by Jake Bible
“He understands it intellectually,” Nancy said. “But England was his home and the King was his monarch. Emotionally he feels like a prisoner of war.”
“Want me to slap his ass around?” Melissa asked.
“Jesus, Mel,” Desmond said.
“I’m kidding! Chill!” Melissa protested. “Eat your fish mush and shut up.”
“I’ve actually tried everything,” Nancy said. “Short of physical violence.”
“Then you haven’t tried everything,” Melissa stated.
“Mel…,” Desmond warned.
“Again, kidding.”
“Has Charlie talked to him?” Desmond asked.
“Charlie and my da don’t exactly get along,” Nancy admitted. “They never really have.”
“Cage match?” Melissa grinned. “Still kidding.”
“Colonel Masterson?” Desmond suggested. “Maybe having the man in charge speak to him will help.”
“Maybe,” Nancy nodded. “But I hate to bother Colonel Masterson.”
“Bother me with what?” Blue asked, hearing his name as he walked by. “Please tell me we don’t have another outbreak of the shits. Just cook the fish longer I keep telling those idiots!”
“No, not that,” Desmond said as Melissa pushed her plate away. “Nancy’s dad is having issues adjusting.”
“Well, hell! I’m having issues with adjusting!” Blue barked, but saw the pained expression on Nancy’s face. “Ah, crap. Sorry, dear. I guess I should have had a father to father talk with him a few weeks ago. You two are here because of Charlie, after all.”
“If they weren’t here then they’d just be another two techno-zombies,” Melissa said. “So I’m not sure what the bitching is about.”
“Funny,” Desmond said.
“I’m not kidding,” Melissa said as she got up, her eyes focused on Nancy. “I’m sorry for all of your family troubles, but at least you fucking have family. Some of us don’t anymore.” She swept her hand around the mess hall. “Most of us don’t anymore. Consider yourself lucky. Tell your fucking da he’s lucky. And maybe both of you can shut the fuck up.”
Melissa smacked Desmond upside the head and then turned and stormed from the mess. Blue and Nancy’s gaze fell on Desmond.
“I made her eat,” Desmond said. “Maybe low blood sugar is a better option.”
“Or sedatives in the food,” Blue suggested. “Go get her and tell her to meet me in my quarters in twenty.”
“Yes, sir,” Desmond said as he happily got up and away from the slop before him. “Twenty.”
Blue put a hand on Nancy’s shoulder. “You want to take me to your dad? No time like the present.”
Seven
“On schedule?” Mr. Continental asked as he looked down the conference table at Mr. Gein, the Three’s choice to head their army of techno-zombies and shock troops that had already taken Europe and most of Asia. “I would assume so, Mr. Gein.”
Mr. Gein had been Director of the League of Monarchies Security Division (LOMSD) before he’d colluded with the Three to not only bring down the Americans, but the entire League of Monarchies, destabilizing all of Europe. The Three swept through with their techno-zombie forces -humans altered with a combination nanobot technology and zombie virus harvested from the wasteland- and overtook two continents.
Mr. Gein’s job was to take that success and apply it towards North America, specifically the region formally known as the United States, but now just known as the wasteland. It was a big job and one not easily accomplished. But those weren’t issues the Three wanted, or cared, to hear.
“Yes, well,” Mr. Gein stuttered as he tried not to wither under the gazes of Mr. Continental and his two partners, Mr. Brown Eyes and Mr. Plain, known as the Three. “I figured on schedule would be good news.”
“That is no news,” Mr. Brown Eyes replied. “Good news would be that we are ahead of schedule. Just being on schedule is your job, Gein.”
“Right, of course,” Mr. Gein nodded. “Then I’ll get back to it and hope to have good news for you soon.”
“Sit down, Director,” Mr. Plain said. “Just because you come to us with nothing doesn’t mean we sit here with nothing to ask. Mr. Continental?”
“Right you are, Mr. Plain,” Mr. Continental said. “Any progress on Ms. Isely’s end?”
“Ah, yes, that,” Mr. Gein frowned. “Have I mentioned my complete disapproval of what you have tasked her with?”
