by Lee Bond
“Are…” Garth struggled to his feet, awkwardly using his sniper-arm as the world’s deadliest crutch, “are you fucking kidding me?”
Every single muscle in his body ached.
: the mental image was quite clear:
“Oh my God, you are a fucking retard.” Garth shut his eyes and wished he was anywhere else. Anywhere else at all. The time he’d been trapped on the Bruushian Galaxy-ship surrounded on all sides by immense, implacable reptilian soldiers and the even more powerful beings that ruled them filled him.
That’d been fun. Sure, he’d revealed himself to be an all-powerful Kin’kithal with abilities beyond the scope of anyone’s imagination, and sure, he’d almost accidentally destroyed the Universe in ways that weren’t socially acceptable or practical, but at least he hadn’t been saddled with a non-AI stupid enough to mistake a fucking anime cartoon’s ridiculous space cannon as something to fucking create.
: the mental image was quite clear: DB insisted, going so far as to replay the mental video clip.
“Hah.” Garth grinned despite the fact that he was enormously pissed off. Star Blazers had been an awesome show, all right. It took a full three seconds before the aching Kin’kithal realized he might very well be encouraging the stupid fucking suit to continue being that fucking stupid and shook his head. “Look, man, can’t you fucking tell the difference between something real and unreal?”
: with King’s Will, all can be real. There is no real or unreal, only that which is desired:
Garth opened his mouth to call DB a spaz. It clicked shut, almost of it’s own accord. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, DarkBook the Moronic was one hundred percent on the money.
There was a fine line between need and want and with the kind of neural links forged by Barnabas’ version of particulate, that line was apparently very fine; since he’d just fired a fucking anime super cannon against the Gunboy when he’d only been musing about the goddamn thing, it was dead certain that the King hadn’t bothered to build in any kind of safety protocols.
“Okay, look,” Garth said slowly, working his way out of the partially-destroyed building he’d come to a halt inside of, “from now on, don’t just … like, go from what I’m thinking, okay? That’s … totally not wise. There’s a lot of weird shit floating around in my melon. Wow, I totally blew that arm all the way off! Ha. Look at that thing. Totally confused.”
Garth raised his sniper arm, took a long, thoughtful look down the scope, and centered the giant Gunboy’s stupid forehead between the crosshairs. “Wellp,” the Engineer said cheerily, “let’s get this over with. Oh … uh, this time, how about we not send me flying through the fucking city, all right? I feel like pulverized hamburger.”
: understood. Caution…:
Ignoring DB, Garth braced himself in preparation of further unwanted flying through the air like a straw in a tornado action flick starring that guy from that movie –just in case- saying, “Lights out, Big Boy.”
He squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened.
Incredulous, Garth banged his sniper-arm against the wall next to him.
He re-aimed. “Time to give this Gunboy a third eye.” He squeezed the trigger.
“What the…” Garth ‘Nickels’ N’Chalez pursed his lips fussily. He took a deep breath, counted to three, then addressed DB. “Okay, asshat, what’s the deal here? I’m doing all these awesome quotes for posterity and shit, trying to go all Horatio Caine here and my gun’s not splitting any wigs or anything.”
: caution. Heartsniper requires additional matter and charging time:
Garth bashed the unbreakable high-powered gun against the brick wall. DB helpfully tossed a countdown timer onto the HUD. Ten minutes. “That’s … just … that’s … are you fucking kidding me? What if we dialed down your stupid fucking wave motion arm cannon into something less Apocalypse Cannon and more actual sniper rifle kind of thing?”
:reforming will require ten gallons of Dark Iron. Incoming:
Thrilling to the surprise idea that the Geared Armor was capable of summoning more Dark Iron out of the sky like some kind of shaman, it was therefore with considerable shock and a fair amount of peevish upset that Garth realized –a second too late- that ‘incoming’ was, in fact, referring to a righteously indignant Gearman charging at him from down the road, firing an actual handgun.
