Rage Against the Machines

by Mike Wild

  One thing was certain: if the tripods spotted the convoy, then it was not going down without a fight.

  After a final check to ensure that the tripods remained still, Deadlock and Blackblood swooped into the compound on their hip-torcs to join the others. Mongrol moved to the gates and, following a nod from Deadlock, input the electronic command, acquired from Cobb's staff, which unsealed the huge doors. Thumper bars and magnetic locks disengaged. The doors rolled open, exposing the compound to the outside world inch by inch.

  Deadlock and Blackblood flattened themselves against the wall on either side of the gate, their weapons ready. They peered out. There were three tripods in the square outside. None of them were moving.

  "You think this'll work?" Blackblood asked Deadlock.

  "No," Deadlock said simply.

  "Bugger."

  Deadlock mounted his motorcycle and switched it into silent mode. He kick-started the engine, pulled out into vanguard position and motioned the convoy out into the square. Mek-Quake trundled slowly forward. His tank-tracks had been lashed with canvas sheeting to muffle them, but they still made little crunching noises on the gravel beneath them.

  "Shhhh," he said to himself.

  "Shhhh," the children repeated.

  Haltingly, one after the other, the humans ranked next to him began to shuffle forward until they all walked along in time with the demolition machine, protected by his bulk. The young children clung tightly to his neck. Those who were armed waved their guns from left to right, ready for the slightest movement.

  Just as Deadlock and Blackblood had predicted, Cobb and his people hooked up last, hunkering down and keeping a wall of metal and unwell flesh between themselves and whatever was waiting in the dark. Mongrol snarled, blew a choking cloud of smoke in their direction and spat his cigar butt in their faces. The temptation to fire the modified gun barrel in which the cigar had been plugged was almost too great, if it wasn't for the tripods.

  The convoy moved out into the night.

  They began to follow their pre-planned route: ahead, right, left at the Eiger building and for a while all went well. The Tripods that they passed were out for the count, dozing in the shadows, swaying slowly on their triumvirate legs. They appeared not to notice the convoy at all.

  The problem was, as always, that there were just too many of them. As the convoy passed one tripod after another, the tension in some of the humans became almost palpable. In the end it had reached breaking point.

  All it took was a demon.

  The thing came screeching out of the air. It wasn't even attacking, just flying by, but one of Cobb's men panicked and blew it to bits in a barrage of bullets.

  The tripods began to stir.

  Joe Pineapples had only just neared the perimeter of the city when he heard the first of the explosions. He sighed and turned to face the source. Who'd have guessed it, he thought. Without Joe Pineapples those bootlegs couldn't organise a booze-up in a biol brewery.

  Ah well. Let's see what they're up to.

  Joe tweaked a switch on the side of his sunglasses and they switched to zoom. The streets he had left behind rushed up to meet him, the HUD displaying all manner of figures relating to distances, depths of field and relative magnification. Joe needed none of it. He saw plainly enough that the biol had hit the fan.

  The skyline was lit by the green hue of Martian heat-rays and the yellow-red of explosions. Distantly Joe heard the booming of Mek-Quake's cannons, the blasts from the others' weaponry and a strange popping sound that had to be the peashooters that Cobb's people were armed with.

  Yep, they're in trouble all right, he thought. It was a good job he had planned ahead. The ABC Warrior ran towards a nearby pyramid, the Bradbury Building according to its sign, one of the largest in the city. He reached its lower strata and leapt forward onto the incline, his legs pumping until he reached his maximum speed of a hundred and sixty miles an hour. The hot Martian wind whipped fiercely in his face and buffeted him, but within seconds he was halfway up the side of the building, and just as quickly he had reached the top. Joe knelt, grabbing his Magnum Macho 3000.

  "Lights," he said.

  The reason that Joe had taken so long to reach the outskirts of the city was that he had taken a rather circuitous route to get there, stopping off at various strategic points along the way. At each of these places, a variety of buildings, trucks and power distribution points, he had attached a box to a suitable surface. The box's size and appearance - plain except for a small light emitting diode - was innocuous enough, but it belied its true nature. Each of the boxes contained sufficient high explosives to blow up - Joe struggled for an example but couldn't find one - well, to blow big things up into much smaller ones.

