"1. Most people don't believe in you. You're not even sure if you believe in yourself."
Ha!
Check it the whole thing.
Monday, December 21, 2015
Chapter 6 of Magnum Thrax and the Amusement Park of Doom
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| David Manning is an imaginary reviewer dreamed up by a film studio. Now he works for me. Because if they can lie, so can I. |
Magnum Thrax has gotten a few reviews on Amazon, and this one by Frederick A. Squier is by far the most interesting:
"Got this one so I could trash it but someting strange happened instead: Now this is one strange and awesome book. This book reminded me of "Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse" by Victor Gishler. It is unabashedly over the top and as weird as you can get. If it was made into a movie it would probably be Directed by Mel Brooks, in the vein of "Space Balls", "Flesh Gordan" "Barbarella" and "Ice Pirates" Beneath it all is a very sound plot that plays out well right up to the end. I got this book prepared to rip it to pieces but instead must praise it as a nice bit of fun satire! Is this book for everyone??? No but for the ones who get it, YES."
And yet, I'd like to think that the book is smarter than that; I'm grateful and happy the reviewer thought so as well.
But it does ask a lot of the reader, and Magnum Thrax was never going to have a large audience.
So if you're enjoying it, congratulations!
You may be as crazy as I am.
And now… NSFW Chapter 6!
Thrax took the lift to the residence level; along the way he helped himself to the elevator’s wet bar. Armed with a White Russian, he stepped out of the plushly appointed elevator into Liberty Lounge Hall. He strode past erotic marble statues in various states of sexual congress, set beneath Roman murals depicting a plethora of indescribably obscene acts.
Sucked back more vodka.
Darwin’s head popped up in the air, drifting disconcertingly looking at the murals. “Rome...humanity at its most primal: greed, lust, wrath, sloth, gluttony, and envy on an incredible scale, interrupted only by brief moments of nobility. Your species is bored by wisdom. Naturally it destroyed itself.”
“Naturally,” agreed Thrax with a sly grin.
At the far end of the hall were monumental bronze doors, complete with phallic handles, that led to the android barracks. Before them, reclining on the last of a dozen glowing red couches, sprawled Jez. The red tinted lights made her appear demonic.
“Oh, not this one. Give her a wide berth, my boy,” advised Darwin, his voice distant, his image absent. He didn’t like the animal side of humans much.
Out of vodka. Thrax chucked the glass aside with a nonchalant flick. It smacked into an indignant animated painting of a rutting couple, who flipped him the bird.
“Screw it,” snapped Thrax subvocally. “No more same old, same old. Let’s fuck!” He strode up to Jez with an exaggerated, manly swagger.
Jez glanced up, took in instantly his intent, and rubbed her swelling thighs together provocatively.
“Little man,” she cooed, leaning back and titling her cannon like breasts upward. “All better wetter now?”
Thrax planted his legs wide apart, assuming as dominant a stance his five foot nine frame was capable of. “Yeah, just caught me a little off guard, that’s all.”
She was looking her usual nasty self. The DNA jockeys had tried to scrub some of the Domin-X model’s more sadistic urges, but their efforts were always tentative.
Couldn’t ruin their combat edge. The model dug fighting, reveled in conflict of any kind, and killed with relish. Beating the shit out of you was their finest form of foreplay. They forced captured enemies to clean floors while wearing tutu’s.
Sucked back more vodka.
Darwin’s head popped up in the air, drifting disconcertingly looking at the murals. “Rome...humanity at its most primal: greed, lust, wrath, sloth, gluttony, and envy on an incredible scale, interrupted only by brief moments of nobility. Your species is bored by wisdom. Naturally it destroyed itself.”
“Naturally,” agreed Thrax with a sly grin.
At the far end of the hall were monumental bronze doors, complete with phallic handles, that led to the android barracks. Before them, reclining on the last of a dozen glowing red couches, sprawled Jez. The red tinted lights made her appear demonic.
“Oh, not this one. Give her a wide berth, my boy,” advised Darwin, his voice distant, his image absent. He didn’t like the animal side of humans much.
Out of vodka. Thrax chucked the glass aside with a nonchalant flick. It smacked into an indignant animated painting of a rutting couple, who flipped him the bird.
“Screw it,” snapped Thrax subvocally. “No more same old, same old. Let’s fuck!” He strode up to Jez with an exaggerated, manly swagger.
Jez glanced up, took in instantly his intent, and rubbed her swelling thighs together provocatively.
“Little man,” she cooed, leaning back and titling her cannon like breasts upward. “All better wetter now?”
Thrax planted his legs wide apart, assuming as dominant a stance his five foot nine frame was capable of. “Yeah, just caught me a little off guard, that’s all.”
She was looking her usual nasty self. The DNA jockeys had tried to scrub some of the Domin-X model’s more sadistic urges, but their efforts were always tentative.
Couldn’t ruin their combat edge. The model dug fighting, reveled in conflict of any kind, and killed with relish. Beating the shit out of you was their finest form of foreplay. They forced captured enemies to clean floors while wearing tutu’s.
Thrax’d wondered about her: flame for moths?
Jez raised an eyebrow, looked down at a gloved hand, and rubbed some imaginary dirt between her fingers. “You know, I thought you were going to cry.”
“Dominance play,” Darwin said into Thrax’s head.
“Nah,” replied Thrax to her, dismissively. He waved a hand in the air and brushed Darwin’s virtual image away. “Just don’t like things I can’t shoot.”
She narrowed her cat like eyes into sultry slits. “Oh? That why you’re down here, officer? Shoot out a little comething?”
Time to play it cool. “Maybe. Sure, let’s go.”
Jez gazed down the hall at nothing in particular. Pretended it was more interesting than him. “Not in the mood.”
Thrax put his hands on his hips in indignation. “What the hell? You’re a sexbot! I’m human! Let’s do this.”
Jez turned her face back to him, slowly, coolly, like a cannon zeroing in on its prey. She rose to her feet and stepped into his personal space, towering over him. Her enormous breasts level with his reddening face. Her sexuality overwhelmed his senses, her flush scent filling his flaring nostrils and his mind with maddening desire and erotic thoughts beyond reason.
He was hard. Unbelievably hard. Painfully so.
“It’s against regulations. And you’re a worm,” she said, leaning close, her body quivering. “You want me? Prove it. Get down on your hands and knees, and kiss... my... foot.”
“Say what?” replied Thrax, flustered; the spell broke for a moment. Reason tried to be heard. “That’s... bullshit.”
She reached out and ran a finger across his taut loins. Sensational signals spread out through his body. He straightened up on to his tippy toes.
“Not yet, it isn’t,” she breathed in his ear. “No?” he gasped.
He felt paralyzed.
“No,” she repeated, pressing her great breasts against his face. “Pledge yourself to me. Pledge your soul, your life. Pledge undying, eternal devotion. And maybe...” She looked down at his bulging crotch. “Maybe I’ll help you with... that little problem you have down there. When you lick my asshole clean.”
Thrax grimaced. Ew. “That’s just fucked up. Lady, you’re—whoa!”
Darwin’s hologram materialized around Jez’s head, engulfing it. He ramped up his opacity to max, making Jez look like ZZ Top in drag. “Come, come, my boy. She’s doing what her model is programmed for. This is what her clientele wanted. The clumsy, blundering, low, and horribly cruel machinations of desire.”
It broke the mood.
Thrax rushed away, bursting through the great bronze doors and into the soft, mood lighting of the barracks, a converted brothel. While its purpose had evolved, the decorations had not changed.
“Where the hell are you going?” demanded Jez, annoyed. She began to shout. “Nobody walks away from me! You hear? You’ll regret this!”
Thrax showed her his palm as he walked away. What the hell had he been thinking? Jez was a debauched beast in a human wrapper.
He couldn’t get Darwin’s face, merged with Jez’s admittedly magnificent body, out of his head. He gave a very different kind of shudder and stopped.
****
Jez sputtered with rage, but was too stunned to do more. The nerve of the little twerp! Thrax was actually walking away. From her! Impossible, yet it was happening. Turning his back. Dismissing her with his open palm. And was that a look of contempt on his face? Disgust? How dare he judge! And over such a mild suggestion, too. He had no right: she was only being true to her programming. Perversion wasn’t a flaw but a feature. It made her furious.
Even worse, it turned her on. She felt a flood of desire. Rejection was new. Novel. Intense. An affront, but also a challenge. A target. She'd conquer him, she thought with relish. Then make him pay.
The doors swung shut.
****
What now, thought Thrax glumly. An entire barracks of Nexdoor model sexbots at his beck and call. But he’d had those.
“Are you well, sir?” said a strong female voice. Andromeda stood at the door of her quarters, resplendent in her form fitting armour, right down to sculpted breastplates.
Darwin noted his gaze. “Completely impractical, you know. If she were to be struck, the indentation between her breasts would crack her rib cage. At least her vital organs are protected. Can’t say that for the outrageous outfits of your other squad members.”
Andromeda, unable to see or hear Darwin, gave Thrax a quizzical look. “You seem troubled.”
“Let’s fuck,” Thrax blurted out.
Andromeda was momentarily taken aback. Then she smiled. “I accept your challenge.” Thrax frowned. “Wait, what?”
“Prove your worth!” grinned Andromeda, unbuckling her scabbard and placing it on a shelf inside the door. “I have admired your prowess on the field of battle. Now, prove yourself to me, and we shall glory in the passionate congress of true warriors!”
