilled me to the ground had it not been for the high back of the saddle that sandwiched me in leather. I struggled to maintain my balance and avoid dropping my lance as I bounced forward like a rust bucket Model T on a washboard dirt roadway.
Huntington sped toward me, riding with the practiced precision of a killer.
I tried to raise my heavy iron shield to cover as much of me as possible, and then I attempted to center my lance on his approaching chest, only to realize that the angle of attack continued to change the closer we got to each other, making it impossible to actually judge the correct point of aim for my weapon. I forced myself to make a continuous adjustment as we drew nearer — not an easy task on the back of a charging warhorse when peering through a tiny visor slit that bounced with each hoof beat.
Abruptly we were on top of each other in a clash of steel. My lance went wide, sliding off Huntington’s shield and then slicing thin air.
Huntington’s lance also glanced off my shield and nicked my helmet, but I escaped unharmed.
We continued the mad dash to the end of the fence, then my horse slowed at the end of the list and I pulled the reins, turning it through a tight circle so I again faced my opponent.
After a pause during which our squires checked our lances, we suffered another discordant trumpet blast. Huntington and I charged each other once again.
Our second bone-jarring crash saw my lance sneak past Huntington shield to smack him squarely across the high collar of his breastplate. I had the momentary satisfaction of hearing him yelp in pain and for a moment felt hope instead of despair when he missed me entirely. We continued to the end of
the list, each turned, and prepared for another charge.
My hope of besting Huntington became my undoing. In my optimism I failed not only to hit him on the next pass, but also to lift my shield high enough for full protection.
His lance slid across my shield and hit against the hardened iron of my breastplate, scraping for a few inches before gaining purchase and cracking through the hardened shell of my armor. A searing pain cut through my chest as the lance shattered, its sharpened end emerging from my lower back to impale me to my saddle, all in the twinkling of an eye.
Our horses carried us past each other, my steed slowing its gallop. Warm liquid spread beneath my armor and I felt suddenly weak and short of breath. I reined my horse to a stop and turned, fighting to keep my balance. Casting my lance to the ground, I struggled to wheel my horse around to face my enemy who I heard approaching behind me.
My eyes focused on Huntington. He raced toward me with his two-handed broadsword at the ready for a quick coup de grâce. I fought to retrieve my war hammer from its loop, my gloved hands making the task nearly impossible. Huntington was on top of me before I could retrieve my weapon, his blade whistling through the air and glancing off my shield as I reflexively raised it for protection.
Taking advantage of the sword’s momentum as it bounced from my shield, Huntington swung the blade through a wide circle, back over his head, and then brought it toward me again before I could recover. The sharp edge of his weapon traveled straight for my neck.
I closed my eyes and heard Alice scream.
Chapter 15
Alice Liddell
Dear Diary:
Mom always said that stupid girls ran after losers while the smart gals picked the winners and stuck with them, no matter how boring their life became. So what is it about “bad boys” that makes them so attractive? Simple: They’re exciting and fun.
I know I’d rather have fun with a bad boy rather than some stiff-necked twit that will become a corporate type. Or even worse, become one of those Frenchies with their powdered wigs. (What’s with those guys?)
One thing for sure: Mom wouldn’t like Ralph. She would tell me that people like him are why we have the expensive security system on our house.
But he is exciting. And I like the way his goofy face looks when he sees me. And that funny little yell he makes when he’s scared out of his mind.
I may still end up with Mom’s dream guy for me because I haven’t seen Ralph in any of the games for days now, and I have a terrible feeling he’s either blown a gasket from Jet, or that the OEK (One-Eyed Kreep) has finally got him.
I’ll miss Ralph. I cry every time I think about not seeing him again. I know that’s silly but the thought just breaks my heart. I don’t know what it is about him, but I find myself thinking about him a lot.
I’ve found that sometimes I can outfox the OEK. I’m not sure how it works, but if I put my mind to it, once in a while I seem able to change the rules of the game a little, the way he seems to be able to. Only I’m not nearly as good at it.
Sometimes I think the OEK is watching me even when I’m not in a game. I know that’s just my paranoia showing. But that’s how I feel, and I think a gal has the right to be a little crazy and intuitive from time to time, anyway. So that’s just how it is and I will never apologize for what I am and feel.
Got to run now or I’ll be late for school. Today is tryouts for the school play and I’m hoping to land the lead part. It has kissing, so even though I don’t need any practice with that, I pretend the male lead is Ralph.
I might not get the part. I hate to even consider that possibility. I think I’m good enough, but sometimes teachers choose the stups who kiss up rather than the people who deserve the part. I just have to get this part because it’s my last semester before going out into the world, as they say.
Ralph Crocker
I found myself being escorted down the prison’s concrete hallway by a metal automaton with a permanent look of concern etched into its face. “How are you today?” it asked.
“Okay,” I answered, confused as to where and when I was.
“Only okay?”
“Nothing a little freedom wouldn’t cure.”