  As Joe spoke, the boxes lit up. He aimed at his first target and fired.

  There was a large boom and across the city the burning remains of the Eiger building exploded at its third storey, pouring tons of masonry and glass on to the street. The two tripods that were closest to the convoy found that their path was suddenly blocked and they stumbled into the debris. The convoy itself had passed the landslide by inches.

  "Deadlock, you hear me? Blackblood? Anyone?"

  "Frag, that was close. That you, Joe? Welcome back to the fold. Oops, no sorry, there is no fold."

  "Save it, Mongrol, this is a temporary reunion. Listen up. I can get you out of the city but you have to follow my instructions to the letter."

  "Who made you boss man?" Blackblood said.

  Joe ignored him. "You will need to change your planned route, but I'm sure you won't complain. But you'll have to do it quickly. Are you ready?"

  "You bet."

  "Then here we go."

  Joe began to fire. There were unexpected fireworks in Viking City that night.

  SIX

  "Three... Two..."

  "Hello everyone and welcome to MarsNight, I'm Jeremiah Pacman. Well now, it isn't every day that the human race is told to get off a planet by the planet itself, but that is precisely what has happened here on Mars today. Medusa - Mars' planetary guardian, her mother, her god, call her what you will - has declared war on the human colonies. Her first target was Viking City, scene of a devastating dawn raid that has left thousands dead and thousands of others fleeing for their lives. In a series of reports from our emergency studio in Tripolis, we bring you the latest news-"

  "Go to camera two-"

  "Coming up: recorded yesterday, The ABC Warriors talk candidly about their lives, loves and loathings in an exclusive series of interviews 'live' from MNN. Right after these messages-"

  "Have you suffered an accident at work that was not your fault? Has a friend, relative or loved one been incinerated by a Tripod? If so, call us now for a free no win, no fee consultation on 555."

  "Discovers the secrets of an ancient race when a holiday simulation stirs hidden memories of Earth. Arnie Governorofcalifornegger and Sharon Stern star in TOTAL RERUN, the assistant director's limited edition shortened cut, yours to own forever on your DA or 3D-HVD. Warning: contains scenes of mild peril and imaginary fantasy."

  "Literally hot off the presses... Subscribe now to LAUGH! I ALMOST FRIED! the part-work celebrating the best of classic television comedy, including these moments from Fawlty Tripods: 'Whatever you do, don't mention the War of The Worlds', 'You started it!', 'No, we didn't!'. Moments from Allo Goodbye: 'Listen very carefully, I will say this only wwwaaaannnnccee- '"

  DUM-DUM-DUM-DUM

  "And that perennial favourite, Last of the Summer Whines: 'that was a little bit hot.' 'Yes, Foggy, it was.' 'Do you think we should call him compost now?'"

  "On BBC Mars tonight. Stay tuned. After the news, MARS UNEXPLAINED asks: so where were the crew of Capricorn One."

  "Welcome back. They had nowhere to go but the Red House, and so to the Red House they went. Our embedded reporter, Matt Moss, now reports-"

  "Thanks, Jeremiah. Two thousand years ago they cleaned up our planet and now they are back to save it. They
've been called many names, though never to their faces, and their deeds are the stuff of legend. Their contribution to the welfare and safety of Mars through the millennia has been unparalleled. They are the ABC Warriors, seven indestructible soldiers who-"

  "Six, actually. Morrigun left us."

  "Morrigun left?"

  "Afraid so. A while back now. Aren't you supposed to know these things, being a reporter?"

  "Why? I mean, why did she leave?"

  "Couldn't sort her head out."

  "She had psychological problems? Was she depressed?"

  "Absolutely crushed."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. Hope you feel better soon, Morrigun."

  "Doubt it."

  "Okay, then. Six indestructible soldiers whose-"

  "Um, to be honest it's five. Sergeant Hammerstein bit the bullet this morning."

  "We don't know that he's dead."

