by J. I. Greco
“What the Shatner is this supposed to be?”
Trip stormed across the fog-shrouded clearing, meeting Brad in the center, out of ear-shot from both armies.
Underneath his powered battle-toga, the Clthulist’s tentacles were snug in a nearly transparent, tight-fitting bullet- and beam-proof nanoweave skinsuit. Brad reached up with a tentacle to flip the opaque visor of his combat helmet up. He smiled out at Trip with a semi-flexible, tooth-filled beak. “What?”
“What do mean, ‘what’?” Trip waved an exasperated hand past Brad. “You brought a fuckin’ army!”
“Of course I brought an army. It’s a war.”
“Yeah, a fake war.”
“We have to make it look good.”
“So you brought a fuckin’ army?”
Brad pointed a tentacle over Trip’s shoulder. “So did you.”
“No, I brought a joke army. You brought fuckin’ walking trees.”
“They’re called muimuipouritan. Which roughly translated from the Elder Tongue means ‘Certain Horrible Death to Our Enemies and Their Casual Acquaintances’. But don’t let that worry you–horrible’s just an approximation.”
“I don’t care what you call them, there are way too many of them.” Trip leaned around Brad to squint out at the clearing’s other end and over the dense rows and rows of waiting squid soldiers and the equally dense rows and rows of milling muimuipouritan behind them, their branches fluttering in the crisp early morning breeze. “And what the Shatner do they have on their backs?
“Artillery.”
“Artillery?!?”
“Again,” Brad said, his tentacles shaking in a shrug, “we were supposed to make it look good.”
“You guys are alien-god worshiping tree-hugging reformed-socialist post-modern hippie pacifists, how do you even get to artillery?”
“Oh, we’re not pacifists.”
Trip’s eyebrow went up. “You’re not?”
“Azathoth, no. We’re neutral, but not pacifists. How did you think we built our trading empire so quickly? How did you think we protect it?”
“I dunno. Fair prices and ritual sacrifice to the elder beings?”
“That, too.”
Agitated, Trip lit a cig. “Seriously, plasma weapons and walking death-trees?”
“What?” Brad asked. “This is how we go to war. And you apparently go to war with… You had two weeks, you couldn’t have put something a little more impressive together? The way you talked up your army, I was expecting you to bring at least a battalion.”
“Again… fake war. Cutting into my profit margin enough as it is fielding that squad of junk.” Trip glanced back over his shoulder at the edge of the clearing. The warbots were in their defensive crouch mode, all balled up and huddled behind the parked Wound. Rudy was up on the hood, sitting cross-legged, his pleased-as-punch smile likely visible from orbit. “Vishnu’s supplemental insurance, did you not get that the whole con depends on my guys coming out on top of your guys, otherwise your dad will know it was a setup from the start? I don’t see how anybody’s going to believe my coward-balls beat up your death-trees–and that means no reparations to split.”
“This was never about reparations.”
“What d’ya mean never about reparations?” Trip asked. “What about the dowry?”
“Dowry?”
“So you can marry Stewart or whatever his name is, since your dad won’t pay it. You know, ‘cause you’re all gay and dad’s a tentacle-in-the-mud.”
Brad’s beak twisted into an awkward, embarrassed smile. “Umm, yeah… Can’t believe you actually bought that.”
“Excuse you?”
“Me and Stew are already married,” Brad said, holding up a tentacle with a big gold ring around its tip. “For like three years. My dad presided over the commitment ceremony. And who does dowries these days?”
“Then what… Oh, son-of-a-Shatner, you planned this from the start.”
“You wouldn’t have agreed if you knew the real reason.”
“Real reason?”
“I need my dad to shit or get off the pot. Well, not just him, the whole Cthulists council.”
“What?”
Brad bent his huge face down close to Trip’s and lowered his voice. “Long story shortish, and you didn’t hear this from me, but for over a hundred years my people have been working towards a singular goal–”
“Yeah, duh. Transforming yourselves into squids so you’ll be ready when the dark space gods come to take you away on the Five Comets of Nirvana.”
“That’s just the cover story.”
“Cover story?”
