by Andy Remic
“Zoot? Zoot! Wake up!” But the machine continued to lie still, unmoving, without life. “Shit and buggery.”
Then, from the corner of his peripheral vision, Svool caught a movement. Feeling the need for urgent survival creep up over him, he made an effort to show no outward emotion or indication that he’d noticed. He coughed, and rubbed his chin, and tossed back his golden curls, and then at the very last moment - as he felt his nerves jangling like runaway church bells -he leapt up and around with pistol outstretched and shaking in both hands.
“A-ha!”
The metal horse was grazing just off from the rusted car horseshoe. It lifted its big, sad, disjointed head and stared at Svool and his shaking pistol, then lowered its head once again and continued to crop at grass and ferns and indeed branches and stones, crunching them to a pulverised dust between its metal teeth.
“Stand still!” commanded Svool.
The horse obeyed, for it was already standing still.
“Don’t move!” he instructed.
And indeed, the horse obeyed, since it took very little jaw movement to chew on grass.
Svool edged closer, finding new bravery in this obedient metal beast doing what it was told even though he knew deep down in his heart it was doing it anyway.
As he edged closer, he actually looked properly at the horse. It was made from what appeared to be hand-beaten panels of different kinds of metal. Some were silver and shining, but most panels were a bronze or copper colour, and some showed streaks of rust. Each panel was a different size and shape, and whereas a skilled engineer could have made the horse look like a well-oiled, well-engineered, kickass fighting machine, in this instance it looked more like it had been bolted and riveted together in somebody’s garden shed.
“Look at you,” muttered Svool, edging yet closer. His gun wavered, and he lowered it, for the horse was obviously just a dumb beast, and not an enemy, and something which had been left behind. Probably by the man whose leg Lumar had broken. Could you ride a horse with a snapped kneecap? Probably not.
The horse lifted its head again and regarded Svool.
Inside it, something went clonk.
Svool looked around, to make sure this whole thing wasn’t a set-up, to make sure he wasn’t about to get a bullet in the back of the skull. Then he shuffled closer. The ugly metal horse lowered its multi-panelled head, the head that looked as if a circus strongman had taken a large sledgehammer to it for a good three or four hours. It was bent and twisted and battered and dented, pitted and corrugated and welded and rusted.
“Well, look at you,” said Svool, and shuffled yet closer.
The horse lifted its head again.
“Neigh,” it said, in a gurgling, gravelled voice, although the word was spoken as a human would speak it, not as a horse would actually neigh. It wasn’t an animal sound; it was a word.
“Who’s a pretty boy, then?” said Svool, for want of something better to say, and patted the metal horse’s neck. There was a hollow reverberating sound, as if he was patting an empty oil tank.
Inside it, something went clank. Then there was a buzzing sound. Then a farting noise.
“They left you behind, have they, boy? Hmm? Poor little old you.” Svool patted the horse’s neck some more, and its head lowered and it chewed its way through a lump of granite with cracks and bangs, showering the dirt with ground stone dust.
In fascination, Svool walked along the beast, trailing his hand over its high shoulder, along its flank, and across its bottom. There was a tail there, made from rusted barbed wire. It swished and flicked. Svool observed the huge, plate-sized hooves, then walked up the other side of the horse, and patted its neck again.
“You’re a fine beast, that’s for sure. It’s a crime they left you behind!” Then a wonderful concept sidled into his brain. “Hey, what do you think of me maybe riding you?”
The horse was chewing a log now. Wood splintered and crackled.
Svool eyed the simple saddle, and, cocking his leg up, got one foot in a stirrup and hoisted himself into the seat.
Svool had never ridden a horse before. In fact, he had never ridden any sort of creature, unless you counted his many, many willing lovers. He recognised that would make a good line for a poem, and filed it away in a mental drawer entitled: Possible Future Poetry Material.
He sat atop the beast, which still placidly chewed on wood, and he bounced in the saddle a couple of times. “Hey, this ain’t so bad! Moderately comfortable. Not so tight on the happy sacks. I’m feeling pretty much in total control, at this rate we can gallop into town and save Lumar! Hurrah!”
There came a very, very soft clunk.
With a whirring sound, the horse’s head lifted up and its legs straightened. Then, with a clicking ratchet sound, the head rotated one hundred and eighty degrees so the creature was staring straight at Svool, with a back-to-front head.
“Neigh,” said the horse.
“Er,” said Svool, licking his lips nervously.
And then, speaking in the voice of a human -possibly the engineer who had created or programmed the metal beast - the horse said, “Congratulations! on your purchase of the DumbMutt v0.3 [MUCH IMPROVED!] special robotic friend. This little special friend will be your friend. A friend for life!! Please find enclosed the instruction manual and ownership deed in a variety of Manna languages, Braille dot, PSI and scent-sensorship.”
“Hey, hold on a minute. The purchase of a what? I didn’t purchase an anything! For a start, I haven’t got any money on me, and even if I did I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be buying a battered, er, bashed, er, hammered-out old rusted...”
