For the Love of Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 3)

by Ichabod Temperance

  “I note that the foot control accouterments are many times more complicated than the hand shafts, Ichabod. What’s more, each is prepared to accept influence from individual fingers and toes. These individual digits most likely have more than one task.”

  “I agree. I’m afraid that you will be required to put the gloves back on, Sir Paul, in order to properly animate your steering mechanisms.”

  “Ah, yes, of course, I see. I shall don again my green gauntlets as we mount our charger. Let us carefully step into the digitted pedals and grasp our assigned manual control extensions.”

  “Yessir.”

  “The lifeless controls are unresponsive beneath our tentative efforts at trials. Any suggestions, Ichabod?”

  “One moment, please, Sir Paul; I am trying to get a handle on these workings. I think that we must energize these control arms somehow to grant mobility to our tower. These devices would appear to be animated by electric current. Often, when handling this devious medium, a relay is used to help control its lightning paced path. This relay, or as some electrical engineers call them, borrowing a term from their railroad cousins, ‘switch’, can grant access to, or disconnect from, its captivating charm. These manifest themselves as toggles, levers, and sinkable, push switches called ‘buttons’, like that which fastens your clothing. I suggest giving that great red ‘button’ over there a push to initiate a depressing motion within. That will, I fervently hope, move us along on our endeavors.”

  “Indeed. Very well. I shall push the ‘button’.”

  “Woah! The stanchions beneath our feet have softened and acquired a wobbly sensation!”

  “What’s this? Steel belts affix our feet into place! Lights come to life around us and especially in the controlling stanchions under our feet, and the shafts at our hands. They vibrate with sudden life and responsiveness to our slightest touch. The entire ship suddenly sways about uncontrollably at the mimicry of our own loss of balance. Even before the vessel has risen upon its stilted legs, we have almost toppled it. Steady, Ichabod. Control your balance.”

  “Yessir. And now, Sir Paul, if you would be so kind, I believe that relay over there will open our ‘window’. If you would be so good as to give that substantial toggle a ‘flip’.”

  “Hmm, I have engaged the proper relay, yet I must report disappointment with our results, for nothing seems to have happened.”

  “Hello! What’s this, Sir Paul? A white spot of light has slowly appeared in the middle of our thick and curved pane of glass before us. Reluctantly, it extends a white arm of light to its left and right. After a few moments, the line scrolls upward to vanish from our perspective. But ‘lo and behold! It has appeared again as if by magic at the bottom of our window! It scrolls upward again, but slightly faster this time. Once again, the swiftly rising line of light disappears at the top to just as quickly reappear at the bottom again. This process is repeated again and again at faster and faster intervals. Finally, this display is replaced by a jumbled, up and down squiggling of nonsensical patterns, until suddenly, an image snaps into focus.”

  “Is that supposed to be a landscape appearing on the glass. Hazily portrayed in granulated grays, the artist did not do much to brighten this dreary scene. Strange, the picture seems to alter, or jump about, somehow.”

  “Yessir, it’s constructed of countless little squares of varying gray hues, and you’re right, the picture constantly changes in little degrees.”

  “Flashes of washed out diagonal disruptions occasionally disturb our bland, and colorless scene.”

  “Sir Paul! I think this is an artificial image being projected to us of the world outside!”

  “Great Scott! Ichabod, I believe you’re right! I shall engage another toggled relay. Hah! Almost instantly, that bank of windows produces white spots of light in the center of each curved pane of glass. We may extrapolate that they are beginning their period of awakening.”

  “Yessir!”

  “Steady boy, let’s see if we can’t have a look about, shall we? Have you divined our method of elevation?”

  “We’ll just have to figure out how to control this thing by trial and error. We better hurry because I don’t think we have much time before the boy in the bathroom’s friends will be missing him. I’m usually hesitant to initiate any controls that I ain’t fairly sure of, but seeing how these are extraordinary circumstances, I reckon a breach in standard safety protocols is necessary. How about we try our digits in conjunction, okay?”

  “Cease your blathering, boy!”

  “Yessir! Left toe, on my mark, now. Hmm? No response. Okay, let’s try the right toe, now. Hmm? Nothing. Okay, now the heel, then. Ready? Now-woah!”