“Yeah. What we’ve really been doing is using genetic-engineered self-alteration and aggressive nano-horticulture, funded by our wildly successful trading operation, to build our forces as we prepare for the Time of Invitation.”
“Okay, sounds friendly enough…”
“It’s the glorious moment when we abandon our neutrality and let our armies–”
“Armies?” A whine snuck into Trip’s voice. “As in more than this one?”
“Oh, sure. Every enclave has their own army, and together they are the most Holy Army of Ultimate Conversion.”
“An army of what now?”
“A Holy Army of Ultimate Conversion that will sweep out, spreading our dark flora before it and accepting all of humanity into our ranks–”
Trip smirked. “And by ‘accepting’ you mean…”
“Forcibly converting, yes.” Brad raised a dozen tentacles towards the sky, his voice becoming powerful and reverential. “And when all humanity has joined us, and the world is carpeted in the lush, engineered flora of the Old Age Reborn, we shall collectively perform the Ritual of Holy Mass Suicide which will open the Eye of Ry’leh and free the Formless Lords from their prison slumber to stride once again over their adopted and rightful home.”
“Son of a–I was right… somehow.” Trip pointed his cig accusingly at Brad’s face. “You are evil.”
Brad lowered his tentacles and his voice. “How is wanting to help humanity achieve its ultimate purpose evil?”
“If it means growing tentacles and then killing myself, that’s pretty much the definition of evil, far as I’m concerned.”
“You know, for a cyborg you’ve got an incredibly narrow world-view.”
“It’s a character flaw I’m willing to live with.” Trip flicked his cig to the grass, crushed it with his sneaker heel. “So what’s keeping you from doing all that already? If you have all these armies…”
“Hundreds of them, yes. We outnumber the collective armies of the Red Chinese and the Franco-Libyans, and we’re probably even-matched with the Mexican Free Rebel Militia. Problem is our clan leaders, they’re all old and conservative. They’re afraid that if we make our move and we fail, we won’t get another chance, and failure means not just our own eternal damnation, but that the Formless Lords will never be freed. The council thinks we need more time to build even larger armies, to ensure complete domination at the outset. Freeing the Formless Lords is too important to bumble.”
“Okay, all well and fine, but I don’t see how my army defeating your army is gonna…” Trip’s face sagged. “Oh, now I see where this is going. You weren’t expecting to be the army taking the dive, were you?”
“Of course not. Who’d believe that? No, I need to show Dad and the other clan leaders our armies are ready.”
“By beating up another army. My army.”
“Yeah. I was hoping we’d get to beat up a bigger army, to really prove my point… but, a war’s a war, I guess. I mean, you’re already here. Might as well give it a go.”
“Now just wait a second there,” Trip said. “Enticing as the promise of eventual conversion and ritual mass suicide for the human race sounds, without the reparations I was gonna get from your dad, there doesn’t exactly seem to be anything in it for me now. Unless you’re willing to talk some kind of under-the-table payoff…”
“No, sorry, all our funds
are pretty dedicated to prepping for the Time of Invitation. You would not believe how much maintaining a massive secret army costs.”
“I feel for you, believe me.” Trip took a deep breath, looked up at the clear blue sky, and puffed it out of his cheeks. “Well, that’s it, then, isn’t it? War’s off. Nice almost doing business with you.” Trip gave Brad a little two-fingered salute and turned to walk off. “We’re going home.”
A tentacle slapped down on Trip’s shoulder, stopping him.
“We came here for a war, Trip. It can be a fake one, where nobody really gets hurt… or it can be a real one. It’s your choice.”
“I see,” Trip said, plucking Brad’s tentacle from his shoulder. He smirked back at the Cthulist. “Well, since you put it that way. We’ll fight.”
“Thank you–you’re doing me a huge favor. I’ll let my lieutenants know not to completely destroy your guys. We will have to pound a couple of ‘em into shapeless slabs to make our point, though–you know, to take back to dad as war trophies. Do you have a preference which ones?”
“Oh, feel free to pound them all into slabs, but you misunderstand, good sir.” Trip patted down his tux lapels and glared up at Brad. “You and me are gonna fight. Mano-a-tentacle.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“We’ll fight, fair and square. Real punches and everything. You win, you get to bring an honest victory back to daddy so he can feel better about triggering the squid apocalypse. I win, you guys are paying reparations through the nose, and I’m keeping all of it. Deal?”