“Oh, shit. Now, hold on,” he stammered. “Just a second...”
She punched him in the face and he flew backwards, falling on his rear.
“Ah,” declared Darwin, amused. “Female hypergamy.”
“What the fugh?” Thrax grabbed his nose with both hands. Blood gushed from smushed nostrils. “You brogh my dose.”
“Don’t panic,” corrected Darwin. “I’m dispatching medbots to your nasal passages. I’ll have the blood flow staunched momentarily.”
“First blood,” exulted Andromeda. She cracked her knuckles and dropped into a combat stance, bobbing up and down on spring like knees. Anticipation on her regal face. “On your feet!”
“Waid,” he replied. Hand to hand combat was not his strongest area, and he knew it. He was out of practice, too. As the fastest gun in the Pleasurepit, and the best shot, he generally dispatched opponents before fisticuffs were required. “Anotheh dime.”
Her face fell. “We are already in battle’s embrace.”
He struggled to his feet, his woody fading fast. “Yes, well, I’ve changed my min—” She aimed a swift kick at his face with a steel tipped boot. He dodged it, rolling to the left, and catching her supporting leg between his. Yanked hard, throwing her off her feet. Her powerful arms caught her before she reached the floor, and she slammed atop him. She rained blows down.
He tried to block to no avail. Desperate, he grabbed her hair and gave a sharp, vicious tug, then snapped a clenched fist into her jaw. Her neck cracked. With a shove he toppled her off and rose unsteadily to his feet.
“Excellent!” she exclaimed, breathing hard. “You adapt quickly.” His neck vice didn’t seem to bother her. He squeezed harder. She laughed and punched him in the gut so hard it knocked the wind out of him.
He let go and staggered about, bewildered with pain.
“Is this not glorious?” she asked, approaching swiftly.
“Uh... n-not really—” he started to reply.
She grabbed his head with both hands and delivered a knee to his face that sent him reeling, then followed up with a blizzard of kicks.
“Hiyah!” she cried, her thick, powerful thigh propelling a boot into his gut. Carried away with the excitement, her artificial blood flowing, she finished with a round house of punches that left Thrax’s face a bloody mess.
He sunk to the floor, semi-conscious. She waited a moment, smiling.
He didn’t move.
She paused.
“Magnum Thrax of Klenstaf, are you well?” she asked, growing concerned. “Peachy,” he blurted, blood and teeth popping out his mouth.
Darwin looked at them with concern. “I’ll have those regrown straight away. But it will hurt.”
“I already hurt,” replied Thrax. “I won’t even notice.” Andromeda cocked her head to the side. “Do you concede?” He nodded as vigorously as he could.
“Very well.” Disappointed, she straightened up and gave him the Amazon salute, slapping her clenched fist against her chest and then flinging her arm out. “May you fare better next time, for both our sakes.”
Thrax grunted. His jaw tingled.
Andromeda started back to her quarters. Stopped. Turned back. “Do you require medical assistance?”
He waved her concern away. “Nah, I’m good. Just gonna sit here for a bit.” She nodded and vanished into her quarters. The door swished shut behind her. Thank Hef, thought Thrax. That’s just too much woman.
“So much human interaction is based on establishing hierarchy and dominance,” said Darwin contemplatively. “A competitive mating system that slowly improves the species, it has little regard for your feelings on an individual level...”
A few minutes later, Candy walked in, followed by Blossom.
“Sable gave me some ideo-gum; chapter each. Crime and Punishment. Oh. My. Gawd. Best book bon bon ever, you should totally...” Blossom’s jaw dropped when she saw Thrax. “What the grok?”
“Oh, baby!” Candy exclaimed, rushing over. “You alright?”
He opened a bloated black eye. “Course. Why?”
Blossom frowned. “You do so look like shit. No duh.”
“What happened?” asked Candy. She touched the edge of his black eye gently. Thrax shrugged. Pointed at the great bronze doors. “Walked into those suckers.” Blossom was unconvinced. “Those are like, totally doors.”
“Oh, you poor baby. Help me get him up,” said Candy. The two struggled to get Thrax on his feet. “We’ll take him to my unit. Just up there. On the right.” Thrax stumbled his way between them, into a chamber with walls of pink fun fur. The bed was pink. The furniture was pink. Even her little designer dog, Max, was pink.
The canine barked indignantly at Thrax; then ran around his ankles yapping. Max didn’t like strange males in his home. The competition was unwelcome. Thanks to the FOXP2 gene, his yips had an eerily human sound.
“Like the colour scheme,” Thrax mumbled, half out of his mind. They plopped him down on the bed.
“Do you?” Candy beamed with pride. “I decorated it myself.” “Really.”
“Yeah, you know, I don’t think that was hard to guess,” said Blossom, unimpressed. Candy glanced at Blossom, then the door.
“Oh, fer...” said Blossom, taking the hint. “Fine. Gawd. Throw me way over. I have to... yeah, whatever. Feed my pet rock. See you, sugar tassel.” Blosoom stepped out into the hall.
****
“Let me get out my medkit,” blurted Candy, brightening. Better than having a new Barbie to dress, she thought. She opened a wall cabinet at the far end of the room. Partially obscured by a gaint pink rabbit, Thrax noted the inside contained a dark, bubbling tank, lit from below and surrounded by tubes pumping fluid. Inside, something loathsome and unspeakable shifted within the glowing lime green fluid. Push up bras, stockings, and panties were jammed in around it. One had fallen into the tank and was now encrusted with little white eggs. Atop the clothes rested a glossy white medkit with a pink pony badge on the front. She pulled it out and shut the cabinet. “You’ve multiple abrasions on your face. And I think your jaw may be dislocated.”
“No, it’s good.”
“Quiet, please. I am going to have to give you a thorough examination.” Candy began to fuss over him. She injected pain suppressants. Placed medpatches over the bruises, accelerating the healing process of his own internal medbots.
She took a look at his bloody mess of a mouth, gently suctioned out the blood and poured in a packet of Healit, a mixture of chemicals the nanites could use in their repair efforts. Her moves were precise, professional, economical. Inhuman.
She gave him a delicate kiss on the forehead.
“There. That should do it.”
He leaned back in bliss as the drugs kicked in. “Thank you, Candy.” Her face hovered before his.
“Give it a few minutes, you’ll feel like brand new.”
He smiled.
“Turn around now, lie down.”
The bed altered its shape to fit his body. She began to give him the most incredible massage.
“I’ve been studying erotic massage,” she said, her expert hands pressing against his back, just between pleasure and pain. “I’ve been practicing on Blossom, and she says I’m getting really good. The others now want massages, too. How does that feel?”
“Good,” replied Thrax, thoroughly doped up. She massaged him for what felt like a blissful eternity. “Better than good.”
“I’m glad,” she replied.
“I want to do great deeds, Candy,” he confided drowsily. “All I’ve ever wanted is to be in an epic adventure. Real Lord of the Rings type stuff. I want to save the world. Like the great heroes of old. Beowulf. King Arthur. Indiana Jones. Clint Eastwood. Abraham Lincoln. Especially Lincoln.”
“Who’s that?”
“Lincoln? He was President of the United States, eons ago, running the country and orating with big words and shit, but at night he was a kick ass vampire slayer. How do you even find time for that? Superhuman. You know? Run a country and then go out at night and stake vampires. That’s what I call a hero. Someone worthy of song.”
“Like My Little Pony? They sing. Went on adventures, too.” He nodded. “Yes. But more macho. Less pink.”
She giggled. “Good. Pink is my colour.”
“Mark my words. One day, I’m going to be worthy.”
“You already are in my books, Thrax.”
Ten wonderful, soothing minutes later, she turned him over.
“Saliva has healing properties, you know,” she said, her face hovering over his. Her big, wide eyes shifted focus between his left and right, searching, he thought, for his very soul.
Or some kind of deep shit like that.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
And she was.
“You’re an angel. The Theory of Forms made all pink and fleshy. Hyper-real.”
She giggled and gave him a long passionate kiss, her tongue gliding lightly about his now unfrozen mouth. “It’s nice.”
“The world’s in danger,” he muttered.
The non-sequitor took her by surprise. “Huh?”
“That’s what he said. The android. The world is in danger.”
“Again? I remember it being in danger before. But you’ll save it,” she replied confidently. “You’re a really good shot. I have faith in you, Magnum.”
Thrax managed a laugh. “Glad someone does.”
“Can I tell you something?” she asked, a sly smile appearing on her chubby, cherubic face.
“Sure.”
She pressed her lips to his ear and breathed, “I want to have a baby.”
He chuckled.
Candy drew back, frowned. “That’s not nice. I thought you were nice.”
He shook his head. “No, look. I’m sorry. It’s just not possible. You’re an android. You don’t even have a womb.”
“I’m a living being. ‘Be humble for you are made of earth, be noble, for you are made of stars.’ That applies to me as much as you,” she said with more than a little defiance.
“Yeah, no. Not what I mean. You were designed. Manufactured for a specific, limited purpose. Child birth not being one of them.”
Candy threw up her hands in frustration. Thrax didn’t get it: “The Ancients changed everything, all the time. The code exists.” She straightened up and added with reverence: “The Great Net of Knowledge said so.”
That gave Thrax pause. “No shit?”
A grin. “No shit. I even found some.”
“Didn’t think you were a rocket science type.” Thrax wrapped his arms around her svelte waist and unzipped her slippery white plastic dress, releasing tension from soft, pert pink flesh.
