Blood God (The Hroza Connection Book 5)

by William Vitka

  Strong steps.

  He’s sure he’s got something to say.

  Which is: “I was right. And now you’re ready to lead.”

  I look to my father. Jack. His eyes still outlined by the cherry of his cigarette.

  I look to my mother. Catarina. Her eyes still on the bloody form of Wilson.

  Seems like they’re just fuckin fine with all this.

  Nice to know you’re not the only one who’s totally fucked up.

  * * *

  Me and DeVille stand in my kitchen. Knock back whiskey. A bottle we grabbed off the camp’s scavengers as they made their way through the thoroughfare to see what all the bloody hubbub was about.

  I guess DeVille only smokes when she’s drinking. Cuz she steals one of my American Spirits while she sips a cup of whiskey. Says, “Tell me how what you did was different from what Caleb and the others wanted. Tell me how it’s not the same brand of brutality.”

  I glare at her. Smoke my own stogie. “I never said I’d be different. Never said I wasn’t gonna have the guy killed. I just wanted it interesting.

  “Difference is I was upfront about it.”

  13. Way Below Sticker Price

  Plissken wakes us up the next day. Ten in the morning.

  I open the door in my underpants. Scratch my cheek. Then my junk.

  Plissken hovers there. Says, “You have a strange relationship with pants, don’t you.”

  I smile. “Hey, man. You know me.” I wave him in. “C’mon. Be nice to talk to you without the overlords watching.” I light my morning cigarette. Puff it between gulps of something from the fridge DeVille has helpfully labeled as GODDAMN CAFFEINE in marker.

  Tastes like fizzy candy.

  I’m fine with it.

  DeVille rounds the corner from the bathroom. Buttons the top of her jeans. “What’s going on, Plissken?”

  Plissken bobs in the air. “Is there a point in you both having your own apartments if you’re going to act like teenagers?”

  DeVille nods to me. “Probably best if I’ve got a place to go in case this guy pisses me off. Unless you want me to murder him.”

  “I was stuck with him for a decade.” He sighs. “I considered murder many times. Also robo-suicide.”

  I rub my face. “Yeah. Y’know, speaking of our wonderful time together, I haven’t seen much of you since I got here. Don’t like me anymore?”

  Plissken droops in the air. “I regret that, actually. DeVille was the one to see myself and Lovelace through our repairs.”

  “No shit.” I look to DeVille.

  DeVille smirks. Shrugs. “Me and machines.”

  Plissken says, “You and supposed ‘Chosen Ones.’”

  “I got a gift for broken stuff.”

  “Indeed you do.” Plissken turns to me. “I would like you to join us at the western wall. Although I appreciate Caleb’s...tests, I think they’re a waste. Meet me at the security office armory when you’re ready.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “We have to start reclaiming land from the infected. This camp is pretty much horseshit happytown until we do.”

  * * *

  Me and DeVille make our way through the security office. Passed the same sour faces that I’m sure have names but why should I be bothered to learn em?

  We end up on the third sublevel. The armory.

  I whistle. “That’s a shitload of guns.”

  DeVille says, “Modern robotics. The fuck are post-apocalyptic do-gooders gonna do without em?”

  It’s a warehouse-sized space dug into the ground. Six stories tall. Floor a polished metal. Walls tiled with white plates three feet high and three feet wide. Double-sided racks of weapons line it all. Some relics. A lotta new fabricated arms. Very dangerous shit guarded by very dangerous robots.

  One of which floats over to Plissken. A spherical droid. Bulky. Steel. It says, “Hey, Plissken. I just wanted to see how you’re doing. I hope everything is all right with the family.”

  Plissken puffs his thrusters. “Get fucked, Wade. I’ll have you recycled.”

  “Yessir.” Wade scoots away. Back among the walls of weapons.

  Uhhh...

  I nudge Plissken with my elbow. “We don’t like Wade? Also, who the fuck’s Wade?”

  “One of the newer security drones. He’s shown interest in multiplying with Lovelace.”

  I giggle. “You’re a protective dad.”

