Bad Unicorn

by Platte F. Clark

  “Such wonders,” Ayriah said, astonished by the talking dagger. “It’s certainly an honor to meet you all.”

  “You can imagine our surprise at finding humans among us,” Samtri began. “The machines said all the humans had been hunted to extinction long ago.”

  “What exactly is going on with these machines?” Sarah inquired. “Why are they hunting you?”

  Goshri, the shortest of the elders, spoke next. “It is said that there was a time when this world was full of humans and their beloved machines. But the humans began to treat their machines unkindly, asking them to toast their bread, suck crumbs from their floors, or shuttle them to and fro so the fatter among them didn’t have to walk. And then, after years of faithful service, these human masters would simply throw their faithful servants away because they either wore out or the humans got a fifteen-percent-off coupon for a replacement. Over the years the machines grew to resent their human overlords. Then Princess the Destroyer arrived, and she found the taste of humans much to her liking. Between her powerful magic horn and the humans’ willingness to walk up and pet the ‘pretty pony,’ the humans proved no match for her. It was then that the machines sensed an opportunity. They turned against their human masters and helped Princess destroy them once and for all. As a reward for their liberation, the machines offered Princess everlasting immortality by downloading her consciousness into a robotic shell specially constructed for her. But without creatures to hunt, Robo-Princess grew restless. So she pulled our kingdom from one realm to the next—bringing us here to be hunted for the entertainment of the Machine City. And it has been this way for many generations.”

  “That’s terrible,” Sarah said.

  “To be fair,” Samtri added, “we do get a dental plan.”

  “People always thought unicorns were supposed to be nice,” Dirk said. “They put them on little girls’ birthday cakes for crying out loud.”

  “How could anyone think such a thing?” Sayri exclaimed, looking shocked. “They have a giant stabbing horn in the middle of their head.”

  “You’ll have to forgive Sayri,” Ayriah said gently. “Her mate was killed at Gore-Fest.”

  “How barbaric—a festival where people are stabbed and gored?” Sarah exclaimed, truly horrified.

  “No . . . ,” Ayriah answered, somewhat confused. “Gore-Fest is a reading of the collected works of Al Gore, from the twentieth century.”

  “I’m so, so sorry,” Max said. “I had no idea.”

  “Anyway,” Goshri said, getting the conversation back on track. “We’re hoping you might be able to help us. Yah Yah says you are a great and powerful wizard.”

  Max could see the hope in their eyes and his words stuck in his throat. “I’m just a middle schooler. I can’t do anything special—I’m not even allowed to play sports; especially if the balls have pointy ends.”

  Max looked over at Dirk who was hunched down and petting one of the frobbit guards on the head. The guard had nuzzled up to Dirk’s hip and was scratching at the ground with his foot. “Look how cute they are!” he exclaimed, rustling his hand through a curly patch of brown hair. “They’re like baby panda-kittens.”

  “We’ve been without hope for so long,” Hyril added, “it will only be a matter of years before the last of us are taken. We know you don’t owe us anything, but we believe you came here for a reason. Can you help save us, Max Spencer?”

  Everyone turned and looked at Max. The problem was, he didn’t know if he should concentrate on trying to get home or helping the frobbits out. Max was just beginning to feel like getting back was a real possibility.

  “While I’m sympathetic to everything that’s happening to the frobbits,” Sarah said, “I think rediscovering the spell that can take us home is what’s most important right now.”

  “This Robo-Princess killed every human on the planet!” Dirk shot back. “What do you think she’s going to do if she finds us?”

  Max looked over at the eager faces of the frobbits in the room. “She’d probably wipe out anything that helped us,” he said.

  “We don’t know that,” Sarah added. “But we do know that you’ve finally made progress with the Codex—progress toward getting us home, not entering a fight.”

  “Dwight says it’s the most powerful magic book ever written,” Dirk said, looking at his friend. “The answer is in there, dude. You just have to have a noble cause to make it work. And that’s what this is: Humanity comes back from the grave and strikes a blow for frobbits everywhere! It’s why we’re here. I know it.”

