In the mess hall of the Manhole everyone had suddenly been transformed into me and instead of dropping to their knees and thanking their respective godheads, everyone was choosing instead to beat the tar out of each other. It was really quite upsetting. It was also easy to slip into an identity crisis; I kept forgetting which one I was. Luckily I was too caught up in a mad rush to get too deep into these philosophical considerations of self (which is unusual for me).
Me and I (Erdinger) were tackling our way through the melee of sexy criminals to the first part of the escape- the security checkpoint. It was a huge locked door that sat at the opposite end of the mess hall locked so tight it might as well have been a wall or a floor.
Only a few of me were focussed on the security door. Luckily, though, I was one of those, and so was I. I was hurling me through the scrum toward the door that a few of me were trying to close before I could succeed. Otherwise so many of me would have been hurt by me for no reason.
I grabbed my head and slammed it into the bench. I sank down, gurgling and unconscious so I stepped deftly over me. I still had me held by the wrist though, and I was yanking me along urgently. Presently I stopped, theatrically punched me in the stomach and threw me in a headlock as the two of me lurched toward the security door.
It had been a confusing lunch.
“I got to admit, Beretta, that was a fairly ingenious move,” Erdinger admitted as we leapt over me-s.
“Pah. Fairly textbook,” I scoffed, keen to keep up my cool façade.
But it hadn’t really come from a textbook. It had been my brainwave to hack the holo-projectors to cause this diversion and to end their tyranny on my sense of fashion. What better way to cause maximum confusion than to make every person look the same? Guards beating on guards, inmates beating on inmates, inmates beating on guards and guards beating on guards (and vice versa); utter confusion. Easy to slip through the cracks. Easy, but still requiring a good deal of force, like miniature golf or sodomy. Erdinger flung me through a small circle of me-s that was forming a rough ring round the security door, then charged through after me, yelling authoritatively.
“I’m a guard, I’m a guard!” he shouted as he wrestled me to the ground in the secure area outside the mess hall. Already it was quieter here, the din of violence dimmed slightly. A dozen Rex Berettas stood around us, looking concerned, confused and beautiful. I had no idea if they were security or not. Nobody did.
“Close that damn door!” shouted Erdinger. He pointed to the me who was stood behind a control panel next to the door. “That’s an order, son!”
The me at the door controls looked uncertain. He looked through the doors toward the tumult of the mess hall. Some me-s were getting the same idea, with a few looking toward the open door and a few actively charging toward it.
“Close it!” Erdinger-me shouted again. “Or are you an inmate?!”
“Sir? Is that you?” Door-me asked shakily.
“What does it sound like?” he bluffed.
“Just tell me what..uh..What’s the code for…”
“Seal the damn door!”
“But-”
“NOW!”
That sealed the deal, and sealed the door and doored the seal. The me behind the security console looked panicked then input a few commands. The hubbub of the mess hall began to fade as the doors cranked laboriously shut and I took a last long look at the one-man riot. The mess hall door whooshed closed, then made some deep, clanking locking sounds before the sounds of meaty impact thudded through the metal. Me after me was charging futilely into it like meaty waves on a beach made of me. Four of us stood on the other side of the door, in sudden awkward silence
“A…Are you really a guard?” asked checkpoint-me, “Is that really Beretta?”
“What do you think?” shouted Erdinger-me.
“I…I don’t know.”
“YOU look like Beretta,” shouted another me.
“We all do!”
“Listen, son,” Erdinger said warmly, as he clamped a hand around Door-me’s shoulder, “there’s a simple way to resolve all of this. What’s your superior officer’s name?”
“Bolchek, sir.”
Erdinger-me smiled widely and pointed two thumbs at himself. “You’re damned right that’s my name, son. Good work. You kept your head in there. I’m proud of you.”
“Sir? Is it really you?”
“As surely as my name is Bolsek.”
“Bolchek.”
“Not now, I’m a bit busy, maybe later.”
