"All that work, all of our plans, snatched away by a bunch of Swiftian yahoos in tin suits!" I tried to control my temper and discovered that I really didn't want to.
"Where the hell are those knights?" I demanded, feeling angrier than I ever thought possible. Okay, maybe formerly I couldn't kill in cold blood, but now...
Hobart swiveled his head. THEY WENT IN THERE.
Across the valley, the rushing torrent had washed away a whole section of the landscape. Under the hillock was now exposed a concrete dome with an armored doorway larger than a movie star's ego. The structure resembled the dome that I escaped from when my cryogenic freezer broke down. "Some sort of a prewar military lab," I guessed.
HOLY MOTHERBOARD, THIS IS WHAT THOSE MEDIEVAL GUYS WERE AFTER IN THE FIRST PLACE. THEY BLEW THE DAM TO UNCOVER THIS BURIED INSTALLATION.
"Didn't they own any shovels?" Now I was really annoyed. Grimly, I started across the valley towards the dome when the armored door rose and out walked the biggest freaking armored war machine I had ever seen. Made Hobart look like an inflatable toy. Built along the lines of a spider, it was twenty meters tall, had six legs, a couple of missile launchers, a turbo-laser, several machine guns, the whole nine yards. The imposing war machine is in pristine condition, with no sign of rust or wear. I could only gape as it strode by without stopping or attacking, its six pumping legs splashing along the reborn river.
WOW. A SOLDIER-BOT, Hobart scrolled. ANOTHER TYPE OF WALKING MILITARY HARDWARE BUILT DURING THE SHADOW AGE.
"So it's just like you?"
NO. THAT MACHINE'S ONLY PURPOSE IS DEATH.
There was no sign of the knights, so we advanced upon the dome, weapons at the ready. As we got close, I could see bodies sprawled on the terrazzo floor and I rushed inside. The moment I crossed the door jamb, dozens of flying ceramic eggs came at us in a wave, built-in needlers spraying us with thousands
of 1mm flechette rounds.
SENTINEL DROIDS. BETTER TAKE'EM OUT FAST.
"No prob!" I hit the first one with the laser and cut it in half, the pieces fell away sparking and smoking. But the rest separated and dove in from every angle. I ducked one and got blinded sided by another, their anti-personnel needles hissed steadily, hosing Hobart all over. As before, he kept a gauntlet
over the hole in his chest to protect me from any possible lucky shots. Without my buddy, I would have been reduced to screaming hamburger in only seconds.
The sentinels spun around us like angry bees, slamming into us again and again, grimly determined to stop us in any way possible. Hobart tried the Screamer to no results. Then I caught one in my hands and turned it around, hosing the others with the voracious stream of flechettes. My prisoner stopped almost immediately, but the others were damaged or dead already. Always turn your enemy's strength against them. I learned that playing AD&D in high school.
I crushed the last sentinel and tossed the sparking ball of rubbish into a corner. Now I could rush to the side of the nearest fallen knight. But it was too late. He was dead, crushed flat. So were the rest, smashed like bugs underfoot by the giant warmachine. Then a low moan caught my attention and I
knelt by the side of an older man with gray at the temples. His leg was bloody pulp from the knee down, so I ripped off his tableau and tied it as a tourniquet around his thigh to stop the bleeding. Then I cauterized the wound with our laser, medium power, maximum aperture. He tried to speak, and only coughed up some dark fluids. Not good. That meant internal bleeding.
Nothing I could do about that.
"We...were wrong," the knight panted, fighting to stay awake from the blood loss. "Found the base...ancient tank-bot... unstoppable war machine...clean the country of all mutants! B-but..." He broke into a ragged cough, and I gave him a sip from my canteen.
"But you couldn't control the machine," I stated grimly.
The dying man reached out a trembling hand to grab Hobart by the shoulder. "Nobody can control the Great One!" he said in unexpected force. "It wouldn't accept any commands. The AI computer...was left on, sentient and thinking.....alone in the dark for centuries."
"It's insane," he exhaled in a ghostly whisper, and slumped to the floor.
Hobart cycled open and I checked for a pulse with my fingertips pressed to his throat. There was none. "He's gone," I said, going back inside.
NOW WHAT?
"We go after it," I said, taking a plasma pistol from the dead man and checking the synergy cell. Fully charged. He never got off a shot. Around his waist was a forcefield belt. Feeling like a grave robber, I unbuckled the device and strapped it around Hobart.