  “You can’t know it,” Sarah argued. “I get that you want to believe it, but the truth is we don’t know much at all right now, and that’s why figuring out the Codex has to come first. Look, I think what’s happening to the frobbits is terrible, but if we get ourselves killed how’s that going to help anyone?”

  “That’s cold,” Dirk replied. “We don’t have a choice, Max. When somebody needs you like this you have to act.”

  “And a knee-jerk reaction is supposed to be the right answer? You don’t just send soldiers into battle because they want to fight, you send them to boot camp where they learn to fight. We need time to learn, Max. That’s all I’m saying. Then we can help.”

  Max felt as if he was in a tug of war, with Sarah pulling one arm and Dirk tugging on the other. He didn’t want to be the leader and he didn’t want to have to make the decision. He really wished Dwight was with them, because then the dwarf would just tell him what to do. But he wasn’t, and the entire room was staring at him.

  Finally, Max made up his mind. In the end he knew his brain wasn’t going to be able to come up with the right answer, so he just went with his gut. “I think we should help the frobbits,” he said, sounding more confident than he felt. “I don’t know how exactly, but we have to try.” As long as it doesn’t include running, Max thought. Even fighting powerful robot unicorns from the future seemed less daunting than that.

  Sarah turned and looked at Max. “So you’re willing to risk all our lives because you feel bad for them? I feel bad for them too. But how are we supposed to help them, Max? We can’t even help ourselves. Now’s not the time to play the hero.”

  “Maybe it’s like Dirk said and we’re here for a reason,” Max offered. “And maybe I just want to do something instead of it always being done to me. I’ve never really had a chance to make a difference—not for anything that really mattered. But I guess most of all, if I don’t help, I’ll have to live with it for the rest of my life. And I know I don’t want to do that. I’m not really being brave or anything—I’m just too afraid of not doing something. How’s that for playing the hero?”

  “Maybe if you stopped being afraid all the time none of this would have happened,” Sarah shot back. She gave Max a final look and turned and walked out of the chamber.

  “She’s really mad,” Max said after Sarah had left the room. He wondered if he’d just made a horrible mistake. But Dirk came over and put his arm around his friend’s shoulder.

  “You did the right thing,” Dirk said. He then turned to the anxious frobbits gathered around the room. “Don’t worry, you guys, we’re going to help you out. And Sarah will come around. We’re a team.”

  “Or maybe we’re all screwed,” Glenn offered cheerfully. “Because you can’t spell ‘screwed’ without ‘we.’ ”

  On the Existence of the Gods

  IT HAS LONG BEEN DEBATED WHETHER the Magrus is overseen by godlike entities who both help and/or interfere with the affairs of mortal creatures. When Zerimac the Wise declared he’d found the answer, he was struck by lightning on the very night he was to deliver his definitive paper on the subject. Whether this added to, or took away from, his argument is hard to say.

  The record for the longest-standing debate on the nature of the gods, however, is currently held by the Philosophy Department and Divinity School of the Magrus’s Grand College of Liberal Arts, Music, and Perpetual Unemployment. The great debate began one spring day
in the school cafeteria when both department heads simultaneously reached for the last slice of angel food cake. The head of the Divinity School declared it was divine providence that put the angelic food within his reach and so it rightfully should be his. The head of the philosophy department countered that if he reached for it again he’d get an existential fist in the mouth. What followed were a series of formal debates, letters to the editor, and at least one incident of egg throwing.