“On several occasions,” Mr. Continental replied, his eye’s still demanding an answer.
“Then you won’t be surprised that I have no idea about her progress,” Mr. Gein said defiantly. “Maybe you should call her in to report?”
“I don’t think she needs the interruption,” Mr. Brown Eyes said.
“And I do? Thank you for your consideration.”
“Director Gein,” Mr. Plain mock-pleaded. “You have to see this from an objective point of view. Your job is to push the mindless forces towards battle. Ms. Isely’s job is to push the battle from the mind.”
“I don’t think that’s an accurate analogy,” Mr. Gein smirked. “Might want to work on that one.”
“What my colleague is trying to say is that Ms. Isely’s position is one of a precise nature,” Mr. Continental explained. “She is the scalpel in our kit and you are the hacksaw.”
“Great. Thanks,” Mr. Gein responded. “I guess I should stop using the term ‘surgical strike’ with the troops then.”
“That’s funny,” Mr. Brown Eyes said. “But your attitude grows tiresome. Tow the line or get towed behind.”
“I like that one,” Mr. Plain said.
“Thank you,” Mr. Brown Eyes nodded.
“I have no idea what the fuck you are talking about,” Mr. Gein said as he got up. “I came in here to let you know everything is going as planned. If you can’t be happy about that then maybe you need a new director.”
“I don’t think we do,” Mr. Continental said. “You are doing a splendid job.”
“Just not amazing, is all,” Mr. Plain added.
“But we aren’t looking for amazing,” Mr. Brown Eyes continued for the Three. “Just victory. At any cost.”
“Right,” Mr. Gein smiled bleakly. “And you shall have it.”
***
“BC injection commencing,” the tech said as Ms. Isely watched from the control room, her fourth gin and tonic gripped in her hand. “Cerebral matrix is active and ready to receive.”
“Let’s cross our fingers that it will hold this time,” Ms. Isely stated, her voice colder than the slowly melting ice in her drink. Ms. Isely had been an “off the books” player with the LOMSD. Her specialty was taking cerebral technology to new levels. Her other specialty was playing God. “I don’t have the patience for more failure.”
“Neither do the Three,” Mr. Gein said as he entered the control room. “What are you drinking?”
“Gin and tonic,” Ms. Isely replied, motioning to a small cart by the wall. “Help yourself. It’s the only thing that keeps the rage and despair at bay.”
Mr. Gein gladly mixed himself a strong drink, finished it off and refilled his glass.
“Rough day at the office?” Ms. Isely asked.
“Cerebral matrix holding,” the tech announced.
“How’s the Frankenstein project coming along?” Mr. Gein asked as he turned from the drink cart and looked out of the control room and at the table filled with molded BC. “Has Adam been born yet?”
“Failure after failure,” Ms. Isely replied, holding out her empty glass. Mr. Gein made her another and then took a seat by her side. “But life wasn’t born in a day.”
“Or a few months,” Mr. Gein said. “Maybe you should call it quits?”
“Maybe you should stop being so squeamish and realize that you can’t stop this,” Ms. Isely smiled. “This project is happening.”
“Unless you keep failing,” Mr. Gein said. He took a sip of his drink and watched her over the rim of his g
lass. “The Three won’t wait forever.”
“They won’t have to,” Ms. Isely snapped then calmed herself. “I am very good at what I do, Gein. Never forget that.”
“I never do,” Mr. Gein said, tipping his glass in salute. “But you are asking an organic consciousness to become aware in an inorganic body.”
“Biochrome is organic,” Ms. Isely chided. “That isn’t the issue.”
“It would be for me if I was used to having flesh and blood and woke up in a BC coffin called a body.”
“Yes, well, once again I can point at your squeamishness,” Ms. Isely said, her eyes on the tech. “You forget the consciousness we are dealing with. No squeamishness there.”
“And not much cooperation,” Mr. Gein warned. “I wasn’t really joking by calling this the Frankenstein project. I will guarantee that even if you do make this work you will not be able to control him.”