HOW ARE WE GOING STOP THAT THING? GOT A POCKET NUKE YOU'VE BEEN HIDING ALL THESE YEARS?
"The bridge," I said, tightening the belt. "But only if we move fast."
There was a short pause. SAY, THAT JUST MIGHT WORK.
But rushing outside, I found nothing in sight. The giant was gone.
RADAR IS CLEAR, Hobart reported, SCANNING INFRARED...CLEAR. GOING TO ULTRAVIOLET SPECTRUM....AH HA! GOT HIM!
On the main monitor, the scene zoomed into the distance and there it was, the soldier-bot was just a jot in the distance, the big machine was moving fast. Then it paused at the old iron bridge to test the structure with a single leg, then another. It seemed unsure the bridge would hold its awesome weight. That
was my plan, let it get in the middle then hit it with our missiles and send it tumbling into the ravine. Not a nuke, but it should work. Maybe.
NOW? Hobart scrolled, his meters quivering with barely restrained eagerness.
"Not yet. It has to be on the bridge...oh no."
As I watched, the machine withdrew from the ancient bridge and started along the ravine looking for another way across.
Frustrated, I clenched and unclenched my huge fists. There went our best chance for a fast kill. But I refused to admit defeat. My plan to help this valley had somehow unleashed the ultimate killing machine and it was my responsibility to stop the thing.
"Launch our missiles!" I spat.
IF YOU SAY SO.
Flame washed around our boots, and Hobart shook as the four Amsterdam missiles lifted from our backpack to streak away, spiraling across the valley to foil enemy fire, and struck the soldier-bot dead on, the C19 warheads exploding with thunderous force.
However, as the smoke cleared away, there was no visible damage to the mighty machine. Contemptuously, the soldier-bot did not bother to even pause as it launched a full salvo of missiles, HE shells, plasma beams and lasers backwards at us. Franticly, I dove behind a rock and Hobart was only a split second behind me. Hobart slapped a gauntlet over the hole in his chest, and we rolled for safety into the river, going under just as the barrage arrived. The missiles and shells tore the landscape apart in hellish fury, the gigawatt energy beams slicing deep into the ground, melting the rocky soil into steaming lava.
Calmly, the soldier-bot continued on its way, still searching for a convenient way across the deep ravine.
THAT WAS FUN. WHAT NEXT, BOY GENIUS?
"Okay, last try. Get me a radio link," I ordered brusquely, water flowing off us in sheets. "Use every ounce of power you have. But you must make contact!"
AND SAY WHAT? PLEASE STOP OR WE WON'T LIKE YOU ANYMORE?
"Don't talk to him," I snapped, looking at the clear blue sky. "Talk to the Seven Sisters, and pretend you're the soldier bot. Make 'em mad. Say things only another machine would understand. Challenge them to a fight. Act insane."
OF ALL THE STUPID...I'VE NEVER HEARD ANYTHING MORE...OKAY, IT'S DONE, Hobart scrolled. AND YOU KNOW WHAT, I THINK THEY BOUGHT IT.
Scant seconds later, down from the heavens came seven mauling power rays of starkly incomprehensible power, the very atmosphere burning lambent from the passage of the nuclear beams. The searing stiletto rays chewed a path of destruction along the ground to converge on the soldier-bot. For a single
moment, its forcefield held against the combined attack as it launched dozens of missiles skyward. T
hen the immaterial shield fell and the machine instantaneously vanished in a blinding fireball. The earth shook from a titanic implosion, and a hot wind swept over the landscape as the classic mushroom smoke cloud rose above the focal point of the orbiting weapon systems.
Back in the river, Hobart and I rode out the firestorm, the forcefield belt struggling to handle the awful load.
Slowly, time passed. When the river ceased boiling, we dared to stand and risk a peek. There was only a flat desolate landscape of broken rocks with a steaming lake of molten lava at the center. Nervously, we waited a few more minutes just to make sure the soldier-bot didn't somehow arise again. Then we gave it a few additional minutes just to make doubly sure.
After a full hour, we finally relaxed. The trick had worked. The mad machine was no more.
"You are a very dangerous person," Hobart complemented aloud.
"Thanks," I panted, increasing the air conditioner a notch. "You too, pal."