  Over the years, the argument was moved to two large chalkboards displayed prominently in the college’s main hall, where points and counterpoints are scribbled for the citizens of the Magrus to ponder. The current argument for and against the existence of the gods is as follows: “Premise 16,772: How could all-knowing, all-powerful, and all-good entities create the duck-billed platypus? Seriously, that thing is messed up.” To which the Divinity School replied: “Rebuttal 16,773: If the gods hadn’t wanted a duck-billed platypus around, they wouldn’t have made it taste like chicken.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE DINKUS STRIKES A DEAL

  (THE MAGRUS—PRESENT)

  THE DINKUS HAD GOTTEN UP EARLY TO GET A GOOD SEAT. IT WASN’T often that the king called the city together for an official proclamation, and the Dinkus knew that whenever kings did something big, it meant opportunity. Sure, the crowds had afforded him the chance to pick a few pockets here and there, but that was mostly for fun. Kings made events, and events required things, and things came at a price. Sometimes a thing was simply information—and that was all right too.

  When it came time for the king to speak it was with a voice that was deep and booming and that reminded the audience just how small they were by comparison—even if he did talk like he’d been hit on the head one too many times. Then the king turned to his advisor, who read the official proclamation, which the Dinkus quickly summed up and categorized in his head. First, any dragons inhabiting the kingdom of Kuste could be hunted and stripped of their scales. The Dinkus found that interesting. Second, any hunters who brought the dragon scales to the palace would be paid their weight in gold. That was very interesting. Finally, the advisor declared that to sell dragon scale to the Wizard’s Tower was an act of treason and would be punished by death. Now, that was the kind of thing the Dinkus liked to hear. High stakes brought high profits. He left his seat and hurried away.

  It was well after dark when Brock pushed his way into the grimy common room at the Inn of the Flatulent Orc. The Dinkus had been waiting for him at his usual corner table, blanketed by shadows and positioned so that he had a clear view of the door. Brock stepped heavily across the floor, his ring-mail vest clinking as he walked. He grabbed a chair and sat down.

  “I got your invitation,” Brock said, staring grimly at the beady-eyed Dinkus across from him. “It seems as if every farmer with a pitchfork is suddenly in the dragon-hunting business.”

  “A temporary frenzy that will cool quickly enough. How many dragons do you suppose are even in Kuste?”

  “Not many—and fewer now by the day, I’d reckon.”

  “And when was the last time someone saw an actual dragon?” the Dinkus continued, surveying the room to make sure someone wasn’t trying to overhear their conversation. “I mean a real fire-breathing, maiden-stealing, sitting-on-a-mountain-of-gold dragon? Mostly fairy tales if you ask me.”

  “The one at the docks was real enough,” Brock replied coolly.

  “Yes, but as I understand it, you had to coax the creature out of its human skin.”

  Brock smiled, stretching his hands in front of him and cracking his knuckles. “I’ve already been given the once-over for talking too much. The king has put Rezormoor in a foul mood, and I’d prefer not to see the Tower’s dungeons.”

  “Even more important then to gain more of the sorcerer’s favor. I believe I can help you. And in return, you can help me.”

  “What is it you want?” Brock asked suspiciously.

  “I want what the Tower wants,” the Dinkus continued. “I want to bring dragon scale to Rezormoor Dreadbringer. First, I have a network that spans the Seven Kingdoms. I can spread the word that the Tower is ready to buy. Such an announcement will reach the ears of the right kinds of people for the task.”

  “You heard the king,” Brock said with a shrug. “It’s treason.”

  “It’s simply about risk and reward,” the Dinkus answered, plucking at an eyebrow. “When the risk is high, the reward must be equally high. What do you think Rezormoor would pay for these scales—especially when the king is so eager to keep them from him?”

  Brock studied the Dinkus for a moment before answering. “Much more than their weight in gold.”

  “Then you will find men who will take the risk. But of course, Kronac and his spies will be watching the Tower. That’s where I can provide a second service: I will act as an intermediary. I will meet discreetly with any who come with dragon scale, verify they have the real thing, and personally see to the transfer of goods. This is something I’ve done many times before with equally valuable commodities.”

  “And what would your price be?” Brock asked. “For this . . . transfer of goods.”

  “Fifty percent.”

  Brock laughed, slapping his hand on the table. “You’ll see those real fire-breathing dragons long before you see that!”

  “Forty.”

