by Greg Ramsay
“Getting your gift..” he finally answered, passing her a menacing black ballistic mask. Curious, she tried it on.
“How’s your field of view?” he asked.
“Surprisingly, unobscured.” She noted.
“When I was really young, whenever my father was lucid he’d sometimes take me down here. I’d managed to block it out of my mind for so long because he always spent the whole time showing his stuff off and having me play with it. Then he’d say, ‘We’re all better now, right Soldier?’ to which I’d have to agree or he'd go off on me and Mom. I guess the bow was too much of a reminder of all the things Reva taught us to ignore, but it allowed me to remember where the ‘scary masks’ were.”
“Is that seriously what you called them?” Spirit joked.
“I was a kid...” Bruce argued.
“Hey, no offense, it’s just a cute name for you, of all people, to come up with is all. I can see why a kid would think that. My holdfast didn’t have half this stuff; mostly old guns that didn’t look usable and basic archery stuff.” Spirit explained.
“Your Holdfast had a vault?”
“Ya but it wasn’t nearly as extensive, which makes sense. This is the Prime Minister’s administrative Holdfast after all.” Of course he wouldn’t prepare the best stuff for the rest of humanity, just for himself... Bruce thought, a serious look on his face.
Noticing this, Spirit interrupted, “The Mots Bonerend sent took all the guns to trade before they took the people. They didn’t care for the archery stuff, which is lucky or I wouldn’t be as great as I am!” Spirit exclaimed cheerfully.
“You’re great all right.” Bruce admitted jokingly.
“You’re back here? I thought you’d be training.” Sergeant Hanzo exclaimed from the empty outer vault.
“We’re working on it!” Spirit exclaimed to cover for an awkward looking Bruce.
“Just a thought, Sergeant Hanzo, but how did all this stuff survive Bonerend’s looting?” Bruce enquired.
“For the most part, they could only use the guns. Jonathan kept them front and centre in the outer vault, keeping the door to this one covered in waste disposal signs. Bonerend wasn’t keen to explore an area he thought was full of sealed excrement.”
“Makes sense.” Bruce admitted.
“Jonathan used to say it was for you every time he brought you down here.” Hanzo finished.
“Thanks Hanzo, we’ll be going now.” I remember that much. Though I think he just wanted me to be a soldier like him... guess that worked out for him. Bruce thought, putting on his mask before leaving once more with a few targets in hand. Spirit followed him with a few more masks for their friends.
“Wow!” Dave exclaimed when he noticed Bruce’s new suit.
“Everybody come look, Blackbow’s gonna shoot for us!” Dave called out, drawing a crowd from the feasters. Though he wasn’t inclined to show off, Bruce decided there was no harm in it.
“Dave come here.” He asked. “Take those targets from Spirit, the nice lady over there. I want you to set them up wherever you like.” Eager to help, Dave exclaimed “Okay!” then ran to do as Bruce asked. To his mother’s horror, not only had he set up targets all over the huge cafeteria, but he held one confidently over his head.
“Let me take that one please.” A thin Mot said, gently removing the target from Dave’s small hands. To assuage Dave’s disappointment, the Mot held it over his own head.
“Thanks Crunch; you sure about this?” Bruce checked, neither Crunch or his brother Smash had undertaken training. So, it stood to reason he wouldn’t have the same level of trust in Bruce as Monster did.
“Do it.” Crunch said calmly.
People cleared out of target trajectory per their instructors’ request. Like a shot, Bruce charged into the cafeteria, bow extended. He carefully dialed back his draw using the built-in buttons he’d been shown before each shot so as to not damage the cafeteria. One by one, targets hit the ground with a soft thump. Following the snake-like pattern Dave laid out, Bruce wound back, hopping up onto one the long tables.
He charged straight for Crunch who stood directly across from the table against the concrete wall. Gaining momentum, he leapt off the edge of the table, throwing his body into a mid-air roll. The second he saw the target, he shot while still airborne. Landing perfectly in a crouch with his bow collapsing right as the final target hit the ground. All of the Holdfast’s children stared at him in awe. Spirit just shook her head because she was too used to his flamboyance. She handed out the masks to Birdy and the Hollywoods, who helped with target retrieval.