“Sir?”
“Just joking. Like I do. You know me.”
Door-me nodded pleasantly as his eyes got wide at the edges. I knew that look. I knew it from practicing facial expressions in the mirror- this one I called ‘Spooked Jaguar’- it was a a look of controlled alarm. Erdinger-me smiled happily back as he watched Door-me casually reach toward the control panel.
“Absolutely, sir. I’ll just open the rest of the security doors for y-”
Before he could touch anything, Erdinger struck like a snake, his arm shooting out with machine-enhanced speed to fire a fist straight into Door-me’s perfect face. It almost made me sick to watch it; my beautiful visage distorted by the blow. It was like watching the Mona Lisa being set on fire, like watching the statue of David hurled into a ditch, it was like watching a Jackson Pollock being spattered indiscriminately with paint. I hated Erdinger even more at that moment as Door-Me thudded with a sickening crack in a nerveless pile.
“I seem to recall that the original idea was to have you be the one who was replicated by the holo-projectors,” I said. That detail at least had come back to me.
He was all innocent eyes and a hint of a smirk. “Was it?”
I unclenched my fist so I could check on the downed gate-me. Though there was no sign of injury on my holo-generated face a small puddle of blood was forming underneath where he lay.
“Are we going to have any trouble with you?” Erdinger rounded on the remaining me.
A voice like sentient gravel replied. “I didn’t see nothing, nor nobody.” Long-time inmate. Erdinger nodded at him and he was gone the next instant. I looked up at Erdinger, The holographic image faltering slightly.
“No pulse,” I reported. It was a spooky feeling, looking down at yourself and finding no signs of life.
“He’s dead?!” Erdinger cried in mock horror. “My god! The horror, taking another life. However will I live with myself? If only I was a hardened killer.”
The image of me flickered again, revealing Erdinger and his sneer for a half second. It seemed like the guards were slowly regaining control of the projector system. Just as well. It was against my nature to hate someone so dashing and I wanted to luxuriate in my hatred of Erdinger at that moment.
“When I made this plan, it was to ensure that there were no deaths. On either side.”
“Plans change.”
“That they do, Erdinger.”
He looked down at me meaningfully and the image of Rex Beretta shut off once and for all.
“Don’t get sentimental on me, Beretta. I thought you were a badass.”
“And I thought you were a sociopath. Looks like we’re both right.”
He took a step toward me, kicking aside the leg of the guard as he did so.
“Well now. That’s the Rex Beretta I’ve come to know. A little backbone and a death wish. I was getting worried. Seems like you went senile on me today and now you’re crying over some dead uniform.”
I rose and stared into his one human eye and found no humanity in it (though I did find an eye). My hands were in fists and those fists were hungry for chins. I took a deep breath.
“We should get moving.” I went to brush past him but he stopped me, put his hand on my chest and leaned in close.
“You sure? Remember all the details now? If you’re not up for the rest of it you can just relax here, with your new friend.” He motioned to the guard.
“Let’s go,” I said through gritted t
eeth. But the hand stayed there. On my chest.
“Remind me: what do we do next?”
“I was the one who made the plan.” But the hand stayed.
“What do we do next?”
Both eyes were cold and emotionless, like a fridge.
“We make it through the next checkpoint before the projector goes down. We go to position two- your cell. The tunnel. Then the grid.” It was amazing how violence and the none-too-subtle threat of death could sharpen one’s memory. I had enough of the plan straight in my mind now, but his hand still stayed on my chest. “It’s a two man job, Erdinger. Now take your hand off of me.”
A smile that did not touch his refrigerator eyes lit up Erdinger’s face. He wagged his finger reprovingly at me. “Just testing you, Beretta. I’m just playing, brother”
I nodded my head down the corridor. “Lead on then. Brother.”
