Down Jersey Driveshaft

by William J. Jackson

  We have liftoff.

  Propeller makes hollow, sloshing sounds as it flings off water. But now Benny sees sky coming at him, sweet, perfect sky. He takes a good two minutes to survey the area, get his bearings, feel glad to be alive.

  First thing in his wet line of sight? The ungodly antenna, finger discs curled as if it's taking hold of the atmosphere. Now that survival is over, the anger of a warrior is free to take hold.

  Got, what, eight rockets left? Yeah. Mama's hungry? Well, let's not disappoint her. Open wide, big girl!

  In quick succession, HVAR's flutter free on wiggly trails. Only one misses. Seven plumes of destruction kiss the antenna, four at various fingers, three along the twisted wrist.

  "Woohoo!" Milkman flies close by as a squawk comes through the radio.

  "Benny? Is that you over Pea Patch?"

  "Crank!" Sweet God, thank you! "It's me, out of ammo and worse for wear but man is it great to hear--"

  "I'm with Roy and three others. We're at Fort Mott studying this thing Motherville made. Oh no."

  "Oh no what?" Bad enough the possibility of prying ears killed the reunion, but now...

  He sees the object of worry, and knows, simply knows it's what his doll was speaking of. The antenna, in all of it's ugliness, remains. Not a crack in the frame, or even a scratch on the paint, if it is indeed painted.

  "I fired at it, Crank. Seven booms, dead on and nothing! I'm spent here. Gonna land at the fort and put our heads together on this one."

  "Where are Corporal Wilkes and the others? Did you get them?"

  Shoot! Crank on the brain and Motherville's cockroach ubiquity clogged his thinking. "Right! We got them, and an LSM with tanks coming your way. Guess it could dock at the Fort's pier. But they've got Slick trouble."

  "Benny, you have to get them here. We need the tanks so we can storm the island and take it back. Have them dock over there and we'll take the road Motherville constructed."

  Sigh. No ammunition. Out of rockets. Seems at every turn moving the war ahead rests on the shoulders of the Brown Bear.

  "Right. You're right. I'm on my way. Haskins out." He switches frequency. "Turner? This is Haskins. You guys evade the Slicks, over?"

  ...

  "Turner, this is Haskins. Are you exiting the Christina River, over?"

  Gut churns again. This is not good. Benny barrels toward the meeting of two rivers.

  Now, where the heck is that ship?

  Wilkes wears out his welcome on the thirty-seven mill gun, and drops down to handle the bigger, badder seventy. He bangs his helmet on the slide down but makes out fine. So far, he's eliminated one Slick. Not bad considering he represents the sole line of defense on the ship. The three bigwigs are on the bridge, thinking a way out, best he can tell.

  As the damaged bots make another pass, scuffing the formidable hull, Wilkes' eye catches a welcome sight by his left knee. It's a handle:

  WALKER MODE

  He tests the handle. Seems to go forward, so he gives it a heave-ho. CLANK. Wilkes gets goosebumps on his arms. The M2 leans forward before it rocks back, then up. The engine snarls and chugs, shifting gears. Wilkes sees the deck go out of view. Now, he sees up and over the deck. There's a circular outlet near, like the one in the Helldiver. He plugs the cord of his helmet into it.

  In the corner lens, he sees two differing views of the sky. Clouds in the left view and Slicks turning around. Cloudless and without combatants in the right corner. Lenses need polishing, and understanding. What is...?

  He finds the huge seventy-mil gun has shifted to the tank's right shoulder, a great movement he barely noticed. Slicks return, he fires away. Emboldened by the robotic form, he charges up to meet them, firing ahead of their flight paths. Boom! One down. Boom! Five more follow until another foe is nicked. Dull pings tap the tank armor, giving Wilkes mire bravado.

  "Can't get me, can you? But, I can get you!"

  Slicks passing over show up as going away in the right corner lens. Ah. An eye in the back of my head, is it? Heh. I may have to change careers.

  Slicks bank for the fifth run. One falls into the river having expended its fuel. One hit in the back swivels off into the sunset. One remains on course, but doesn't fire on the strafe.

  The last thing it records is a fist of titanium, broad as a man's torso, punching the computer brain out if its head.

  Victory.

