by Robert Wilde
A quick check verified this, before the man held up a box. “What’s this?”
“That is a communication device. It allows us to talk to London without being intercepted.”
“Won’t the phone, err translator do that?”
“No. This box will,” and a switch was flicked.
“Hello, this is London calling,” Joe almost sang out.
“Subtle,” Dee sighed.
“Remarkable,” said a deep voice behind them, and then again in a more computerised version thanks to the Array. Dee and Nazir turned to find a man dressed like a priest.
“You must be the Father,” Dee said smiling, holding a hand out.
“My reputation precedes me. Yes, this is my little enclave from the madness. And you are?”
“The British.”
“Ah, I see. You are here to talk?”
“We want to hire you to complete a task. We can pay very usefully.”
He smiled beatifically. “Unless you can provide me with a truck full of arms and ammunition you can’t pay usefully at all.”
“That is exactly what’s waiting further to the west.” Dee smiled, and the Father grinned.
“You see,” he said out loud to his flock, “God provides.”
“I’ve had many names shouted out, but that wasn’t one of them.”
The Array didn’t see fit to translate that from Dee.
“What do you want from me?”
“The Russians have stolen a device from the British military. It has been transported into Ukraine, moved to this border region, and now sits in a warehouse awaiting a suitably disguised ‘aid’ convoy to move it into Russia itself. We want you to return it to us.”
“A device? An Army device? Is this a weapon?”
“Indeed.”
“A weapon we could use?”
“No. It’s experimental, and its instructions are… lacking. Instead we will give you plenty you can use, including what’s in the car.” Dee held a hand towards the vehicle, and the Father nodded. Soon she was opening up a suitcase. “As you can see, a range of silenced weapons.”
“Excellent. Excellent. But there is bound to be a complication.”
“There is. The Russians have a British hostage. He is to be freed alive and returned to us too.”
“A weapon and a hostage. You’ve been quite careless. Can we rely on MI6’s support going forward?”
“We didn’t say MI6. We said British.”
“Oh, then who are you?”
“A unit.”
“Ah, the military itself. Well, I am sure we can assist you.” The Father smiled, grinning broadly, and Dee knew he’d help all right. They’d just made everything he’d said these last few years completely valid.
There were several advantages to fighting a war using a militia made up of soldiers you’d bussed in and let loose in a neighbouring country, such as the ability to effectively use modern military hardware, a degree of deniability, and a guarantee things will be broken. But there were also disadvantages, such as an equal degree of lost control, lost organisation, and lost discipline.
This meant a group of motivated Ukrainians armed with silenced weapons could mount an assault on a town being used as an ad hoc military base, kill their way through guards, advance into a warehouse, and load a six foot long crate onto a van, along with a few other goodies they took the chance to get. It also allowed four of these Ukrainians to follow a British woman and a Syrian disguised as a British man to a nearby building, where they paused outside.
Nazir looked down at the pistol in his hands, and back up at the doorway. Behind it lay, if the Array was right, two guards and a captive.
“You sure you want to do this?” Dee whispered, knowing Nazir was struggling with memories. Of having killed, of having fought his way out of a homeland reduced to splinters, of preparing to kick through a door and shoot two people dead. He could do it, they knew he could, the question was did they want him to.
Knowing time was ticking, Nazir looked down at the gun, up at the door, and made a decision. “I’m fine, let’s get this fellow.”
Dee nodded, and soon a door was broken open, people flooded in, and silenced shots were fired. They then found themselves in a kitchen, with two dead guards on the floor, and a surprised man handcuffed to the oven.
“For you Englander,” Nazir said smiling, “the war is over.”
Dee shook her head.
The group soon returned with the hostage to the warehouse, where they all climbed into the truck and drove off at a speed judged to not arouse suspicion but swiftly getting them out of the place. They were soon free of the town, past the bodies, and into the wildlands which no one truly controlled.
At this point a bottle of spirits was cracked open, and everyone settled into carousing, especially the hostage, who introduced himself to everyone as James and promised to buy them all watches, as if that made the blindest bit of difference to their chances of surviving the war.
Soon the truck drove into the Father’s village, and pulled up outside the church. As everyone climbed out the Father appeared, smiling like a madman, and he clapped them all on the back and looked in. Not just the device, not just the boy, but a hoard of weapons they could all use. Excellent, excellent.
“What happens now?” the Father asked Dee.
“We call in our truck, then we can swap over tomorrow. Sun needs to rise first, that’s how long it’ll take to get here.”
“Don’t call them yet.”
“No?”
“No, I want to have a look at this device.” He kept smiling at Dee, who wasn’t returning it. “We risked a lot, I want to at least see what it looks like.”
He turned, walked towards the church, and the armed followers surrounded Dee and Nazir and disarmed them, before the three (would be) Britains were led into the church.
“I’m blaming this entirely on your war is over joke,” Dee said.
“Not my fault no one’s got a sense of humour.”
