The Eighth Excalibur

by Luke Mitchell

  He drew his cup absentmindedly from his robe, reflexively seeking the singular solace of drink as the sheer magnitude of his stupidity came crashing down on him. Walked straight into it, he had. Without question. Why question, when he alone had the power of the Merlin?

  Why?

  Groshna was speaking to his crew over the comms, bidding them help the ship along with its repairs as quickly as could be, adding some glib comment toward the Merlin about hoping he was ready to watch his precious Terra burn.

  It was only when the Merlin glanced down and realized that his cup was still empty—that his e-dim stores were inaccessible, and that he was not so very far off from being a powerless old man at present—that he truly snapped. He hurled the cup across the loading bay, watched it shatter to fine clay fragments against the thrice-cursed containment field, and very nearly let out a scream. Groshna looked up from his holos long enough to chuckle. For the first time in half a millennium, the Merlin considered crawling to his knees, and begging his eternal companion for mercy.

  It wouldn’t matter.

  He’d been a fool. An arrogant, impetuous fool. He’d ignored the inevitable. Allowed this body to stretch on too long without regeneration.

  Now his Grand Scales of Galactic Justice were under attack.

  And suddenly, beyond all prior expectations, it was all riding on the narrow shoulders of Nathaniel Arturi.

  19

  Order of Operations

  This was not the deal, Nathaniel.

  It’s our best move right now, Nate thought back, frowning down at the sketch pad page that read “The Game Plan” across the top and contained little more than a perfectly serviceable sketch of Nate’s muscled-up likeness smashing Todd Mackleroy across the head with a barbell, and a short, four item list:

  -bond w/ Excalibur

  -find Beacon

  -shoot it into the sun

  -profit

  It was the fifth and bottom item, and the attached arrow that indicated it should in fact precede the existing list, that had the Excalibur upset:

  -get help from friendly neighborhood feds

  It seemed like a reasonable first step, considering neither of them actually had any great idea where to start with items 1-4, save for the Excalibur’s insistence that they couldn’t simply go shooting Beacons into stars, and that doing so would hardly solve any problems, anyway.

  I told you I’d take this thing seriously, Ex, he thought, tossing the sketch pad aside and standing from his desk. This is as serious as it gets.

  Those meat sacks cannot help you.

  Nate resisted the urge to point out that that probably put them in fine company, then, considering that no one—Ex included—seemed especially equipped to help him figure out this troglodan problem. But he didn’t want to bicker. Not when the Excalibur had just finished saving his… Christ, his secret identity?

  Did you still call it a secret identity when you were too incompetent to even figure out your so-called powers?

  Whatever. He could feel the Excalibur’s frustration pulsing like an angry sore in his mind, threatening to turn downright unpleasant any moment, and he only had another twenty minutes, tops, if he wanted to do this before his roommates returned from shopping. Assuming they stuck with Sunday tradition and went to Meyers for post-shopping milkshakes, that was.

  He turned for the door.

  Funny feeling, hoping one’s friends would have the decency to slurp down some ice cream so one could go talk to the secret space army men in peace. Add that to the list of thoughts Nate had never expected to have.

  Outside, the day was sunny, the autumn air crisp on his sweaty palms. He pulled the front door closed behind him, feeling like he was pulling the prison door closed on himself, and second guessing his decision to leave Copernicus inside.

  Your corgi cannot protect you, Nathaniel.

  There’s this thing called “emotional support,” Nate thought, jamming his hands in his hoodie pockets and starting down the stoop steps, trying not to look at the black SUV he could practically feel sitting there, watching. Maybe you should look it up. You might find it under the antonyms of “blackmail.”

  Still sniveling about that? How about you look up “constructive criticism?”

  By the time Nate reached the SUV, he’d almost forgotten to be apprehensive, what with all the bickering. Staring at his own reflection in the opaque black windows, though, the nerves returned in full, right along with the unfounded but inescapable thought that someone could currently be pointing a gun at him from inside, and he’d never know.