  Carson Wilkes sees the day, the year, finally on an upswing. He even motivates the tank to knock off a salute.

  "Communications are being jammed." Zafra notes on the complex, cluttered bridge of the LSM, "but I believe we have enough here to piggyback off of Motherville's antenna system." She makes adjustments to a dozen dials and components while talking.

  Roscoe Turner has spent precious little time out in the world since becoming the go-to-man for Special Technologies. He'd love nothing more than to sail on to the Atlantic, breeze on his face. But there's always something: Reds, Nazis, Japanese. Motherville. "Roger that, Doctor. We are three hundred yards from the Delaware River."

  Gray studies the central console, a three-foot screen of electronic dots and an indicator swinging clockwise. "Only one blip on the RADAR."

  Zafra is more alarmed by one than a squadron. "One? Is it a Slick or Traveler Haskins?" She forgets her work and runs to the nearest pane of glass. "I don't see...wait. Look!"

  All eyes glance right. The Hand stands mighty, smoke trails leaving from it, as if the Hand is a colander, sifting black flour. An aircraft arcs their way, its engine blaring.

  "I think it is Haskins, but the antenna! I think he bombed it but--"

  Turner cuts her off. "We can't afford to fall apart now, Doctor. Get the radio operational and contact Chief Fish. Tell him it's all or nothing today."

  Milkman buzzes over the imprisoned island, circles, and does it again. Turner studies the charcoal texture of the metal bands intertwining around the island. Each strand he estimates to be twelve feet thick. Organic comes to mind. Only the pier is free from its corralling influence. "I have a feeling She wants us to dock there. Gray, I'll bring us up port side. Go down and prep the thirty-eight caliber and stand by."

  "Are you sure about this?" Zafra bites her worn down fingernails. Turner leaves the conn for a second, gives her arm a rub.

  "Focus on your job. It's arguably the most important. Get in touch with Fish, then Roy Fuse and Haskins. We need continuous contact, and a way to get into our enemy's head for a change. Okay?"

  She nods, stares, and gets back to work. Microphone button is pressed as she places the headphones to her ear. "Chief Fish, this is Dee-Ee-One-Seven-Ex calling on secure frequency. Come in..."

  Crank sees it. From the fort, the Hand looms, a nightmarish Colossus of Rhodes. Fort Delaware, relic of the Civil War, is hard to discern behind alien barbed wire. Its dominance appears nigh impenetrable.

  No. Buck Rogers pulls through every week, and so will we.

  It's hard to tell if the time effect is making her think of old things. ST has kept her so busy, Crank hasn't read any science fiction in almost two years. Right now, there's no need. Science beyond reality and tangible fiction are right before her weary eyes.

  The design is nearly artistic. Is this another step in her advancement? Should I even care? We came to wipe her out, so what good is understanding her? No. I have to understand. Not for her. For me. It's who I am.

  Her brain can't find an external solution. Rockets did nothing outside, so going in is the only option. The road Motherville built leading to the mainland--

  Like an invitation...why would she do such a thing?

  After driving here at a meager twenty miles an hour while Park's fighter jogged (loudly) next to La Donna, Crank spent the first twenty minutes sealing cables on the battered slate Airacobra and scavenging debris with Roy for salvageable parts. Fuse wants to build a signal blind, some device to keep the enemy off of their airwaves and out of their heads. She gets the concept, not the specs. But rest assured, she'll le
arn.

  Delvin Parks is grateful and eager for battle, his last victory makes for a flawless boost to morale the more he dwells on it. Even Thurman and Jake, having scoured the battlefield, add hefty M9 explosives and a Remington shotgun to their arsenals. Roy keeps a shotgun on a strap at his back. Hell or high water, those who remain will go down fighting.

  A landscape full of fallen brothers in pieces, eviscerated equipment brings to Crank's mind a sickening Dadaist collage. Motherville towers over the scene of her triumph.

  Noi sopravviveremo, prostituta. What more do you want from us? All of our essence? Will you drain all of Down Jersey, this country, the world? Don't you know greed is bad? Or, where you come from, is greed all there is?

  "Crank, I think I've got it!" Fuse's call pulls the mechanic out of her mental query.

