by Lee Bond
Then he remembered that there was no such thing as Enforcer School. You got handed your Suit, you were told not to blow stuff up unless you were told to blow stuff up, and off you went into the deep black yonder, teaching the Universe Trinity’s particular lessons on how to be a part of It’s grand domain. You learned how to use your Enforcer Suit along the way, discovering and uncovering all the little quirks and tricks that belonged to each, and getting to know the AI in the process.
Shuman wasted a good ten minutes like that, pummeling his memories, doing his best to recall stories from other Enforcers, to see if any one of his peers had ever wound up in a similar situation and came up so short that it was likely he’d lose an inch or two from his sturdy 6’3” frame.
“Wait! Haha!” Shuman tried to shake his head, but all he succeeded in doing was a headbutt against the helmet, reopening the other lacerated eyebrow in the process. “I don’t even need to worry! Clint is up high, on watchdog. The moment he sees that I’m down, he’ll free me up. Yeah. That’s what…”
Something started hammering on his Suit.
“No.” Shuman shook his head again, not even caring what damage he sustained to his forehead. “There is no way. She was in a lake of magma. Ten thousand degree plus heat. She was having a hard time moving.”
The hammering doubled in intensity.
Hoarsely, Shuman screamed, “She was either melted or trapped in the freezing process. There’s no way…”
The faceplate of his helmet cracked in half and Shuman was treated to an up close and personal view of a naked Arcadian female with what appeared to be a rather fetching pixie haircut.
Body trembling with fear and a brain stuffed full of panicky adrenaline, the next thing that popped out of Shuman’s mouth made him feel like a complete fucking idiot.
“When did you have time for a haircut?”
***
“You noticed.” Agnethea riffled a free hand through the short hairs at the back of her neck, feeling decidedly … ambivalent … about the whole thing. Feeling a breeze on her nape was going to take entirely too long to grow accustomed to, that much she knew for certain, and without anything even approaching a proper mirror, there was just no way to know how she looked. “Tell me now, and tell me true, does it look proper? I mean to say, it’s been over fifteen thousand years since I had nowt but the long locks you saw ‘pon my head ‘ere we did battle and I am feeling singularly exposed.”
Shuman blinked. He was mad. He’d gone mad, somehow, and hadn’t noticed until just this moment. He was trapped, in the middle of a frozen lava-lake that’d been spawned by completely stupid gridades failing to recognize his Suit, being questioned, by a naked woman who spoke with a mouthful of marbles, about her haircut.
Nothing was making any sense. He quacked at her. Because that is what Enforcers who’ve gone crazy did to naked Arcadians who successfully managed to defeat an Enforcer. While being naked.
“Oh come now.” Agnethea tsked disparagingly. “Loss is no reason to act churlish, my buccaneer. ‘tis a simple question.” She tilted her head this way and that, slowly coming to appreciate how the short ends of her hair were … flippy. Yes. That were the word. The short ends of her hair were flippy ‘gainst her rather admirable jawline in just the right way. “My hair. How does it look? Answer rightly and things might go your way, hey?”
“I’m wondering.” Shuman blinked against the blood trickling into his eyes, succeeding only in bringing tears to them. “I’m wondering if you’ve ever uttered a single fucking sentence that had less than eighty fucking words in it?”
Agnethea slammed a fist into Rude Buccaneer’s metallic chest and nodded with supreme satisfaction as the previously impervious armor cracked fiercely under her ministrations. “’tis as I thought, you rude boy. You’re a filthy-mouthed buccaneer, hain’t you just?”
“What,” Shuman pretended that the sounds of his armor cracking wide open to reveal the only parts of him that were still alive didn’t have him quivering in abject terror, “in the actual fuck is a buccaneer and why do you keep fucking calling me that? I am a goddamn Enforcer and you will give me respect.”