GUESS WE SHOULD CHECK ON IRON MIKE, ET AL, AND SEE IF THEY SURVIVED TO GO TO JAIL.
"Then we leave," I said, feeling slightly embarrassed. "I think we have seriously worn out our welcome here."
GEE, YOU THINK SO?
"Aw, shaddup."
JUST STAY AWAY FROM ANY GREEN LIGHTS.
"Absolutely," I sighed, and started walking. "I just wish there was something, anything, we could do to make up for this colossal mess."
WELL, NOW THAT YOU MENTION IT, Hobart scrolled slowly, his meters jiggling in the computer version of a chuckle. MAYBE THERE IS SOMETHING WE COULD DO FOR THEM.
***
A few months later, Sheriff Harrison watched as Iron Mike and the rest of the chain gang put the finishing touches on the new Battle Ground waterwheel. The plans given to them by the Gamma Knight had actually worked. The rushing stream of water from the smashed dam turned a large wheel studded with wooden paddles, which in turn rotated a long leather belt that operated a grinding stone which milled grain, along with a big circular saw to cut wood.
It was a marvel of technology, the greatest gift the valley had ever received, and nobody even knew the name of their mysterious benefactor. May the Maker bless the stranger, whoever he was; man, mutie, or machine.
Sometimes, life was good.
-THE END-
"Technically, this next piece is not an actual story," Nick said slowly, watching the ceiling for any traitorous movements. "Rather, it is a Feghoot, a 'Shaggy Dog' tale written just so the reader can arrive at a weird joke, or an outrageous pun."
Suddenly, the room lights went out and the control booth was cast into darkness with only the twinkling array of colorful dials on the console offering a rainbow glow of illumination.
"So, brace yourself," he whispered, hunkering low in the usurped chair. "It's a real doozy."
MILLENIUM KNIGHTS
Everybody wonders why rap stars carry such huge silver crosses around our necks, and even bigger guns under our macks. Well shit, we need those to stop the fangbangers. Our music pulls in the juicy warm bodies and when the hunters arrive to feed, that's when we kick it old school style.
I was slamming a freestyle rap on stage at the Metro, when suddenly I could feel a presence in the crowd of homeys and bettys. Thrill, a hunter was here, checking for sweetmeat to jack. Well, not in my hood. Cutting the rap short, I finished and made a fist with my right hand to thump my chest twice, then showed two fingers. The crackers in the audience thought that meant 'peace' or some hippie shit like that. But my G in the boxseat nodded and flashed me back the two-finger V, which stood for vampire. Houston, we have a hunter.
Chilling on stage, I slipped into the next rap, knowing my 11 was solid. My posse was hip to the bad vibes in the Metro and had my butt covered. But we had to move fast, fangbangers only come out when they're jonesing for the red. Those boneyard bitches sure ain't here to window shop. Don't take no Cronkite to get down with that.
The gig was def, but bouncing the show short I slipped off-stage, telling the Beavis I was going to the knock boots with a slit. But hitting the side door, I stepped into the alleyway and my dawgs rolled up in a classic 98. Putting on a game face, I took the shotgun seat and tucked on some steel. A deuce-deuce in my belt loaded with hollowpoints packed with garlic mixed with high-ex mercury, and a Glock nine under my arm carrying blessed African Ironwood rounds. The rest of my posse had crossbows, gauges, and a lot of wooden shanks. Tasty. Unless the toothfairys were packing mil, we owned their supernat ass.
Swinging out of the alley onto MLK, we did a drive-by on the crowd pouring out of the Metro, players and homegirls all cursing as we sprayed them with Holy Water from our supersoakers. Def. Nobody fired a cap back 'cause it was me in the '98 Olds and that made it all hardcore.
Then a brother in biker leather caught the H2Holy and burst into fire. Lottery! The two stags alongside the flamer took off at B-boy speed, but G at the wheel slammed through a P.O. to blindside 'em both on the lamp. Domes went uptown, while hightops went for the burbs, but the Bloody Crypts were still aces and came humming, charging the low-rider like crackheads from Hell, screaming and spitting.
Damn! We didn't need to drop science on a cipher to know it was time to get medieval on their ass, so we cut loose with our Dillons. Catching wooden pills, the bloodsuckers went down, exploding into ashes that got blown away on the Hawk from the d-town river. Totally phat.
