“Oh good,” Loren muttered. “Now you tell me.”
* * *
Mech planted one hand on the first rhino’s horn, and jammed his other hand against the spiked metal collar it wore around its neck. His hydraulics hissed and he gritted his teeth as the impact and the beast’s momentum forced him backwards, his feet carving deep grooves in the illuminated tiles.
From somewhere above, there came a gasp of shock, and Mech felt a little fluttering of pride. “I should fonking think so,” he muttered, grimacing as he shoved back with all his might against the rhino, gradually bringing it to a stop.
The man sitting on the animal’s back was twenty or thirty feet back, and only just getting to his feet. He had attempted to knock Mech over with his jousting stick, but it hadn’t worked out very well. He limped closer now, his bent and buckled weapon tucked under one arm, his formerly illuminated suit now a dark, dull-looking gray. He was gaping in wonder at what he’d just witnessed, and Mech felt that swell of pride again, before he realized the guy wasn’t looking at him.
Mech turned to find an armored rhinoceros being held aloft in one hand by Animal out of The Muppets. He didn’t know it was Animal out of The Muppets, of course – even Splurt didn’t really know who it was, and had just based his appearance on a fleeting image he’d once seen in Cal’s mind – but this made it no less impressive a sight. In Animal’s other hand, a man in a now-lightless jumpsuit remained perfectly still, and quietly wondered what the Hell was going on.
Animal out of The Muppets set both the man and the surprisingly-docile rhino down on the ground, bowed briefly to the dumbstruck crowd, then flobbed back into a gooey green blob.
Number Two and the other Carvers peeled themselves off the walls, into which they had been attempting to press themselves, and came to stand with Mech and Splurt. They all gathered in a vague circle shape, gazing up at the audience above them with a mix of defiance and fear.
From further along the trench, there came a cheer. It spread like wildfire, roaring along the length of the wall on both sides until the whole world seemed to hum with excitement.
“I guess they like us,” said Mech. He raised a hand and waved to the crowd.
Carver Two cleared his throat. “Perhaps,” he said. “Or perhaps they like them.”
He gestured along to one end of the trench. The narrow wall had slid aside, and dozens of uniformed men and women were jogging through. They all carried rifles in a way that suggested they both knew how to use them and were entirely comfortable with doing so. The troops were followed along the trench by a couple more of the armored rhinos, each with a rider and gun-turret on its back.
Mech sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it could be them. Although, if you ask me, we’re way more lovable.” A realization hit him. “Wait, you can understand me?”
Carver Two nodded and tapped his head behind the ear, where most translation chips were embedded. “The others don’t. But I can translate for you.”
“Uh, no. No need,” said Mech. “I can just sideload your language from my implant.” His eyelids fluttered for a second. “Done. Everyone now understand me?” he asked, in perfect English.
There was a murmuring from the Carvers he took to mean they could.
“What do we do?” asked one of them. He was thin and wiry-looking, like he could do with a good meal. “Do we fight? I mean… We can’t fight all of them, can we?”
“The other you would,” said Mech. “The one I know, I mean. He’d try taking them all on. He’s an idiot.” Mech couldn’t help but smile, just a little. “Course, he’d somehow win. Fonk knows how, but he’d somehow win.”
“Uh, OK. That’s great,” said the skinny Cal. “But that doesn’t really answer the question. What do we do?”
“Commmmpany… halt!” bellowed a voice from the advancing army.
“Looks like they want to talk,” said Mech.
“Taaaaaake aim.”
“Or maybe not,” the cyborg groaned, as the soldiers raised their weapons. “Splurt!”
Splurt curved in front of the Carvers, growing and hardening until he formed a thick metal barricade. From the other side there came a thunder of gunfire, then a series of dull hammer-strikes as the bullets met Splurt’s back.
Meanwhile, Mech spun on the spot, powering a fist into the trench wall. A basketball-sized chunk of masonry turned to dust, revealing a starkly-lit corridor beyond. Mech punched and kicked until the hole was large enough for him to fit through, then moved to lead the way.
