by Lee Bond
All eyes were quickly upon Enforcer in the Air, high above all their heads.
Chevy, still reeling from Sveta’s embrace, brushed a fingertip across his lips. “What in the blazes is all that?”
“Well, milord,” Norry couldn’t keep the unhappiness from his voice if he tried, “it does look to me like our man up there’s decided to even the playing field, hey? Like as nowt, ‘tis the Enforcer’s go-to weapon when they’s about to lose their shite all majestic-like.”
When Chevy turned and cast a quirked brow Norry’s way, the leader o’ the wardogs elucidated. “Superstring Cannon. ‘tis used, or so the word goes, ‘gainst systems as they’ve had enough of. Reckon whichever one o’ your friends as is over yon is nowt but fish food, hey?”
Chevy shook his head firm. “Nay. My old friend Dom Breton is o’er that way and accordin’ to th’ light in me head, still upright.”
“This is passing strange.” Linders muttered, not liking the situation at all. “Superstring firing, but at what then? T’other Enforcer? For what reason?”
Norry shook his head. “Matters nowt. Beam fired, beam’s powering down now, Dom and t’other Arcadians still live, so on we go, towards the prize.”
Chevy, eyes still on Enforcer e’en though he could barely see the small figure ‘gainst the backdrop o’ the roof above all their heads, shook his bean firm as firm could be. When the wardogs all looked at him, questions on their lips, Gearmaster spoke in quick, precise form. “Lad’s uncapped his big gun, friends, so whate’er ailed my downed knight errant and therefore t’others hain’t causing havoc wi’ our man up there, you see? Now he’s done it once, he’ll like as not do it again. Cannon, if you please?”
“What do you …”
“Cannon, Thierry, if you please.” Chevy held his hand out impatiently. A scant second later, the deadly weapon was in his grasp. “Now, silence, if you please. We hain’t got but a moment or two ‘ere that lad’s weapon is cycled back up to full power…”
***
Whispering furtively, Thierry posed a question to Norcross, all in the hopes that he were somehow hallucinating. “Is this happening outside my skull?”
“How mean you?” Norry whispered back just as furtively.
“Well, it does seem to my eyes that Chevril Pointillier has popped open the casing o’ that FARS-cannon and is now … well, fiddlin’ wi’ the insides.”
Sveta put in her two cents. “Oh aye, Thierry, he’s doin’ just that.”
“Well, thank the King Above, I were thinkin’ my old squash had been squished.” Turner, poking a finger at his bruise –which were now covering half the side of ‘is head- hissed in pain.
Linders stepped a bit away from where Chevy were working, saying, “Not that I have ill doubt in my mind that Gearmaster knows what he is doin’, and ne’er forgetting I hain’t a professional in this field, but I do think me that radiant illumination currently spillin’ out the chamber there is, ah, prone to convince limbs to fall off and insides to rot, hey? I’d feel terribly better if you all were stood o’er here wi’ me.”
They all did as Linders suggested, each of them walking swiftly away while keeping their eyes peeled for any sign o’ trouble from the cannon or speedy illness cropping up in Chevy. When nothing untoward happened, they just watched on in amazed awe as Gearmaster wrought who knew what kind of changes to FARS-cannon.
“Chevril,” Norcross called out when the older man paused for a moment to reflect ‘pon his handiwork, “I should like to point out that these things usually come wi’ a warranty, one that is assuredly voided ‘pon openin’ the chambers, hey? I reckon Eli may have some choice words for you, ‘ere he discovers your fiddling.”
“Well,” Chevy began putting everything back together again, utterly calm, “when we is done ‘ere, Eli can muster up the courage to ‘ave a word or two wi’ me. And when we’re done, I’ll nut ‘im so hard we’ll all be able to have a jam sandwich from what squirts out the man’s earholes.”
Norry and the others bit back a strangled peal of laughter each, wi’ the former finding his tongue first. “What did you do to that FARS-cannon?”