That got Max yapping in a hyperventilating fury; he ran about in circles, always coming back to focus on Thrax, bellowing indignation in high falsetto.
Candy pushed Thrax’s arms away. “It’s biology, not rocket science.” Candy turned to the dog. “Shush Maxy.” She picked up the jealous dog up and putting him in the wall unit. The wall sealed up behind him, a semi-permeable membrane allowing the flow of air but not sound. “I don’t think he’ll take long.”
With an open palm motion, she made the door slide shut.
Coddled within a world of pink, they fucked like rabid, sex starved bunnies.
Jez raised an eyebrow, looked down at a gloved hand, and rubbed some imaginary dirt between her fingers. “You know, I thought you were going to cry.”
“Dominance play,” Darwin said into Thrax’s head.
“Nah,” replied Thrax to her, dismissively. He waved a hand in the air and brushed Darwin’s virtual image away. “Just don’t like things I can’t shoot.”
She narrowed her cat like eyes into sultry slits. “Oh? That why you’re down here, officer? Shoot out a little comething?”
Time to play it cool. “Maybe. Sure, let’s go.”
Jez gazed down the hall at nothing in particular. Pretended it was more interesting than him. “Not in the mood.”
Thrax put his hands on his hips in indignation. “What the hell? You’re a sexbot! I’m human! Let’s do this.”
Jez turned her face back to him, slowly, coolly, like a cannon zeroing in on its prey. She rose to her feet and stepped into his personal space, towering over him. Her enormous breasts level with his reddening face. Her sexuality overwhelmed his senses, her flush scent filling his flaring nostrils and his mind with maddening desire and erotic thoughts beyond reason.
He was hard. Unbelievably hard. Painfully so.
“It’s against regulations. And you’re a worm,” she said, leaning close, her body quivering. “You want me? Prove it. Get down on your hands and knees, and kiss... my... foot.”
“Say what?” replied Thrax, flustered; the spell broke for a moment. Reason tried to be heard. “That’s... bullshit.”
She reached out and ran a finger across his taut loins. Sensational signals spread out through his body. He straightened up on to his tippy toes.
“Not yet, it isn’t,” she breathed in his ear. “No?” he gasped.
He felt paralyzed.
“No,” she repeated, pressing her great breasts against his face. “Pledge yourself to me. Pledge your soul, your life. Pledge undying, eternal devotion. And maybe...” She looked down at his bulging crotch. “Maybe I’ll help you with... that little problem you have down there. When you lick my asshole clean.”
Thrax grimaced. Ew. “That’s just fucked up. Lady, you’re—whoa!”
Darwin’s hologram materialized around Jez’s head, engulfing it. He ramped up his opacity to max, making Jez look like ZZ Top in drag. “Come, come, my boy. She’s doing what her model is programmed for. This is what her clientele wanted. The clumsy, blundering, low, and horribly cruel machinations of desire.”
It broke the mood.
Thrax rushed away, bursting through the great bronze doors and into the soft, mood lighting of the barracks, a converted brothel. While its purpose had evolved, the decorations had not changed.
“Where the hell are you going?” demanded Jez, annoyed. She began to shout. “Nobody walks away from me! You hear? You’ll regret this!”
Thrax showed her his palm as he walked away. What the hell had he been thinking? Jez was a debauched beast in a human wrapper.
He couldn’t get Darwin’s face, merged with Jez’s admittedly magnificent body, out of his head. He gave a very different kind of shudder and stopped.
****
Jez sputtered with rage, but was too stunned to do more. The nerve of the little twerp! Thrax was actually walking away. From her! Impossible, yet it was happening. Turning his back. Dismissing her with his open palm. And was that a look of contempt on his face? Disgust? How dare he judge! And over such a mild suggestion, too. He had no right: she was only being true to her programming. Perversion wasn’t a flaw but a feature. It made her furious.
Even worse, it turned her on. She felt a flood of desire. Rejection was new. Novel. Intense. An affront, but also a challenge. A target. She'd conquer him, she thought with relish. Then make him pay.
The doors swung shut.
****
What now, thought Thrax glumly. An entire barracks of Nexdoor model sexbots at his beck and call. But he’d had those.
“Are you well, sir?” said a strong female voice. Andromeda stood at the door of her quarters, resplendent in her form fitting armour, right down to sculpted breastplates.
Darwin noted his gaze. “Completely impractical, you know. If she were to be struck, the indentation between her breasts would crack her rib cage. At least her vital organs are protected. Can’t say that for the outrageous outfits of your other squad members.”
Andromeda, unable to see or hear Darwin, gave Thrax a quizzical look. “You seem troubled.”
“Let’s fuck,” Thrax blurted out.
Andromeda was momentarily taken aback. Then she smiled. “I accept your challenge.” Thrax frowned. “Wait, what?”
“Prove your worth!” grinned Andromeda, unbuckling her scabbard and placing it on a shelf inside the door. “I have admired your prowess on the field of battle. Now, prove yourself to me, and we shall glory in the passionate congress of true warriors!”
“Oh, shit. Now, hold on,” he stammered. “Just a second...”
She punched him in the face and he flew backwards, falling on his rear.
“Ah,” declared Darwin, amused. “Female hypergamy.”
“What the fugh?” Thrax grabbed his nose with both hands. Blood gushed from smushed nostrils. “You brogh my dose.”
“Don’t panic,” corrected Darwin. “I’m dispatching medbots to your nasal passages. I’ll have the blood flow staunched momentarily.”
“First blood,” exulted Andromeda. She cracked her knuckles and dropped into a combat stance, bobbing up and down on spring like knees. Anticipation on her regal face. “On your feet!”
“Waid,” he replied. Hand to hand combat was not his strongest area, and he knew it. He was out of practice, too. As the fastest gun in the Pleasurepit, and the best shot, he generally dispatched opponents before fisticuffs were required. “Anotheh dime.”
Her face fell. “We are already in battle’s embrace.”
He struggled to his feet, his woody fading fast. “Yes, well, I’ve changed my min—” She aimed a swift kick at his face with a steel tipped boot. He dodged it, rolling to the left, and catching her supporting leg between his. Yanked hard, throwing her off her feet. Her powerful arms caught her before she reached the floor, and she slammed atop him. She rained blows down.
He tried to block to no avail. Desperate, he grabbed her hair and gave a sharp, vicious tug, then snapped a clenched fist into her jaw. Her neck cracked. With a shove he toppled her off and rose unsteadily to his feet.
“Excellent!” she exclaimed, breathing hard. “You adapt quickly.” His neck vice didn’t seem to bother her. He squeezed harder. She laughed and punched him in the gut so hard it knocked the wind out of him.
He let go and staggered about, bewildered with pain.
“Is this not glorious?” she asked, approaching swiftly.
“Uh... n-not really—” he started to reply.
She grabbed his head with both hands and delivered a knee to his face that sent him reeling, then followed up with a blizzard of kicks.
“Hiyah!” she cried, her thick, powerful thigh propelling a boot into his gut. Carried away with the excitement, her artificial blood flowing, she finished with a round house of punches that left Thrax’s face a bloody mess.
He sunk to the floor, semi-conscious. She waited a moment, smiling.
He didn’t move.
She paused.
“Magnum Thrax of Klenstaf, are you well?” she asked, growing concerned. “Peachy,” he blurted, blood and teeth popping out his mouth.
Darwin looked at them with concern. “I’ll have those regrown straight away. But it will hurt.”
“I already hurt,” replied Thrax. “I won’t even notice.” Andromeda cocked her head to the side. “Do you concede?” He nodded as vigorously as he could.
“Very well.” Disappointed, she straightened up and gave him the Amazon salute, slapping her clenched fist against her chest and then flinging her arm out. “May you fare better next time, for both our sakes.”
Thrax grunted. His jaw tingled.
Andromeda started back to her quarters. Stopped. Turned back. “Do you require medical assistance?”
He waved her concern away. “Nah, I’m good. Just gonna sit here for a bit.” She nodded and vanished into her quarters. The door swished shut behind her. Thank Hef, thought Thrax. That’s just too much woman.
“So much human interaction is based on establishing hierarchy and dominance,” said Darwin contemplatively. “A competitive mating system that slowly improves the species, it has little regard for your feelings on an individual level...”
A few minutes later, Candy walked in, followed by Blossom.
“Sable gave me some ideo-gum; chapter each. Crime and Punishment. Oh. My. Gawd. Best book bon bon ever, you should totally...” Blossom’s jaw dropped when she saw Thrax. “What the grok?”
“Oh, baby!” Candy exclaimed, rushing over. “You alright?”
He opened a bloated black eye. “Course. Why?”
Blossom frowned. “You do so look like shit. No duh.”
“What happened?” asked Candy. She touched the edge of his black eye gently. Thrax shrugged. Pointed at the great bronze doors. “Walked into those suckers.” Blossom was unconvinced. “Those are like, totally doors.”
“Oh, you poor baby. Help me get him up,” said Candy. The two struggled to get Thrax on his feet. “We’ll take him to my unit. Just up there. On the right.” Thrax stumbled his way between them, into a chamber with walls of pink fun fur. The bed was pink. The furniture was pink. Even her little designer dog, Max, was pink.
The canine barked indignantly at Thrax; then ran around his ankles yapping. Max didn’t like strange males in his home. The competition was unwelcome. Thanks to the FOXP2 gene, his yips had an eerily human sound.