“You’re not going to win,” Brad said and flipped his helmet visor down.
“We’ll see about that,” Trip said. “I’ll give you a minute to get your will in order.”
“So, what’s up?” Rudy asked as Trip approached the Wound, muttering under his breath and scowling at the ground.
Trip stopped at the Wound’s front bumper. “Never trust anybody taller than you are, that’s what.”
“No shit. We going home?”
“No,” Trip said, and looked back across the clearing where Brad was being prepped by his lieutenants for melee combat, slapping various oddly pronged and twisty-bladed weapons into his eagerly writhing tentacles. Trip gulped, tugged at the collar of his Hawaiian shirt. “War’s still on. More or less.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Trip jabbed his middle fingertip against his temple. “Hunt-R!”
“What?” Hunt-R yelled from behind the Wound where he was balled-up with the warbots, arms over his head and legs tucked in tight against his chest.
“Prepare for Mecha-Gonz-O mode!” Trip yelled back.
“No way! I’m busy cowering here!”
“Don’t make me get the wrench again!”
Hunt-R began unfolding himself. “Transforming!”
“Damn.” Rudy scooted to the edge of the hood and slid off. “I knew I should have brought popcorn.”
10
Fight? Fight!
“Seriously, Rudy couldn’t have built a couple more inches of elbow room into you?” Trip asked. He was hunched over inside Hunt-R, the robot’s body expanded and transformed into a power-assist exoskeleton, wrapped piggy-back around him. He straightened as best he could, banging the top of his head on the underside of Hunt-R’s chin. “This can’t be good for my lower back.”
“My Mecha-Gonz-O mode–aside from being a horrible and clichéd idea to begin with–is customized for Builder Rudy’s frame.”
“Explains why I’ve got about four feet of clearance over my stomach.”
“I’m not fat,” Rudy called. He was sitting behind them on a beach chair in front of the Wound, sipping from a milk jug of Morty’s Finest. The six warbots were gathered around him, playing Monopoly on the grass. “I’m just big-boned.”
“Yeah, right.” Head bent and canted at an awkward, neck-cringing angle, Trip flexed his arms and fingers. Hunt-R, hands extended past Trip’s, aped the motions, but not smoothly. The segmented fingers slowly stuttered, one by one, into a fist. Trip raised the fist in front of the protective metal rod mesh over his face. As Trip examined the fist, the robot’s pinky shot out all on its own, smoke coming from the knobby knuckles. Trip growled. “Typical. But it’ll have to do. Okay, robot, let’s get marching. Once more onto the breach!”
His feet secured to the top of Hunt-R’s, Trip tried to lift a foot to make Hunt-R step forward.
The robot’s leg didn’t budge. “Wait!” Hunt-R yelled.
“What?”
“With all due respect, Programmer Trip, this is not a good idea. I’m not a combat model, even in this mode. Mecha-Gonz-O’s strictly for power-loading.”
“No, it’s a great idea,” Trip said. “I call the shots, you take the punches. What could be better than that?”
Hunt-R pointed his single eye out at the middle of the clearing. Brad was waiting, alone, weaving a dozen weapons in intricate patterns in the air before him, a blur of flashing blades and tentacles. Hunt-R trembled. “But he looks so good at this kinda thing…”
“And you’re a state-of-the-art artificially sentient robo-mechanical assassin bot skinned in super-light, super-tough composite honeycombed alumisteel over adaptiflesh muscles, powered by a highly-efficient mini-fission core.”
“Um, more like a programmed-to-suffer automaton, skinned in rusty steel salvaged from a 1959 Edsel over mismatched hydraulics, with an ancient rechargeable Prius battery pack in my belly I have to hand crank every other hour.”
“That’s not what this says,” Trip said, thumbing at a brown and frayed rectangle of parchment taped to the chest roll-bar strut running past his left cheek. “This says you’re pretty damn high tech, made in India by actual rocket scientists.”
“You made that and stuck it there when you were trying to sell me to those Young Republicans in the Boulder Territories last year.”