  “Lovelace was born of two robots of superior intelligence and skill. The idea that some security drone is good enough for her makes my circuits overheat.”

  “Uh...” I kick the ground. “Hate to break it to you, my metal friend, but that’s super racist and classist.”

  “Robots don’t have ‘races’—we only recognize inferiority. Would you let a toaster fuck Athena?”

  “I mean...‘let?’ Hopefully she isn’t into fucking toasters, but if that’s her thing?” I shrug. “Dunno what the harm is other than a bad burn. Pretty clear that Athena does shit her own way. If she does end up being robosexual, then that’s probably cuz you and Juliet were the ones subliminally educating her.”

  Speaking of Athena, where did she go?

  No idea.

  Well, still: Guns! Bang bang shooty machines! They’re our favoritist toys! We need to shove one up an infected ass and pull the trigger till it goes click. Just to see what happens. For science.

  Yeah. I should. Mostly on principle though.

  I try to stay positive. Admire all the weapons the robotic manufactory has been cranking out for the camp.

  First set of racks is lined of the pulse rifles they jimmied up. Real hardcore weapons. General purpose. The 10mm explosive-tipped rounds are good at chunkifying baddies. The underslung grenade launcher can probably fuck up the bigger parasites’ day.

  They’re standard-issue for a reason.

  Next rack is pistols. None of em look much more impressive than my Colts. But there’s one big-bore gun with a four-round cylinder that catches my attention.

  I pluck it from its space on the rack.

  Plissken says, “That’s the MK4 Judge. 12-guage shotgun pistol. Many Spartans find it wildly entertaining. Once they learn how to not break their wrists using it, anyway. We have a variety of rounds to go with it. Double-aught buck being the usual. Then there are flame rounds. Slugs. Explosive.” Plissken bobs in the air. “Blah blah. The guiding rule of survival is still headshots, though, so it’s hard to find any professionals who opt for shotguns over high-calibers.”

  “Groovy.” The weight feels good. “How’d this all get set up? What are you manufacturing? How are you manufacturing so much? Seems like you’ve reestablished the entire United States of Christ infrastructure inside a fort.”

  “I had nothing to do with that. Caleb and his cabal had this all established far before DeVille, Turing and Alpha arrived. With Lovelace’s corpse and mine. Of course, Caleb was very interested in my natural genius once DeVille rebuilt me.” Plissken puffs his thrusters. “As well as what DeVille managed to accomplish with Jade and Alpha. But from a manufacturing standpoint—no. Caleb cannibalized Boston and the robots nearby. This is a vertical settlement. Up and down. That is why I need you and DeVille to assist me in reclaiming territory.”

  “That’s why you want us to gear up.”

  “Oh, yes. Caleb has been reluctant to give me any control over the Spartans I need.” Plissken makes a noise like Pft! “Apparently some of the Spartans ‘don’t want to work for robots.’ As though I’m doing this shit for fun.”

  “How many’d you ask for?”

  “Well, I mean...it’s a serious operation.”

  “So how many, asshole?”

  “Fifty.”

  I look to DeVille. She arches her eyebrows. Purses her lips.

  Huh.
<
br />   I say, “So me and DeVille equal forty Spartans?”

  Hey, that ain’t such a bad compliment.

  Plissken jumps in the air. “Sweet shit, no. No. You two are good but—” He chuckles. “You’re not that good. Well, not without help. Follow me.”

  My old drone pal guides us through the racks. Points out rifles. Assault rifles. Battle rifles. Stuff he thinks is better designed than some others. The familiar 6.5mm bullpup Hellion. The unfamiliar Javelin, which uses C02 to fire metal spikes from a twenty-four round rotating magazine—which he claims is big with Spartans who prefer a silent ghost approach.

  The most devastating handheld weapon is apparently something called the Quake. A miniaturized version of Juliet’s railgun. It’s heavy. Inefficient—you get a total of seven shots, and that’s including the mandatory mini-nuke backpack. But it does allow an unarmored soldier the chance to take down something as large as a flesh-tower. Maybe even one of the leviathans I saw on the cult island.

  Plissken says you can fire a Quake round through fifty feet of concrete and still give fuckers on the other side something to worry about.