  "Looked pretty fragging convincing to me, pal. Sorry, Matt, do you need to edit that out?"

  "Five indestructible warriors whose selfless devotion to 'increase the peace' has endured almost since man first set foot on the planet Mars."

  "Before you go on, perhaps we should point out that we are not, strictly speaking, indestructible."

  "Obstinate, perhaps."

  "No, more like really hard."

  "Thick."

  "Some of us, Mek-Quake. I prefer very persistent."

  "Anyway, we're difficult to kill."

  "Yehhhh, hur-hur-hur."

  "Okaaaay. We'll go to the individual interviews now, if that's okay?"

  "Sure."

  "Right then. Deadlock first."

  "Dealing ultimate retribution from an orbiting space station called the Watch-Tower. Surely a case of Quis Custodiet Ipso Custodes?"

  "Who guards the guards?"

  "I thought it was Who Watches The Watchmen."

  "No. That is a different comic."

  "Sorry. Let's move on, then. May I ask you, what is your reaction to the shocking news?"

  "News?"

  "That people are dying in their hundreds of thousands."

  "Really? Has Medusa poisoned their desserts, too?"

  "No, no - I mean hundreds of thousands of them are dying."

  "Ah. Yes, I know. Glorious, isn't it?"

  "Glorious?"

  "So many people embarking on the Great Journey together - the road to the afterlife is packed solid with jostling souls, I can feel it."

  "Urm, yes. So, I'm told you play cards."

  "I READ cards. I do not PLAY."

  "So you must be good at poker, then. I have to say it - you have the perfect poker face."

  "Not poker."

  "Then what? You don't look like a Happy Families type of guy."

  "No... My cards are the Tarot."

  "The fortune stuff? Hey look, I know you must be asked this all the time, but would you... read them for me?"

  "I could tell you your precise time of death."

  "By reading the cards?"

  "Cards?"

  "General Blackblood, do you mind if I ask you first why it is that you are wearing a hood?"

  "I do not like to be recognised."

  "I'd have thought that would have been quite difficult, what with the leg and all?"

  "Pardon?"

  "The leg?"

  "What leg?"

  "Never mind. I believe that you were married once?"

  "Yes."

  "What was her name?"

  "Mrs Blackblood."

  "I see. Next question?"

  "Yes."

  "Joe Pineapples..."

  "Hi."

  "You were, I believe, once a member of an elite squad called the X-Terminators, but departed their ranks following a scandal? An affair with an officer's wife?"

  "Nineteen affairs."

  "You had affairs with nineteen officer's wives?"

  "No. One wife. Nineteen affairs. In one hour."

  "One? Ah, I see what you mean. Ahem. Good going, fella."

  "I like to think so."

  "And this wife, was she sore? No, let me rephrase that. Was she angry that the affair ended? Was it she who told the officer?"

  "No, he found out another way."

  "Another way?"

  "We had our... affairs... in his office."

  "And someone walked in?"

  "It was an open plan office."

  "An open plan office?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "I see. So you're saying his staff were present?"

  "Yes. His staff. And the President."

  "The President?"

  "Of Earth."

  "Of course, the president of... that President. And he... um... didn't object to what was going on?"

  "He was busy."

  "Busy?"

  "Broadcasting."

  "Broadcasting?"

  "To the world."

  "Radio?"

  "Nope."

  "Thought not. So let me get this straight - the entire world saw you and the officer's wife... they saw your affairs?"

  "We were behind the president, yes."

  "You and the wife?"

  "Me and the wife. Oh, and the chicken."

  "CHICKEN?"

  "Yes, but that wasn't my fault."

  "What?"

  "The officer shooting the chicken."

  "Oh Gaia."

  "You know I'm making all this up, don't you?

  "The truth?"

  "Worse. Much, much worse."

  "Welcome, Mongrol. Between you and me and oh, seventy million or so people, I'm sure the first thing that our viewers would like to hear from you is that famous battle cry, 'Mongrol Smush!'"