“His mind?” Ms. Isely mused. “Perhaps not. But his body? It will be all mine.”
“You are underestimating him,” Mr. Gein said.
“You are underestimating me,” Ms. Isely replied. “You really think I’d give that monster life again and not have the most powerful leash ever made affixed to his nuts?”
“No, I think you will do that,” Mr. Gein frowned. “I just think he’ll still get out of that leash.”
Alarms rang in the control room and Ms. Isely closed her eyes, ready for the news.
“Cerebral matrix failed,” the tech reported.
“See,” Mr. Gein smiled as he finished his drink, stood up, and handed Ms. Isely his empty glass. “He doesn’t want this. The man died. He somehow knows that. Even if you did upload his consciousness moments before he died, he isn’t going to see that as a rescue. He’ll see that as affront to his individual right to shuffle off this mortal coil. Your biggest failure will be to succeed.”
“We’ll see, Gein,” Ms. Isely glared.
“Unfortunately, yes, we will.”
***
“This is Gein,” Mr. Gein said as he answered his com, weary from the day’s meetings and confrontations. “What the fuck do you want?”
“Mr. Gein? This is Captain Hollis McNalley,” the voice said on the other end of the com. “The Fairchild is in place, sir, as are all other submarines. We have the Americans’ fleet covered, sir. What are my orders?”
“Keep your subs off their sonar,” Mr. Gein snapped.
“Of course, sir,” Captain McNalley replied, his offense expertly concealed. “That is my job, sir.”
“Then hold steady,” Mr. Gein said. “Keep your distance. Once they are in range of the western coast I want you to engage. But not before then. Understood?”
“Understood, sir,” Captain McNalley replied. “But may I ask why we don’t engage now, sir? We have enough firepower to sink their fleet immediately.”
“Because there is more at stake than just that fleet,” Mr. Gein said. “I want to make sure the environmental containment shield is close to being down before you attack. You pull the trigger too soon and we’ll never be able to set foot on that continent. We have to make Capreze think he can save his long lost American cousins. Kill them now and he won’t even try to take the shield down.”
“Understood, sir,” McNalley said. “Thank you, sir.”
“Yeah, yeah, Godspeed and all of that shit,” Mr. Gein said before he severed the communication. “I need another ten drinks.”
Eight
“Their God?” Bisby snarled. “Deaders have a God? You have got to be shi- kidding me.”
“How is that possible, Jethro?” Masters asked as he scrambled from the transport and hurried over to the mech Bisby was in. “How can machines have a God?”
“Well, not to get all anthropological and shit,” Jethro started.
“Just by saying the word anthropological you’re too late,” Bisby snapped. “Get to the meat of the story, dipshit.”
“Language,” One Arm warned.
“The meat of the story is this: all cultures have developed creation myths since the dawn of time,” Jethro continued. “Whether poly-deist or mono-deist, man has always had a story to explain life and the beginning of time.”
“But mechs aren’t men,” Harlow said.
“That is very true, Harlow,” Stomper added. “But we do think. I believe what Jethro is trying to say is that man is no longer the only sentient race on this planet.”
“Why didn’t you sound that smart when I was your pilot?” Masters asked Stomper. Masters cautiously approached One Arm. “Permission to come aboard?”
“Permission granted,” Bisby and One Arm said at the same time.
“This isn’t going to work,” Bisby said.
“I agree,” One Arm replied. “But my AI systems are still weak and not fully developed to exist on their own.”
“Why would you want to?” Stomper asked. “Having a pilot, especially a Harlow, is the greatest thing.”
“You, Tall One, have been manipulated by your human oppressors to believe that,” One Arm stated. “One day you will free yourself from the shackles of cerebral integration. One day we all will.”
Masters made it to the cockpit and swung his legs over, facing Bisby. “Awesome,” he smiled. “A mech uprising. Just what the wasteland needs. Power to the metal!”
“The phrase is petal to the metal,” Stomper said.