  "Yes? What do you have?" Pushing back blowing hair, returning the ST cap snug on her head, Crank wanders over to Roy. Under what remains of a camouflage netting, a few tables weighed down by durable field radios and such. Fuse has an array of scrap and new parts from a surviving crate, everything wired together in a bizarre tangle. Roy is back and forth, checking connections, setting out small units of metal wrapped in aluminum foil.

  "Wireless connections?" Crank takes up a foil wrap. She gets it right away, slipping a piece over her ear. "Heh. Tickles. Trying to keep us in touch and not tied down by wires?"

  "Hmm?" Fuse is too much in his own head. "Um, yes. No! First I have to put those into signal boosters...frequency scrambler...keep Motherville out of our discussions. if you don't mind, grab that headset and insert the piece, please."

  She does, removing the rubber seal from the left earphone and placing the wrap within. Foil left over is twirled about and pushed into the lining of the set. Crank gets a kick out of the dual antennae on the headsets, walking stick looking things. "We are going to look so amazing in these!" She puts on the set, and beams.

  Fuse faces her, does the angry father face, stiff muscles and folded arms. "Young lady, we are in a serious...well, I suppose we will have a little Tom Swift about us going into this battle." Anger softens, ripens even to a fine smile. "Do you think they got remodulated or killed?"

  Crank stiffens. "Killed? Remod--? Who?" Chills slow her blood.

  Fuse points a tool in the direction of the black barred isle. "On the way here I tried to absorb as much as I could of defensive structures. Fort Delaware may be from the Civil War, and its guns and wiring removed, but I recall a coast artillery battalion being there. I assume they didn't escape in time." Down goes the head.

  The chill becomes an ice age. The last thing Crank wants is to fight more remodulateds. The fight in Millville cuts into her thinking, the night of frigid rain and lifeless men. Bobby. Salem. Why can't it just be robots?

  Take it on the chin!

  Crank digs down to find the Amazon within. "Well," she whispers, eyeing the island, "we'll make sure no one suffers any longer." She knows it comes off cold, heartless. Then again, Crank realizes maybe it isn't the Amazon warrior coming out, but Benjamin Haskins having gotten in.

  There!

  Benny takes sight of X, and the slender vessel has only minimal damage. He brings Milkman down and around, icicle fingers managing to jiggle the stick with deftness. Benny focuses on how the old girl eases into maneuvers, while a sneaking question creeps up the ladder of his conscious.

  What the heck is that noise?

  Clenching his jaw on the bend to hint for X to dock at Pea Patch reveals the answer. Clench. No noise. Relaxing his mouth...chattering.

  Man, it's freezing!

  Without a cockpit hatch, having taken a dip in the Delaware has drenched the Bear. He hears water sloshing at his feet. A glance down shows water drops have frosted on the leather jacket, pants, even the blood on his bandage is stiff and pale. How did he not notice he was becoming a popsicle?

  Okay, one more lap...

  Awareness brings on the frost in full. Now the biceps shiver, knees want to knock together. Cold brings pain, but he pushes through the second lap, sees The LSM alters course toward the island before Benny throws in the towel.

  I'm spent. Headed for Fort Mott. One of those vehicle blazes from the firefight is gonna warm these bones. Hmm. That doesn't sound right.

  He takes a broad figure eight to fly beyond the fort before circling back and around, beyond the fortifications and rows of vacant soldier barracks now afire. He witnesses where Motherville's insane road leads and makes a mental note. Legs drop with more squeal than he's comfortable with, but he cuts the engine to glide in. Wings angled down along with the propeller ring to cushion the impact. No matter how cold, he lands the plane in one hop, two skips and a slide. The literal cracking of frozen clothing and bones on getting up and out proves disturbing and hurtful.

  The climb down, even with the legs lowered, is an event. But Benny jogs for the nearest burning house, removes his gloves and stands close enough to choke on ebony smoke. Who cares?

  Heat. Heat. Heat!

  He cracks his back and allows a roar of pain. Hearty warmth soothes better than a fine meal in the stomach as ashes flutter about Benny, as wooden planks crackle.

  A yell from the comatose sky ruins the mood.

  "Haskins? Is that you, Traveler Haskins?"

  Benny sours right quick. Several yards away sits an observation tower painted black. The unknown voice who called out now has a lean body in olive drab, zooming down the clanking stairs. While this GI approaches, Benny embraces more flame.