Chevy, in the process of settling his legs and lower back into proper position for firing such a beast of a gun as the one he held, shrugged. “Arsed if I know rightly, Norry. Ever since I did step foot in the Outside, my noggin’s fit to burst wi’ ideas and notions. Remnants o’ holding on to Book for as long as I did, I do suppose. As all I’ve done so far wi’ King Nickels’ tinker-mind has turned out for the best, nowt choice but to trust still, hey? Now, mind your manners and hold your tongues, I’ve got to shoot an apple off the branch.”
All the gearheads did as they were bade, watching on with supreme interest as Chevy’s handmade ticktock coat clearly began building itself up along all sides to support what would surely be a monumental blast. When the older Gearmaster squared his shoulders off and took proper aim, they all covered their ears.
The blast from the shell being launched picked them up off their feet.
***
Some minutes later, with wardogs, shaken, bruised, and unfathomably nonplussed, made their way back to where Chevril Pointillier stood, himself looking on at the modified FARS-cannon with unabashed love on his seamed face.
Norcross trained his eyes upwards. “Well, seems as though you did for that other one nice and neat, hey, Gearmaster?”
Chevy carried the FARS-cannon over his shoulders and held it there ‘til ticktock coat shifted a bit, all them little gears and pistons and all contriving to grasp the weapon in place. “Oh, I do like this gun, lads and lassie. Warrant young Eli will have some pretty words ‘ere ‘e tries to take it from me.”
Thierry tugged on Linder’s arm, then jerked his chin towards the ground around Chevy’s feet. Both men went slightly pale, then attracted Sveta’s attention, who completely abandoned all pretense and pointed boldly at where Arcadian stood next to dead Enforcer.
Norcross, about to return something equally witty, followed Sveta’s finger. Only a bit unnerved, the wardog brought what was bothering the rest of his team into the light. “Beggin’ your pardon, Gearmaster, but it does seem to me that your … that your longcoat does appear to be … errr … chewin' ‘pon Enforcer’s suit of armor.”
A surprised look passed fleeting swift across Chevy’s face when he looked down at his feet. Sure enough, there, right before his very eyes, what could best be described as ropes comprised of gears and other bits and bobs were stretched out from the bottom of his coat towards where downed Enforcer lay. Wheresoever these ropes were touching powerless armor, it were plain to see that pieces o’ plating were being easily dismantled.
“Aye.” Chevy agreed with a nod. “Seems to be the case.”
Turner, head stinging, laughed. “There’s downplayin’ a thing, milord, and then there’s wot you just did there. ‘Oh this?’” he demanded, doing his best Old Arcadian accent. “’’tis nowt, me old handmade coat o’ metal eatin’ me enemies? Oh aye, how else is you ‘spect me to feed it? Wi’ a spoon, pretendin’ to be horse headin’ into stable so it’d be tricked into opening mouth wide for sustenance? Pay it no mind…’”
Chevy held up a hand to quiet Turner, pleased they all sensed and saw the somberness in him. Aye, yes, the fact that his coat were acquiring metals and whatnot for some purpose were a bit on the worrisome side, but as there weren’t nowt to immediately be of concern, there were other things to deal with. “Now, lads and lassie, I do need for you to head on back the way you did come.”
Norcross couldn’t believe his ears. He stepped forward, chest up. “We hain’t lettin’ you go ‘gainst t’others wi’out uz bein’ by your side, Chevy. Hain’t goin’ to ‘appen.”
“Listen, friend, and listen well.” Chevy put a hand against Norry’s solid chest. “This last bit, it does need to be just us four. You and yours … you’re not, and take no offense t’this, you’re not pure Arcadian no more. Aye, some of you’ve got a hint more o’ the Inside in you tha
n others, but I can’t take the risk. All this around us here, all of this dead city wi’ no bodies in’t, ‘tis manufactured by Book. I can’t claim to fathom why, nor do I think I’ll ever know why, but I think me that if you six were to come too close, Book might just sup on you ‘til there hain’t nowt left but a shoe. We four were called here by the thing, were given knowledge of each other’s movement and life, and so, because of this and no other reason, I insist you head back. Give aid to Swivvens and his band.”