“Where’d your bow go?!” Dave asked amazed.
“Here.” Bruce said as he squeezed the grip, releasing the bow in all its glory.
So he didn’t forget, Bruce recalibrated the bow by double tapping the adjust up button in the grip, which reset it to exactly how Spirit had it originally. I really like this thing. Bruce thought to himself, then let it retract again. On a whim, he tried magnetizing it grip side-up to the gun holster area of the suit, which actually worked to his surprise.
“That’s the beauty of top-grade military gear: Tough as hell and designed to work together.” Sergeant Hanzo remarked in response to Bruce’s surprised expression.
“Nice.” Bruce remarked. Casually, Bruce walked over to Crunch, leaving his new admirers to gossip amongst themselves.
“I’m sorry about Monster.” Bruce said.
“He was a good man, though he meant far more to you. I regret not going with you.”
“You were just doing as he asked. Listen, I need a crash course on Mot culture, what happens now that Bonerend’s dethroned?”
“Bonerend ruled the Mottled faction, from which we came. His three lieutenants: Bladetooth in Sasktoo Divide, Ragerip in Mantoo Divide, and Iceblood in the Altoo Divide will continue in his honour.” Bruce gestured for a nosey Sergeant Hanzo to join them.
“Can you pull up a map? It seems the fight isn’t over; I was led to believe those who followed Bonerend’s policies would be executed, but of course his strongest and most devout underlings wouldn’t be.” Bruce asked.
“Okay, well here’s a map of Canada... we weren’t able to scan the country with drones as was intended due to the Holdfast network’s partial failure, but maybe this’ll help?” Hanzo said as he projected the map on the wall with his wristblade.
Crunch hopped up and down with excitement, pointing to multiple provinces. “Those ones. When the King first started talking, he used to compulsively put Too on the end of words, so to appease him, his lieutenants renamed those ones! I remember cuz my dad was publicly executed for mocking the king’s talking. They say Bonerend spent years studying under a human tutor before killing her.”
“So, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, and Alberta. Why set up command points there?” Bruce enquired.
“Probably the same reason we set up most of the twenty holdfasts in those provinces: Climate change. Weather was most stable for farm life in those provinces, so cities expanded exponentially there. The rest are in Alaska as a joint venture with America, intended to get civilians who couldn’t afford the closer Holdfast slots further out from projected nuke impact points.” Sergeant Hanzo explained.
“How nice of the government to only provide for twenty Holdfasts worth of people.” Bruce grumbled. “Each Holdfast accommodated 1000 people, fifteen met capacity before the bombs fell, That’s how your father bought so much time for our Holdfast in what was once Quebec, despite how horrible his methods were...He knew where they were, had a dossier of door codes.”
“No wonder Bonerend stayed here... That aside, what do you think our best course of action is from a Mot perspective, Crunch?” Bruce asked.
“Well... with Bonerend dead, his lieutenants will fighting for position, you may be able to set up an arena to settle it all at once.” I don’t think I could fight three wannabe Bonerends at once. Bruce thought.
“Any chance of a more peaceful resolution?” Bruce enquired, drawing
a small smile from Spirit.
“No. Our societies depend on strength; politics like your species depended on are seen as a sign of weakness. Look at what happened to the world... Sorry.”
“No, no, I’m grateful for the input. Will they seek us out or will we have to go to them?” Bruce asked.
“I’ve only known of three kings before Bonerend. Mots live a long time you see... From observation, I can say usually the usurping King, you now, waits at Master’s Mecha to be challenged. Honourable one on one combat happens, and the winner gets to be King. If all challengers are beat by the current usurper, they are seen as True King. They remain so until death, leaving only lieutenant positions as challengeable.” Crunch explained.
“Great. Guess it’s back to the Mecha for me.”
“Yes, I and my brother will serve as messengers to two of the lieutenants. You’ll have to dispatch a third Mot from the Mecha.” Crunch finished.