“I see. Well, at least this is like a homecoming for you. Everyone being dicks to everyone else.”
The crate followed them in, until the men carrying it placed it carefully down in front of the altar. The Father waved a hand, and a pry bar was used to remove the top, at which point everyone looked in.
“What the fuck is that,” the Array translated.
Inside the box was what looked, at first instance, a human body. The first thing you noticed was that it was just a body, as there was no head, just a stump with lots of little things jutting out. But as the eyes adjusted, they realised it wasn’t human, wasn’t even a shop dummy, but made of a combination of smooth metal and interesting looking mechanics.
“What is it?” The Father asked.
“A prototype combat robot,” Dee replied smoothly. “Incomplete, as you see, the head went separately.”
“That’s all… armour?”
“Yes. No point in the military making a robot that would get shot.”
“I see. Incomplete you say?”
“Indeed. Needs a head.”
“With a few of these we could throw the Russians out.”
“And with a few of these the Russians could take this place over. You can see why we wanted it away from them.”
“Oh yes, yes, I concur with all that. It’s just there’s something…” and he reached out and touched the robot. His hand started to shake as it made contact. “Yes, there’s something odd about this. Spiritually odd.” Dee realised the rest of Father’s militia were giving each other the ‘here he goes again’ rolling eyes. Then he snapped upright. “I can’t let you have this. Not yet. Give me an hour to think.”
The Father turned, walked out of the main room, and into the chambers in the church that he called his own. He was soon in a small room containing a grubby arm chair, an immaculate kettle, and a few mugs, one of which was soon filled with his own mixture of coffee and vodka, both stolen from the eastern visitors who plagued the area. He tasted the
now only warm mixture, felt it flow into his veins, and leaned back into springs which were barely working anymore. Then he began to think.
He’d taken leadership of this village, this large village, because he felt God telling him too. After all, the politicians and the military leaders were a distance away, fighting a war of lines on a map, whereas here, on the ground, in the middle, you stood to be blown up by shellfire while others argued. So he’d taken over, he had formed his militia, he had stolen and fought, until they formed a small oasis in the middle of the chaos, and he’d done it all with god’s help. Signs had come when he needed them, as had weapons, food, medical supplies. He had led and the world had come to meet him halfway.
And now a combat robot had fallen into his grasp. God had provided the ultimate weapon, and it was obvious to the Father that it wasn’t really a headless robot, it was, in fact, something he could use. Yes, yes he could, that had to be the plan, and as he thought he drank, and as he drank he became sure he knew what to do. So when he stood, walked out and back into the church, he found his closest associates waiting there for whatever pearl of wisdom this thinking session would bring. He also saw the British trio sat to one side chatting to themselves. They didn’t look all that worried, which normally would worry him.
“Men, men, come over here,” and soon they gathered around him. “I have the answer, I know the solution. This robot isn’t a machine. It doesn’t need a computer or a driving mechanism. It is finished and ready, and just needs a head.” Dee raised an eyebrow and leant forward intently as the Father continued. “This isn’t a robot, no, it’s a body, and it works by putting a human head onto it. The body is hungry for a soul, just touch it and feel yours reacting. So we will give it a head, and we will throw the Russians out permanently.” The Father smiled, all grinning teeth and god given certainty.
After a small pause, someone asked “how will we give it a head?”
The Father seemed a little perplexed no one was following, so added as a teacher might scold a child “we will use mine.”
“Well that’s one hell of a plan,” Nazir said clapping.
“Don’t translate that.”
“No.”
“Psychological profiling for the win.”
“Or that.”
“The British know we have discovered their secret!”
“Stop clapping Nazir.”
The scene was set. The inhabitants of the village had crowded into their church, civilians at the back, militia at the front, the three British off to one side. The robot’s body had been picked up, dusted off and stood gleaming where it had been propped up to mimic the Christ on the Cross behind it. Finally, the Father stood in front of his flock, beaming a Tony Blair smile.
“Welcome everyone, welcome, today I bring us our salvation. Soon I will ascend, merge my body with that of science, and we will drive the Russians from our country. Soon we will all be free. I want you all to be here, to share in this triumph with us, I want you to witness the new age. Now, all that is left is for my head to be placed on the machine, and I will be ready.
He turned to face the robot, and kneeled on the ground. As a man came over from the right holding the only sword that could be found, the Father prayed, and when he stopped said simply “Now.” The man with the sword raised it, paused, lowered, raised it again, and when the Father said “now” again a little annoyed the sword was swung down. Everyone cried in horror as the blow miraculously landed perfectly, and a decapitated head rolled forward, followed by gouts of blood.
The second in command of the militia picked the head up, and looked rather queasy as he strode over and sunk it onto the neck of the robot, the little spines and protuberances sinking into the flesh. Then he stood back and led everyone in prayer.
After four minutes, and nothing whatsoever happening, a few whispers went up round the room, and the second in command went over to where Dee and Nazir said. “How long does it take?”
“Take?” Dee asked.