The horse stared at him. Svool rolled to a halt. The horse continued.
“As you listen to this, a genetic sample is being taken from your buttock area by a saddle prick and relayed digitally to the DumbMutt’s brain. He is now yours. He will never, ever leave your side. He is forthwith electronically registered to your individual and personal DNA coding and as such will follow you FOREVER and TO THE ENDS OF [whatever planet you inhabit [insert here]]. If you lose or misplace or become detached from your DumbMutt v0.3 [MUCH IMPROVED!] special robotic friend, do not fret, do not cry, do not panic, because HE will eventually find YOU. If you vacate the planet, your DumbMutt v0.3 [MUCH IMPROVED!] special robotic friend has emergency funds to book passage on a Shuttle to anywhere within the Quad-Gal [Manna] Bubble. In effect, your DumbMutt special friend will follow you to the ends of the Galaxy. Well done in this, your Smart Choice.”
“Now hold on a bloody minute!” snapped Svool, staring in horror at the metal horse’s head in front of him. The jaws were working spasmodically as if trying to mimic a human’s lips whilst reciting the words of the contract, but in reality it was doing a very bad job of synching to the sounds, and simply looked as if it had gone badly insane. “Now, now, now, I didn’t give you no permission to give me a saddle prick, in the buttock area, and what’s all this about DNA and stuff and you following me to the ends of the planet, eh? I didn’t agree to none of that, so stop it right now, I don’t need a horse, or want a special robotic friend, I certainly didn’t buy you and I never made no smart choice!”
At that point, something sharp injected his bottom. “Ow!” he cried, predictably, and nearly fired the heavy black pistol into the face of the horse. Cursing, and reaching under himself to rub his arse, Svool gave a very severe frown. “That’s a bloody intrusion, that is!” he snapped.
“Thank you, Svoolzard Koolimax, Manna resident DNA number 6764783643 3896653652 3653652732 5347645 376457532 999994652. We do hope you enjoy your DumbMutt v0.3 [MUCH IMPROVED!] special robotic friend. He will be a very special robotic friend. For life. Your special friend DumbMutt v0.3 [MUCH IMPROVED!] special robotic friend comes with many exciting innovations and technical upgrades over the previous DumbMutt v0.2 [A BIT IMPROVED!] special robotic friend, which tended to accidentally activate its inbuilt hydrogen cell auto-destruct initiation sequence and destroy both DumbMutt Unit and Rid
er Unit in one massive blast. Don’t worry! That doesn’t happen anymore! Not often, anyway [please read legal addendum].”
“Argh!” gargled Svool.
“Your friendly special friend DumbMutt v0.3 [MUCH IMPROVED!] special robotic friend is called [HERBERT]. Please be kind to it. And remember. A robot horse is for life not just for [insert applicable religious festival]. ©qv2907 Metal Mongrels Inc. QGSMA Quad-Gal Safety Mark Assured (pending). MSMA Manna Safety Mark Assured (pending). Registered with the Federation For Safety With Metal Mongrels, Inc.”
There came a ticka ticka ticka sound. Herbert opened his mouth, and a long stream of punched foil paper ejected. Svool took the paper, and read in letters made up of pin-prick holes:
Please take good care of your DumbMutt v0.3 [MUCH IMPROVED!] special robotic friend [HERBERT]-model. Your DNA has now been registered with the MMI central core database. Your deed will last: 999 years. Thank you for your custom. ©qv2907 Metal Mongrels Inc. QGSMA Quad-Gal Safety Mark Assured (pending). MSMA Manna Safety Mark Assured (pending). Registered with the Federation For Safety With Metal Mongrels, Inc.
“Ahh,” said Svool. “What’s this?”
“It’s a deed of ownership, buster,” said the horse, in a much more normal but still quite alarming voice. Svool stared at the twisted-round head, with its flared metal nostrils reeking of hot oil, its beaten face plates, and its big brown marble eyes.
“I don’t understand.”
“You own me.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. Your DNA has been accepted. Neigh.”
“That isn’t even a real sound.”
“What?”
“That neigh.”
“That’s what horses do. And I am a horse, therefore, I neigh.”
“Yeah, but they make a neigh sound. They don’t say the word.”
“Listen, buster, I yam what I yam.”
Svool sighed. “Listen, I’m going to get off you now...” - all ideas of some heroic horse-bound rescue had flown off into the jungle, along with Svool’s dignity - “so just put your head back where it should be and I’ll get off and we can both go about our merry ways.”
“No,” said the horse.
Svool’s smile remained fixed in place. “Excuse me?”
“No. You’re going to rescue Lumar.”
“What... how could you possibly know that?”
“It’s a process of ‘limination, innit? Neigh.”
“No it isn’t. This has NOTHING to do with you. So I’m getting off. And you’re fucking off.”
Svool tried to move his legs, and realised in horror that narrow clips had ejected from the horse, wound about his ankles, and pinned them in place. Slowly, the horse’s head returned to a “normal” position, with a click-click-click-click-click.