“Like the colour scheme,” Thrax mumbled, half out of his mind. They plopped him down on the bed.
“Do you?” Candy beamed with pride. “I decorated it myself.” “Really.”
“Yeah, you know, I don’t think that was hard to guess,” said Blossom, unimpressed. Candy glanced at Blossom, then the door.
“Oh, fer...” said Blossom, taking the hint. “Fine. Gawd. Throw me way over. I have to... yeah, whatever. Feed my pet rock. See you, sugar tassel.” Blosoom stepped out into the hall.
****
“Let me get out my medkit,” blurted Candy, brightening. Better than having a new Barbie to dress, she thought. She opened a wall cabinet at the far end of the room. Partially obscured by a gaint pink rabbit, Thrax noted the inside contained a dark, bubbling tank, lit from below and surrounded by tubes pumping fluid. Inside, something loathsome and unspeakable shifted within the glowing lime green fluid. Push up bras, stockings, and panties were jammed in around it. One had fallen into the tank and was now encrusted with little white eggs. Atop the clothes rested a glossy white medkit with a pink pony badge on the front. She pulled it out and shut the cabinet. “You’ve multiple abrasions on your face. And I think your jaw may be dislocated.”
“No, it’s good.”
“Quiet, please. I am going to have to give you a thorough examination.” Candy began to fuss over him. She injected pain suppressants. Placed medpatches over the bruises, accelerating the healing process of his own internal medbots.
She took a look at his bloody mess of a mouth, gently suctioned out the blood and poured in a packet of Healit, a mixture of chemicals the nanites could use in their repair efforts. Her moves were precise, professional, economical. Inhuman.
She gave him a delicate kiss on the forehead.
“There. That should do it.”
He leaned back in bliss as the drugs kicked in. “Thank you, Candy.” Her face hovered before his.
“Give it a few minutes, you’ll feel like brand new.”
He smiled.
“Turn around now, lie down.”
The bed altered its shape to fit his body. She began to give him the most incredible massage.
“I’ve been studying erotic massage,” she said, her expert hands pressing against his back, just between pleasure and pain. “I’ve been practicing on Blossom, and she says I’m getting really good. The others now want massages, too. How does that feel?”
“Good,” replied Thrax, thoroughly doped up. She massaged him for what felt like a blissful eternity. “Better than good.”
“I’m glad,” she replied.
“I want to do great deeds, Candy,” he confided drowsily. “All I’ve ever wanted is to be in an epic adventure. Real Lord of the Rings type stuff. I want to save the world. Like the great heroes of old. Beowulf. King Arthur. Indiana Jones. Clint Eastwood. Abraham Lincoln. Especially Lincoln.”
“Who’s that?”
“Lincoln? He was President of the United States, eons ago, running the country and orating with big words and shit, but at night he was a kick ass vampire slayer. How do you even find time for that? Superhuman. You know? Run a country and then go out at night and stake vampires. That’s what I call a hero. Someone worthy of song.”
“Like My Little Pony? They sing. Went on adventures, too.” He nodded. “Yes. But more macho. Less pink.”
She giggled. “Good. Pink is my colour.”
“Mark my words. One day, I’m going to be worthy.”
“You already are in my books, Thrax.”
Ten wonderful, soothing minutes later, she turned him over.
“Saliva has healing properties, you know,” she said, her face hovering over his. Her big, wide eyes shifted focus between his left and right, searching, he thought, for his very soul.
Or some kind of deep shit like that.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
And she was.
“You’re an angel. The Theory of Forms made all pink and fleshy. Hyper-real.”
She giggled and gave him a long passionate kiss, her tongue gliding lightly about his now unfrozen mouth. “It’s nice.”
“The world’s in danger,” he muttered.
The non-sequitor took her by surprise. “Huh?”
“That’s what he said. The android. The world is in danger.”
“Again? I remember it being in danger before. But you’ll save it,” she replied confidently. “You’re a really good shot. I have faith in you, Magnum.”
Thrax managed a laugh. “Glad someone does.”
“Can I tell you something?” she asked, a sly smile appearing on her chubby, cherubic face.
“Sure.”
She pressed her lips to his ear and breathed, “I want to have a baby.”
He chuckled.
Candy drew back, frowned. “That’s not nice. I thought you were nice.”
He shook his head. “No, look. I’m sorry. It’s just not possible. You’re an android. You don’t even have a womb.”
“I’m a living being. ‘Be humble for you are made of earth, be noble, for you are made of stars.’ That applies to me as much as you,” she said with more than a little defiance.
“Yeah, no. Not what I mean. You were designed. Manufactured for a specific, limited purpose. Child birth not being one of them.”
Candy threw up her hands in frustration. Thrax didn’t get it: “The Ancients changed everything, all the time. The code exists.” She straightened up and added with reverence: “The Great Net of Knowledge said so.”
That gave Thrax pause. “No shit?”
A grin. “No shit. I even found some.”
“Didn’t think you were a rocket science type.” Thrax wrapped his arms around her svelte waist and unzipped her slippery white plastic dress, releasing tension from soft, pert pink flesh.
That got Max yapping in a hyperventilating fury; he ran about in circles, always coming back to focus on Thrax, bellowing indignation in high falsetto.
Candy pushed Thrax’s arms away. “It’s biology, not rocket science.” Candy turned to the dog. “Shush Maxy.” She picked up the jealous dog up and putting him in the wall unit. The wall sealed up behind him, a semi-permeable membrane allowing the flow of air but not sound. “I don’t think he’ll take long.”
With an open palm motion, she made the door slide shut.
Coddled within a world of pink, they fucked like rabid, sex starved bunnies.
The Force Awakens: fun but no classic (SPOILERS).
The Force Awakens is like the popcorn, pop, and candy I had during the film (I skipped lunch): Tasted great at the time, but afterward, I didn't feel so hot.
Faux-food.
Empty calories.
That's The Force Awakens: instantly forgettable fun.
And considering how insanely fast the film was put together, we're lucky it's as good as it is.
So go see it, enjoy, and don't think about it again.
The first third of the film is great, and the new characters are even better: Rey, Fynn, BB-8 and Kylo Ren are fun, fresh, and interesting. Poe's a little flat (the script doesn't give him as much to work with), but all the actors deliver a level of craft and energy that hasn't been seen in a Star Wars film for awhile (Sadly the prequels had a cast of cardboard).
We open with a massacre and then segue into quiet mood setting that's the best part of the film. It feels like Star Wars. It builds up your faith. Then BAM: it's onto the action-sequence roller coaster. I got flashbacks of Star Trek: Into Darkness. It doesn't let up, and it's draining. JJ Abrams loves breathless pacing, but sometimes you get the impression the story's being told by a phenomenally gifted, ADD eight-year old. On the positive side, you're invested. You care about Rey and Fynn and lil' BB pretty real quick; they're very appealing and charismatic portrayals. That gives the action meaning.
Which is brilliant.
The lightsaber battle at the end of Phantom is technically impressive and visually spectacular, for example, but it's empty, meaningless calories because you don't give a spit about Qi-Gong Bargain Bin, or whatever his name was. And Ewan McGregor was untouchable; there was never any fear his character was going to come to harm, and so no suspense.
No emotional investment.
Here, there is.
The film gets faster and faster paced as it goes on, which is generally how it goes, but here it's on turbo. It's about going so blindingly fast you don't notice the flaws. Think about the scene in Star Wars where they're planning the attack on the Death Star. It feels real. Grounded. They based it on how bomber crews in the Second World War were briefed. Best of all? You knew the pilots were afraid by their questions. They were tense, which is what you'd expect them to be if they were real people instead of extras. In The Force Awakens, the planning session more resembles a bunch of ten-year olds at play. No one acts like they're about to put their lives on the line.
That was one of the brilliant things about Star Wars' lived-in universe: Little touches of the ordinary to keep the fantasy grounded and relatable. Star Wars had power converters and a whiny teenager who wanted to escape his small town. The second film had Luke at summer swamp camp and Han and Leia on the road trip from hell. The beginning of Awaken tries to ground us, too, but gravity gives way by the end for the sake of fast pacing.
Kasdan and JJ could have gone anywhere with the story. The possibilities of our galaxy far, far away are almost endless. It's a wildly imaginative storytelling playground.
Or it should be.
The biggest disappointment of the film is that it recycles large chunks of Star Wars and Empire Strikes Back.
Disney executives invested four billion in the Star Wars franchise and they want to make that money back.
Remember that Hollywood execs took 'Mars' out of the title of John Carter because other films with that unmentionable M-word in the title had bombed? They concluded that people didn't like movies with the word 'Mars' in the title.
That's how they think.
It's a bit voodoo.
Like trickle-down economics theories.
That's going to inform how they approach the Star Wars: was the first film a success due to excellent story telling, or… because it had a desert planet? Probably story, but when there's this much money involved, why not hedge your bet?
The first film starts with the bad guys hunting down missing plans. That means… so does this one. The first film has a desert planet, which means this one does, too. The plans are put on a droid in the original, so they do the same here. The droid in the first film got picked up by a scrap dealer, so the droid here is… also picked up by a scrap dealer.
The first film had a planet destroying battle station, which means this one does, too. The first film had a bit about turning off the tractor beam, so this one has a bit about turning off the force fields. Star Wars climaxed with an attack by X-wings on a battlestation. So this one has the very same thing.
And when they had a big emotional punch moment in Cloud City ("Luke! I am…"), it happened over a great void. So this time, the emotional moment also happens over a great void.
