Regardless of what branch, division, or department they belonged to, they were all inherently inferior to the brand-new Athena-class Marshal, and even though Morton generally got along well with members of law enforcement, he enjoyed finding subtle ways to rub that in. And as a smuggler, whether or not they were in his pocket, there were advantages to knowing what they thought of his ordeal. But the real reason Morton liked to tell cops his story was because they were the most likely to call him a liar. He expected people to think it was a bit of a tall tale, because despite being exactly the sort of information that the embargo was supposed to filter out, everyone was aware of the Marshal program’s deadly reputation. The idea of any Earthling surviving an encounter with the universe’s most prestigious law-dog was absurd, yet he had managed to do it three times. The way he told the story, you’d have to be a fool not to suspect that it was a bit of a tall tale, but most people were smart enough to keep it to themselves.
Occasionally, a drunk at the bar would crack a joke like, “Maybe Big Frankie could have gotten a few swings in, but you?”
People would laugh, then Morton would get visceral pleasure watching Frank set them straight, but there was more to it than that. He tried to hide it the best he could, but mean Mister Morton was still struggling with what the Marshal had done to him and his operation. His physical wounds had healed, but he still wore a neck brace sometimes and sounded as if he were in pain while moving. Seizures like the one he was currently experiencing would lock his entire body into spasm and pin his conniving mind under heaping piles of anger. Every morning he woke up hoping that it had all been a bad dream, and every time someone had the guts to call him a liar, a little plausibility was added to his denial.
Teams of cyclical questions about how he had survived and why the Marshal had chosen him stampeded through Morton’s head, but he knew that without Frank, he would no longer be breathing. His hired help’s devotion and military training had been invaluable, but nevertheless, they were both now feeling stuck. Rehabilitation had been slow and tedious; for the first month after the crater they hadn’t left their penthouse a single time. Frank had been glad to test a long backlog of gadgets that had been procured from beyond the embargo, focusing first on things that might be effective against the Marshal upon her inevitable return, then turning his attention to what they were now calling “the train.”
What started out as a shipping container installed inside the top floor of the Mechanicsburg clock tower had become a safe room, and could now eject itself from the building to sail out over the city and into the neighboring desert. The concept was amazing, and at first, it had been a great way to channel productive energy, but it had quickly become a powerful obsession for them both. While sinking countless hours into the escape pod, Frank felt increasingly guilty about enabling Morton’s isolation. In some ways, running their business was easier now that they were out of the limelight. They spent far less time in the field these days, but aside from the massive financial dent that was directly attributable to the Marshal, profits hadn’t suffered. They had managed to meet up with most of their business associates at least once since the crater, and they all recognized him as the same sociopathic gangster they had previously worked with. Morton would always be a fierce negotiator, but there wasn’t as much violence as Frank was used to. Of course, the henchman would continue to do whatever his master told him to, but that didn’t stop him from worrying about their future together.
Precisely because their relationship had been so well-balanced, it was difficult for Frank to deal with the changes that Morton was going through. He had been designed to be content obeying orders, and having such a demanding taskmaster had given him an intense sense of belonging every single day of his life. Morton’s wants and wishes were still intense, but as fulfilling them became more complex, it became harder for Frank to sustain that level of contentment. After about an hour of waiting for Morton to revive, the hulking henchman picked up a long metal bar and stormed over to his master’s antique wooden desk, fully intent on smashing it to pieces. When he was just a few meters away, however, as if by a switch, the smuggler king reanimated.
Locking eyes with his faithful companion, Morton repeated in a low, rumbling voice, “She's back...” Snatching up the scotch that was still sitting on his desk, he downed it and laughed. With exaggerated disbelief he shouted more clearly, “The bitch is back!”
Frank knew exactly to whom Mister Morton was referring, and even though it was bad news, it was good to hear his master speak with such enthusiasm. The conversation that had sent his master into his most recent paralytic state had been with the same arms dealer who had clued them in about the first Athena-class Marshal, and they knew she’d be back eventually. They had built the train and a number of weapons with their next inevitable encounter in mind, but it would have been better if they had more time. Lowering the beam he had been brandishing, the giant henchman smiled and said nothing.
Thinking aloud, Morton cradled his empty glass in both hands as he spoke. “There’s a chance she still thinks we’re dead. But odds are she’ll end up in Mechanicsburg by the end of the week. Supposedly she’s headed to the crater first, but I doubt she’ll stay long seeing as it’s just a hole in the ground. We gotta get ready.”
Gingerly, he stood up and walked over to his liquor cart to pour himself another. Tapping his chin thoughtfully, he paced his way over to Frank’s workbench and slid his hand along its surface. With more calm than before, he said, “Well, we’re significantly better equipped this time. It’s not like we haven’t been preparing for this. It just came a lot sooner than we expected. How are your solo projects coming along?” He pointed to the exoskeletal framework that Frank had been working on. “Are those your new dusters over there?”