  “Ahhh! Ichabod! Our stilts rapidly extend, flinging us high into the air!”

  “Oh my Goodness, Sir Paul, don’t move! We are way up high in the air!”

  “Steady, Ichabod. Yes, the height is temporarily nauseating, but we must force the queasiness aside and acclimate ourselves to the swaying view.”

  “Yessir, I reckon our heels control the height, Sir Paul. Let’s try that right toe again.”

  “The legs of the craft try to pull outward.”

  “Depress the left, Sir Paul.”

  “It is a retraction, as the legs attempt to pull inward.”

  “Hey, the smaller panes of glass are starting to gain clarity. They contain roughly moving pictures of landscapes on their strangely illuminated faces. Those must be the images being received from the other vehicles, Sir Paul!”

  “I agree, Ichabod. How interesting to be able to monitor the progress of our foes. I say we follow your suggestion from yesterday, in that we try something simple, such as walking.”

  “As our feet are secured by clamp into place, I get the impression that if we lift our legs, the corresponding leg of the craft shall mimic our motions. The lifting of the leg when used in conjunction of the pushing and pulling controls of the toe pedals, theoretically, should be able to approximate three legged walking patterns. I will just have to perform my leg in a backward manner as we have been doing on land.”

  “Quite right, young man. We must not let the fact that we are on a skeletal, three-legged craft, tottering about at approximately ninety or a hundred feet in the air affect our abilities an iota, eh?”

  “Nossir.”

  “Yes, let’s see, on the ground, it’s just a matter of ‘left, right, rear’, correct?’

  “Yessir.”

  “Of course, now then, let us begin. Le...woah!”

  “Oh, my Goodness! We’re gonna fall!”

  “Hop, you fool!”

  “Yessir!”

  “I’m! Stepping!”

  “Hop!”

  “Keep. Stepping. Though. We totter. We. Must step. Lest. We fall. There, we are, it’s get, ting better, now.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Yes, as we gain experience, our expertise in operation improves.”

  “Looky there in our artificial window, Sir Paul, it’s the crawly-bug. Should we blast it?”

  “Nay, we must naughtte tip our hand to the walkers and fliers ahead.”

  “Good thinking, Sir. I reckon we’ll just drunkenly stagger past this crawler and try to catch up with the other walkers.”

  “Martians, ho, Ichabod. Do you see them?”

  “Yessir! Uh oh, looks like one of ‘em has stopped to turn around and look at us. He might be wondering why we are lagging behind and what is up with the pilot of this ship.”

  “Look, there, Ichabod, one of the smaller viewpanes from the other machines changes its view. It had been displaying moving countryside. It now shows an angry Martian face. A red light comes on next to a lens that is directly above our electric window.”

  “Oh my Goodness! I think that our image is now being trans-cast back to the other Martian vehicle! Get in character, Sir Paul!”

  M- “Wrarbol keinck.” (Hurry up, rock-brain.)

  [Tis’ a disembodied voice that speaks from the thin air, but seems
to be the words of the monster in the small window.]

  SP- “Tior quh errnncheh” (Eat a tar pie.)

  [Sir Paul speaks these words out to the empty bridge. I think that he believes his words will be conveyed somehow, to the other craft, as this monster’s words are brought to us. I am inclined to follow along with his hunch.]

  M- “Schnabitz! Schnabitz! Schnabitz!” (Kill! Kill! Kill!)

  SP- “Hamai-yoe, dew-draupz.” (Good luck, handsome.)

  “The other ships in the artificial window, have also stopped and turned around. So too, have the flying ships. The small panes of the other ships’ views are all now showing angry, yelling Martians.”

  “Ichabod?”

  “Yes, Sir Paul?”

  “How do we stop this thing?”

  “That’s a good question, Sir Paul. There ain’t no brakes. I reckon it’s just a matter of our getting our legs to stop running, but with the momentum we careen along at now, I ain’t too sure how to do that, sir.”

  “Rhythm, Ichabod. Slow the pace.”

