The Medida War

by Pat Mills

  "Right," said Hammerstein as he approached MD. "You bootleg."

  He savagely opened fire with everything he had. His humiliation drove him into a killing frenzy. Both his heavy hip artillery blazed death. And the machine guns that formed his three "navels." Rockets erupted from his left wrist. His head laser and chest mortars also added to the death chorus. As well as his anti-aircraft weapons, his "horns" swivelled round to fire with the others. As did the heavy machine gun he held in his left hand.

  "The path of true love is not an easy one," leered Mass Destruction. He had enjoyed watching Hammerstein suffer at the hands of his friends. It fed that miserable part of his character that gave him the nickname Manic Depressive and enabled him to perform his role as a gloomy Russian spy to perfection. He probably also suffered from SADS. But the time for depression was over.

  It was time to get manic.

  MD didn't give as good as he got. He gave better. A lot better. Hoodwink's original idea had been for MD to join the ABC Warriors in the guise of NKVD in order to learn the robots' plans. When her application was turned down, he implemented his back-up scheme - for MD to form a close friendship with Hammerstein. As Hoodwink said, only he could fool all of the people all of the time. Not that Hammerstein revealed any secrets directly. There was no way he would ever have betrayed his comrades.

  But it was easy enough when Hammerstein's guard was down for MD to send in a mind probe that picked his brain. So he now knew all the weaknesses, idiosyncrasies and vulnerabilities of the ABC Warriors. The places where he could strike hard and immobilise them. The places only Hammerstein knew about. Until now.

  Thus in the case of Mongrol, the mongrel-like combination of several robot "breeds," he was structurally top heavy, which meant he had to walk on his heavy power paws. A detailed scan showed his left arm had a hydraulic cable exposed which, if cut, would immobilise it and consequently throw Mongrol off balance.

  The probe showed that Blackblood's peg leg was not a weakness, but an affectation. He enjoyed dragging a road drill around, and he enjoyed using it even more. If there had been a robot parrot available to sit on his shoulder, he might have had one too. But he had one flaw that went back to the time when he was forcibly recruited into the ABC Warriors. A shot by Joe Pineapples had pierced his brain cavity and subsequent surgery had ostensibly reprogrammed him. The wound had long since been plated over, but it was not as bulletproof as the rest of Blackblood's head armour. And this fault had been overlooked in subsequent refits.

  Hammerstein's fault was his tank track boots. These gave him a fantastic grip that enabled him to cross any terrain, but running with tracked feet put an enormous strain on the tracks, so they constantly needed replacing. MD realised if he destroyed a track, he would be able to slow Hammerstein down considerably.

  Hammerstein had also holes for two additional arms under his armpits. Hammerstein would still occasionally use them if there was heavy lifting to be done, but he normally left that to Mongrol. This was because he felt rather uncomfortable and less than humanoid going around with four arms. Although both arm sockets were sealed, they were not as armoured as the rest of Hammerstein.

  Armed with this valuable data, MD went into the attack with the certain knowledge that, this time, he would be triumphant. Any bookie would have made him the odds-on favourite, too.

  While Deadlock fought with Snnktts, Joe pursued Seraph through the bottling plant. The president's Special Adviser kept ducking and diving behind machinery, then firing back beams of power from his ancestral staff which cremated everything in its path.

  Then there was the Atomic, Bacterial and Chemical Warfare-proof Warrior, who just kept on coming through the flames. The memory of what Seraph had done to Juanita was uppermost in his mind as he ran after Rosesand.

  "Look, I've always had the greatest respect for the achievements of the ABC Warriors," Hoodwink called back. "We shouldn't be on opposite sides. It's just the callous way you treated humans that got me so mad."

  Joe closed in on him, his sensors homing in on the heat shape of Rosesand.

  "You were great once, you could be again with my help. Can't we make a deal?"

  "No deals," said Joe.

  "But is that the decision of you all? Bear in mind you are only one of the ABC Warriors. Maybe they'll feel differently?"

  "But I'm the one who is here," said Joe as he finally cornered Hoodwink.

  "With respect-" said Seraph.

  "With my Magnum Macho 3000," corrected Joe.