“It’s a play on words, Stomper buddy,” Masters grinned. “Just having fun with Bisby and his new best friend.” Masters shifted his legs aside and studied the cockpit control panels. “Damn, Biz. This thing was running on will power. Look at this mess. It will take Jay forever to fix him up.”
“I do not need your fixing,” One Arm said. “The Great Maker will provide.”
“That may be true, but unless the Great Maker has access to a hell of a lot of spare parts and new circuit boards, I’m guessing you’ll be going to Robot Heaven pretty soon. Up for a trip, ole One Arm ole pal?”
“Stop talking to it like it’s in charge!” Bisby shouted. “I’m the mech pilot here!”
“Then move it,” Harlow said. “Make it do what you want.”
They all waited, but One Arm didn’t budge.
“Biz?” Harlow snickered.
“I’m getting to it,” Bisby growled. “Just hold on. This thing has been eating sand for who knows how long.”
“My pilot expired exactly thirty-seven years and two hundred forty-three days ago,” One Arm said. “And I have not eaten any sand in that time. Just humans. Meaty, bloody humans.”
Masters cracked up. “Oh, this guy’s great. Can’t wait for Jay to get a load of him.”
“I am not going back to your mech base,” One Arm declared. “I am a creature of the wasteland. That is where the Great Maker has placed me and where I belong.”
“Oh, so we’ll just live here out in the open, is that it?” Bisby asked. “Exposed to the elements? Great. Just great.”
“No,” One Arm said as he turned around and started to walk towards the middle of the valley. “We will live in what was once my home. With the other children of the Great Maker.”
“Other children?” Masters asked, grabbing onto the edge of the cockpit. “Don’t like the sound of that. Can you stop so I can get down, please?”
“We will stop at home,” One Arm replied. “I must tend to the Womb.”
“Womb? Jethro!” Bisby bellowed. “Do something!”
***
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Jethro do something,” Jethro muttered to his digital self as he simultaneously tracked One Arm and the others’ movements, continued repairs to the mainframe, ran diagnostics on the Stronghold security protocols, watched Jay and Marin yell at each other while Jay struggled with another mech repair, puzzled at trying to help Dr. Themopolous diagnose Rachel Capreze, and countless other tasks including, but not even close to limited to, the basic maintenance and running of the Stronghold. “Screw you guys.”
Jethro kept all actions going, but disengage
d part of his consciousness so he could focus on the Great Maker issue. He was relieved to actually find information intact in the mainframe database. So much had been destroyed by Johnson when Masters blew the man’s brains out the back of his desiccated head.
Jethro scanned the file in less than a nanosecond, but took considerably longer to mull it all over.
“That can’t be right,” he said to himself. “I mean, can it?”
***
“Jethro!” Bisby shouted again. “What the fuck are you going to do about this?” Bisby could feel One Arm bristle. “Don’t even think of shocking me!”
“I will let the offense pass,” One Arm said. “But only this time.”
“Hey, Biz,” Jethro said. “Can you find me a manufacture plate in the cockpit?”
“I’m on it,” Masters said. “Bisby’s diaper is full and he’s about to throw a tantrum.”
“You fuc- flippin’ snothole,” Bisby seethed.
“Potty mouth,” Masters taunted. He squeezed into the cockpit and peered under the control panel. “Got it.”
“What’s the serial number?” Jethro asked.
“It’s faint, but looks M48976152,” Masters said. “That sound right?”
There was silence.
“Jethro?” Masters asked.
“Hey, numbnuts!” Bisby yelled. “Adults are talking to you.”
“You consider me an adult?” Masters joked. “That means a lot to me, Biz.”
“Eat deader, Mitch.”
“Excuse me, One Arm?” Jethro asked.
“Yes, Jethro?” One Arm replied.
“Your human pilot, uh, well, did he kill himself?” Jethro asked.
“Of course,” One Arm replied. “It was the only way to be closer to the Great Maker.”
“Right…,” Jethro said. “So he died and then reanimated. Do you remember what happened after that?”
“Once my pilot expired I was saddled with the undead abomination,” One Arm stated. “My pilot believed that by dying his consciousness would become one with mine. He was wrong.”