“They would have so bought it, too, if I had better penmanship. Who woulda thought skinheads could read? So, what are you saying?”
“He’s saying,” Rudy said, “one good hit–and I’m pretty sure Brad has more than just one good hit in him–and you’re both instantly down for the count.”
Trip shrugged. Hunt-R aped the action. “Then we’ll stay out of his way.”
“How are we possibly gonna do that?” Hunt-R asked.
Trip balled Hunt-R’s hands into loose fists and punched at the air, shadow-boxing. The robot’s shoulders sluggishly bobbed, his arm servos stuttering, the joints creaking with the effort. “A little dance we in the boxing game call the do-se-do. Throw in some floating like a butterfly and we’re untouchable. Keep that up for a couple hours until Brad gets tired and bored, then… We strike!” Trip jabbed his fist–and Hunt-R’s–out at his imaginary opponent. Hunt-R’s arm was so unresponsive it was like Trip was punching through syrup. “After a fashion.”
“And you are capable of doing any of that?” Hunt-R asked.
Trip smirked. “Hey, I just give the orders–and like any good boss, I don’t micromanage. I leave the little details to you.”
“Thanks.”
“No prob.” Trip clanged Hunt-R’s hands together. “Now, let’s go kick some squid ass.”
“Even if they had asses, I don’t see how.”
“Your lack of faith–while not unexpected nor unwarranted–disturbs me.” Trip tried lifting his foot again. “Onward!”
And still, Hunt-R’s legs didn’t budge.
“Wait!”
Trip growled through gritted teeth. “What is it now?”
“Don’t you want to run through a pre-engagement systems checklist?”
“Your cabin shock-absorbers working?”
“Yeah.”
“Good enough for me.” Trip reached around and made Hunt-R slap his own ass hard with a clang. “Now, giddy-up!”
Shaking his head, Hunt-R took a tentative, plodding step forward.
“I suppose you’ll want to establish some ground rules, first,” Trip asked
, clanking up to Brad in the middle of the clearing. Hunt-R’s blocky feet left deep gouges in the muddy grass behind them.
Brad stopped juggling his weapons, arraying them around him so he downright bristled, a tentacled porcupine. “Ground rules?”
“Sure. We’re civilized men. Okay, civilized cyborgs and squids.”
“No, that’s okay,” Brad said. Way back behind him, his army of Cthulists and tree tanks looked on. “I’m not expecting this to last long enough for rules to kick in.”
“Never-the-less…” Trip had Hunt-R get his Altoid tin and Zippo out of his tuxedo jacket. The robot’s stuttering fingers fumbled opening the lid, spilling all but one of the hand-rolled cigs out onto the ground. Trip had Hunt-R stick the one cig left between his lips. “I figure Queensbury rules are right out, since I have no idea what they actually are. I mean, does anybody? But, I’m thinking no punching in the face, for a start.”
“That goes for robot faces, too,” Hunt-R said, lighting Trip’s cig. He jammed the tin and lighter back into Trip’s jacket. “Especially robot faces.”
Trip nodded. “And no knees to the crotch. Sure, they’re fun the first couple times, but after a while everything goes numb and the excitement wears off.”
Translucent nictating membranes snapped over black saucer eyes. “Yeah, okay.”
“And no probing,” Trip said. “Those tentacles stay where they are, young man.”
“You’re no fun.” Brad ran a tentacle tip down the back of a jagged sword blade almost as long as he was tall. “Are you ready or what?”
“Let me check.” Trip craned his head around to look up at Hunt-R’s face. “Mecha-Gonz-O, are we ready?”
“No,” Hunt-R said.
“That’s the spirit.” Trip had Hunt-R’s hand pluck the cig from his lips and flick it defiantly at the ground in front of Brad. “Okay, yeah. We’re ready. Bring it on.”
Trip squared Hunt-R’s shoulders, firmly set the robot’s feet, and bent his creaking knees–just as Brad swung a mace topped with a spiked metal ball twice the size of his head out around from behind his back, straight for Trip’s face. Trip just managed to bring his and Hunt-R’s arms in front of him, throwing the robot’s forearms up as a protective shield.