One of the rounds hit him high in the shoulder. Mouth open to laugh at Dom –it had to be Dom, Garth was sure Chevy wasn’t the Book wearer- for trying to do for him with a simple gun, what came out instead was;
“Holy fuck! Ouch! Jesus!” Garth looked at where the bullet had struck his shoulder. Blood started pouring out a considerable-sized hole. His blood. “What in the actual fuck?”
: analysis beginning. Suggest evasion tactics:
Garth looked at Angry Dom in his Helmet, then at the wound in his shoulder. Lots of blood. Running thick with ropes of black: the Kingsblood was being rapidly reabsorbed, leaving precious red stuff to trickle down the works.
Garth pursed his lips worriedly.
He was bleeding his own blood.
That couldn’t be good for business.
“Running. Hm. Yes. Running seems prudent at this juncture.” He picked his feet up and put them down, fast as he could.
Garth N’Chalez took off running, ambivalent over the fallout from an actual fucking wave motion cannon; the near total destruction of roughly three blocks of Ickfordian real estate reduced the need for rooftop cavorting to nil, which was awesome because he wasn’t Spiderman and he’d already done that once.
The downside?
Honked Off One-Armed Gunboy now had a clear path to its target, as did Unreasonably Surly and Spastic Gearman the Younger. Angry Dom the Gearman followed suit. Behind them both, the one-armed Gunboy screamed once, then gave chase.
14. You Won’t Like Me When I’m Angry, The Mouth of Ages, An Assassin’s Hilarity
Guard Captain Alsinz Demoli had to admit to himself that ever since the Great Change had come to Tenerek, life was … easier. Well, somewhat.
For some people. It was really one of those things that some people liked, and others didn’t. Those that didn’t had a very tough time. Those that did, found things … better.
Captain Alsinz liked the change, and for one absolutely simple damn reason.
Gone were the days of ever-revolving political ideas, forcing someone who wore a uniform to be absolutely one hundred percent spot on when they woke up and got dressed for work in the morning because if you wore the purple uniform with frond hat attachment on the day you were supposed to wear the orange onesie you’d wind up on a work detail before lunchtime.
Of course, freedom from multiple uniforms and no longer worrying over which of the eighty or so different political formats Tenerek wiffle-waffled onto every day did mean that there were a lot of unhappy people out there, unhappy people who expressed their displeasure with everything ranging from rotten eggs to firebombs. That stuff didn’t bother Alsinz, though, because he wore a uniform.
The same one. Every day. It was glorious. The world could erupt around his ears and he’d be smiling because his dry cleaning bill was no longer higher than his monthly rent.
“You know, Guard Freoli,” Al said, watching the empty hallways leading out to an equally empty spaceport, “I am sincerely glad we drew this duty. It’s brilliant.”
Freoli, who was leaning against his guardpost flipping through a book entitled ‘The Jerry Seinfeld Way: Change is Necessary, Survival… Not So Much’ and nodded. “Yes indeed. No one comes to Tenerek anymore. Not since… not since him.”
“True.” Alsinz had never met the man in person, mind, though he had been in one of the cars chasing that stolen bus down a crowded street. Alsinz liked to wonder sometimes how his life could’ve changed had he … “At attention, if you please Guard Freoli, at your attention.”
Freoli looked up from his book, about to tell Al to go to hell when he saw what had the other man
acting all high and mighty; someone was coming down the hallway!
Hastily chucking the book –a great read, if rife with passages and sayings that didn’t make a lick of sense- Freoli surreptitiously checked the landing data on his handheld.
“Bloody Phil and Roberts. This fellow’s been on the landing platform for an hour!” Freoli ground his teeth together. “They only went and rerouted the scanners to watch sports! Look! An hour here where there’s no data at all then suddenly, there’s a ship parked! We been sandbagged, Al. They should’ve told this man to find some other planet to visit! Oh, the paperwork on this one is going to be a pain!”
Well, that was enough of that silliness. Guard Captain Al issued a demand to the House of Change to have Phil and Roberts on report right there on the spot; they’d been told that since the automated warning systems were taking longer to code than initially planned for, anyone getting Port duty was required to personally deny every crazy person coming to Tenerek entrance onto their planet. Freoli was bang on about the paperwork. They’d be at it for hours now!