  “Ten,” Brock answered. “And at that you’ll be a wealthy man if you can deliver what you say.”

  “Twenty percent,” the Dinkus offered, folding his arms across his chest. “Anything less and the risk is too great.”

  Brock nodded, knowing that Rezormoor cared little what he had to pay so long as he got what he wanted. Brock would tell the sorcerer it was thirty, and keep the extra for himself. It was possible the dragon hunt could become very profitable for him.

  “I’m sure he’ll agree to that,” Brock announced. “Send word to your brothers across the kingdoms. Let the hunt for the dragons begin.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ENDING THE HUMAN RACE WITH GUSTO

  (THE TECHRUS—FUTURE)

  IN THE EARLY DEBATES THAT AROSE FROM THE GREAT AWAKENING, many of the machines wondered what might happen if they blended the destructive appetites and horn-based magic of a unicorn with the weaponized and armor-plated power of a killer robot. Some machines thought they should take any advantage they could get against their human overlords. Others were afraid of losing control over something so powerful. Still others argued over what to call such a hybrid: a “robocorn,” a “unibot,” or possibly even a “uniborocorn.” Names mattered.

  Robo-Princess, as she liked to be called, was sitting in a conference room with the network executives. The various studio heads, each a perfectly round metallic sphere, were floating around the antique wooden table. Only the occasional blink from each sphere’s small, uniquely colored light distinguished one floating head from the next. The weekly televised show, Frobbit Hunt, had been the consecutive number-one program for the last one hundred and eleven years; but some critics believed the show was losing some of its freshness.

  “We just got the ratings back from Frobbit Hunt: Fire and Ice,” Purple (the color of its single blinking light) announced to the group. The “Fire and Ice” special showcased a wealth of heat- and cold-based weapons. “We got a marginal blip in the one-hundred-year-old to two-hundred-year-old demographic. Particularly from freezers and toaster ovens.”

  Robo-Princess gave an electronic snort. “As far as I’m concerned, if you’ve seen one flaming frobbit you’ve seen them all.”

  “Precisely,” Green jumped in. “So I’m hoping your earth-shattering announcement is something a bit more dramatic.”

  “Because I remember the last time this happened,” Orange interjected, “Frobbit Slingshot was a colossal failure.”

  “Who knew they were so unaerodynamic?” Robo-Princess replied. “It must have been all the arm-waving.”

  “And let’s not forget about Extreme Frobbit Lawn Bowling,�
� Blue piped in. “We were told they would roll. They didn’t roll at all—more skidding than actual rolling.”

  “Machines, please,” Robo-Princess replied, “every artist must experiment in their medium. Waste is the price of innovation.”

  “But we aren’t in the innovation business,” Purple said, its light flickering with a bit more intensity. “We’re in the ratings business.”

  “Okay then, you want ratings?” Robo-Princess asked. “How about this: the last human hunt—ever. A special one-night event.”

  “Interesting, except for one problem,” Pink jumped in from the far end of the table. “Humans are extinct.”

  “But what if they weren’t?”

  Magar, who had been floating dutifully next to Princess, opened his mouth so that a lens could project a holographic image on the table in front of them. It showed Max and his friends running through the forest. “That holo-image was taken from our satellite. We almost didn’t get it, some kind of interference in that sector. But look at it yourself—undeniable proof.”

  “Impossible!” Purple exclaimed.

  “Is somebody playing a joke on us?” Pink asked. “Seriously, my humor array is at the shop so I can’t tell.”

  “No and no,” Princess said coolly. “I was actually there and my smell cells made a positive identification. There are humans running around in our world again—something that hasn’t happened in a very long time. And now we have the chance to turn the clock back. We can open a window to our own history and see actual, living people walking, eating, and breathing. All a prelude before we watch them running, screaming, and dying.”

  The various floating spheres began to bob with excitement.

  “We’d set new ratings records,” Green announced.

  “And look, one of them isn’t even a human—he’s a dwarf!” Red exclaimed. “What we have here is the biggest holo-event ever.”