“In point of fact,” Agnethea commented dryly, visibly eyeing the man’s trapped limbs, “I do think you are more of a body with a talking head than anything else, hey? I recall a time, back in the day, when I were thinking about becoming a blacksmith or tinkerer. Can’t remember the name of the man I were attempting to ‘prentice to, but I do recall the one lesson I learned from him, don’t I just? He were forging the beginnings of a chainsword, you see, and were smithing away on the metal, which glowed bright and hot as … well, I suppose you would say star, but we hain’t had anything like that ‘neath The Dome, but you get my meaning, I warrant. Anyways, as the story goes, my ‘smith, he did drop the glowing bit of metal into a big old bucket full of the coldest water he contrived to own, hey? Part of the forging process. Now, I suppose he’d done it a million times ‘ere that moment, but summat in either the metal or the water caused that ingot or what have you burst into a sea of razor-sharp bits, and as I crouch here, looking into your eyes, taking into account your half in, half out position in this here frozen lake and the nature of your Suit, I do believe we are looking at a similar situation as that back in the beginnings of my humble life. So what you are, sirrah, is nowt but a talking head attached to a body that somehow still beats with life, and also you are trapped inside armor ready to shatter.
Now.” Agnethea gave the man’s nose a little flick. “’tis a simple question, buccaneer. How think you my hair?”
Shuman spat at Agnethea's face, cackling like a madman when a huge rope of spittle dangled from the end of the damned fiend's face. Then, because he couldn't think of anything else to do, he finished up with a long bout of quacking.
Agnethea calmly wiped the gob from her face, staring piercingly into the eyes of the officially crazed Enforcer. "So rude. So interminably rude."
"Rude?" Shuman couldn't believe his ears. "Me? I'm not the one buck-ass naked in the middle of a fight, lady. You're the rude one. Fuck you and the disintegrated stolen car you rode in on!"
Disappointed that she were temporarily unable to get someone else's opinion on her new hairstyle, Agnethea balled one of her hands into a fist and smashed it loudly and firmly directly into the center of the bastard's exposed chest. The cracking sound was like thunder, momentarily drowning out the far sounds of war that reached her ears still. As implied, the armor erupted into a blizzard of razor sharp splinters that glanced off her unbreakable skin as if it were nothing at all.
"Nudd I may be, bucko," Agnethea indicated her pleasing form, "but 'tis the skin I were born in, and the only time to be ashamed of who you are is when you are busy playing the coquette and for no other reason. I've been in many a battle and fought many a foe, all of whom have engaged in some of the worst behaviors imaginable, yet to a one, they all adhered to a certain … hmmm … form? Yes. Form. Form of combat attitude, if you like, and the one thing none of them ever did out here on the field is spit. 'tis unconscionable. Besides…"
"Fuck yourself." Shuman interrupted rudely, chortling once more at the absolute look of unbelievable dismay on the Arcadian's comely face.
"Besides," Agnethea persisted without missing a beat, "I am not the only the one in the area who is … exposed."
Shuman blinked and opened his mouth to deliver a hasty -if untrue- statement on the woman's new hair, but it was too late for him; the same fist that had only just cracked the chest plate of his Suit into millions of splinters was coming down towards his horribly exposed chest.
Agnethea rose, one hand dripping red from elbow to fingertips, eyeing the lifeless buccaneer. She sighed miserably as the man's lifeblood dried into a thick, sticky mess. "And me wi'out summat to clean myself off with. Bah. Not a week on me own and I am bereft of clothes, anything to wash down with, and am stuck with a style of hair I am neither sure of nor interested in. I cannot imagine how things could get any worse for me
here, in this place."
The Pirate Queen Agnethea deRois looked over her shoulder towards where she believed dear old Jarvis to be sat. "'tis time to move on forward to the next bit, hey?"
***
In the end, without pressure of an assailant launching all kinds of attacks upon her person, it took precious little time to find Jarvis; the thinking sphere were just tucked 'neath a clutter of hollowed out and partially destroyed vehicles not far from where her's had met with Enforcer's unfair blast.
Agnethea closed her hand around the bright silver sphere, her senses filling quickly with sounds of Jarvis' breathy, silent voice.
.. are you okay, milady? ..