“H-hold it right there!” yelped one of the jousters. He held his fists up, but couldn’t hide how badly they were shaking. “I’m arresting you all in the name of the High Imperial Guard. Take one more step, and you’ll answer to—”
Carver Two swung with his staff. The thick end hit the jouster’s head with a solid, definitive clonk, whereupon the man promptly fell over.
“Nice,” said Mech.
“Thanks,” said Carver Two.
They both looked at the other jouster, who had suddenly become fascinated by the ground some distance away, and seemed to have very little interest in attempting to stop them.
Mech nodded. “Wise move,” he said, then he turned to the Carvers. “Everyone stay together and stay close. We’re getting the fonk out of here.”
An explosive shell screamed along the corridor and exploded against the ceiling above Mech’s head, bringing several tons of rock and rubble down on top of him.
“Oh,” said a voice through the dust cloud. “I don’t think you are.”
* * *
Carver Eighty-Three looked up and saw the door he’d very recently jumped through go spinning off into the woods, before fizzling away into darkness somewhere deep in the trees. The wolf-woman who had forcibly tossed him through the portal by the beard hadn’t come through. This caused him concern and relief in roughly equal measures. Relief because she was a terrifying monster with big claws and bigger teeth, but concern because she was a terrifying monster with big claws and bigger teeth who seemed to be on their side.
“What happened?” asked Old Man Carver. He and a dozen or so other council members stood in a clearing, surrounded by towering oaks on all sides. Birds cheeped and twittered high in the branches, and a warm breeze fluttered through the leaves. It seemed like a peaceful place, made even more so by comparison to the chaos they’d left behind. “Where did the door go?”
“Aff intae thae woods,” said Eighty-Three, smoothing down his beard. “Ahind yon lot ower there, then – boof – awa’ it gings.”
Old Man Carver nodded slowly. “That’s… Yes. Right. Interesting,” he said, as diplomatically as he could. “It’ll be interesting to get another perspective, too, though. Anyone else see what happened to the door?”
Chunky Cal pointed in roughly the same direction Eighty-Three had. “Yeah, it sort of flew off that way, then vanished.”
“At’s wit I telt ye,” the Dwarf Cal said.
“Where are we?” asked Chunky. “I mean, I’m guessing it’s Earth?”
Old Man Carver pointed upwards. There, through a gap in the trees, they could see Ikumordo stretching across the sky. Its tendrils were growing steadily now, stretching out in all directions as if grabbing at distant stars.
“It’s Earth, alright.”
“Right. Yeah. But which Earth?” Chunky Cal asked.
“Could be any,” replied the old man. “I mean almost any. Most have forests like this. We’ll have to go further afield if we’re going to figure out more.”
Eighty-Three stood on his tiptoes and sniffed the air, his bushy eyebrows knotting in concentration.
“What’s he doing?” asked a bald-headed Carver. He wore a flowing robe that had presumably once been white, but which was now a sort of dirt-caked swirl of grays and browns, like the world’s dullest tie-dye.
“Sniffing the air,” said Chunky Cal, somewhat stating the obvious.
Eighty-three stopped sniffing and dropped to his knees. His knees weren’t very far from the g
round, so this didn’t take him long. Once down there, he picked up something brown, round and lumpy, smeared it between his fingers, then touched a finger to his tongue.
“Oh, Jesus. Don’t do that,” said Chunky Cal. He gagged noisily, forming a little choir with some of the other Cals, who were already doing the same.
“What is it?” asked Old Man.
“It’s clearly shizz! Look at it!”
Old Cal tutted. “Wasn’t asking you.” He nodded to Eighty-Three. “What is it? Have you found something?”
“Mebbes aye, mebbes naw,” said Eighty-Three. He stood up and extended his shizz-smeared fingers towards the older man. “Huv a try.”
“Nah, you’re alright. Taste buds aren’t what they used to be.”
Eighty-Three gave a sort of ‘suit yourself’ shrug, then wiped his fingers on his leather jerkin. “Ah’m nae a hunner per cent or onything, but ah hink it’s ma Earth.”
“Your Earth?” said Old Man Carver, latching onto two of the four words he understood in the little man’s sentence.