  “Yessir, there we go. I think we’re managing to slow the pace of our titanic tarantula. Whoops! Almost fell! Woah! We’re spinning!”

  “There! We have stopped! It is not the most gracefully chauffeured vehicle stop in history, but we are among our metal mates.”

  “Those trans-caster windows of gray from the other ships that now surround us are sure full of angry Martians.”

  There is a huge Martian brouhaha in the works via the little windows. Five Martians are in a screaming fight with Sir Paul, but he is really giving them all they want as far as I can make out. It is all I can do to keep up with the facial expressions that I am responsible for and faithfully executing.

  “Methinks our erstwhile brothers are get suspicious. They deploy around us. The two sonic cannon mounted walkers are in front of us. The other green blaster is behind us. The fliers are to either side.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Do ye ken the workings of our armaments, Ichabod?”

  “Yessir, Sir Paul, Sir, I believe they operate in a manner much like this. I spin our fuselage upon its central axis one hundred and eighty degrees, and get a quick fix on our sister ship of emerald destruction. Hey, a handy red targeting device magically appears on our dreary window as I use my top mount hand to engage our blaster! Fire in the hole!”

  {{{PRR-BLIZZSXK!!!}}}

  “Dang! That ship was standing a lot closer than I thought it would be! The tremendous blast of powerful green energies has staggered us backward from the impact!”

  “Ha, ha! The other ship, spitting sparks and green light from many separated seams, keeps stumbling, and stumbling back until finally losing its footing. Bumping hard to the ground, its legs flying up in the air and folding like an accordion down into its wracked shell, this war machine has exited the stage. Now, spin us about, Ichabod! Prepare another of those smiteful strikes!”

  “Yessir! I have one of the sonic cannon towers coming into my handy magic target marker n...”

  {{{{BUNG!!!}}}}

  “We are hit! Our tower has been struck by the sonic cannon of the other tower. Our cabin rings and reverberates! Our legs stumble!”

  “Sir Paul! We really are falling, this time!”

  “Aughhhhh!”

  ~WAH-KAH-BOOGE!!!~

  “Oooo, are you all right, Sir Paul?”

  “Not particularly. You?”

  “The same. The tower is wracked upon its side, Sir. The vessel is now in a lifeless state.”

  “Yes, the tall Martian tower is stretched out along the ground. The crash has thrown us clear of our station.”

  “Yessir. Looks like you and I come to a rest lying atop a panel of lights. However, the lights have not decided whether they want to cooperate and work. They seem despondent, as they give up their last flicker of life.”

  “As the tower has been knocked down and it is upon its side, the walls are now our floor. Strapped together and in this costume, I think we shall find that achieving a standing position is not going to be an easy thing to accomplish.”

  “Sir Paul, listen.”

  wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup

  tink. tink. tink.

  “I hear the probing of the flying machine’s tentacles upon our stricken craft.”

  “Our machine jerks from being knocked about, and begins to straighten. Our floor is close to being righted on to a level plane again. Come, let us make the transition to standing with the help of the rising tower.”

  “Sir Paul, I do not know what is happening, nor why we are rising! I do know, however, that is not from the effort of this machine.”

  “I know, Ichabod. They’re helping us back up.”

  “Helping us back up? But, why?”

  “The punishment they wish to administer is more easily applied from a standing position. Prepare yourself, Ichabod; these chaps mean to have a bit of sport at our expense.”

  “The two fliers have latched onto our machine. Rising into the air, they have lifted and now support the lifeless husk of our walker between them. The trio of lifeless legs barely drags the ground.”

  “The Sonic cannon mounted walkers are pulling up two large Birch trees. Now, they systematically strip the branches down to the trunk. Except for the dirty rootball, they have a couple of good improvised clubs.”

  “Hold on!”

  ~KAH-LUNG-guh.~

  “We are struck a horrible blow, Sir Paul! Those fliers can barely hold us up.”

  “Ringing fills my ears. Violent vibrations reverberate through my form. Brace yourself, Ichabod! The fliers reposition us for the other, club wielding ruffian.”

  ~KER-BOOGE-uh.~

  “Sir Paul. the flying Martians keep pulling us back up back up for one merciless strike after another!”