  Paranoid, he chided himself, giving the vehicle’s alleged inhabitants a somber wave. Here to talk. Please don’t shoot.

  Nothing.

  He tried again.

  Maybe the car was empty.

  Maybe he really had lost his mind.

  We should get back to training.

  Nate raised his hand and knocked on the passenger window. Then, heart hammering at the thought of a waiting gun barrel, he cupped his hands and leaned in to press his eyes to the glass.

  A man stared back from the shaded interior. A big man. And he didn’t look happy. The window kicked into motion, and Nate jerked back as it slid down with an indignant electric hum.

  “You gotta scram, kid,” someone said. The driver. He was a pretty average looking guy, early thirties, and probably not as small as the burly scowling dude in the passenger seat made him look.

  They both wore plain jackets and t-shirts that looked like they’d been picked straight from the shelves of Civilians “R” Us, and they both watched him with the kind of innate authority that’d always made Nate kind of resent passing police officers, even when they probably didn’t think twice about him.

  Military?

  He didn’t know. But Ex hadn’t been wrong yet.

  “Look,” he started slowly, half-waiting to see if they’d cut him off. “I know this is gonna sound completely crazy, but I just wanted you to know that… Well, I’ll just say it: I’m pretty sure we’ve got an alien armada coming to invade Earth sometime in the next few weeks. And I tried to report this, and maybe that’s why you’re here…?” He looked between them for some kind of sign, and got absolutely none. “But either way, I need you to let your superiors know to, you know… get ready for…”

  They just kept staring. Nate was about to start spouting what details he could when they finally broke to trade a look between themselves, then focused back on him.

  “What kind of aliens?” asked the driver.

  “What?” Nate asked, too taken aback to stop himself.

  “What kind of aliens, kid? Big? Small? Three boobs? What’re we looking at, here?”

  Relieved beyond belief, Nate was already starting to sputter a half-cocked answer about the troglodans and the Beacon and everything else when his rational brain finally registered just how sarcastic the driver’s question had been, and how dubious their frowns were now.

  “What are you guys doing here?” he asked, looking between the driver and the scowling Mr. Cuddles in the passenger seat, not understanding. “Why are you here if you’re not…”

  “We’re watching that guy,” the driver said, nodding down the street.

  Nate followed his gaze to the older man push-mowing his little patch of front yard. “Mr. Humphrey?”

  “That’s classified.”

  Nate frowned back at the driver. “No it’s… Are you guys SAS, or not?”

  He regretted the words as soon as they’d blurted from his mouth.

  All three of them tensed. Nate took a step back from the SUV, half-expecting Mr. Cuddles to leap out and follow, or to produce a tranquilizer gun from the door panel. But he and the driver both stayed put, watching him with a kind of forced casualness. They traded another glance. Something passed silently between them. Then the driver started the SUV’s engine.

  “Wait!” Nate said, fear forgotten. “Where are you going?”

  “We’ve got reports to make,” the dr
iver said. “On Mr. Jeffries.”

  “You mean Mr. Humphrey?”

  “That’s what I said,” the driver said, shrugging off the big guy’s exasperated stare and jabbing at the window controls.

  “Hey!” Nate cried as the black passenger window rolled up, cutting them off from view. He wasn’t sure what else to say. It didn’t matter anyway. The SUV pulled off the curb and headed down Irvin Ave, not quite burning rubber, but hardly taking it easy, either. Nate watched it go, completely unclear as to what the hell had just happened, other than the part where he was pretty sure he’d just blown his last shot at bringing the actual authorities in on any of this.

  Maybe he should try calling China.

  “Shit.”

  I was just thinking the same thing.

  Nate frowned after the SUV as it hauled a right onto Allen Street at the end of the block. Why? What happened?

  I found the ship.

  His eyes widened. Between the viral video scare and the mysterious government mobile, he’d completely forgotten about the Excalibur’s casual mention of a ship, right back before he’d initiated the two-hundred pound squat-astrophe.