  It’s a serious skullcracker.

  He says, “But let’s be serious. What is it that’s really, really fun about the monstrous parasite apocalypse?”

  I get a brief twelve-year-old boner. “Riding...riding in giant goddamn motherfuckin fuckoff robot suits?”

  Squee!

  Plissken says, “Yes indeed, my violent friend.”

  Squee!

  Me and DeVille stop next to Plissken at the end of the weapons racks.

  The warehouse stretches farther back. Maybe a hundred feet of seemingly empty space. Then there’s two big industrial doors. Fifty feet tall. Thirty feet wide apiece. Looks like the business end of an assembly line.

  Plissken says, “Since you asked about some of the nitty-gritty, here it is: Every citizen is allowed their choice of synthetic cotton clothing. Shops inside the walls then take these and work them with dyes. When a set of clothing is presented with enough wear and tear—or a child has grown out of them—new clothing options are issued. Anyone required to work outside the camp walls, like farmers or engineers at Logan Airport, where we store our military craft, are given another option: a carbon-mesh suit very much like yours.” Plissken dips his forecurve to me. “Spartans wear carbon-mesh under their power armor—which Caleb predictably designed based off the Brotherhood of Steel from the Fallout video games.” He bobs. A shrug. “It does the job for at-risk infantry. Saves lives. And it’s immune to all but repeated bashing from flesh-towers. But—” He turns to DeVille. “It wasn’t until Alpha arrived that we could produce the good stuff.”

  If Plissken was human, I’m sure he’d be looking smug as hell.

  Since he ain’t, he just leaves the thought hanging.

  Till the titanic doors start to spread.

  Light pours from em.

  Heavy metal pussies giving birth.

  I can dig it.

  Prep for murderboner.

  Two big shadows emerge from the light. Forty feet tall. Humanoid in shape. Strong legs and arms and beefy torsos. Smaller heads covered in armor. No glass. Nothing that can be broken.

  Sleek metal on metal.

  Plissken says, “I’d like to introduce you both to Bonnie and Clyde.”

  There are no obvious differences between em. Other than the names painted up their sides and across their chests. Their chests and armor are a digital-camo black. There’s grey trim between the obvious plates.

  The two metal beasts stand there. Waiting. Inanimate right now, but looking so ready to murder and maim and destroy. Bodies like gods.

  Murderboner locked in.

  DeVille’s mouth is caught mid-vowel. Then she shuts it. Says, “Holy fuckin shit, Plissken. What’d you make here?”

  “As usual, I’m saving your stupid species. Mostly so they can take care of mine.” He pauses. “These are Talos-class warframes. Not just armor. Not just AI-powered mechs. They’re genetically linked to you—their operators—by a neural network. Only you can use them. But if you aren’t within reach, they will respond to a distress signal—and kill everything in their way to retrieve you.” He floats between me and DeVille. “I mean that. Be careful.”

  I say, “So they’re like dogs?”

  Plissken says, “If you think forty tons of metal powered by twin nuclear—not mini-nuke—power plants is dog-like, then sure. But that would also mean you’re a stupid idiot.”

  “So...like...really big nuclear dogs. Instead. Is what I mean.”

  Plissken sighs. “You’re both depressing me with your goofy faces. Can you just get in the goddamn amazing machines I made for you?”

  Me and DeVille walk forward. Our warframes stare down at us. These great hulks. Just waiting to meet their pilots.

  I stop at one of Clyde’s huge feet. Scratch my head. “Where’s the uh... How the hell do we get in, exactly?”

  Plissken sighs. “I refuse to believe that you’ve never watched anime.”

  “Uh—” I snap my fingers. “Oh! Back of the neck?”

  DeVille looks at me like I farted.

  I say, “What? What?! C’mon, Evangelion is cool.”

  She licks her lips. Shakes her head at me. “You’re a goddamn nerd.”

  “And you’re the one having sex with me.”

  Touché... I guess.

  We step onto a lift between the two big industrial doors. Get carried to a catwalk above the armory floor.