"I am passing well, Jarvis." Agnethea leaned 'gainst the wrecks, ears straining to catch sounds as to whether or not any of the other Arcadians were as successful as she'd been in dispatching her foe. From what she heard, there was no telling either way, though a few more of Mirabelle's harrowing banshee cries did split the air.
"I have sadly been rendered clothes-less and have had a new haircut forced 'pon me, but other than that, I am well enough. I did for my foe and now prepare to head out to eventually do battle with the other remaining Arcadians."
.. I am glad to hear you are okay, milady.. Jarvis' gentle voice was full of relief.
"Before we head off, though, I needs must find some sort of apparel. Fighting 'gainst an enemy I do not know in the nude is one thing, but battling those who know me in the same manner is not something I wish to endure. Tell me this; with your broad knowledge, do you know of any place on this level wherein I might find some sort of toga or dress?"
The Scallywag and the Armored Vixen
Dominic Breton, once upon a time the leader of the Brotherhood of Book, grinned ferally at the assorted group of ragamuffins, maniacs, thugs, thieves, fiends, brigands, bad men and worst women, beaming with pure pride when they grinned back, just as feral and twice as mad as all that.
"Well now." Dom said into the quiet, eyes roving left to right and back again then 'round once more and so on and so forth. "Hain't this been a pleasure, hey? Down and down and down through these here mad stairwells? Running into lads and lassies so sweet with lunacy your teeth are fit to fall right out your gums to hit the ground? Doing for them as won't listen to reason and for those who do have ears connected to brain, inviting them in to this wee little family I'm growing here? It has been a load of fun, hasn't it just?"
Dom waited for the encouraging shouts and whistles and catcalls to subside before continuing. It took a bit of time, as everyone left alive well knew that they'd come to the end of their stairwell journey and were now poised to begin the next bit, the bit their fearless leader weren't willing to talk about overmuch but that which they knew would eventually wind up being of benefit.
To those few who remained standing.
"Now, now," Dom waved his hands, shooshing the few remaining excitable goons, "it hain't been easy, and I well know enough about human condition to claim fully and wi'out doubt that some of you lot who're fresh as daisies in this here crew o' mine are harboring secret thoughts of vengeance and comeuppance 'gainst them who you might blame for the loss of mates, loved ones, or e'en them as you wanted to do for yourself. Let me tell you again, as we stand 'ere, waitin' to go on outside. Hain't them as deserve your ill thoughts or your secret shivs, but me. Any of you lot wish to settle your scores 'ere we troop on out, now would be the time."
Dom eyeballed the crew. They eyeballed him right back, though with their gazes turned aside to avoid making actual contact with their burly blonde-hair, blue-eyed leader, and for good reason. The man was in fact the craziest of them all, and there were indeed men and women and the occasional Offworlder in the mix that were fresh as daisies, and they definitely did hold scores needing to be settled, but they would not.
Dom's Wrecking Crew had blown through the Stair Settlements like a devilish wind full of sharp teeth, deadly blades and an unquenchable thirst for blood and death unlike anything they'd ever seen, and them as lived in the Stack Stairs were the downtrodden, dismissed, diseased and damaged. Once you hit the Stairs, there weren't no going back, only down or up as fate decreed, and rising meant doing so on a tide of blood, and falling down required drowning in the guts of friends.
The horde, assembled by the man with the blood-stained face, twitchy hands and demonic gleam behind innocent-seeming blue eyes, was unlike anything any of the Stair Settlers had ever seen, and one of the things not a one of them had ever even dreamed of -much less run into- was a man like the one calling himself Dominic Breton, of Arcadia.
The man … was a demon. A devil. Straight out of nightmares. Always at the front of the battle, always laughing and yes, sometimes singing, strange, strange songs. But always carving through the front lines like an unstoppable machine, cutting and cutting and cutting…
They all looked away. All of them. Better to serve a madman than to be served up by a madman. That was one of the first lessons you learned in the Stair Settlements.