“Yes, how long does it take to work?”
“It’s not going to work is it you fucktard.”
“What?”
“What part of sticking his head on a metal body was ever going to work? Live in the real world for a second.”
“But… but… how do we put his head back?”
The room was looking at the head in horror.
“You can’t. It’s a head.”
“Then he’s… he’s dead?”
“Very.”
“Why didn’t you stop us!”
“Oh yes, us and our guns. No, wait, you took those.”
“But he’s, he’s, he’s dead?”
“Look, our offer still stands. Elect a new leader, give us the body, we give you a shit load of arms, everything gets sensible again.”
“But he’s dead.”
The door at the back of the church flew and someone ran in. “The Russians are here, the Russians are here.”
“I guess they want their stuff back,” Dee said, sensing an opportunity.
“Battle stations everyone, and you, guard the British people.”
Soon the church was mostly empty, so Dee stood up. Her guard, a young woman with a fiercely pulled back ponytail, pointed a gun at her.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Who do you think can get us out of this? The idiots outside who followed him, or us?”
“You can’t stop the Russians!”
“I can. I have a combat robot.”
“But there’s no head.”
“Oh, yes, about that,” and Dee picked up the box that could talk to London, unscrewed what was holding the door shut with her penknife, and opened Joe’s box. Inside was the machine, which had once been moulded out of metal to resemble a head. “I have the head,” and Dee released Joe and ran over to the body. “This isn’t a robot. It’s a construct that allows a human spirit to control it like a body. This is a highly refined version, and we stole it for our friend here. Now, I click Joe onto the top,” and she pulled the Father’s head off and wiped the blood clear with her sleeves, at which point Joe started screaming.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, the weird feeling people got as they touched this was a device which keeps the construct free of passing souls. It’s currently fighting Joe, so I just tap the code in here, pull this box off the chest and… Joe should be inside.” Pause. “Joe?” Pause. “Joe are you in there?”
“I feel like the Terminator.”
“Oh Jesus, you are not the …” outside bullets began being fired. “Okay, today you can be the Terminator.” Slowly the construct moved as Joe became used to the arms and legs, and Dee put the blocking box away in her pocket.
“Right, outside are a load of militia on our side, and a load of Russians who really aren’t. You have our fullest permission to storm out and kick the shit out of them.”
Joe wriggled his metal fingers.
“I can handle that. I’ll just imagine I’m back at school and I’m now bigger than the bullies.”
“Whatever it fucking takes.”
Joe walked to the door of the church, opened it, and stepped outside. He soon learned that a six foot tall walking metal construct tends to attract a lot of attention during a battle, both from the three attackers who broke and ran at the sight of it, and the others who started to shoot at him to the exclusion of everything they should have shot at. But Joe also learned what it was like to be wearing a state of the art armour creation, and as ordinary bullets bounced off him he advanced, until he was on top of one attacker. Metal hands reached out, seized the head of this terrified and frozen man, and squeezed. As the skull exploded like an egg, the construct could be heard to exclaim “that was icky.” It might have spoiled the effect had there not been a battle on.
Aware of the power in his hands, Joe looked up. Perhaps if he charged those people who seemed to be in command at the back. That seemed like the sort of thing you did in these situations. Just the right sort
of thing.
Bodies lay all around the church, and there was the smell of burning in the air. But a quick look by anyone who’d been in the middle of this war for a few weeks would notice the difference: most of the corpses belonged to Russians, or more properly ‘Ukrainian Separatist Militia’ who were Russians in disguise. After a fierce but not sustained gunfight, the Russians had decided to withdraw, check they’d all witnessed the strange metal creature and then get both very, very drunk so they could explain this to someone higher up the chain without looking like deserters.
The village had come out, and were stripping the bodies with a speed and efficiency only war can imbue. In the doorway of the church, Dee, Nazir and James stood, all pretending they weren’t staring at Joe’s new metal body as he joined them in chit chat.
“Do all your rescues go like this?” James asked.
“Oh, no, some of them actually go wrong.”
“This was right?”
“Proportionally, yes.” A shadow fell across them, and they looked up to find the Father’s second in command stood there.
“I’ve been selected first in command.”
“Congratulations, don’t get anyone to chop your head off.”
“Won’t be happening. Your deal?”
“Is still valid. We call in the truck, we pack Joe up, we fuck off. You can have everything we leave behind.”
“I think,” and he looked at Joe like a man scared of a suddenly real Easter Bunny, “that would be for the best.”
“Hang on, pack me up?” Joe didn’t sound happy.
“Yes.”
“Pack me up?”
“You can’t travel back like that can you? How many airports or ports or anywhere with people is that body going to go through without attracting attention.”
“But it’s my body!”
“It’s your body when we get back to my house. For now it’s a giant ‘hey, look at us’ sign in the middle of a warzone.”
“Bollocks. This never happened to the Bionic Woman.”
“Why aren’t I surprised you were the only person to watch that.”