Worse still, he’d been about to suggest they sneak off to the commissary for some of that delicious coffee.
Now that Al thought about it, he’d bet his entire month’s salary that bloody Phil and Roberts had done the exact same thing, only twigging to the unplanned for landing after they’d strolled on back. The captain could see them now, plotting this particular bit of trickery.
“Those bastards.” Al muttered under his breath. Then, louder, “Well, we’re stuck with him.”
Freoli eyed the man coming down the walkway. Who came to Tenerek these days? No one normal, that was for certain. “This is utter shit.”
“Calm down, Freoli.” Al clapped a friendly hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Phil and Roberts will have enough to deal with soon enough, I promise you. Now, let me see if I can get enough info from this file before he gets here to make it seem like we know what we’re doing.”
Alsinz read through the file as quickly as he could. There was a trick to getting through all the dry, boring bits, and he was getting the hang of it. There were men –like Phil, like Roberts- who could zip through visitor documentation in a heartbeat and know everything worth knowing. Al got up to the man’s name before he got to the desk and that was it.
“Joseph Hewitt?” Guard Captain Alsinz adopted a smile he’d been told by the House of Control they all needed to adopt, even if they were getting ready to jam someone’s head through a wall or steal their purse; The Visitor had done so, and so must they all. So sayeth the House of Change.
Plus, the man had a Systemic Quantum Tunnel Pass. Whoever he was, getting those took connections.
“That’s me.” Jordan moved to push through the stanchions separating the spaceport from the rest of the world and bounced off a nearly invisible glass shield. “What’s this?”
“Standard security protocols, sir.” Freoli thumbed the scan button and watched data about their surprised visitor flood the screens. Since the Change, they’d had access to some pretty surprising tech, stuff held in reserve for the higher echelons. “Can’t let you through just yet. Properly speaking, you’re not even supposed to be here.”
“Well, you can let me through.” Jordan snapped, rapping a hand on the glass. It rang weirdly. Not glass. Something thicker. “I mean no harm.”
“That’s a strange thing to say, sir.” Guard Captain Alsinz stole a peek at the data streaming on Freoli’s monitors. Nothing out of the ordinary, not yet. That didn’t mean much, though.
Jordan kicked the glass. “This is a strange way to treat visitors.” He said, kicking the glass again. Definitely not glass. Whatever it was didn’t matter.
If the fools didn’t let him through soon enough, he’d just go through it, through them, through the whole damned planet of fools and morons until he found someone who’d met and spoken directly with Garth Nickels.
There were at least three of them. The holy and political leader calling himself ‘Jerry Seinfeld’ was one. Jerszak Senfell, once a bus driver, a single exposure to the caveman had filled his ordinary brain with strange, whirling ideas that’d turned the whole mishmash political landscape of Tenerek on it’s ear; once upon a time, the entire planet had been forced to rotate their governmental structure on a daily basis, punishment from Trinity Itself for believing that they could do a better job.
Now the whole planet was under tight, tight control. There was the House of Change, from which Jerry Seinfeld preached … something. About nothing. Jordan acknowledged he didn’t understand a goddamn thing coming out of the old, chubby bus driver’s mouth, though at the end of the day, he supposed it didn’t matter; all that mattered was that the people of Tenerek either ate what he spouted with a spoon, or rebelled. For a short time.
Rebellions were handled by the House of Control, run by Seteven ‘Steve’ Tormallo –an ex-con once in the employ Voss_Uderhell- and ex-police officer Rikvell ‘Richie’ Varonsii. The heavy hand of Seinfeld’s bizarre cult of personality that was now –if info from the data buoys in the system were to be believed- sweeping the rest of the solar system, the House of Control did all the dirty work. And there was a lot of dirty work to be done, because somehow, most of the people on Tenerek and in Arturii had found no problems at all with the infuriating rotating political scheme, and were chafing considerably under the heavy yoke of singular religious control.