“No, boss.” Frank’s smile widened. “I finished those yesterday. That’s for you.” Still holding the metal bar, Frank walked over to a chassis that only vaguely resembled the upper half of a giant humanoid torso, slammed the rod down between its shoulders, and continued with jestful pride. “I don’t need to make myself any bigger or stronger.” He struck some comical yet impressive bodybuilding poses as he pointed first to Morton and then the machine. “But you, sir, are going to sit right there. And then the arms will come off here like this... And the legs will come down here...” Frank looked at Morton to gauge his master’s reaction. “It’s a work in progress, but once it’s finished, you’ll be four meters tall and punching harder than me. And not that I would recommend it, but you might even be able to take a punch or two from the law-dog herself!”
Morton didn’t laugh but instead swirled the dwindling scotch in his glass before walking confidently back to the bar for another refill. “Alright. What about the men from your old company? Any word on them?”
“No, sir,” Frank said, crestfallen. “Those orders are still pending.”
“I see,” Morton said, letting his disappointment show. “And what about my body? I know we’ve been over it a hundred times, but are there any more nanites or serums we can use to make me stronger?”
“No, sir. That’s why I’ve been focusing on the exoskeleton. I know it looks like junk right now, but I promise, you’re going to be a force to be reckoned with.”
This time, Morton chuckled pensively. “I appreciate that, Frank. I really do. And I appreciate you. We still have those guns from last time, right?”
“Damn straight,” he affirmed with enthusiasm, “and plenty of ammunition.”
Morton finished and refilled his drink again as he ruminated out loud, “Maybe we should lure her out to the smelting plant again. She might not have files on it since we destroyed her Logo. There’s no way to be sure. Same thing with the guns. It would be nice if that was all still a surprise. We can’t count on that though. Maybe we should just...” He slammed a fist into the hand that was holding his glass and it shattered. He lost a little liquor and some more blood, but walked nonchalantly back to the cart as he continued, “Take the fig
ht to her? Drive head-on into the tanker, so to speak? What do you think, Frank?”
“No sir, I think it's best we let her come to us. Even with our new provisions, she’s still got the advantage in terms of physical ability. Protocol is her weakness and subterfuge is our strength. We have to exploit both. Besides,” Frank said with a vicious sneer as he picked up more bandages for Morton’s hands, “it’ll be a lot harder for her to make friends in Mechanicsburg this time around.”
Morton laughed as he remembered how they dismembered the posse of day laborers that the Marshal had rounded up. “Ohhh man. I don’t know why, but somehow it’s more satisfying to watch you rip the limbs off of little people. It really is. We should go to the bar.”
“Mary-Jane rotten-crotch!” Frank exclaimed. “Ten minutes ago, that was exactly what I wanted to hear you say, but now that the Marshal’s back, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“Yeah, I know. You’re right, I was just saying... Besides, it’s a good excuse to lock ourselves up in here and burn the midnight oil.” There was palpable excitement in Morton’s voice but he hobbled back to his beverage dolly a little more feebly than he had before. Leaning on it like an old man pushing a stroller, he wheeled it up to Frank’s workbench and plopped down a full glass for each of them. Crunching on a mouthful of ice, he said, “Alright, where should we start?”
Chapter Five
Off the Reservation
As the sun continued to rise, Grand Mesa’s shadow withdrew its protection from the tent nestled in the sand down below, and Rhodes screamed in agony. Absorbing the direct sunlight, his mind was momentarily wrenched back into his body, and the realignment was excruciating. In that instant, his visions became somewhat similar to the real world before intensifying. Trapped in a small bubble drenched in sweat, the sun was intent on killing him. Swift death that felt like hours repeated itself forever until he found himself standing comfortably on an all-white plane with no horizon. Wiping the sweat from his eye, every molecule from the outermost layers of his hair and skin dissolved into nothing.
Then he came back. He had been nothing, but turned back into something. Still, there was no horizon, but now the landscape was black. He was alone. He stood tall and strong, wearing fine blue ceremonial clothes which he knew must have been made by his mother. His hair was in thick braids. Then there were two of him, both dressed in black. The same clothes had a different feeling with the new color. Frantically in tandem, they tried to tear it all off. He could feel himself heating up, and even naked, he felt no relief.
Lying prostrate, his hair was now matted and uneven. Something had eaten everything below his knees. Phantom pain from the missing limbs sent him writhing in agony until blood flowed out from his eyes. He was the sea of blood formed from what he had once been until he became a boat sailing upon it. Then he was a lone sailor aboard that boat, certainly not himself. He had no name, and it was not his body that dove into the ocean.
Swimming until he breached a new white plane, he lay on the ground and let the blood drip-dry. With his own eyes, he looked out across the floor to the endless horizon. Fixated on the furthest point in the distance, it gradually grew closer until his face was pressed against a surface so glossy and smooth that he could hardly see. Within the singular point of his focus, he could see the particles that the empty space was made of. Reaching down with his bare hands to pry between the impossibly small pieces, Rhodes wrenched a hole between them and pulled himself through it.