And blaster fire erupts after the big moment and people scream, 'nooooo!'
It's like they took the first two films, put them in a blender, and poured out a milkshake script.
This kind of thinking results in three Death Stars blowing up over the course of four films. Honestly, when I saw Starkiller base, the first thought wasn't 'wow', or 'that's impressive'. No, my first thought was: 'Oh sh*t, not another f*cking Death Star!'
Those pesky things are more ubiquitous than cathedrals on a tour of Europe.
A whole galaxy of wonderful inventiveness, and all they can do is blow up Death Stars, over and over and over again.
The reason why Empire is so good is because it didn't just scale up the ending of Star Wars; instead of zigging, it zagged and went for a powerful emotional punch at the end. To allow the emo-twist to hit harder, they pushed the big battle sequence up to the beginning of the film, letting both sequences breathe.
Here, they don't trust their storytelling enough to allow that. Instead, they mash the ending of Star Wars together with the ending of Empire. Spectacular battle scene is intercut with powerful emotional twist. The hope is that this will have double the impact, but it doesn't. They just cancel each other out. There's too much.
But the execs want to cover all the bases, and not leave anything to chance.
So they shoved in both: scaled stunts and emotional punch.
Which leads inevitably to a dead end.
Think about it.
The first Death Star was big. The second was five or six times bigger. The third is larger than the second by an even greater order of magnitude. What will be the fourth? The size of a sun? What comes after that?
Then what?
Spielberg once said that in any sequel to Raiders of the Lost Arc, the stunts would have to be even bigger. But if the stunts in the first already push the limits of credulity, stretch the bubble of disbelief to breaking point, where are you going?
Where does it end?
I'll tell you where: farce and inadvertent self-parody.
It ends with blowing up ever-bigger Death Stars, over and over, ad infinitum.
It ends with John Wick being a redressed Equalizer. It ends with the audience not being able to tell which movie they're watching anymore: White House Down or… the other one. It's Die Hard in the White House. It's Die Hard in an Airport. It's Die Hard in an Ocean Liner. It's Die Hard in an office tower.
Otherwise, identical.
It's Avengers I being the same blazingly quick-cut action-blur as Avengers II.
It ends with sequel after sequel that is almost indistinguishable from its predecessor. Just bigger.
It's the cinematic equivalent of changing the packaging, or letting out a suit, and calling it all-new.
That's why Empire is so good: it builds on Star Wars. It doesn't recycle. The characters grow and go new places, rather than just repeating the same journey they took the first time.
Empire is how you build a lasting franchise. Not Jedi.
And not The Force Awakens.
The hollow core of the new film bodes ill for the future. The characters are enormously appealing, but the story's messy and sloppy and full of coincidences to the point of absurdity. It's only there to provide a segue into the next action sequence.
And yet, Empire, our critically beloved darling, is the lowest earning of the whole set, adjusted for inflation. The Phantom Menace the highest.
Did JJ achieve what he needed to? You bet. He's made an entertaining film that's far better than any of the prequels. The film will make a ton of money. That's the bottom line.
Did he create a modern classic? A story that will stand the test of time? Given the constraints the film was made under, that probably was never in the cards.
In ten years, people will still be looking back to the original trilogy as the best.
Some random thoughts:
• During the film I strongly felt that Rey (Ray of light!) was Luke's daughter. But there's another possibility: she's the twin sister of Kylo Ren, spirited away by Luke or Maz without Han or Leia's knowledge, or even knowing she existed (they seem to have no knowledge of a daughter, missing or otherwise). Which doesn't make much, or any, sense, because she was just dumped on Tatooine (Jakku, whatever) without a protector. Yet if Rey was Luke's daughter, surely they'd have mentioned the mother in the setup… wouldn't they? Maybe not because…
• I don't understand what the First Order even was, how it related to The Republic, if there was a Republic (they mention Senators in a throw away line), or how The Resistance fits into the mix. I don't know what was going on, other than that the First Order was bad, and the Resistance good.
• Rey picked up her knowledge of the force, and lightsaber fighting, from Kylo Ren when he tried to probe her mind. She probed right back and gleaned knowledge of The Force. That's my guess.
• Captain Phasma was beyond lame.
• The Starkiller Base super weapon was ridiculous.
• Why was nobody working for the First Order over thirty? Don't they trust them?
Thursday, December 17, 2015
Machiavelli on the pleasures of reading
“When evening comes, I return home and go into my study.
On the threshold I strip off my muddy, sweaty, workday clothes, and put on the robes of court and palace, and in this graver dress I enter the antique courts of the ancients and am welcomed by them, and there I taste the food that alone is mine, and for which I was born.
And there I make bold to speak to them and ask the motives of their actions, and they, in their humanity, reply to me.
And for the space of four hours I forget the world, remember no vexation, fear poverty no more, tremble no more at death: I pass indeed into their world.”
Niccolò Machiavelli
On the threshold I strip off my muddy, sweaty, workday clothes, and put on the robes of court and palace, and in this graver dress I enter the antique courts of the ancients and am welcomed by them, and there I taste the food that alone is mine, and for which I was born.
And there I make bold to speak to them and ask the motives of their actions, and they, in their humanity, reply to me.
And for the space of four hours I forget the world, remember no vexation, fear poverty no more, tremble no more at death: I pass indeed into their world.”
Niccolò Machiavelli
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
Star Wars as postmodernist film: SLATE
I enjoyed this post over at Slate:
"In fact, Star Wars—the original 1977 film that started it all—is all these things. It’s a pastiche, as mashed-up and hyper-referential as any movie from Quentin Tarantino. It takes the blasters of Flash Gordon and puts them in the low-slung holsters of John Ford’s gunslingers. It takes Kurosawa’s samurai masters and sends them to Rick’s Café Américain from Casablanca. It takes the plot of The Hidden Fortress, pours it into Joseph Campbell’s mythological mold, and tops it all off with the climax from The Dam Busters. Blending the high with the low, all while wearing its influences on its sleeve, Star Wars is pretty much the epitome of a postmodernist film."
Read the whole thing.
Want more?
I wrote about Star Wars over Empire Strikes Back here, and about the series here:
"The Empire Strikes Back went seriously over budget and threatened to bankrupt Lucas. It was, and is, the least financially successful of all the Star Wars films, pulling in $100 million less than the original. It's the lowest earning of all six. Think about that. Lucas tilted towards the safety of toys and marketing for a reason. It's a stressful business and you can easily lose your shirt (to top it off, Lucas was going through a very expensive divorce at the time). Lucas himself reedited Empire to be action-oriented and appeal more to children, but it didn't work and he abandoned the effort.
By the time Jedi came out, the Irvin Kershner and Lawrence Kasdan tag team was sundered and story was no longer king. Merchandising took story out behind the barn, beaten it up and shoved a toy in every orifice.
Jedi made $50 million more than Empire, and was bolstered further by solid merchandise sales. And if you equate box office with quality, the best film of the whole set is The Phantom Menace, with $1,027,044,677 worldwide.
That's how our wallets voted, at any rate.
Star Wars was the biggest film event of my childhood, and I don't think anything since has shaken up cinema (and merchandising) as much. The Matrix was a seminal film, but was more adult oriented.
When you're under ten, films have a bigger impact.
You've not been filled up with decades of hype and media and tropes and twists and characters being killed only to be revived by the end of the episode, or cynical reboots of major franchises every couple years. Everything is fresh and shiny and new and never seen before when you're young and bright eyed."
Preparing for The Force Awakens with White House Down
So it's time to get ready for the biggest, most-hyped movie premiere of the new millennium: The Force Awakens.
If you want to ensure a happy, satisfying movie going experience, there are a number of steps you can take. Don't leave your enjoyment to chance, or just the quality of the film: bolster it!
Get insurance.
'But Gene, how is that possible?' you ask.
A very good question, my friend.
Allow me to explicate.
It's easy, actually: watch the worst movies in cinema history in the days leading up to the Star Wars film.
How many bad films?
That depends: the more you watch, the better The Force Awakens will look by comparison.
At the same time, if you watch too many dreadful, neuron-killing flicks, you'll be put off movie watching entirely.
So you need to strike a very, very careful balance.
Personally, I've prepared by watching White House Down, which is a truly terrible movie, at least from my point of view. It plays like a rejected Die Hard script. A lot of craft went into it, of course, and there's some great stunt work, but I am not the target audience.
Males between ten and fifteen might be.
Which is a frightening thought actually, as they're also the primary target audience of The Force Awaken, if you really think about it.
So don't.
You could watch The Phantom Menace, but that'd just be depressing and sour your feelings towards the entire franchise.
Sorry, George. I love ya man, but that one was a stinker.
Perhaps a Transformers movie. I've never managed to sit through one. This is a very edgy choice, however: the risk of being turned off cinema forever is just too high. I wouldn't go that far, personally.
Best stick to something bearably awful, like Star Trek: Into Darkness.
Crimson Peak, GI Joe, Divergent, and Jurassic World are all titles I'd recommend if you want to pummel your love of cinema.
The Force Awakens will be brilliant.
Monday, December 14, 2015
Magnum Thrax: Chapter Five
It's Monday, and that means it's time for another batcrap-crazy chapter of Magnum Thrax and the Amusement Park of Doom, the weirdest sci-fi-fantasy book you'll ever read. The book is an exercise in both eccentricity and excess, a mad mash of genres that overloads readers with dense, alienating oddity. I know, I know: What the heck was I thinking? But that's what came out, and while different is not the synonymous with good, I had a lot of fun writing it. And I learned a good deal. Like, writing is hard, and, being Canadian, I'm always getting American spelling mixed up with my English/Canadian spelling. Like Reeses Peanut Butter cups, only considerably less tasty.