  Isn’t that good? I thought we wanted to find the ship.

  Allow me to correct myself. I found the last known location of the ship BEFORE it went dark three hours ago. Along with the Merlin.

  Nate swallowed uneasily. Dark? Is that like a technical term for—

  Captured or destroyed? Yes. Very technical.

  “Shit,” Nate repeated, and this time, staring after his retreating SAS snoops, armed with the full scope of just how completely alone he was with what felt too much like the weight of the world, the word felt considerably more substantial on his lips.

  All right. He turned back for the house, too hopelessly overwhelmed to even really register the rising panic and curdling dread, or the sight of his roommates pulling around the corner in Marty’s car, milkshakes in hand, laughing of all things.

  Laughing, for the love of Christ.

  All right, he repeated, stalking quickly up the front steps to beat them inside. I guess we do things your way, then.

  20

  #thegrind

  Over the next several days, Nate began to feel like a ghost haunting his own house. He dodged his roommates whenever he could, catching whispered mentions of his name on more than one occasion. He skipped class, telling himself he’d catch up later, once he’d gotten a handle on things. He barely left the house at all but to keep his gym appointments with his new personal trainer from hell.

  The Excalibur was relentless.

  The wicked hour of their morning gym sessions didn’t help things, either, but Nate couldn’t argue with the thinned out 6 AM weekday gym crowd, at least. Of the few chalked-up beasts who’d come to make war on the iron at that hour, and the smattering of bleary-eyed guys and girls who looked more like they’d accidentally sleep-walked over, everyone was either too focused or tired to even notice Nate.

  That wasn’t to say he’d completely escaped notice, though.

  For one thing, that damned SUV had returned—keeping its distance, and never staked out in the same place twice, it seemed, but undeniably still there, watching, waiting. He swore he even saw the driver following him across campus at one point. And that wasn’t all.

  While the actual video footage of his Atherton Street heroics might’ve gone miraculously missing across the board, the campfire legends surrounding the event had proved more resilient. He’d received more than a few messages and friend requests from random strangers spouting half-cocked theories, claiming to know his secret. Merciful Sith only knew how many more wild rumors were floating around out there.

  Enough for his friends to have noticed, apparently. He wasn’t sure how else to interpret the nervous prying Kyle and Zach had hit him with the few times he failed to dodge them around the house. He just did his best to circumvent their questions with furtive shrugs and lots of unconvincing variations of, “I don’t know, man, it just happened so fast.”

  No one really bought it, he knew, but so far they’d been too polite to press the issue. As had Gwen, in the few haphazard texts they’d managed to exchange between her hardcore class schedule and his ruthless inner tyrant, who’d re-brandished the Blackmail Stick every time he’d so much as thought about trying to take her up on one of her offers to meet for coffee.

  Whether Gwen had seen or heard anything, or if she was simply concerned or still feeling guilty after the I.N.N. douchebaggery the other week, he had no idea. Part of him—the part wrapped up in idle fantasy, he supposed—almost hoped she had caught a glimpse of him doing the impossible. The rest was just glad she was interested in grabbing coffee at all, if and when he managed to find the time.

  It might not be a candlelit dinner, but at least it wasn’t lunch, right?

  And what is wrong with lunch? the Excalibur demanded, in the tone that let Nate know right off the bat that he’d just flaunted one of his many personal shortcomings. I might even be tempted to authorize this romantic farce of yours if it would aid you in consuming enough sustenance to enable me to properly… Ah. I have just located the ‘lunch is for platonic friends and not lovers’ trope. Fascinating.

  “You’re organizing my feelings into tropes now?”

  Such frameworks are helpful in better understanding the behavior of such spectacularly superstitious creatures as humans.

  Fascinating, Nate silently echoed, frowning down at the last text on his phone.

  Gwen: “I’ve got a two hour break around noon. 12:30 recharge at the HUB?”