Only … it was almost like they couldn’t break free, because no matter how many people stood against the Church of Nothing, more people had their asses on the seats with their lips spewing truly inane drivel every day. If the church was so unwanted, these new holy houses should be barren.
Lastly, there was also The House of Dark, run by Gary Bad Chicken. It was this man Jordan Bishop/Joseph Hewitt planned on tracking down first. There was no explanation on file as to why this so called House of Dark was permitted to run almost entirely unfettered and free from political or religious castigation, but it was. The chicanery and corruption spewing from The House of Dark was nearly as rampant as a Yellow Dog crime syndic, and it was home to precisely the sort of people Jordan knew how to manipulate best.
Jordan wanted to try the indirect route first. The other men –as displayed quite proudly in their worldly broadcasts- were unceremoniously stringent in their behaviors. A criminal –even if he was associated with the church in some nebulous fashion- should be more flexible in discussing ‘The Visitor’s’ whereabouts.
Freoli sucked at a tooth and decided to step the surveillance scans up to the next level. He didn’t much care for rude people, or people who acted as though they were better than everyone else, and this fellow standing on the other side of the indestructo-glass fell into both categories. Practically swan-dived into them. “Don’t kick the glass, sir. That’s a fineable offense. Also, very few people actually find it necessary to say things like ‘I mean no harm’. Sort of one of those things policemen find interesting.”
As much as he knew he could tear through the glass and the two stupid security guards with little to no effort, Jordan couldn’t help but think back to Medellos’ insistence that he maintain a low profile. As aggravating as that was.
Alsinz shared a look with Freoli. Time to play by the book. “Name?”
“You have it right there.” Jordan insisted, pointing at the Guard Captain’s computer.
“You would be surprised, sir,” Al said, asking for and receiving permission to do a deeper scan of ‘Joseph Hewitt’, “how many people used to come here not knowing their own names. We had a bit of a criminal underground, don’t you see?”
Jordan ground his fake name out through clenched teeth.
Alsinz smiled sunnily. “There you go, sir. The computer agrees that you think your name is Joseph Hewitt.”
“My name,” Jordan responded slowly, a fine red mist growing in his eyes, “is Joseph Hewitt. What is this all about?”
“Was a man, once, came here, to Tenerek,” Freoli paraphrased, “calling himsel
f Garth Nickels, but that was a false name. His true name was Change, and he brought it with him wherever he went.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Jordan leaped at the chance to make a connection with these men. If they were on the side of the lunatic fringe now running the planet, all the better. “To learn about this man.”
Alsinz made a face as his computer spat out some results. “Look here, Freoli.”
Freoli stole a glance at Al’s machine. “What do you know? Shame.”
Al nodded. “Shame.”
Heartbeat hammering in his ears and anger coursing through his veins, leaving red-hot streams of rage where blood once passed, Jordan Bishop shut his eyes and envisioned himself floating on a serene ocean of calmest blue. Losing his temper here, now, in front of these men … it wouldn’t do him any good. Not at all. Not only would it make getting around much more difficult, the smug, gloating look on Andros Medellos’ artfully applied human face when his failure on this, the first leg of his journey, reached the geneticist’s ears turned the NorthAMC man’s guts to solid ice.
Jordan Bishop, hanging onto threads of humanity, took a deep, careful breath. “What is all this about? What, exactly, is a shame?”
“Well, sir,” Alsinz said apologetically, “you’re not from here.” The Guard Captain caught the mottled look of rage passing through Joseph Hewitt’s face and hastened to explain. “We’re going through a bit of tumultuous time at the moment, sir, and the only people allowed to land on Tenerek are people from Tenerek and even then we’re to politely suggest they think twice about coming on in, and then a third time after that just so all those t’s are crossed. Jerry Seinfeld has put out a call, you see, to the loyal. As someone from outside, I really can’t see you fitting in. No offense.”
“Then why,” Jordan looked at his hands, saw sinuous movement just under the skin, and wondered how long it would take for the other guard’s computer scanners to notice the change, “was I even allowed to land?”
If he’d known it would be impossible to go through proper channels, he would’ve found a way to make planetfall without anyone being the wiser.