I could tell you more, but that'd be boring.
So now, without further ado… Chapter Five!
The winged beast soared over the prairie wastes. A monstrous creature ripped out of myth, it had been grown in a ceramic vat. Its scaled dragon body was topped by the head of a great white shark, its slack maw filled with rows of razor sharp teeth. Unblinking, dead eyes roved over the landscape ceaselessly. Black flecks swarmed beneath its great wings, enabling the oversized beast’s flight against all the rules of physics.
The rider on its back was gaunt and hooded, with skeletal, silver hands. It wore a spiked crown bearing an emblem of a castle growing out of a ringed sphere. To the right of the sphere was a tiny trademark symbol. Within the hood were only buzzing black dots and two small, glowing red orbs: laser emitters. A skull and crossbone badge was pinned to its chest with the label ‘Chief Operating Officer’.
Far below, two red dots flitted over an escape pod that lay at the end of a streak of churned up earth.
Finally. With a thought, The Wraith Director sent its dragon-shark into a dive. It spiralled downward, circling around the white speck.
As it neared, a small flock of grazers, tall, semi-intelligent devolved humans with stilt like legs, elongated necks, and small craniums, looked up. Seeing the dragon-shark and rider, they scattered.
The Wraith scanned them for metals, and finding none, ignored them. Wooshing and buzzing, the beast’s wings sent up gusts of dust as it landed.
The Wraith paused. It augmented passive scans with targeted sweeps of suspicious objects. The pod was half embedded in dirt. Black scorch marks ran along the upper surface from where it had been hit by energy bolts.
No threats identified, the Wraith slipped out of the saddle.
Its legs dissolved into a cloud that carried its body over to the pod’s open hatch, where they reformed.
A clawed finger ran along the open hatch with a hair-raising scratch, examining the interior and gathering data. A rent had been ripped on the underside, not visible from the outside. Enough damage to interfere with the pod’s operations, even bring it down eventually.
No sign of blood.
It noted a discarded and empty medkit. Several injection packets missing. Running through its database, the Wraith identified the medkit model: antiviral.
The target had been infected.
The Wraith bent its bulk into the pod itself, and placed a palm against the ship’s interface, transferring flight information. Images of spinning earth and sky, then the android occupant flashed through its neural net. It discarded the former and stored the latter for analysis.
The destination coordinates: 39 degrees north, 105 west.
Outside Denver.
Near the monastery.
An involuntary shiver went through The Wraith, as much as a shiver could. The android knew.
Most unfortunate. The Wraith activated its psychic ansible and sent out a high priority alert.
The response was immediate and expected: the android must never reach the Monastery of Nike alive.
Slipping out of the pod, The Wraith divided its two red orbs into a dozen, then a dozen dozen. A burst of red beams radiated outward, sweeping the ground methodically, then locked on to a string of faint footprints leading east.
Jackpot.
Satisfied, the Wraith skimmed over the churned earth, back to the waiting great white dragon-shark.
****
Deep below the surface of the earth, a sterile, flourescent lit chamber echoed with blubbery shouts of panic.
“Get it out! Get it out!”
Thrax, held down by three buxom, mini-skirted sexbot nurses, gaped at his arm in horror. Under the skin something visibly squirmed, like an amorphous worm, growing steadily in size.
It lurched towards his elbow.
“Holy Jesus Flakes! Cut it off!” he cried, leaning back, trying to distance himself from his own arm without effect.
Sterile fluorescent light made him look sickly green as he lay on the advanced medbunk. It had moulded itself to his body.
“Oh stop being such a damn baby,” said Jez, rolling her eyes. She and Andromeda looked on without much concern.
Candy bit her nails, eyes agog at Thrax’s arm. She had more empathy than she knew what to do with at the best of times.
“Always liked that laser bore of his,” whispered Jez to Andromeda. “Electron Dynamics. Top quality.”
“I heard that. You can’t have it,” snapped Thrax. “I’m leaving it to my little sister.” Jez shrugged. “She’s useless. I’d make better use of it.”
“Remain still, sir,” cooed a nurse. “Everything is going to be okay.”
Thrax gaped: “You don’t know that!”
“A death from battle wounds,” interjected Andromeda, “is a noble death, Magnum Thrax.”
“Patience. The doctor will be here soon,” added another nurse.
“Oh, for crying out loud, he’ll be dead by then,” snarled Jez. She snatched a butcher’s knife from a wall clip and hefted it in her hand, testing the weight. It was that kind of flexible, ad hoc adjunct medical bay slash butcher’s shop.
“Are you insane!?” Desperately, Thrax looked about for the doctor.
Through a seamless window he could see the main operating theatre, where a glowing Health Tech Life Cocoon encased the wounded android, keeping him in a suspended animation environment while studying his infection. An unseen operator caused ripples to flood over it as scans were performed.
Thrax cursed. “Froogin’ android gets better treatment than I do!”
They only had one cocoon. And Thrax was less important. Such bullshit. “Thanks for nuthin’. Jerks.”
Candy stammered an objection. “I don’t, hey, that’s not...”
“Shut up. I’ll get it.” Jez spat on the blade and smirked. Her eyes met Thrax’s. She smiled. “Don’t worry, you’ll learn to use the other hand for... you know.”
The nurses looked at each other in alarm. “I don’t think she’s licensed.”
Andromeda jutted out her chin, planted her hands on her hips, pushed her ample chest forward and declared, “If you die, Magnum Heironymus Thrax, we shall avenge you.” She cast a fierce look at the cocooned android.
Thrax groaned. “You always–wait!”
Jez raised the knife up high. Her face glowed with anticipation. “Ready? Three... two...” “Stop!”
The medpod’s doors slid open and Doctor Helen waddled in. Portly but compact, her skin was badly mottled, and her radiation ravaged body was encased in a cybernetic exoskeleton of incredible power.
“I do the cutting here, thank you very much,” she asserted, taking control of the situation immediately. This was her element, and nothing happened in the operating room without her say so. “No room for amateurs. Step aside. Make way. Shoo, shoo.”
She pushed Jez aside like she was made of feathers.
The domdroid stumbled sideways, her combat high heels clacking against the tiles, and backed into a tray of bedpans with a crash.
She scowled and glared daggers at Helen, who didn’t bother to notice, which just made Jez scowl more.
She looked to see if anyone had noticed, or laughed. That would be unacceptable.
No one dared.
Jez relaxed and resumed a calculated, nonchalant pose of self-possessed awesomeness.
“Everyone calm down,” soothed Doctor Helen, her voice authority itself. “Just calm down. Now. What do we have here, Mr. Thrax?”
She activated her eyepiece data feed and neural tap which was tied in to the medical bay’s equipment. Automated robotic arms shifted and hovered over Thrax, bringing their instruments to bear at her direction. She paused and bit her lip.
“It’s growing,” yelped Thrax. “Hurry it up, Doc!”
“Yes, yes,” replied Helen, absentmindedly. “Just relax, now. Some kind of synthetic infection... Changing as I speak. Never seen a faux bug like it. Deep breaths, Thrax. Deep breaths.”
She pulled out a transparent scanning sheet and held it over his arm. She liked the old ways best.
Thrax took a deep breath. Exhaled. His arm stopped moving.
He managed a small smile.
“How’s your mom?” Helen took out a nano-injector and loaded it with a probe packet.
“What? Oh. Good, thanks,” replied Thrax. “Those pills really did the trick.”
“Tell her she can pay me back by programming up a Don Juan medic for me. A sexy one,” said Helen with a smile. She glanced at the nurses. “This lot? Useless.”
The foxy nurses exchanged concerned looks.
Thrax shook his head. “Sorry. Mom programs people code, not android.”
“Oh yes. Remember now. Artificial DNA five point oh,” mused Helen. “Pity.”
She injected the packet.
The infection began to squirm again.
“You’ve riled it, Doc!”
“Shush. Quiet. I don’t want to sedate you.”
“Sedate me!” demanded Thrax. Wounds were one thing. Things crawling around under his skin were quite another.
“Doc, it’s going for his brain. I can sense it. It’s going to eat his brain!” warned Candy, growing hysterical. “I’ve seen it in vids. It’s always, like, always the brain!”
Helen turned to Candy. “Should I sedate both of you?”
Candy blushed. “I was just saying it’s going... Sorry.”
The writhing subcutaneous lump inched around the elbow and around the bicep.
“Hurry, dammit. I like my brain!” exclaimed Thrax.
“Not impressed with it myself, but you make do with what you’ve got,” Doc leaned in close, her bulbous nose a mere inch above the mysterious intruder. She tapped it with a finger. Ripples spread out.
“Is he going to die?” asked Candy, grabbing hold of Thrax’s uninfected hand. Her model’s deep seated empathy programming was going into hyperdrive. “Save his brain, Doctor Helen.” A makeup laden tear trickled down her face. “And his other parts!”
Helen swung over an old, heavy piece of machinery that hung from the ceiling and directed an aperture at Thrax’s elbow. The device hummed. “Stop alarming him, Candy dear. You know better.”
The bump began to fade.
Helen frowned. “Oh dear, that’s not good.”