  "Thank you, Matt. But to be perfectly honest, these days I prefer significantly less pejorative terms when dealing with my multifarious opponents. To terminally incapacitate, for example, or strategically displace on a long-term basis. The utilisation of the monosyllabic approach is considered by many to be the most expedient conversational gambit under battle conditions but it is so... unedifying, don't you think?"

  "Sure, yeah sure... but you still like to kill things, right?"

  "I prefer to think of the act as combat euthanasia."

  "Yes... quite."

  "And now, in a world exclusive, we bring you an interview with Medusa herself. Apparently the planetary entity who is responsible for today's rather dramatic events appeared to our reporter in the Red House's hall of ex-presidents, where she cleverly manifested herself as a burning Bush. Is that right, Matt?"

  "That's right, Jeremiah."

  "Run VT-"

  "As unbelievable as it sounds, I am actually speaking to Medusa herself. Medusa, let me ask you first - is it true that you wish all of us humans to 'go home'?"

  "Ahem. That is correct, Matt. To humans, Mars is now the Forbidden Planet."

  "If I may be so bold, Medusa, Altair IV is actually the Forbidden Planet, so I don't think you can call Mars that. It could get confusing. I mean we wouldn't want people landing on the wrong Forbidden Planet, would we?"

  "Oh. Yes. Okay, I can see that. And what do you mean - land?"

  "Can you think of another name?"

  "How about Come Within A Million Miles And I'll Blow You Out Of Your Socks Planet?"

  "A bit long-winded."

  "Ahh. Planet of the Doomed?"

  "Better. But a tad melodramatic."

  "Mars: A Local Planet For Local People?"

  "Mmm. If I may be so bold as to suggest - knowing as I do your interest in the Nazis of Earth's World War II - what about Verboten Vorld."

  "Ohhh, I like that. Achtung! Verboten Vorld. Do you know, I just may not have you killed? "

  "That's... very generous, Medusa."

  "Isn't it?"

  "On the lighter side, then, I'm told that a number of musicians are clamouring for the rights to record a cover version of your old favourite, 'Medusa's Song'?"

  "What is a cover version?"

  "It's, well, it is a kind of an interpretation o
f your work. Sometimes they can be better."

  "Better?"

  "Excuse me, Medusa. Who are these people?"

  "Ack, ack, ack!"

  "Wait! Medusa, you said-"

  "I lied."

  "Oh biol. Listen, guys, can't we all just get along?"

  "Ack, ack!"

  "Aaaarggghhh!"

  "Cue Jeremiah."

  "Alas, poor Matt. I should apologise, by the way, for not warning viewers that the previous interview contained images that some of them might find disturbing. Sorry about that."

  "Camera five."

  "Before we go, here's a quick look at tomorrow's papers... just in case none of you are left to buy them. The Martian Chronicle leads with the blindingly obvious: 'MARS ATTACKS!' The Reflector with a not so self-explanatory: 'MEDUSA'S BAD HAIR DAY', while The Daily Red Planet gives us: 'MARS TO INVADERS: DROP DEAD!'. Typically, The Stun relegates the war to page five, opting instead for the low-down on the latest vegetable to be evicted on the holovision reality show, I'M A CELERIAC, GET ME OUT OF HERE."

  "And Camera One."

  "This is Jeremiah Pacman. Mars Night. Good evening."

  SEVEN

  "GET OUT OF THE FRAGGING WAY!"

  Maggie Sidewinder balanced on the top of the driving seat of the Sunset Streaker, bending precariously so that one hand was wobbling the steering wheel while the other was vigorously shooing away the vehicles ahead of her to the left and right. Shooing them anywhere, in fact, that was not directly in her path.

  "YES, YOU, YOU MORON! MOVE IT."

  It was a sight to behold. Most who saw this madwoman in the sports car bearing down on them wondered whether she was some kind of escapee from a home for insanely dangerous circus performers - and most had the sense to comply with her wishes. Those who didn't Maggie swerved around with a screech of tyres and a few well-aimed invectives. Those that she couldn't swerve around found themselves suddenly departing the highway entirely, generally air-borne, stunned that their journey had ended, prematurely, upside-down in a marshroom patch. They could only gape after the woman, who was making obscene gestures, as she receded far into the distance.