  ~KAH-LUNG-guh.~ ~KER-BOOGE-uh.~

  ~KAH-LUNG-guh.~ ~KER-BOOGE-uh.~

  ~buh-whirr-zzz-num-num-num-num-num...~

  “Hey, Sir Paul, I think that last strike has knocked our ship back into wakefulness! Lights flash back into the steering controls and other banks of equipment.”

  “Indeed, our lifeless husk is lifeful again. Hurry, Ichabod, back to the controls!”

  “Engage your tentacles and get a good grip on each of those flying fiends, Sir Paul.”

  “It is done. My tentacles now entwine the tentacles of both flying ships.”

  “Now pull us up by the tentacles while simultaneously leaping your feet upward to grasp the walker on the left about the head with your mechanical legs.”

  “Ichabod...”

  “Sir Paul, please.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  “Left!”

  “I’m leading! Er. Well, under the circumstances, I shall relent at this time.”

  “Thank you, Sir Paul. On my mark... now!”

  “We jump! You were right, Ichabod! Our leap has forced the fliers to take our weight! We swing our legs up to grasp the fuselage of the sonic cannon mounted tower on our left!”

  “I’ll spin our tripod’s axis ninety degrees, while in this perpendicular alignment, Sir Paul. You arch your back and legs, and then double over to throw this Martian monkey!”

  “Hah! As this is done, that is did.”

  “Hooray! We have realized our maneuver, that is, to utilize the flier’s to elevate our legs and grasp one of the walkers about its cockpit, and flinging him unceremoniously into his companion. Happily, the collision between the two twins sends them crashing to the ground in a tangled collection of spiderlegs and squamous tentacles.”

  “Splendid, Ichabod! How should you like to handle these flying pests?”

  “Glad you asked, Sir Paul. If you liked the other, you’ll love this one.”

  “Bend forward as far as our captors will let us, and then fling our pie plated home backwards whilst at the same time leaping up. Look up as hard as you can while you do it.”

  “Success! We complete, with the unwitting help of our companions, an assisted backflip. The tentac
les of our three craft are now tightly bound up together.”

  “Twirl, Sir Paul, twirl!”

  “The flying alien craft struggle to free themselves, but we have them solidly ententacled. They have throttled their engines into a frightful frenzy, in an attempt to pull from our tenacious grip, but to no avail.”

  “Pull to the left., Sir Paul! We must start our counter-clockwise turning circle.”

  “The fiends resist us!”

  “Keep pulling! The fliers pulling against us is now starting to work in our favour! The maelstrom of a tornado is spurned by the Hellishly propelled winds.”

  “As the tempo of our feet increases so to does the tempest at the end of our arms. Yea, though our pinwheeled partners resist vehemently, we relentlessly pull our unwilling partners along. Verily, we cannot be stopped! It’s working, Ichabod! They are in our terrible power now! Woe unto you, foul invader. Earth shall have her vengeance on you, my damnable foe, woah, woah, woah, woah, woah, we’re, loose, loose, loose, ing, ing, ing, con, con, con, troe, troe, troe, woah, woah, woahlll!!!”

  Our spinning maneuver worked! It has worked too well, in fact. We continue to spin faster and faster. We are as some giant stumbling centrifuge, spinning at greater and greater velocities. The outward pull of the flying Martian war machines accelerates our blinding spin to a truly terrifying torque. I think our tripod’s axis has released her brakes and added another element of dizzying speed to our revolutions. Our three spidery, vicariously dancing appendages beat a dazzling tattoo as they desperately struggle to to keep up with the out of control whirling gyro-top.

  “Sir Paul! You and I are the eye of this hurricane! You need to think ‘cartwheel’, and give these kids a happy landing.”

  “I confess, Ichabod, it has been some time since I performed a cartwheel. It was in my ‘Pre-Comet’ days. I was in the chorus and auditioning for a dance position,...”

  “I would love to hear the story, Sir Paul, but can we do it another time? I’m about to lose my cookies back here.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, dear boy. Hmm, a cartwheel, eh? You shall have it. Suffer the wrath of Paul, via my acrobatics of anger, you villains!”