Thrax’s eyebrows shot up. “What? What’s not good?”
“Not good at all.”
Mechancial arms swooped in, grasping Thrax’s arm and peppering it with surface probes.
The lump was gone, as if it had never been.
“Not even stretch marks,” mused Doc Helen.
She paused a moment, her eye darting rapidly at data streaming through her eyeglass no one else could see, then snapped off her rubber gloves.
“What are you doing?” asked Thrax. “Aren’t you going to get it out?” “Too late.”
“What do you mean ‘too late’?” repeated Thrax.
Helen shrugged. “Already in your bloodstream, your brain. Medbots don’t seem to even notice. Sophisticated stuff. Level three, maybe four. The bump was just a temporary factory site. But don’t fret. Amputation would be pointless.” She patted his arm and gave him a wink. “I’ll see if we have any Hunter Killer packets.”
“You’re just guessing,” muttered Jez, bitterly.
“Pot, kettle,” snapped Helen. She nodded to her nurses. “Do something useful for a change. Clear this lot out of the medical bay.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
They started to shoo everyone out. Two approached Jez, who hadn’t budged, but were stopped in their tracks by a glare that’d kill a mutant moose. They backed off. Jez smiled, warmed by her victory, then strutted jauntily towards the exit, nose in the air. “Didn’t want to stay anyway. My subbies will fill me in.”
Helen rummaged through nano-medipackets piled on a tray. “Thrax, I want to keep you here for a little while,” she said over her shoulder.
“How long?” asked Thrax.
“Couple hours.” She nodded towards the window and the cocoon beyond. “At least until I find some answers.”
“What kind of shape the android in?”
She tapped the injector against her chin. “Not good. His artificial genetic code is unraveling. Syntelomeres degrading at a rapid rate. Capped them for time being, but he’s not got long. Perplexing.”
Thrax grunted assent.
She turned a little packet round in her chubby fingers. “Ah, here we go: HK’s.”
She snapped the packet into the injector slot. She made a gesture and a floating interface terminal sheet glided over. Her fingers danced over it. “I’m going to leave them inert for now. Just there in case your little guests decide to do anything rash.”
Helen tapped his arm. “Pain?”
Thrax shook his head.
“Good.” She placed the injector against his bicep. There was soft click.
“Sit tight, I’ll be back.” Doc Helen headed for the door. She flicked her fingers. “Come along, girls. You’re moving our patient to the Council Chamber.”
The nurses skittered on their impossibly high heels after her.
As the door closed after them, silence descended on the med bay. Thrax became aware of soft hums of machinery, the gentle gush of air conditioning.
He waited. Wondered what time it was. Looked about.
Darwin! He remembered he’d deactivated the AI. With a thought he brought it online.
Darwin’s holographic image appeared in space before him. Facing away, with arms crossed. The virtual being was pissed.
Fuck, thought Thrax. Better get this over with.
“Hey, look, sorry about that,” he said.
No reaction.
He spread his hands out in supplication. It was gauling but had to be done. “What? You wouldn’t shut up and I needed to concentrate.”
“No small feat,” sniffed Darwin, “Given your ADD and stimulation addiction.”
“Fine,” replied Thrax. He needed to get Darwin back onside. Why couldn’t he have a normal digital assistant? Kal just had an insta-access database.
“Could have warned you.”
Here it comes, thought Thrax. “Go ahead and say it.”
Darwin shifted, then turned his semi-transparent face about, and pulled off his sunglasses for dramatic emphasis. “Turning me off might have doomed not only us, but the entire Pleasurepit Emporium.”
“Fine,” replied Thrax. “I fucked up. I won’t turn you off again.” He gave it a thought and added a caveat. “In a dangerous situation. Promise.”
Darwin nodded. “A man’s friendships are one of the best measures of his worth. Turning me off is a violation of that, a statement of inequality.”
Thrax began to wish he hadn’t turned Darwin back on.
“Dude, you’re my best buddy. I couldn’t get through a day without you.”
This seemed to mollify Darwin. His shoulders relaxed, he took on a professorial air, and he began to pace the room. “The android is military, last model manufactured before the collapse. Aside from his serial number and designation, Eight-Oh-Nine, nothing. His code and immune system are protected by HK’s, which have hampered Doctor Helen’s efforts to save his life. Ironic. What was intended to protect him may kill him.”
“What the hell was he doing in that Squid? Why inject me with goo?”
Darwin walked about the med lab, examining the equipment. “Best guess? You were convenient. Facing imminent death, he decided to pass material on to you, to fulfill his greater purpose. Whatever that might be.”
“Yeah,” replied Thrax. He hopped off the bed. “Well. I’m out of here. Could dissolve any minute. Gonna find me a few experiences to take to the grave. An orgy or two.” As he made for the door he reconsidered. He had orgies almost every day, as often as his ration card allowed. If this was his last go around, he wanted something different. Out of bounds. Warrior sexbots: the forbidden fruit. Yeah!
Darwin rolled his eyes and put back on his sunglasses. “Rutting. Typical. You remind me of a monkey I once knew. Well. I think I’ll go dip in the theorem database for awhile.”
And he winked out.
I could tell you more, but that'd be boring.
So now, without further ado… Chapter Five!
The rider on its back was gaunt and hooded, with skeletal, silver hands. It wore a spiked crown bearing an emblem of a castle growing out of a ringed sphere. To the right of the sphere was a tiny trademark symbol. Within the hood were only buzzing black dots and two small, glowing red orbs: laser emitters. A skull and crossbone badge was pinned to its chest with the label ‘Chief Operating Officer’.
Far below, two red dots flitted over an escape pod that lay at the end of a streak of churned up earth.
Finally. With a thought, The Wraith Director sent its dragon-shark into a dive. It spiralled downward, circling around the white speck.
As it neared, a small flock of grazers, tall, semi-intelligent devolved humans with stilt like legs, elongated necks, and small craniums, looked up. Seeing the dragon-shark and rider, they scattered.
The Wraith scanned them for metals, and finding none, ignored them. Wooshing and buzzing, the beast’s wings sent up gusts of dust as it landed.
The Wraith paused. It augmented passive scans with targeted sweeps of suspicious objects. The pod was half embedded in dirt. Black scorch marks ran along the upper surface from where it had been hit by energy bolts.
No threats identified, the Wraith slipped out of the saddle.
Its legs dissolved into a cloud that carried its body over to the pod’s open hatch, where they reformed.
A clawed finger ran along the open hatch with a hair-raising scratch, examining the interior and gathering data. A rent had been ripped on the underside, not visible from the outside. Enough damage to interfere with the pod’s operations, even bring it down eventually.
No sign of blood.
It noted a discarded and empty medkit. Several injection packets missing. Running through its database, the Wraith identified the medkit model: antiviral.
The target had been infected.
The Wraith bent its bulk into the pod itself, and placed a palm against the ship’s interface, transferring flight information. Images of spinning earth and sky, then the android occupant flashed through its neural net. It discarded the former and stored the latter for analysis.
The destination coordinates: 39 degrees north, 105 west.
Outside Denver.
Near the monastery.
An involuntary shiver went through The Wraith, as much as a shiver could. The android knew.
Most unfortunate. The Wraith activated its psychic ansible and sent out a high priority alert.
The response was immediate and expected: the android must never reach the Monastery of Nike alive.
Slipping out of the pod, The Wraith divided its two red orbs into a dozen, then a dozen dozen. A burst of red beams radiated outward, sweeping the ground methodically, then locked on to a string of faint footprints leading east.
Jackpot.
Satisfied, the Wraith skimmed over the churned earth, back to the waiting great white dragon-shark.
****
Deep below the surface of the earth, a sterile, flourescent lit chamber echoed with blubbery shouts of panic.
“Get it out! Get it out!”
Thrax, held down by three buxom, mini-skirted sexbot nurses, gaped at his arm in horror. Under the skin something visibly squirmed, like an amorphous worm, growing steadily in size.
It lurched towards his elbow.
“Holy Jesus Flakes! Cut it off!” he cried, leaning back, trying to distance himself from his own arm without effect.
Sterile fluorescent light made him look sickly green as he lay on the advanced medbunk. It had moulded itself to his body.
“Oh stop being such a damn baby,” said Jez, rolling her eyes. She and Andromeda looked on without much concern.
Candy bit her nails, eyes agog at Thrax’s arm. She had more empathy than she knew what to do with at the best of times.
“Always liked that laser bore of his,” whispered Jez to Andromeda. “Electron Dynamics. Top quality.”
“I heard that. You can’t have it,” snapped Thrax. “I’m leaving it to my little sister.” Jez shrugged. “She’s useless. I’d make better use of it.”
“Remain still, sir,” cooed a nurse. “Everything is going to be okay.”
Thrax gaped: “You don’t know that!”
“A death from battle wounds,” interjected Andromeda, “is a noble death, Magnum Thrax.”
“Patience. The doctor will be here soon,” added another nurse.
“Oh, for crying out loud, he’ll be dead by then,” snarled Jez. She snatched a butcher’s knife from a wall clip and hefted it in her hand, testing the weight. It was that kind of flexible, ad hoc adjunct medical bay slash butcher’s shop.
“Are you insane!?” Desperately, Thrax looked about for the doctor.
Through a seamless window he could see the main operating theatre, where a glowing Health Tech Life Cocoon encased the wounded android, keeping him in a suspended animation environment while studying his infection. An unseen operator caused ripples to flood over it as scans were performed.