Now in a red room, he saw his brother, who wanted to say something. Standing there naked, Pathos beckoned for him to come closer. Feet planted firmly in the ground, Rhodes just stood there and mirrored his brother’s gestures. Pathos was taken aback and seemed to be offended, but Rhodes continued to mimic his every motion as if they were marionettes controlled by the same strings. They postured angrily, then met each other’s blows headfirst. Scratching and biting as they tumbled, kicking and tearing, they choked and gouged until their bodies began enveloping each other. One of his hands sunk into his brother’s elbow. Then his knee sank into his hip. It was confusing as to whose limbs were whose. His head knocked into his sternum, which sucked him in with powerful desire. He could no longer see. Or breathe. Or hear. He could feel intense warmth all over, despite having lost his body again.
A horrible silence was replaced by his own screaming. He stopped. Opening his eyes, Rhodes saw himself sitting comfortably by a river that flowed out from a slot canyon they had played in as children. At first, the surrounding rocks seemed taller than they had been, but then Rhodes realized it was he who was smaller. It took him weeks to walk along the edge of the shallow waters then swim through the mouth of the cavern, all the way to the room they used to call Grand Cathedral. He became the right size again as he entered the holy chamber. There, he and Pathos would climb and worship the nameless creator of the universe for the beauty of the place it had hidden for them. Twenty meters up the sandstone wall, he let go of his smooth, easy hold to fall joyfully into the icy-cold water below.
The cool rush of immersion never came. Instead, he was yanked back and suspended by an iron shackle around his ankle. Then by both of his wrists, he was chained to two giant pillars made of enormous, perfectly-cut blocks of stone. He was inside another man’s church, one he had read about in books, with giant stained-glass windows and fine tapestries hanging from the walls. He stood there, unable to kneel but unwilling to hang, for days, weeks, months, then years. His skin began to sag and he felt the pangs of starvation.
Then his brother returned, also in chains. Tied to the same cathedral towers, they were young again. Together, they pulled until the stones that held the bolts for their chains came loose from the walls. More rock came tumbling down as the holes in the structure above them expanded. Glorious beams of light cut into the dark and ancient building before it all came tumbling in upon them. Dead underneath the rubble, Rhodes found himself lying broken on the floor of yet another endless plane.
Led through an endless cycle of trials and failure, he continued to find himself on infinite planes of varying color. Over and over, the flesh would slough from his bones or he would be flung into oblivion, until he wound up back inside that canyon or church as their sacred walls crumbled around him. Each turn was more predictable yet uniquely painful. A burst of cold air sliced into his chest like a knife. The cool blade mushroomed upwards into his face and mouth, which hung open and lifeless in his sunken posture.
It felt like years that he had been writhing in cyclical conflict, but eventually, his retinas registered light through his closed eyelids, and his visions began to dissipate. Gently, the Chieftain pulled his body from the remains of the deflated crystal ball and carried him over to a spot in the remaining shade. After laying him down on one of the two mats he had prepared, he sat at the other and drank one of two cups of cool tea.
It took Rhodes a lot longer to recover than he had expected. He realized how close to death he had come. Everyone died, but he didn’t want his story to end alone in a tent. He understood why everyone held him in such low regard, but not why they couldn’t see the bigger picture. As his visions relinquished the last of their hold on him, he knew the Chieftain had been right—there were no answers left inside visions. Repetition throughout the mental voyage made him momentarily aware of how his obsession consumed him, as his desire to find Pathos never diminished.
As the predators and prey changed shifts for the quickly falling night, a breeze came to wash even more heat off of Rhodes’ still burning body. Slowly, he sat up and grabbed a blanket that his Chief had propped against his shins. Wrapping himself into a neat little cocoon, he looked up and saw the Chieftain staring at him warmly—the love and admiration pouring out of his leader stabbed into Rhodes like a jagged thorn. What little strength had returned to him dissolved like sugar in water then poured through his gaping emotional wounds. Uncontrollably, he wept.
Neither of them spoke until long after Rhodes had settled down. Eyes achin
g, lungs burning, and somehow even more exhausted than before, he looked up to see that the Chieftain hadn’t moved at all. He was wearing the same expression of loving concern as before, but something about the seasoned elder had changed. Unable to meet his Chief’s gaze, he focused on the small pit filled with provisions for a fire. The sky was still bright, but as the horizon turned from blue to red, Grand Mesa’s shadow began to disappear. The mountain’s embrace was comforting but not warm. Nestled in his blanket, Rhodes eventually gave up on a silent protest and said, “I'm really hungry.”
He had expected the Chieftain to light the fire or hand him some food, but instead, he gestured towards the towering rock behind him and quipped, “They’re probably done setting up the feast up top. If we hurry, we can still get some.”
Oblivious to the humor, Rhodes replied, “I don't think I can climb right now... Not feeling so hot.” A small lizard skittered behind some nearby shrubs and he added, “Not sure I could even catch that little guy.”
The Chieftain chuckled as he reached into his bag and tossed him some dried meat, but his expression changed to match his feelings of concern before saying sternly, “You weren't prepared for your journey. You set the tent up beautifully, but you didn’t have any water waiting for your return.”
Under the Shadow of the Plateau: Frontier Forever Page 4