Dom grinned that special, twisted grin of his, a wide-eyed toothy smile that put everyone on edge. "Now, we did lose some good 'uns along the way. Vess. Zorno. Mamie. I'm of the mind that all's fair and war brings with it a high cost. I look out here and I see people willing to pay the Reaper in the coinage he is wanting, myself included. I do miss 'em, but I hain't gonna spend time blubbering. I bring this up for a reason."
"Get on with it then!" Someone shouted coarsely from the back, much to the appreciation of the crew.
Dom nodded and smiled toothily. For all they’d been through, they were in high spirits. "Aye, I will and now, for that matter o' fact. For those of who might've been wi' me from the beginning and for you new lads and lassies as still need to prove yourself to me, prepare for what comes next. Somewhere on this level of the Stack," some lass or other shouted the name, "17, aye, 17 indeed, somewhere on this level there be a thing known as Book. Now I know, I know, it sounds like nowt at all, leastways nowt worth getting banged up or worse over, but I tell you true; contained within it's heavy covers there lays knowledge. Infinite knowledge, as far as I can tell."
"Knowledge?" The mingled voices were rank with disbelief.
Dom saw that the crowd was disappointed, and well, he supposed it were fair enough for ‘em to feel that way. To them as didn't understand what might be represented by the knowledge, or them as couldn't appreciate it, the tantalizing song would be uninteresting.
"Welladay, I hain't surprised you show lack of interest in summat like Book." Dom threw venom into his words and was pleased to see bitter flames brewing in their eyes. His crew bristled, but they were paying closer attention. "You lot may not know it, but I is a learned man. Steeped in the ways of letters and wisdom and when I tell you that this Book is worth owning, I mean it. Once this tome lay in my hands, lads and lassies, all manner of thing will be forever within my grasp. The man who held this Book before me, he be known by many names here in the Outside, but I knew him as Garth Nickels."
Blank, puzzled looks on all the painted or bloody or dirty faces greeted the revelation, empty stares that were like nails in Dom’s heart; weren’t enough that he loathed Nickels wi’ every fiber in his being, oh no, everyone around him had to feel the same sort of hatred, and as he stood there drinking down their disinterest, Dom realized he’d made a mistake of sorts.
That mistake? In thinking –even for a second- that the Outside was as well connected together as Inside, ‘neath The Dome. There, in the place of his birth, if someone reached notoriety enough, why, the whole of that microcosmic world knew the particulars within days, stories borne on the winds of gossip, of wandering gearheads, e’en from the lips and tongues of Gearmen.
But that were Inside.
Here, Outside … too vast. Too big. Too many people and things.
Dom started feeling small again and he crushed the sensation angrily in his bosom, precipitously using the colossal hatred he nurtured ‘gainst Nickels as hammer and tongs. He beat th
at foolishness into thin strips upon an anvil made of stern resoluteness and readdressed his shuffling crowd of fools and maniacs.
“I suppose it don’t matter to you lot who the Book come from, or how the stuff got in there, hey?” Dom were a bit disappointed in the lack of keenness from his new gang. They weren’t at all like the Bookclub Regulars, no sir, they were not. Here in the Outside, his life were like summat out of a fairy tale or e’en –depending on how the tale was told- a horror. He’d been out for days and not a single person he’d spoken to had made mention of giant robots crawling out of the earth, or Shaggy Men, or Bolt-Necks, or e’en miserable old gearheads and hopeful wardogs.
“Nay,” Dom stepped forward and he thrilled to see that they all of them shifted backwards, “doesn’t matter to you, but what is of concern, or should be, is that Book did shut this Stack down. Book did drink down all the power. Book is full of mystery and when the right hand,” Dom held up one of his own hands, coated in blood and bruises, “lays flat on the tome itself, that person will be able to make dreams come true. Anything I do so desire.”
“Sounds like a load of …”
Dom languidly pulled a thin throwing knife he’d stolen from some dead body or other on his way down the Stairwell Settlements and drilled it right into the center of the forehead belonging to the doubter. A quiet urk broke past lifeless lips and the Crew shuffled to either side of the standing corpse and waited for it to fall. The thump was muffled, but definite, and left a lingering warning to those who might look to naysay in the future:
Don’t.