“I don’t like this, Chevy.” Norcross fretted. “The other three, they’re unlike you. Each of ‘em got strength and speed that outstrips you clean and simple. You’ll…”
“I shall be fine, Norcross.” Chevy removed his hand. “I’ve got the beginnings of a new mechanized coat of arms ‘pon me, hey, and besides all that, I’ve many, many more years than the other three know ‘neath my belt. If I can’t beat them wi’ fists and tricks, why, I’ll just outwit ‘em. Book needs destroying. I shan’t let anything stand in my way. Off you go. I’ll be back ‘round wi’ Kingtech in tow. Fret not.”
And thus it was that Gearmaster Chevril Pointillier left the scene ‘ere any of his Hounds could say a single word ‘gainst his plan.
***
“Bollocks.” The wardogs said in unison.
“I think we should follow along.” Sveta said into the silence.
“Fuck that.” Turner countered immediately. “That old man beat an Enforcer to death wi’ ‘is fists. Aye, we softened ‘im up, but … is you want that grizzled old Pointer to turn you over ‘is knee … ah, well, mayhap you do when we take into consideration your tongue were so far down Gearmaster’s throat you no doubt could tell uz what he et last.”
Sveta flashed a saucy wink Turner’s way. “Old men, young Turner, they do take a better appreciation o’ what’s on offer. That, plus years more o’ doin’ so, they do know their way around a …”
“Enough, enough.” Norcross quieted them. “We best be on our way, for when Chevy and t’others do run into one another, ‘tis very likely the ensuing conflict will be more than enough to rattle what little remains o’ this level into dust and less. Come, let’s get moving.”
The loyal Hounds of the Kennelmaster tromped off towards the huge door leading to the outside, each one turning their heads backwards as often as they could, each desperate to run towards Chevy, to offer their lives for his success, each knowing they couldn’t, they daren’t.
All they could do was hope Chevril Pointillier made it back to them, alive and if not unharmed, capable of bouncing back from whatever injuries he carried.
They’re On the Final Stretch…
The Whisperman
TMS Hop, Skip and a Jump was the first of a new breed of Trinity Military Service vessel; smaller, leaner, faster, outfitted with the very latest in black hole engines and kitted up with the kind of weapons that would’ve been insane to consider no less than five years ago.
But the times, they were achangin’, oh yes they were.
Captain Ardesh Bimjin, a doughy IndoRussian career military man direct from that old broken tooth of a world, Earth itself, knew it. He supposed his first mate knew it as well, even if only because he’d been telling said first mate –an uncharacteristically dour NorthAMC soldier by the name of Rick Davison- precisely how things were changing for the last three years, on a non-stop basis.
Hop, Skip and a Jump was the first of a new breed. Designed to destroy everything in sight, yet have such a small profile on radar and other forms of scanner that any survivors would be left confused as to what’d happened.
First Mate Davison looked over the reports for what felt like the millionth time, shaking his head and scratching his arm; he’d been given yet another booster shot because ‘they might go places where the indigenes could have anything, anything at all’ and the needle mark was itching like mad.
“What seems to be the problem?” Captain Ardy asked from his less-than-official-looking Captain’s chair. In truth, it was more like a Captain’s couch, and Ardy couldn’t have been happier about it. There simply wasn’t enough room to put one of those glamorous, overblown chairs-on-a-podium type things that far too many servicemen demanded for their vessels. He wasn’t ashamed to admit he was a little too portly to be climbing up and down anything that was more than a foot off the ground, and besides which, the last time he’d been on a chair like that, he’d been knocked so hard on his ass by a shrapnel mine hitting the hull that he’d needed to find himself a whole new crew and ship.
Thus, Hop, Skip and a Jump.
Turning around to look the Captain in the eye, Davison gesticulated at the monitors. “It’s just … it’s just … this is an awful lot of firepower, Captain. Size-reduced Hand of Glory missiles?”
“Half the size, same great wallop.” Ardy proffered instantly. “Don’t like a planet? Drop one of those bad boys into the atmosphere and watch that offensive ball of dirt and water turn into a blazing ball of glory. Trinity’s glory. We can do that eighteen times, Mate Davison. Eighteen times! Got a cluster of offensively placed opponents too stupid to spread out and take advantage of, oh I don’t know, space? Shoot one of the mini-Glories at them. Too small and too fast to be detected on anything but the most sensitive of scanners. Love them. You’re fairly new to Trinity’s Military Services, but I’ve been here since we were calling it the Engine. Back in the day, to cart eighteen Hands around, we’d need at least six ships, and they’d be those motherhuge ones. You know. The ones that can’t hide because they’re basically flying planets? Thanks but no thanks.”