  "Wait!"

  "No."

  "Listen."

  "No."

  "Please?"

  "Two seconds."

  "I-I realise you don't think much of me."

  "That's an understatement."

  "And you've given me a great deal to think about."

  "Give me the Cliff notes version. You're about to die."

  Joe raised his rifle for the execution shot.

  "Okay, and I accept that I'm going to die. But do you mind if I have a drink of neuropeptide-A? So I can be brave enough to face my end?"

  Joe didn't really see why he should. How much mercy, how much humanity had Hoodwink shown Juanita? On the other hand, if he didn't grant the condemned man's last request, he was bringing himself down to Hoodwink's level.

  Normally, this wouldn't have concerned Joe. As an experienced hit man, his philosophy was "shoot first and have a moral debate later." However, in the back of his mind now, was the way Juanita perceived him: as a Knight of the Red Planet. Her lion.

  "Go ahead."

  Hoodwink took a swig from a can and burbled nervously "Of course no one else thinks as badly of me. Not the way you do. They don't think I'm the scrapings at the bottom of a biol tank. Perhaps they just wanted to keep on the right side of me."

  This was understandable, although Hoodwink's right side was almost as loathsome as his left.

  "Okay, you asked for it," he suddenly snarled viciously. He reached into his cloak and hurled a canister of contaminated air at Joe.

  As an ABC Warrior, Joe was theoretically immune to any bacteria and chemical warfare known to Man.

  But not known to Martian.

  And the flask contained the source of the Red Death, where it was strongest. Consequently, it sought out Joe's fears, his deepest primal fears.

  It didn't find the Phage, the alien life form that could eat through any known substance like a mouse through cheese. It was the fear underneath the Phage, deep in Joe's subconscious, that was disguised by it.

  The fear he dare not face.

  The fear of the nanobots.

  Tiny robots, eating his metal flesh. Turning him into metal goo. Grey, mindless sludge.

  And as the fear entered his mind, so his arm started to rot. His face became a mess of molten metal. And he began aimlessly repeating "S4, N & V, A1," his earliest machine code language as the virus seethed through his brain.

  "With respect, I think you're over the hill, old robot," spat Hoodwink. He, of course, was safe from fear, thanks to drinking the Right Stuff.

  Meanwhile, Snnktts and Deadlock were locked in a titanic and occult battle. The Sirian fired a claw through the air at Deadlock, with a sound not unlike his name. The moment the claw left his hand, another instantly replaced it.

  Deadlock's body separated into two halves so the claw passed harmlessly between them. Hammerstein would have said it had something to do with electro-magnetism, but both Deadlock and Snnktts knew better. Then the robot wizard pointed the Ace of Swords at Snnktts and a jet of black light shot towards the entity. He'd formed a dimensional aura around himself and the light simply bounced off.

  Snnktts fired three more of his lethal claws. Deadlock vanished to avoid them. He then reappeared behind the amphibian, but had two of the claws stuck in him. He brought his sword down on the alien but once more the dimensional aura held. Snnktts fired two more claws into Deadlock.

  The wizard was now visibly slowing down as he struck again, and again without effe
ct. "I knew I should have bathed the blade in moonlight for three nights," he muttered angrily to himself.

  He had three of Morrigun's pentangs and although he was not an expert in the art of nekra-chi like she was, he threw the evil spitting stars now. They broke through the shield and continued to find fissures or cracks or openings in Snnktts' body. They found some vulnerable spots and slashed right into them. This seemed to cause the alien some minor discomfort as what appeared to be blood spilled from the wounds. Especially from the two that were stuck in his eyes. Snnktts retaliated by firing three more claws. One of them caught Deadlock in the throat.

  It was on occasions like this - faced with overwhelming odds - that Deadlock would have normally employed that most sublime of defensive weapons: a really swift pair of legs. He didn't believe in fighting to the last nut and bolt. He would rather run off so he could prepare some new occult way of dealing with Snnktts. Unfortunately this was not possible either. He was far too slow and a further two claws impaled him. Deadlock fell to the ground and the Sirian leaped on top of him, pinning him to the ground with his overwhelming bulk and weight.