“Alright, thank you, Crunch, that’s what I’ll have to do then.” Bruce concluded.
“So Now can we join you?” Birdy interrupted.
“I’d rather you remained here for their sake, as before.”
“Okay, your loss.”
“I know.” Bruce admitted with a smile.
“Shall we go then?” Spirit asked.
“Might as well...” Bruce said, taking a mask from her and putting it on. Squeezing the grip at his hip, his bow expanded out as he lifted it from his side, completing his upgraded ensemble. Gesturing for Crunch and Smash to follow, the two Blackbows left the Holdfast amidst various well wishes.
“The King has returned!” A trader exclaimed from the Master’s Mecha outskirts. Traders flocked to him like seagulls to a trash dump, completely disregarding his terrifying appearance in favor of desperate lauding.
“Please, great King, take my bottlecaps in your name.” or
“King Blackbow, please take my daughter into your harem.”
To Spirit they would say things like, “Are you his Queen? Kings generally don’t take Queens in favor of harems... We can serve you, too! My son is strong and has a long member to please you!”
Irritated, they waved off traders that rotated between offering up family or trying to shove raw cattle meat in their faces. One trader had the ignorant nerve to shove a human limb in Bruce’s face. Repulsed by the festering limb, he slammed the limb of his bow into the trader’s face, knocking it down hard. “There will be no more consumption of humans either!” Bruce roared. He knelt down and yanked the greasy-faced trader to its feet by the throat.
“You will be my Messenger to Iceblood. Crunch take Ragerip, Smash take Bladetooth. I’d like this dealt with as soon as possible.
“Yes great King! I will earn your forgiveness, please spare my family!” The trader said with a groveling bow, running off to do Bruce’s bidding. Crunch laughed knowingly at Bruce’s disgusted reaction.
“You’ll get used to stuff like that, such deference was a favorite of Bonerend’s” Bruce groaned by way of response.
The twins left to board caravans on the trader roads, eager to begin their assignments. When they saw him, many traders released nude filthy humans from cages made of scavenged materials, leaving their makeshift carts look pitifully empty save for bags of caps. Their massive horse-like cart pullers seemed pleased to have less weight, given the cart wheels weren’t usually rounded – a side effect of no manufacturing capacity in their society and a shortage of salvageable wheels. The large bridge spanning the entrance of Master’s Mecha was still adorned with Bonerend’s festering head like an omen to all who entered – a stark reminder that the rumours surrounding Blackbow were true. A small crowd started to gather around him, made of human and Mot alike.
“For those of you seeking purpose or leadership, I offer you this: Eight bottlecaps will be distributed to each man, woman or Mot brave enough to travel far and wide to spread the rule of the Blackbows. Let all those brave enough to face me personally as a challenger do so now!” Bruce exclaimed, pointing to the slave-trader’s cart which still held bags of caps.
“But my King... eight caps is a week’s wage for the most elite soldier, we shan’t distribute such to a human!” An elderly mot complained.
Savage was supposed to be fostering unity between the two species. I even told her how to secure a trade wage for the humans. What the hell has she been doing?! Bruce thought to himself. A nearby soldier drew his sword, a weapon made up of what looked like a jagged piece of rusting metal, wrapped in salvaged fabric – to kill the Mot. Bruce held up a hand to halt the soldier’s advance, drawing gasps from the crowd.
“I know that a ruler’s success is best served by not interfering with local customs, but I spare you now to set another example: disagreement is valid, otherwise your pit fighting and one on one combat would have to be abolished as well. I understand your concerns and bear no disrespect to your military, I merely offer this wage to all due to the prospective danger any would-be messenger could face. To my limited understanding, journeying to hostile anti-human areas and professing of a human ruler is tantamount to heretical suicide is it not?” Bruce enquired. Many Mots, including a previously insulted soldier, nodded agreement begrudgingly.
“Therefore, this one-time wage is fair for all those involved to both serve as an example of our unity and an example to factions everywhere that humans and Mots can coexist on equal footing. Thank you for your time.” Concluding his speech, Bruce turned towards the King’s Tower, the very skyscraper his group had fought a desperate battle in not so long ago.