“How do you want to do it, buster?”
“Wait! Let me off!”
“Time for the rescue. Innit.”
“Get OFF me, you fucking insane robot beast!”
“Ha. Hold on! The West is about to get much Wilder! Even though we’re, y’know, technically in the south. Innit. Neigh.”
With a complicated series of movements, the horse’s legs began to flap and flop all over the place, and there were clanging and clanking noises, and slowly, it managed to turn around.
“Have you got your pistol?”
“Er, yeah....”
“And your sword?”
“Er...”
“And your sheriff badge?”
“Just wait a....”
“Then you’re a fully tooled up sheriff! Yeeeeeee Har!” With that, Herbert reared, shouting “Neigh, neigh, neeeeeighhhghhghhghghh,” and galloped between the rusted metal cars.
And towards the saloon.
~ * ~
“HE’S COMING, BOSS.”
The sun was high in the sky and baking the boards of the saloon’s porch. Bronson lowered his boots from the table, and cast a look back to where Lumar lay on her side, trussed up like a trussed-up turkey. Her narrow green eyes bored into him with unadulterated hatred, but Bronson’s deviant men had a certain expertise with knots, and despite Lumar’s incredible agility, she was now stuck.
She spat at Bronson.
The large man ignored her, and tipped the brim of his wide cowboy hat back a little.
“Showdown, boss,” said one of the men.
Bronson hawked and spat, and with a chinking of spurs, strode out to the centre of the street. He stood, hands hanging loose by his sides, twin pistols holstered - how many pistols did this man have? - legs apart, in a classic gunfighter stance.
He waited, patiently, the sun behind him.
“What are you going to do?” wailed Lumar.
Bronson didn’t look at her. He was focused on the figure that had just stopped at the end of the street. Again, he hawked and spat, and simply stood there, waiting.
Somewhere distant, a jingly little tune began to play. The sort of tune which sometimes came from a pocket watch. It played a sad slow hymn. On the porch, one of Bronson’s men got out a harmonica and began to strangle it. The wails cut across the dry dusty street.
“What do you think he’ll do, boss?” asked one man.
General Bronson grinned, and patted his holstered pistol. “Why, I think the sheriff is going to do some dying.”
~ * ~
“YES!”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“I am not having a fucking gun battle with that fucking lunatic! I’ve never aimed a pistol in my life, and I’ve certainly never aimed it at a person, and I have no intention of killing anybody!”
“Well?” snapped Herbert, “Why have you just ridden into town on the back of a horse wearing the sheriff’s outfit and carrying a Law Maker’s pistol then, if you weren’t looking for trouble?”
“That’s because you locked my legs to your ribs and forced me to come here, idiot. Of course I’m not looking for trouble. I couldn’t shoot an elephant that was trying to sit on me! I was going to sneak in the back way, wait for it to go dark, then cut Lumar’s bonds and we could have all snuck away without any hassle, but oh, no, clever-arse metal mongrel horse shithead here had to go charging in, didn’t you?”
“Well, you should have said,” sulked Herbert.
“I should have said? Right, turn around, get us the hell out of here, now.”
“Can’t do that,” said Herbert.
“What? Why?”
“Can’t do that. Oh, no. Traditional gunslinger showdown, this is. You’ve, er, laid down the gauntlet, buster. Given him the challenge. Innit?”
“What, by riding my horse here?”
“Yes, to rescue your good lady woman from the evil banditos, sort of thing.”
“She’s not my good lady woman.”
“Your bitch, then?”
“Listen,” growled Svool, close to the horse’s twitching metal ear, “you need to release my ankles, turn around, and walk slowly away.”
“So you’re fleeing, then, are you?”
The sounds of a harmonica floated up the street. Svool thought it was a cat being slowly massacred.
“No! I mean, well, I can’t possibly face him...”
Herbert started trotting down the street towards General Bronson, whose fingers were flexing slowly. Svool struggled like mad to free his ankles, cursing and thumping the hollow body of the metal horse.
He gave up, and lifted up the pistol. He squinted towards General Bronson, but the sun was in his eyes and he realised with alarm his error. Bronson had picked the battleground and the position. Now, not only was Svool disabled by his complete lack of usefulness with his pistol; he was also effectively blinded.
“Drat,” he said.
“Good luck!” Herbert grinned optimistically.
Herbert stopped in the middle of the street. Awkwardly, the harmonica music faltered, and all was quiet, except for the sad sound of the tinkling watch.
/> “Er,” said Svool.
“Congratulations, son,” growled Bronson, switching his cigar from the left side of his mouth to the right. “You did the right thing coming here to rescue this young green lass.”
“Fuck you,” snarled Lumar.
“She’s a feisty one, all right, but once us boys have killed you dead, we’ll all be having our wicked way with her and then probably cutting her throat. Sorry. That’s just the way it is out here in the West. Well, south. You know what I mean.”