  Deadlock desperately tried scattering some Dragon's teeth seeds in Snnktts's wounds. As they drank the blood, they instantly grew into long, scalpel-like teeth, tearing through the alien's flesh, ripping it in a dozen places.

  Making a strange sound which might possibly have been a snarl, Snnktts drove an eighth claw into Deadlock.

  Running out of ideas, the wizard retaliated with a psychic attack. He released the kind of monstrosities that had been used in the psychic shield at the Red House. But although they looked suitably horrific and were equipped with lots of teeth and claws and acid, it was all rather superficial and had little effect on the demon.

  Snnktts drove his ninth claw into the robot wizard's prone body. Deadlock started to go into psychic meltdown and began rambling, "Pick a card, any card! Just like that! Abracadabra! Shazam! Open Sesame! Goodbye! TTFN!"

  Desperately he tried to focus, to reboot himself. He remembered the golden rule of Khaos: "Not to handle it, but to let it handle you." In other words to trust in the dark forces that he followed. He reinserted the formula of Khaos into his brain: X squared + C = X. An expression of permanent and ever evolving change that never repeats itself. The whole process took less than a third of a second, but it was still too late.

  Now Deadlock saw the chilling meaning of the tarot card showing the Ten of Swords, the knight impaled by ten blades. When the alien impaled him with his tenth claw, he would be dead. Snnktts drew back his arm/tentacle for the kill.

  "Goodbye, Deadlock," he said conversationally.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Medusa had still not received a reply from the aliens of Earth about her ultimatum. Therefore she continued with her plans at the Sunset Motor Company. The new vehicles she had created over the last three years were now tested, ready and waiting for action.

  Under conditions of the greatest secrecy, late one night, their drivers had arrived in a series of unmarked trucks. They were now testing out their machines. Fred Ravine heard some strange sounds coming from Area 66 as they put the vehicles through their paces.

  They lived in their own barracks in Area 66 and, like Mr Le Guerre's other people, didn't seem to eat biol, even though the pipeline had an offshoot leading to the factory. In fact they didn't seem to eat any kind of food.

  But, every morning an unmarked tanker arrived at the factory gates and went into Area 66. One day, after a leakage, Fred realised what the tanker contained.

  He couldn't let this new discovery go, so he went to see Mr Le Guerre in the Botwright's managing director's office.

  "Come in, Fred. Always glad to see you. How's the girlfriend?" smiled the Mephistopheles lookalike, leaning back in Mr Brian Botwright's old chair.

  "Very well, thank you, Mr Le Guerre."

  "Good. I'm pleased to hear it. Now what can I do for you, Fred?"

  "It's about these tankers."

  "Yes, Fred."

  "Well, they're carrying blood."

  "Yes."

  "May I ask why?"

  "No."

  "I see."

  "Good. Is that all?" Mr Le Guerre began packing some papers away into his attachÈ case.

  "Well, no, look, I'm a bit concerned. Why are daily shipments of blood being delivered to the factory? And what kind of blood is it? It's not human blood?"

  "Okay, Fred," smiled Mr Le Guerre. "I guess it's time I levelled with you. I know I can trust you."

  "Absolutely, sir."

  "And I can rely on your absolute discretion?"

  "You may."

  "Okay. We are doing some secret government research work in Area 66. That's where the blood comes in."

  "Ah."

  "Now you're probably wondering what kind of research, what it has to do with Striders, and where the blood comes in."

  "Just a bit."

  "The truth is, I can't tell you that, Fred. You haven't got security clearance."

  "Right. I understand."

  "All I can say, Fred, is that we're engaged in vital work for the future of this planet. And if you love Mars, you will keep this matter entirely to yourself."

  "I understand, sir. Thank you very much, sir."

  "Now you're here, Fred, I'd like to introduce you to my manager of special operations."

  Steelhorn rumbled in.

  "This is Steelhorn. He'll be taking over from me now."

  "You're leaving us, sir?"

  "Yes, I have other important assignments elsewhere. But I leave the factory in his capable hands."

  Mr Le Guerre shook hands with Fred for the last time. Again there was that slight smell of mouldy cabbages and marshrooms.