Erdinger took off in a jog down the corridor and I tarried a second before I followed him and spared one last look for the dead guard. He had died wearing my face, which was probably how I would go too. It made you think. And Erdinger hadn’t paused one picosecond in bashing in his skull, even seeming to relish the act. Then he had laid his hands on me.
“If you do that again, I’m going to take your damn head off,” I muttered to myself.
---=◈◆⬤◆??◆⬤◆◈=---
“Lookit the sun, son”
The Sheriff pointed up into the sky which was the opposite direction of as all of the angry looking bandits who were taking guns and rifles from out of their ponchos. They were on the ground (the men, not the ponchos) but the Sheriff was making a show of nonchalance.
“I see it.”
“High up, ain’t she?”
“Very astute, sir.”
“I’d say we’re at about five minutes shy of high noon. What’d you reckon?”
I peered at the clocktower, which seemed like a more reliable measure of time and saw that he was right and while I was taking this opportunity to check things by looking at them I spent a while scanning the faces in this marauding gang for any signs of Tempus. Nothing. I had expected him to be at this Black Raoul fellow’s side.
“Four minutes, sir.”
He spat thoughtfully in the dirt before grinning slyly at me. “Means I got four minutes of jawin’ to do with this fool ‘fore I get to perforate ‘im.”
He was as confident as a Space Hardcore but as I looked up the street I had to give pause. The man in the middle of the street was making an equal showing of his lack of concern. If I had to guess at the identity of Black Raoul, he’d be numbers one to ten on my list of suspects. A black stetson cast a deep shadow over a face that was like an ongoing battlesite between swarthiness and stubble where a moustache seemed like the surprise victor. Eschewing any kind of breathable fabric he had chosen to live in the desert wrapped inside a black leather doublet and black leather trousers. Coiled round a slim waist were two criss-crossed gunbelts which sagged under the weight of bullets and his two black handled revolvers. His Cuban heels kicked up dirt and tinkled the distinctive sound of spurs and if I were to tell you that those boots were brown then I would make a liar out of myself. (They were black). He creaked and baked in the sun, like a vinyl sofa in a big oven.
Currently, as his men fanned out to cover that end of the street he was matching the Sheriff's display of indifference beat for beat. The Sherriff spat and squinted at the sun; Raoul yawned and inspected his nails. The sheriff fanned himself with his hat; Raoul lit a slim cigarillo from a match struck upon his cheek. The Sheriff whistled the refrain of an old hymn; Raoul took a deep swig from a hip flask. But before they could get out some hammocks and settle in for a quick nap Raoul decided to speak up.
“Nice town you got here. Think I’ll take it.” A reedy Latino lilt.
“She’s a little out of your price range, Raoul.”
“I’m not a man in the habit of buying things, Sheriff.”
“An’ I ain’t much in the habit of standin’ by as bandits take over my town.”
“How do you know? You never tried it before.”
“Y’right. I never have. Not once.”
“Give it a try. It’s easier than the alternative.”
“Perhaps it is. But I have enjoyed that alternative so much, so far. It’s helped me fill jails with the likes of you. Failin’ that, the gravedigger’s got to stay employed.”
“He only has one job today.”
Raoul cast a meaningful eye around the street at the Sheriff’s end. He was right; it was empty. My greeting party, the rough band of townsfolk that had been my greeting/beating part had dispersed like a burp in the breeze. I saw eyes peering over batwing doors and out of bordello windows. At some point I had been left as the only person standing next to the Sheriff which was starting to look like a tactical error. Holliday, didn’t even bother to look around.
“Town’s only got one Sheriff. Only needs one.”
Raoul’s eyes slid swarthily towards me.
“One sheriff and his trusty deputy, course,” Holliday said. When I opened my mouth to protest he punched me playfully on the shoulder. Well, as playfully as he could.