Then from out of no-fucking-where some steroid junkie drops from the sky and crumbles the hood of the 98. Eight feet tall, with fangs and cape, sheet, he must have been the old school McCoy itself!
Slapping mags, we knuckled up gats. But instead of showing us his pearlies, the supernat bad ass whips out a Mossberg and starts pumping lead!
The windshield shattered, and G jerked backwards as he caught a burst in the dome, his face removed to the bone. Sombitch gakked my bro! I emptied the nine into the red rum czar, but he only fell off the Olds and hit the ground running. Wigger had a mil vest and was playing us! Now I was bugging.
My posse poured onto the pavement and laid down everything they had while I calmly drew the deuce-deuce and took aim as if this was LP and I had all the damn time in the world.
As they stopped pouring wood, he turned to fire the Mossberg and I stroked the trigger to cap a .22 smack in the dirtnapper's ear. Zero! His head burst into flames from the detonating garlic, so I gave him another taste in the eye and he hit the sidewalk thrashing and squealing like a new fish in stir tossing a salad.
By now we could hear a ghetto-bird in the air, and I knew the 5-0 was coming. But the life-jacker was still moving, trying to crawl into the storm sewer and escape. Fuck that shit. We grabbed the heavy silver crosses off our necklaces and drummed him a ride on the forever train until even his ash was bust. He had game, but we were slamming that night.
Done deal, it was Miller time. But this sort of gig was much too hard to 411 to the city blues. So we left my bomb Oldsmobile were it was parked, and bounced into the shadows on a ghost. We were gone.
So go ahead, chill in the crib with a tallboy and Leno, we got ya six, cos. Rap gangstas are a secret brotherhood of heavily-armed musicians that stalk the night, protecting all the homies and fat cats alike. My straight name is Robert Adams, all my dawgs call me Big Daddy. But to the downtown fangbangers, I'm Puffy, the vampire slayer.
Word up. Peace.
-THE END-
"I have always been annoyed when characters in stories, movies, television, whatever, don't act logically," Nick said, jerking open a cabinet to reveal only assorted electrical equipment, and petrified mouse droppings. "Like when a sheriff calls the governor about an invasion of giant spiders, and the National Guard arrives only an hour later to save the day. Yeah, right." Turning away from the cabinet, Nick snapped his fingers. "Oh waiter! Reality check for one, please!"
Suddenly, the doorknob to the control room rattled, and there came the soft ticking of metal on metal from the deadbolt lock. Reaching back into the cabinet, Nick grabbed a ferruled power cord,
and ripped off the end. Quickly, he touched it to the lock of the door. There was a loud snap of power, and a flash of blue light, closely followed by a sizzling sound, and the tangy stink of frying evil. Holding his breath, Nick listened hopefully for the dull thud of an unconscious body falling limply to the floor, but there was only a deep, stentorian silence. Crap!
"Anyway, as I was thumbing through Bullfinch's Mythology one day," Nick muttered, laying the power cord on the floor. "I began to ponder what would happen if somebody with just a dash of common sense found themselves in such a bizarre predicament...."
A DISTANT MOON
"Please, Merlin," the young King Arthur begged. "Please?"
With a weary sigh, the ancient wizard threw both of his hands into the air. "Enough!" Merlin cried exasperated. "Yes, you may have a view of the future."
"Excellent!"
"But sheath Excalibur first," Merlin said sternly, waggling a finger. "Its power greatly interferes with my magiks."
"Of course, old friend," Arthur said excitedly, sliding the glowing blade of power into its heavy scabbard. Although no longer a scrawny lad being taught by the wizard, the young king still wiggled excitedly on the tree stump being used as a makeshift chair in the heart of the forest. What a boon, to see the future!
"Anything else I should do?" Arthur asked, brushing back his wild crop of untamed hair.
"No, that's fine," Merlin muttered, crackling slightly as he gathered the power primordial for the simple spell. After vanquishing the Saxons and coming up with the idea of a Round Table of Knights all by himself, the fledgling king deserved a special treat, and certainly this was a small enough request.
Then in a rush of panic, the wizard turned to stare at his friend. "However, ye shall not see anything of your own future," Merlin stated forcefully. "Nothing from within your lifetime. That could be very dangerous. But something from the very distant future, many eons ahead of us, should be safe enough. What harm in that, eh?"
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