“Aye,” said Eighty-Three, then his beard came to life.
At least, that’s how it appeared to those watching. The mass of hair undulated and wriggled for a moment, then curved outwards at both sides and pointed straight upwards, so the beard formed the shape of a big curvy letter ‘W’ on Eighty-Three’s chin.
“Uh, is it supposed to do that?” asked the old man, then he turned at the sound of feet crashing through the forest towards them.
At first, the Carvers saw nothing, but then the undergrowth moved and several small shapes tumbled through, muttering and cursing as they fell over one another.
“Git aff!”
“Haw! Get it right up ye!”
“Awa’ an’ bile yer heid, ya bam!”
Six little men all got to their feet. This involved lots of bickering, and a surprising amount of violence directed at each other.
Once they were all upright, they started to run again, then spotted Eighty-Three and the other Carvers, so stopped.
“Whit the—?”
“Fas you?”
Eighty-Three looked the strangers up and down. This didn’t take long. “Ne’er mind ‘fas me’, fas you?”
One of the other little men, whose beard was far bushier than the others, pressed a fist against the side of his head. “Donnie Wood, Keeper o’ the Shucht.”
Eighty-Three’s eyes narrowed. “Nae wee Donnie o’ the Woods? Fae Ower Yon?”
“Aye, fae Ower Yon,” said Donnie. His eyebrows moved like dancing caterpillars. “Haud on. Cal the Cairver? Fae Yon Why?”
“Aye!” said Eighty-Three.
“Awa’!”
“Aye!”
“It nuvur is.”
“Aye! Tis!”
“Awa’!”
Old Man Carver, like the rest of the council, had been attempting – with zero luck – to follow the conversation. As it now seemed to be stuck in some sort of loop, he felt it a good time to try to interject.
“Uh, what were you running from?” he asked. All eyes turned to him. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Fit’s he yabberin’ aboot?” asked Donnie, regarding Carver Twenty-Seven as if only just noticing him for the first time.
“He’s askin’ fit why were ye’s a’ fleein’ sae fast, and fit fae?” said Cal.
Donnie and the rest of his group all gasped, almost in perfect unison. “Aw, help m’boab, ah near clear furgot,” Donnie said. He turned to the trees just as a monstrous yellow-skinned creature bounded from the forest, a club swinging above his head, its terrifying genitalia swinging all the way past its knees.
“Ogre!” cried Donnie and the other dwarves, then they scattered as the club swung down and slammed into the ground, spraying soil and rocks in all directions.
The ogre gnashed its jaws and howled with rage, the dirty, ragged fingernails of its free hand grabbing for the closest dwarf. It caught one of the little fellas by the beard and yanked it closer, the beast’s mouth becoming a cavernous maw filled with rotten teeth as its stomach ejected a rumble of hunger.
A rock bounced off the ogre’s forehead. It didn’t seem to hurt, but it got the thing’s attention. The monster dropped its club so it could prod at the spot where the stone had hit it. Meanwhile, the little man still wriggled and kicked in his other hand.
“Leave him alone!” said Old Man Carver, hefting a second rock from hand to hand. He tossed it, but this time the ogre was ready. It snatched the stone from the air, gave it an experimental sniff, then crushed it to powder between a finger and thumb.
“Or, you know, don’t. Up to you, really,” said the old man. He backed away as the ogre’s expression twisted into one of rage. Tossing the dwarf aside, the monster bounded forwards, snatching up its club and hurling itself at Old Man Carver and the rapidly scattering council.
Carver Twenty-Seven knew his old bones and withered muscles weren’t strong enough for him to fight back, or fast enough for him to flee, so he stood his ground and puffed up his chest as best he could.
He saw himself reflected in the ogre’s melon-sized eyes, saw the monster’s teeth and its club and – briefly, because the pendulum-like motion of it caught his eye – its penis.
“Jesus. That thing’s like a baby’s arm,” he muttered.
And then he saw a blur of movement from the trees. He saw hair and claws and teeth and fury.
And then he saw blood.
Lots of blood.