Davison did have to admit that the reduction in Glory size made a certain kind of tactical sense, if only because things were heating up out there, just as Captain Bimjin kept pointing out. With the war against Latelyspace still at detente, still occupying well over ninety percent of Trinity’s troops on the off chance the shield ever dropped, the remaining vessels and soldiers needed to be kitted properly.
Overwhelming force from an underwhelming source. That was the new, unofficial, motto of TMS.
“Superstring Blazor.” Davison just blurted the words out. He didn’t even know what the hell a ‘blazor’ was, even after reading the technical manual. What he did know was that it was a hellacious weapon, one that he personally would never ever fire, not even if he were staring down the maw of some hitherto undiscovered space dragon. “That thing puts out enough destructive radioactive force to destroy all organic matter on a planet.”
“Running out of space for your ever-growing population?” Ardy demanded, warming up to the game he suspected Davison didn’t know they were playing. “Lay down some broadband Superstring Blazor action. Kill everything and everyone. Leaves buildings standing! For bonus points, the people you’re moving in can just move in. Brand new home, already furnished! Brand new car, just have to … dig through the, erm, dust for the keys! Brilliant tactical weapon. Couldn’t be happier.”
“Excluding the fact that if we use the ‘Blazor’…”
“Don’t put air quotes around that, First Mate. Blazor is an officially accepted word slotted into TMS’ military lexicon.” Ardy couldn’t help himself. In his entire life he’d never met a NorthAMC’er as tightly wound as Davison.
Davison hung his head for a brief second before resuming. “Fine. If we fire the Blazor, our black hole engines will be offline for nearly four hours! No gravnetic shielding! No running away! Have you ever tried running away on impulse engines? It’s terrible.”
Ardy batted Davison’s argument away with a hand. “That’s why we’ve got the autonomous defense grid. When we’re down for the count, they’ll … patrol.”
“Teleporting murderbots.” Davison countered, going so far as to putting the schematics for the ‘automatic defense grid’ up on the screen. “Let’s call them what they are, Captain. Teleporting murderbots. Have you been down to the corral? I have. They just hang there. If you’re not paying attention when you enter the room, it’s like they’re staring at you.”
“Of course they’re staring at you, Davison, that’s what they do!” Ardy shook his head sadly. Davison just wasn’t getting it. “And when we’re mostly powerless from having eradicated all organic life on a planet, those suckers go on high alert. Tied into our long and short range scanners and controlled by our brand-spanking-new level 10 AI designed specifically for the purpose of doing so, your average ‘murderbot’ legion can dismantle enemy vessels in a really short time. Added bonus?”
“Added bonus?” Davison demanded listlessly.
“As an added bonus,” Ardy smiled broadly, “if we order them to do it right, we win ourselves a brand new space craft.” The Captain’s dark face went thoughtful for a moment. “Well, that is, brand new to us. I feel like there’d have to be a cleanup crew sent in afterwards, you know, to mop the floors and things. But come on, First Mate Davison, we’re at the forefront of cutting edge military technology now! There’s five of us on this ship! We could conquer a solar system on our own. Haven’t you ever wanted to do that?”
“For some of us who joined Trinity’s Military Engine…”
“Services.” Ardy corrected swiftly. “It was determined, by Trinity Itself, no less, that the word ‘Engine’ brings with it an implicit lack of goodwill. Too cold, too impartial. We’re Servicemen now. I’ve looked at some of the information on how the rebrand ‘plays’, Davison. It’s really quite fascinating. Ever since the War with Latelyspace heated up, we were at the point of diminishing returns as far as bodies went. With the rebrand, though, volunteer numbers are skyrocketing.”
“… it wasn’t about turning into Specters. We’re Army, for crying out loud, Captain. I joined up to be a peacekeeper, not a warmonger!” Davison stabbed a button on his keyboard quite furiously, a result of which was he hurt his finger pretty seriously.