I landed in the horse trough with an almighty splash and was genuinely not sure whether to be grateful at being removed from the fray or annoyed on account of swimming in equine saliva. I surfaced, peered out of the wooden receptacle and found Raoul pacing slightly toward the lawman. His men were making themselves comfortable in that way that intimidating people do- mostly by standing in door jambs ominously or sneering or ominously loading bullets into rifles or ominously curling their moustaches up with their ominous fingers. Still no time travellers in the crowd that I could see. Could Tempus have missed this kind of an opportunity?
“Walk away, Sheriff Holliday. I’m done talkin’ in circles with you. Find another town to protect. Sweet Gulch is mine now. Git on your nag and ride.”
“Mighty tempting offer,” Holliday remarked. He cast a thumb back over his shoulder toward the jailhouse. “I just get on ol’ Ebenezer and ride out? Well I-”
“Ebenezer?” I shouted involuntarily.
Both men turned on me then, eyes upturned.
“The name of your horse is Ebenezer?” I asked.
Holliday shrugged, irritated. “He’s an ornery nag, an’ he ain’t winning any beauty pageants but he’s a reliable thing, yeah. Name seemed to fit... Anyway...” he looked back and meaningfully tilted his head toward Raoul and I took that as my cue to stop interrupting and let them keep trying to get the last one-liner at each other. I obliged.
“That busted down ol’ carthorse hasn’t been fed today. ‘Fraid I can’t ride that sucker out of town today. So here I stand.”
“There you stand and there you fall. You sure about that, Sheriff? Last chance. Out o’ respect and all. Y’know- on account of your seniority. Walk away”
“Too old to move on. Old habits die hard, I reckon”
“They ain’t the only thing. Ride out of here and there’s no blood spilled.”
“I ain’t wearin’ the badge cos it matches the outfit. Other way around.”
Raoul smiled and swept his hand back towards his right hand gun. Holliday didn’t move.
“I heard you used to be fast. Used to be.”
“That’s the thing about old timers, son- you know they’ve outlived the competition.”
Raoul just grinned at that and became still. His hand dangled slightly next to his gun and twitched as though a slight electric current was running through it. His eyes went dead too, save for an empty surface glimmer and with a deep groan I heard the cogs in the clocktower start toward the ringing of the bell. Holliday heard it too, and swept back the duster over his six shooter and let his hand hover over the butt.
“On the last stroke of noon?”
Raoul gave the barest hint of a nod.
“And am I to understand that after I take you out, I got to take out the whole posse too?”
Raoul shook his
head as the first chime split the air, loud and brassy as a rusty trumpet. “Just us.” he whispered in the vibrating silence it left.
“It’s pronounced ‘just-ice,’” Holliday said before chime two rang out.
Number three rang out and four next and the two men became like statues facing off fourty yards apart. Their faces were stone. The fifth peal of the bell rang out and made everyone in town still, save for me. It was seven ticks of the clock until Sweet Gulch became a high speed, two way street for some bullets and Tempus had still not showed up to play his hand. Six and seven tolls passed.
Eight and nine chimed through my skull as I double checked every rooftop in town seeing only a solitary vulture and an ambitious tumbleweed atop the saloon.
Ten rang out and on the eleventh the town of Sweet Gulch held one breath. The windows were empty. No gun barrels poking out of anywhere I could see.
As the eleventh bell died in its own echo I looked on helplessly at the two still figures.
The bell chimed twelve.
And both men moved
Chapter Twenty Two
A Jailbreak in Commotion/ Death in Slow Motion
* * *
To truly destroy one’s enemy is a very simple proposition- just make him into your friend.
Then when his guard is down, stab him in the throat and burn his house down
Rachel Wolf
Savage Be My Life, Righteous be My Lorry
Ѻ
Shouts, thuds, flames and screams filled the prison air like it was an exploding zoo.
The riot we had started, had spread through the whole facility like a wildfire or syphilis or marmalade or something else that spreads quickly. It was hard to think of comparisons when you’re escaping from prison with a cyborg you hate. Margarine too.
The Time Trousers of Professor Tempus: A Captain Space Hardcore Adventure Page 26