  Pardon my mechanical understanding, but do those hours not fall within your standard definition of lunch?

  Nate suppressed a sigh. You suck.

  It’s really for the best, Nathaniel. After all, in case you forgot, THE FATE OF THE EARTH IS DEPENDING ON YOU NOT BEING A SNIVELING COFFEE DRINKER.

  For such a high and mighty logical being, Nate thought, flinching and resisting the urge to rub delicately at his temples, you sure do yell a lot.

  “I’m sorry,” he typed quickly to Gwen, much to the Excalibur’s looming irritation. “It’s been a crazy week. I’ll make it up to you soon, promise.”

  This is ridiculous, by the way, he thought when he was done—though whether to the Excalibur or to himself, he couldn’t have rightly said. It was hard to think that, only a week ago, his biggest concern had been whether he could ever win Gwen away from Todd—not to mention whether Todd would feed him to Bonzer before he could tell her what the Greek God A-hole had done with Emily behind her back. Now, though…

  You know, perhaps if I were to aid you in finally copulating with this female, it might—

  “What?!” Nate hissed, on his feet before he knew it, even though there was no one to face but himself in the mirror, and Copernicus’ curiously cocked head.

  What? I am only postulating that surpassing this particular hurdle might help you to let go of your innumerable inadequacies and—

  I’m gonna stop you right there, Ex, Nate said, jabbing a finger at the mirror, which had become something like a proxy for his invisible companion. I don’t need help with… that.

  I think we both know that’s nonsense. Here, I have just finished analyzing the complete works of Jane Austen, William Shakespeare, and—

  Dude. Nate shook his head at himself in the mirror. I’m not sure I can adequately convey how much this is not happening.

  Females love Shakespeare, Nathaniel. Perhaps once you have triumphed in this archaic rite of passage, you will…

  But Nate was squeezing his temples tight, doing his best to shut the Excalibur’s voice out, not really sure whether he wanted to laugh first, or to cry. Probably both, he decided. Simultaneously, and in tandem with other such chestnuts as yanking out his hair, beating his chest, and forgetting about all of this.

  “Why isn’t this working, Ex?” he whispered. “What are we doing wrong?”

  WE are clearly failing to focus on the task at hand, Nathani
el. Now, if you’ll kindly set the phone down and pay attention, we can continue with my riveting presentation on the fine points of exactly HOW the troglodans are going to devastate your planet if you continue floundering about like a prepubescent snargladorf. Are you ready?

  More days passed, and still there was no sign of the Merlin, nor of the Knight ship he’d apparently run off with, or the Beacon, either.

  You will feel its call when you have proven yourself worthy, the Excalibur told him, time and time again. But Nate felt nothing. Nothing but tired and alone. And the Excalibur was only growing more agitated by the day.

  None of it really made Nate any less certain he hadn’t just suffered some kind of psychotic break back on that fateful weekend. Especially since, try as he might, he’d failed to dig up even a single glimpse of those magical Excalibur powers hiding beneath the surface. But that wasn’t to say things were one-hundred percent normal on the home front, either.

  There were still the S.A.S. boys lurking about, for instance, even if that “fact” had started to feel suspect. He’d seen A Beautiful Mind, after all. And he did have a goddamn voice in his head.

  What was harder to explain away by simple madness was his radical body transformation.

  He still wasn’t sure whether he was looking at something preternatural, or simply the results of a man delusionally possessed, but even a week into the training, there was no longer any denying it: Nate was getting bigger and stronger, and from everything he’d read, he was doing it entirely faster than should’ve been humanly possible.

  He wasn’t quite an overnight Todd—and certainly not a Bonzer—but a week in, his shirts and pants were growing snug. Another few workouts, and they were getting plain tight. And to look in the mirror...

  I am doing my best to work with what little I have available, the Excalibur confirmed in the middle of their second week, as Nate stood there, studying the broadening curves of his chest and shoulder muscles. He was too mindlessly tired to decide whether he should be excited or terrified by the implications of that one.