Spirit saw to the collection of bottlecap sacks from various trade caravans left abandoned by the fearful Mots that survived their coup. With all traders either dead or too afraid to enter the Mecha, there wasn’t any reason to move them. Various volunteers from both species bravely took wages from Spirit, then became the first generation of traders to pick up carts and journey outward to spread the word of King Blackbow. Wait a minute...what if Savage did institute a wage and I merely provided one that was against her standard. Bruce thought to himself before rushing over to the nearest freed slave, working tirelessly under the watchful eye of a pudgy Mot with a blood-stained face.
“May I help you, my King?” The Mot growled, his eyes filled with a hatred for Bruce that was as palpable as the stench on his breath.
Sizing up the Mot, Bruce saw it was unarmed but muscular, cloaked in rags, holding a rotting human limb in its right hand. In response to Bruce’s tensing muscles the Mot defiantly took a bite from the limb. Bruce inwardly mustered his resolve, keeping in mind his years of training on the island. Turning to the human he gently tapped the man’s slender shoulder.
“Sir, tell me: are you being mistreated, are you being paid, what is the state of humanity in the Mecha?” “King Blackbow... I am an apprentice, as are my children and many others. We work as we are told and our treatment remains as it was.” Concerned, Bruce decided to ask the clearly nervous man a different way,
“Your treatment remains as it was when I freed you, or as it was before?” The man stood up from his shuffling of salvaged items in a caravan saddlebag nervously, wiping dirt from his gaunt face. When he did that Bruce could see he was Caucasian but heavily weather-worn, easily able to pass as a darker skinned man in dim light. Watching carefully without appearing to as he’d been taught, Bruce noticed the man’s eyes dart from the angry Mot watching him back to Bruce.
“As it was, my King.” The man replied quietly, then scurried behind a mutated cow with five eyes to remove another bag of salvage.
Eying the Mot coldly for any incriminating response, Bruce saw none. So, he wandered around the Mecha for a while. What he saw shocked him: some humans had fastened elite guard uniforms to their slight, malnourished frames, and were whipping Mots. He rushed over to investigate, noticing that even though the Mots could easily overpower their new masters, they bowed to each blow, content to gather crops.
“Continue picking, dogs. These corns ain’t gonna pick 'em sel
ves!” One nearly toothless elderly man shouted while whipping a Mot hard with a rope driven by his sinewy arms.
“What’s going on here?!” Bruce enquired, careful not to sound overly anxious, but rather authoritative. “Vengeance, per dah Qween Reegint’s ordess.” The elder replied proudly.
“Thank you.” Bruce said before jogging through the whole Mecha like he was on a marathon.
Everywhere he looked, he saw more of the same confusing site: Mots enslaved by humans. Every human he asked repeated the same matter-of-fact mantra as if it was a religion he was ignorant to. The Mots themselves looked rightfully incensed but strangely were too terrified to explain how this all came about. Approaching one enslaved Mot, now quite irritated, Bruce pointed to it.
“Tell me now, why are you enslaved!?” Bruce demanded. The Mot’s eyes lost all the rage doubtless fed by their human Master and filled with fear. Its body, while a hulking mass nearly as intimidating as Bonerend shook like a leaf in the wind.
“TELL ME!” Bruce yelled.
The Mot’s lips quivered when it tried to speak. Like a seasoned slave, it, too, looked it its Master for approval. Finding only a hateful look of warning in the blonde woman’s gaze, the Mot took one last look at Bruce. Bruce waited for the Mot’s decision.
“Remember what will happen, dog!” The blonde woman seethed to her slave.
Caught between her threat and the threat that Bruce posed, the Mot remained on the ground picking crops whenever it could move. Bruce stepped closer, extending his bow for effect. To his shock the shaking Mot shook harder with intense fear and urinated through its loincloth onto the roughly tilled soil. Looking to the woman when she started laughing, Bruce realized whatever threat they held over the Mots scared them more than he did. Savage! He thought then took off toward his tower.
Chapter 12 - Savage