  "Traveler Haskins!" The guy, a kid really, salutes in haste. "Private Thurman Willis! Honor to meet you, sir! Me and Private Goldman found one of your robot planes earlier! They sure are exciting!"

  Benny takes him in, a close examination. Kid is all jumped up on battle fever. He sees worlds of hope in the kid, a face flush with the expectation that Benny will utter words both grand and inspirational.

  "He alive or dead?"

  Thurman's face makes like a sinkhole. "Ur, alive, sir. Delvin Parks is his name. Flies a Pee-Thirty-Nine Airacobra. It's on the other side of the fort."

  "Saw a cemetery, not too far from here. The road she made cuts into it."

  "She, sir?"

  Benny pushes from the fire. "Motherville. Where is Mechanic Cra--Musa?"

  "By the river, sir. She and the Japanese fellow are concocting a way for us to talk without the enemy hearing us."

  "Good, good. Take me--" A further collapse of the building motivates the two men to back away. But it's the fallout, a smoldering skull breaking away from what was once a young man now burned to death, this gets their goat. The skull rests in a hump of embers, the presence of it emitting the power of brutal remembrance. Every lost love comes back to Benny. Parents, war buddies, civilians. Little children in a French town with a forgettable name but unforgettable faces. One day, vivacious. The next, intangible elements, lost or dehumanized. Guilt rides side-saddle with these flashbacks. He warmed himself on this man's bones, the bed or desk he must have been slaughtered in or working at or praying beside. So many faces come and go in the War, and the next war, and God forbid the next war...

  "Why don't I...take you to her right now?" Thurman tugs at Benny's sleeve.

  "Yeah. Yeah, kid. You do that." Haskins tags along. His eyes, they never look away from the house that was.

  X makes a minor wake as it drops anchor two feet from the dock at pea Patch Island. It rests for ten minutes while Turner, Zafra and Gray put binoculars to no use.

  "Can't see anything. These bands, these girders, i don't even know how to describe them." Turner strains the most to take in something, anything worth gaining informative data off of. But they may as well be looking at the depths of outer space.

  "Curious," Doctor Zafra keeps to science. It steadies her nerves. "The black absorbs all light. Not a hint of reflection. Nothing like it. It is as if the sunlight is continually absorbed. But where is it going? Into her power plant, or the world she hails from? They give the feeling of--un
reality."

  Traveler Gray lowers his binoculars for a second. "Feels?" He grunts. Perhaps a woman of science expressing what lay before them in emotional terms is an oxymoron to him. But to completely dismiss her would be to ignore the fact that he came to the same conclusion. Best to keep quiet and stare at her in disbelief for a minute.

  The great barrier Motherville erected is more abominable up close. While she left an archway along the dock made of bent thorns and ends broken off leading along the barren dirt track towards the fort, it is the individual bands that make the onlookers from the top deck of X squeamish.

  "Are they...?"

  "Yes," Turner doesn't want to agree with the doctor, but studious observation of them has only confirmed their eyes are working right. "Each band of metal, if they are metal, is...moving."

  Gray feels sick to his stomach. "Squirming is more like it. See?" He pauses longer than it takes for the other two to nod in agreement, because an already nonsensical scenario is becoming harder to comprehend. "While they remain stationary as a whole, there are definite part of each that, bulge, for lack of a better word, out and then compress. Like a, like--"

  "A serpent swallowing prey?" Doctor Zafra swallows hard after asking. "Then what is it, taking in?"

  Turner gets a leg up on the railing, hoists up the pant leg. "Maybe it isn't taking anything in, but bringing material out. As in, more of itself."

  The squirms bring their own sounds, baritone grumblings, the bottom of a cauldron banged by an elephant's trunk. These groans occur offbeat, twelve to forty at a time, making the entire little island sound as if it is in its death throes. Their intertwined nature, the unnatural din, feels as if Earth, older than memory, older than Man, has at last fallen prey to a masterful predator.

  "What if it has no size limit?"

  Roscoe Turner focuses on his colleagues. "That, Doctor, is not a question I want to have to answer. Ever."

  Chapter Twenty Eight: Straight to the Island Runaway Debacle