Thrax cursed. “Froogin’ android gets better treatment than I do!”
They only had one cocoon. And Thrax was less important. Such bullshit. “Thanks for nuthin’. Jerks.”
Candy stammered an objection. “I don’t, hey, that’s not...”
“Shut up. I’ll get it.” Jez spat on the blade and smirked. Her eyes met Thrax’s. She smiled. “Don’t worry, you’ll learn to use the other hand for... you know.”
The nurses looked at each other in alarm. “I don’t think she’s licensed.”
Andromeda jutted out her chin, planted her hands on her hips, pushed her ample chest forward and declared, “If you die, Magnum Heironymus Thrax, we shall avenge you.” She cast a fierce look at the cocooned android.
Thrax groaned. “You always–wait!”
Jez raised the knife up high. Her face glowed with anticipation. “Ready? Three... two...” “Stop!”
The medpod’s doors slid open and Doctor Helen waddled in. Portly but compact, her skin was badly mottled, and her radiation ravaged body was encased in a cybernetic exoskeleton of incredible power.
“I do the cutting here, thank you very much,” she asserted, taking control of the situation immediately. This was her element, and nothing happened in the operating room without her say so. “No room for amateurs. Step aside. Make way. Shoo, shoo.”
She pushed Jez aside like she was made of feathers.
The domdroid stumbled sideways, her combat high heels clacking against the tiles, and backed into a tray of bedpans with a crash.
She scowled and glared daggers at Helen, who didn’t bother to notice, which just made Jez scowl more.
She looked to see if anyone had noticed, or laughed. That would be unacceptable.
No one dared.
Jez relaxed and resumed a calculated, nonchalant pose of self-possessed awesomeness.
“Everyone calm down,” soothed Doctor Helen, her voice authority itself. “Just calm down. Now. What do we have here, Mr. Thrax?”
She activated her eyepiece data feed and neural tap which was tied in to the medical bay’s equipment. Automated robotic arms shifted and hovered over Thrax, bringing their instruments to bear at her direction. She paused and bit her lip.
“It’s growing,” yelped Thrax. “Hurry it up, Doc!”
“Yes, yes,” replied Helen, absentmindedly. “Just relax, now. Some kind of synthetic infection... Changing as I speak. Never seen a faux bug like it. Deep breaths, Thrax. Deep breaths.”
She pulled out a transparent scanning sheet and held it over his arm. She liked the old ways best.
Thrax took a deep breath. Exhaled. His arm stopped moving.
He managed a small smile.
“How’s your mom?” Helen took out a nano-injector and loaded it with a probe packet.
“What? Oh. Good, thanks,” replied Thrax. “Those pills really did the trick.”
“Tell her she can pay me back by programming up a Don Juan medic for me. A sexy one,” said Helen with a smile. She glanced at the nurses. “This lot? Useless.”
The foxy nurses exchanged concerned looks.
Thrax shook his head. “Sorry. Mom programs people code, not android.”
“Oh yes. Remember now. Artificial DNA five point oh,” mused Helen. “Pity.”
She injected the packet.
The infection began to squirm again.
“You’ve riled it, Doc!”
“Shush. Quiet. I don’t want to sedate you.”
“Sedate me!” demanded Thrax. Wounds were one thing. Things crawling around under his skin were quite another.
“Doc, it’s going for his brain. I can sense it. It’s going to eat his brain!” warned Candy, growing hysterical. “I’ve seen it in vids. It’s always, like, always the brain!”
Helen turned to Candy. “Should I sedate both of you?”
Candy blushed. “I was just saying it’s going... Sorry.”
The writhing subcutaneous lump inched around the elbow and around the bicep.
“Hurry, dammit. I like my brain!” exclaimed Thrax.
“Not impressed with it myself, but you make do with what you’ve got,” Doc leaned in close, her bulbous nose a mere inch above the mysterious intruder. She tapped it with a finger. Ripples spread out.
“Is he going to die?” asked Candy, grabbing hold of Thrax’s uninfected hand. Her model’s deep seated empathy programming was going into hyperdrive. “Save his brain, Doctor Helen.” A makeup laden tear trickled down her face. “And his other parts!”
Helen swung over an old, heavy piece of machinery that hung from the ceiling and directed an aperture at Thrax’s elbow. The device hummed. “Stop alarming him, Candy dear. You know better.”
The bump began to fade.
Helen frowned. “Oh dear, that’s not good.”
Thrax’s eyebrows shot up. “What? What’s not good?”
“Not good at all.”
Mechancial arms swooped in, grasping Thrax’s arm and peppering it with surface probes.
The lump was gone, as if it had never been.
“Not even stretch marks,” mused Doc Helen.
She paused a moment, her eye darting rapidly at data streaming through her eyeglass no one else could see, then snapped off her rubber gloves.
“What are you doing?” asked Thrax. “Aren’t you going to get it out?” “Too late.”
“What do you mean ‘too late’?” repeated Thrax.
Helen shrugged. “Already in your bloodstream, your brain. Medbots don’t seem to even notice. Sophisticated stuff. Level three, maybe four. The bump was just a temporary factory site. But don’t fret. Amputation would be pointless.” She patted his arm and gave him a wink. “I’ll see if we have any Hunter Killer packets.”
“You’re just guessing,” muttered Jez, bitterly.
“Pot, kettle,” snapped Helen. She nodded to her nurses. “Do something useful for a change. Clear this lot out of the medical bay.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
They started to shoo everyone out. Two approached Jez, who hadn’t budged, but were stopped in their tracks by a glare that’d kill a mutant moose. They backed off. Jez smiled, warmed by her victory, then strutted jauntily towards the exit, nose in the air. “Didn’t want to stay anyway. My subbies will fill me in.”
Helen rummaged through nano-medipackets piled on a tray. “Thrax, I want to keep you here for a little while,” she said over her shoulder.
“How long?” asked Thrax.
“Couple hours.” She nodded towards the window and the cocoon beyond. “At least until I find some answers.”
“What kind of shape the android in?”
She tapped the injector against her chin. “Not good. His artificial genetic code is unraveling. Syntelomeres degrading at a rapid rate. Capped them for time being, but he’s not got long. Perplexing.”
Thrax grunted assent.
She turned a little packet round in her chubby fingers. “Ah, here we go: HK’s.”
She snapped the packet into the injector slot. She made a gesture and a floating interface terminal sheet glided over. Her fingers danced over it. “I’m going to leave them inert for now. Just there in case your little guests decide to do anything rash.”
Helen tapped his arm. “Pain?”
Thrax shook his head.
“Good.” She placed the injector against his bicep. There was soft click.
“Sit tight, I’ll be back.” Doc Helen headed for the door. She flicked her fingers. “Come along, girls. You’re moving our patient to the Council Chamber.”
The nurses skittered on their impossibly high heels after her.
As the door closed after them, silence descended on the med bay. Thrax became aware of soft hums of machinery, the gentle gush of air conditioning.
He waited. Wondered what time it was. Looked about.
Darwin! He remembered he’d deactivated the AI. With a thought he brought it online.
Darwin’s holographic image appeared in space before him. Facing away, with arms crossed. The virtual being was pissed.
Fuck, thought Thrax. Better get this over with.
“Hey, look, sorry about that,” he said.
No reaction.
He spread his hands out in supplication. It was gauling but had to be done. “What? You wouldn’t shut up and I needed to concentrate.”
“No small feat,” sniffed Darwin, “Given your ADD and stimulation addiction.”
“Fine,” replied Thrax. He needed to get Darwin back onside. Why couldn’t he have a normal digital assistant? Kal just had an insta-access database.
“Could have warned you.”
Here it comes, thought Thrax. “Go ahead and say it.”
Darwin shifted, then turned his semi-transparent face about, and pulled off his sunglasses for dramatic emphasis. “Turning me off might have doomed not only us, but the entire Pleasurepit Emporium.”
“Fine,” replied Thrax. “I fucked up. I won’t turn you off again.” He gave it a thought and added a caveat. “In a dangerous situation. Promise.”
Darwin nodded. “A man’s friendships are one of the best measures of his worth. Turning me off is a violation of that, a statement of inequality.”
Thrax began to wish he hadn’t turned Darwin back on.
“Dude, you’re my best buddy. I couldn’t get through a day without you.”
This seemed to mollify Darwin. His shoulders relaxed, he took on a professorial air, and he began to pace the room. “The android is military, last model manufactured before the collapse. Aside from his serial number and designation, Eight-Oh-Nine, nothing. His code and immune system are protected by HK’s, which have hampered Doctor Helen’s efforts to save his life. Ironic. What was intended to protect him may kill him.”
“What the hell was he doing in that Squid? Why inject me with goo?”
Darwin walked about the med lab, examining the equipment. “Best guess? You were convenient. Facing imminent death, he decided to pass material on to you, to fulfill his greater purpose. Whatever that might be.”
“Yeah,” replied Thrax. He hopped off the bed. “Well. I’m out of here. Could dissolve any minute. Gonna find me a few experiences to take to the grave. An orgy or two.” As he made for the door he reconsidered. He had orgies almost every day, as often as his ration card allowed. If this was his last go around, he wanted something different. Out of bounds. Warrior sexbots: the forbidden fruit. Yeah!
Darwin rolled his eyes and put back on his sunglasses. “Rutting. Typical. You remind me of a monkey I once knew. Well. I think I’ll go dip in the theorem database for awhile.”
And he winked out.
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