  "It's been a pleasure, Fred," he smiled, and departed.

  "Good morning, Fred," boomed Steelhorn.

  "Good morning, sir."

  The menacing robot didn't seem a particularly appropriate choice of manager to Fred. What could a war machine know about Sunset Boulevards? But he realised he had to adapt to changing times and changing ways. Fred didn't want to become a victim of infolation. Perhaps Steelhorn had people skills and managerial experience he wasn't aware of. The salary Mr Le Guerre was paying Fred helped put his mind at ease, too.

  As Hammerstein fought MD, he also fought with the shame of what he'd done. He'd put the mission, the inhabitants of Mars, even the planet itself in danger through his stupidity. He deserved to lose his stripes for endangering the lives of his companions. He deserved to lose his life. Now he was prepared to go out in a blaze of glory to make up for what he'd done. The mood he was in, he'd have fallen on his sword if he had one. But a hammer was not quite the same. Possibly he could borrow Deadlock's.

  MD decided to save him the trouble. He stamped hard on Hammerstein's right foot, breaking the tank track. Immediately Hammerstein closed in on him and they exchanged a series of savage blows. As they struggled, Hammerstein tripped on the loose tank track. He fell, raising an arm in the air to try and grab hold of something, revealing the exposed empty arm socket. MD fired point-blank into the socket, burning out the chest motor within. Hammerstein crashed back into a holiday poster that read, "Go on. Spoil yourself. Have a wind break."

  During all this, Mongrol had tried to close with MD. He took a mighty swing at the Master of Disguise, missed, and knocked down a wall and a shelf of antique Last Breaths on the other side. Each of them was a valuable collector's item. There was "The Last Breath of Vlad the Baptist," "The Last Breath of the Prophet Ghengiz," "The Last Breath of Mykall the Arch-Angel," complete with feather from his wing, and "Air on a G String" which claimed to be the Last Breath of Marilyn Monroe and came complete with undergarment. All had signed certificates of authenticity.

  MD saw his chance and ripped out the cable in Mongrol's left arm. It froze the robot's massive power paw, but he still had his head gun. MD kicked him in the face with such ferocity that it twisted the gun barrel, rendering it useless. His chest battery of four g
uns swung round to open fire but MD dragged an inert Hammerstein in front of him, so Mongrol dared not fire for fear of killing his comrade. MD had no such difficulty. He subjected Mongrol to a devastating barrage.

  The thought that Hammerstein might die and that he would no longer be able to torment him with jibes about the time he dated Mass Destruction was of great concern to Blackblood. Hammerstein must be saved at all costs. Never had Blackblood fought so valiantly. "Nobody messes with my buddy Ham," he said unconvincingly as he blasted Mass Destruction with his sub-machine guns.

  Meanwhile, Hammerstein had switched to his reserve motor and was back in the fight. He was so taken aback by Blackblood's intervention that he was almost unable to deliver another hammer blow. But the blow after that was delivered with sufficient force to flatten a car. It didn't do much to Mass Destruction, but it was a start. Mongrol grabbed hold of an air compressor that guaranteed "Hurricane Annie" and gave MD full blast.

  Mek-Quake, who had been waiting outside, could contain himself no longer. He burst into the shop. "Let's burn a large one!" he roared. Now the phrase had percolated into his tiny brain and he understood its meaning. He liked to use the Biohazard Troops' war cries as often as possible, even though previously they had been incomprehensible to him. Stupidity was next to godliness with Mek-Quake.

  "Come on!" he cried as he ran right over Mass Destruction. "Let's rule the school!" Then he went into reverse and ran over MD again. "Put this freak under heavy manners!"

  But Mass Destruction knew where Mek-Quake's weakness was too - apart from the obvious weak spot in his head. It was a certain place in his undercarriage. MD grabbed hold of Mek-Quake by his underparts and squeezed. The half-wit robot howled with pain as MD hurled him up into the air, partly upending the killdozer. Staggering to his feet and looking somewhat the worse for wear, especially with Mek-Quake's tank track marks running down his body, MD subjected all four robots to a furious barrage of rockets and other artillery.