“Freedom from drugs is freedom indeed,” the machine told me. “And coming down off addictive drugs isn’t easy.”
That I knew.
“Are you still having cravings for the drug cocaine?”
“I’m not here for cocaine abuse,” I said, hoping to correct the machine’s mistake. “I was a jet user. But I’m not a user any more.”
“Learning to admit your addiction is the first step toward recovery. You need to realize that there’s nothing wrong with admitting your addiction to cocaine….” A pause and then it sort of hiccupped and continued, “To cocaine. That’s an important first step.”
“But I’ve never used cocaine. Only jet. And I’m off it now.”
“Stay on the green line to avoid punishment.”
Green line? I looked for the green line and saw only the red line we’d followed in. I started to protest that I didn’t see any green line, then noticed the faint smudges of green on the floor; apparently the years of heavy mech and human foot traffic had worn the paint off the center of the hallway, leaving only an occasional green splotch on the floor. I did my best to follow the faint trail and was doing fine until we reached a stretch where four tunnels met. I made a guess and started down the left fork.
“Stay on the green line,” the robot warned me, gently gripping my right elbow in its strong rubberized fingers, pulling me to the right. “Another failure will necessitate shocking you.”
For a moment I wondered if there might be a way to take advantage of the glitches that plagued the mainframe running the prison, rather than having the errors work against me.
I had an idea.
A rather fateful idea, as it turned out. “I’m colorblind,” I ventured, hoping perhaps there was some sub-routine in the machine’s programming that would cut me a little slack.
“Colorblind?” the machine asked, coming to a halt. I heard the sound of gears deep within the mechanism, and then it spoke. “Blind. Unable to see. You must be injured and are in need medical assistance.”
“No,” I said. “Colorblindness is a condition that makes it impossible to differentiate between red and green.” At least I thought it was. I wasn’t so sure about that now that I considered it, but decided to do my best in fabricating what sounded like the truth.
“Don’t try to confuse me,” the mech warned. “Stay on the yellow line.”
“I thought you said green.”
“We are now traveling the yellow line. The yellow line leads to the medical area of the prison. I am overriding our previous orders with a medical emergency since you have become blind. Now I will escort you to the medical area.”
My compliance was easier since the yellow line hugged the wall and was still visible most of the way. I was about to congratulate myself for my stroke of genius when we made a turn down a narrow hall that branched from the main tunnel. We had only traveled a few yards when we entered a sickly yellow room with dirty floors and the stench of death.
There were dark splotches on the walls that looked ominously like dried blood.
“You’ll be in good hands here,” my escort assured me, shoving me into the middle of the room and then stepping back to block the door, thereby preventing any possible escape.
“How are you today?” a mechanical voice with all the throaty beauty of a hungry buzzard asked.
With a shock I realized that the mass of tubes and wires that I’d mistaken for a pile of junk was actually a medical bot that had seen better days.
Before I could say anything, my mechanical warden explained, “This man is injured and in need of medical help. Symptoms are…” There was a lengthy pause, the whirring of gears, and then the machine continued. “Colorblind eyes that fail to see red or green.”
The med-bot approached me, scrutinizing my face wit
h a sensor on the end of a snake-like metal feeler that apparently augmented the lens on its head.
At least this machine can see, I thought. And most likely it would catch the medical error of the guard that had brought me here, getting to the truth of my life and properly sorting my improvised disease into the “no need for treatment” category.
Or so I hoped.
“Bad eyes are so hard to work on,” the machine confided in me.
“My eyes are fine,” I protested.
“We always do our best here in the medical wing, and I will fix your eyes the best I can.”
“My eyes don’t need any work,” I said, beginning to have doubts about fast-talking myself out of my predicament.
The medical bot reverted to the canned nonsense all the mechs in this hellhole were programmed to offer: “Blindness is nothing to be ashamed of and there’s never any excuse to abuse drugs. Freedom from drugs is freedom indeed. But the withdrawal from addictive drugs isn’t an easy process.”
“I’m perfectly fine. Just can’t differentiate between colors too well. Colorblindness — you’ve heard of that, haven’t you?”
The machine stood frozen.
“Isn’t colorblindness covered somewhere in your medical dictionary?”
The machine paused its inspection of my eyes and its voice took on a darker tone. “Blindness: The inability to see.” Its eye zoomed to within inches of my nose. “Pupils dilated uniformly and eyes appear functional. Babbling about blindness may indicate brain damage or psychological trauma.”
“I’m fine.”
The machine took my head in its hands and twisted me back and forth, giving me a good idea of how an egg feels just before it becomes an omelet.
Then it released me and announced, “No external signs of concussion. Stand clear for X-rays.”
“The X-ray machine is non-functioning,” the mainframe announced from a ceiling speaker.
That seemed like good news to me. At least I wouldn’t be bathed in 800 REMs of X-rays, a happenstance easily imagined, given what had occurred thus far in the comedy of malfunctions.