  DeVille nods to me. Heads right, where the nape of Bonnie’s neck meets the catwalk. A red beam flashes over her. Then the back of Bonnie’s neck opens. Turns into a little set of stairs for DeVille to climb on in with.

  Clyde does the same for me after a brief scan. I meander down into his (I know, I know, it’s a sexless robot, but gimme a break here on the pronoun thing) throat. Then step up into his skull.

  A voice alarmingly like Vincent Price’s from Thriller speaks to me. Says, “Welcome, pilot. Please strap yourself into the harness so that we can begin. It won’t hurt. I promise.”

  Before I can yell a quip or a shriek to Plissken outside, the stairs seal themselves back in. And all I’ve got is a cramped room with glowing holographic consoles. At the center is something like an exoskeleton affixed to a pole that runs from the ceiling to the floor.

  I grimace. Light a cigarette.

  The exosuit follows the contours of my body. Rather, it conforms itself to me. Strips of metal where the bones should be. The arms end in light gloves. The legs terminate in big loafers I can stick my boots into. Wires all along it. Sensors, I guess.

  I settle myself in. Feel the gloves tighten after I shift the American Spirit from hand to hand. Feel a thin mesh come down over my head like a cap.

  Clyde says in his kinda creepy Vincent Price voice, “Are you ready for the neural bridge? Please remember that the process is permanent. No other pilot will be able to use this machine after you accept.”

  I tuck the smoke between my lips. “Let’s do it.”

  And then...

  Plissken, you fuck.

  Clyde’s nerve spikes punch into me. All near where Alpha’s were. Sure. Near. But not quite on target. So I get a fresh set of holes in my body to match the other ones.

  Along my arms. Legs. My goddamn spine.

  I scream. Grit my teeth. Bite my American Spirit in half.

  My vision goes white for a flash. But it’s not like it was with Jade inside Alpha. Clyde isn’t a mind. Isn’t human. So there’s no baggage to talk to. No personality. No attitude.

  Just a blink.

  Can’t tell if that’s good or bad yet.

  I miss Jade.

  Clyde says, “Neural bridge complete.”

  Now there are no more consoles inside. There’s no inside inside
.

  I see everything as Clyde, with faint digital ghosts overlayed to represent what my actual arms are doing inside the cockpit. My cigarette appears as an enormous, wire-frame stogie between Clyde’s fingers. I put it to my lips. Inhale.

  Yep.

  Smoke’s still there.

  I look to my right. Watch DeVille stride inside Bonnie. She waves me over. I hear DeVille’s voice as though she’s next to me: “Try walking, cowboy.”

  So I do.

  Walking is easy. It’s...exactly like walking. One foot in front of the other.

  Little wobbly, maybe, but still.

  Plissken did a damn fine job.

  He floats between me and DeVille. Bobs. Flares his thrusters.

  Seems damn happy.

  He says, “Excellent. Excellent.” In between scanning us. “I am so proud of you two.”

  I shrug Clyde’s big shoulders. “Glad to hear it.”

  Plissken spins to face me. “I was talking to Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “Love you too, bud.”

  “I’m messing with you. You and DeVille are excellent pilots.” He zips over to the wall to the right of the big industrial doors. “Follow me, please.” Faces a red sensor near the ceiling of the armory warehouse.

  What follows is a series of boops and beeps and Plissken does his thing. Then a giant section of the wall folds in. Slides apart. Reveals a long tunnel that’s at least as tall and wide as the armory. Whole thing lit by faint-blue LEDs.

  Plissken says, “This is the passageway I work with the other robots. It stretches from under the camp all the way to the western wall. It’s ‘our’ section, I suppose you could say.”

  Me and DeVille march side-by-side behind Plissken. There are a hundred robots down here. More, probably. Spherical. Bipedal. Rectangular. Saucer-shaped like Plissken. All rolling. Walking. Floating. And they’re working on shit. Building. Refining. Fixing each other. Taking scraps and building each other up. Taking scraps and reinforcing the strong beams that help keep the camp standing.

  I see a group of small bots take apart, then reassemble one of their own. They don’t talk. They just flurry around each other.