The ogre made a series of noises which, to the Carvers and dwarves, sounded like nothing more than frenzied howls and grunts. Had any of them been in possession of a Zertex-designed translation chip, however, they might have understood the sounds to mean something along the lines of, “Argh! My throat! Stop biting my throat!”
The subsequent wheezing and gargling, on the other hand, was just regular wheezing and gargling, and no translation would have been available.
When the wheezing and gargling – and, to a lesser extent, the spurting – had stopped, a shocked silence fell across the clearing. It didn’t last long.
“Like, seriously,” snarled Mizette, chewing on something thick and gristly. “I turn my back for two fonking minutes…”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Cal kept his gaze on the Currently Untitled, which was still drifting onwards through the Void. He very much did not keep his gaze on the eye-wateringly acrobatic Void itself, which was currently in the process of simultaneously exploding and imploding in a way that was firmly, yet politely, telling Physics to go fonk itself.
More lightning appeared. Something about it had changed, though – or maybe it was Cal who had changed – because he couldn’t actually identify it as lightning any more, and instead could only think of it as a sound. Only, instead of his ears hearing it, his eyes were smelling it, and his brain, for its part, was wondering what in the name of God was going on.
If pressed, Cal would describe the sound as a sort of bass-heavy blompfk, but with a wobble in the middle and just the faintest touch of high-hat at the end.
He’d also know, deep down, that this was absolutely nothing like the sound his eyes were currently smelling, and that any words which might feasibly describe it didn’t currently exist.
He made a sound like an old-fashioned telephone. He didn’t know why. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
Loren meanwhile, was filled with the unshakeable belief that she was flying upside-down. This wasn’t particularly unusual – in space there was no ‘upside-down’, as such – and yet her every instinct was screaming at her to right herself before she fell off the bike and plunged into the gyrating darkness.
She looked over at Cal and Lily, but the way the Void was twisting and folding beyond them meant she couldn’t figure out if they were the same way up as her, pointing in the same direction, or even what size they were. She alternated between thinking they were huge, but far away, or tiny, but just inches from her head. Interestingly, at no point in the last f
ew minutes had she considered that they might still be the same size as she was.
“It’s getting weirder,” said Cal, but the words came out backwards. Or was he backwards, and the words were the right way around? Both, probably.
Or neither.
He made a sound like a telephone again.
“Almost there,” said Lily. She was either less affected by the Void, or making a better job of hiding what it was doing to her. While Loren occupied herself wondering which way up she was, and Cal tried with limited success to count his hands, Lily closed the gap on the Untitled, swinging the rig down and around beneath the ship to give them a clear run at the ramp.
Once she was in position, Lily tapped a couple of controls on a panel between the handlebars. “Locking you into my path,” she announced, and Loren felt her bike shift direction, apparently now under Lily’s control.
This actually came as something of a relief to Loren, as she’d started to suspect the bike wasn’t her biggest fan, and was secretly thinking some pretty mean things about her. Also, she was convinced she no longer had feet, so operating the pedal controls had been getting progressively more and more difficult.
“Six!” called Cal, gazing at one of his hands. He needed to hold onto the Void rig, so could only lift one hand off at a time to count it, before replacing it on the bike and counting the next hand. “No, seven,” he said, doing just that. “Wait, eight.”
“No, you’re fat,” said Loren, punching her bike. Tears streamed down her face as she listened to her Void rig silently judging her.
Lilly rolled her eyes. “Everyone just hold on,” she said.
There was a blompfk, wobble and high-hat of lightning, then Lily hit the boost and rocketed forwards, rolling the bike sideways in order to fit through the Untitled’s rear hatch. The Void rig screeched along the corridor, the metal scraping grooves in the walls on either side.
“Wait, fourteen!” said Cal, then the bike jerked to a stop just feet from the bridge door, right before Loren crashed into the back of it.
Lily turned in her seat. “Hatch. Hatch. How do I close the hatch?” She spotted the landing ramp controls. “Doesn’t matter. Brace yourself. I’ll try to be quick.”
Space Team: Return of the Dead Guy Page 14