Chapter 15: Magnum Thrax and the Amusement Park of Doom

Kal bobbed his head in sync to the blaring music. The gyrostabilized vehicle vibrated to classic rock in HD surround sound, enveloping the team in lust filled memes. At the back of the cabin, the android team had morphed the seating into a bed, and clustered themselves together for a pajama party.

Even Andromeda joined in.

Kal and Thrax sat at the forward end, still in seats, with nine small monitors showing the vehicle exterior to their left, controls to their right. They simultaneously spun their seats around to look at the androids. Hercules sat at the very back, left of the bed; rigid, tense, eyes burrowing into Thrax’s head, weapon cradled in his lap.

Thrax ignored the roidroid and sipped gin.

“This will be good,” grinned Kal, tapping his buddies’ shoulder. “From a purely anthropological point of view, of course.”

Thrax nodded, trying to appear disinterested and failing. “Yeah, course. Anthro- whatever.”

“Someone call Margaret Mead,” said Sable seductively eyeing Kal.

Kal felt a thrill at the reference. Sable wasn’t bad looking. Bit uptight conservative though. He wondered what she’d look like if she let her hair down.

Sexbots. Kal knew they existed solely to gratify human desires, male or female. Whichever. And they were perfect. Science in service of lust. One of The Seven Pinnacles of ancient civilization. Twin pinnacles? He snickered at his own tasteless joke. Kal liked tasteless jokes.

Small wonder people didn’t want to screw the real thing. Kal himself had only had sex with androids. Ever. Who’d have wanted him? A scrawny, gangly odd ball with muscles of jello and spotted skin. Compared to a bot, he was barely human.

In fact, few humans in the pit could stand up to such a comparison.

People had pimples, imperfections, cellulite, male pattern baldness and were stunted and scarred by radiation damage. Their flesh sagged. They grew old and decrepit. Got Warts. Goiters. Horrific mutations. Some developed fanged serpent penises or toothed vaginas, thanks to demented retrovirus designers, sniggering sado-hacks, ancient trolls who lived in their parent’s basement, pumping out invisible monsters to torment and twist people.

So many terrible things that didn’t have to exist but did because... people. Once they just coded viruses for software. Then they graduated to DNA. The Mortymortymorty virus made people endlessly recite the hacker’s handle until they died of starvation. Twisted stuff. Kal kind of envied the mayhem they were able to inflict upon the world. To live in a globalized, interconnected world!

Physical imperfection of course was the least of it. The emotional needs of another human being were far more complicated than anything a human could reasonably meet, or an android could feel. Which made them better at faking it. There was a word for it: psychopathy.

The artificial never had angst and ennui. They didn’t read existentialist novels. Such books just made them angry.

Kal stared idly at Jasmine. Was a true relationship even possible with an android? He knew there were android lines designed for it. iMate was high end artificial, a long term partner. The Pleasurepit didn’t have any, but he’d looked it up in the records. They were always going crazy in threevee stories, hacking their lovers to bits and sticking them in the fridge, only to bring them out for dinner parties. Kal wondered if that sort of thing ever really happened.

But iMate went out of business. Not as popular as sexbots. Nobody wanted the hassle.

Too much work.

Disposable mates to go along with the disposable appliances. Maybe that’s why civilization had collapsed.

Jasmine sat up and brought Kal out of his reverie. A bandolier slipped off her smooth shoulder. “Ready, choombas?”

“Ready!” declared the team in unison, giggling. Candy squealed and shook in anticipation. Sable whipped off her prim rimmed glasses and revealed gorgeous, big blue eyes.

Thrax and Kal exchanged an oh-my-God-I-can’t-believe-this look.

Jasmine tapped an interface. A 3D projector flicked on and began to play The Princess Bride, without sound. None was needed, as they’d all memorized the lines, and repeated them aloud.

Kal found it sensory overload.

Candy’s carry on bag rustled, and Max crawled out, drawn by the commotion.

The dog gave a curious yap, spotted Candy, and ran over into her lap, wagging his tail. “You brought the dog?” blurted Thrax, incredulous. “On a top secret mission?” “What, you afraid he’s going to talk?” snarked Kitty.

“He’s a mammal. Could be mind probed,” mused Kal, missing her tone.

“Oh, not the mind probe!” mocked Kitty, mouth agape in faux horror. She kicked her legs in an agitated flurry. “He might give away his dog food supply!”

Kal flushed red. “Ah. Right. Sarcasm. The lowest form of humour.” Kitty blew him an exaggerated, sarcastic kiss and winked.

“Look, we don’t have room or time—,” started Thrax.

“There was no one else to take care of him,” interjected Candy. She leaned over and Max, paws on her breasts, licked her face with a tongue of soggy sandpaper. “Please. Let me keep him.”

“It’s too late to go back,” noted Kal.

Thrax concurred. “Just don’t let Ghatz see the little chibit.” Candy smiled radiantly and nodded.

“So. Cute!” gushed Jasmine, flicking a mint about her mouth. It clacked against her teeth. She stroked Max’s fur. He wagged his tail so hard his furry bum shook. The other androids joined in, fawning over the dog, who lapped up the affection like cool spring water. He panted happily.

“Kissy, kissy,” cooed Candy.

Kal sank back glumly into his chair. “This is not what I was expecting,” he muttered dejectedly, propping his head up on his palm.

Thrax grunted. “I hate that damn dog. So much.”

****

As the sun began to set it drenched the world in a warm orange glow. The limo roared between two vine wrapped arcology mega-pyramids. Thrax remembered them from his childhood. Bored by school, he’d set out to conquer the legendary Twin Pyramids. Couldn’t have been more than ten. He ‘borrowed’ his parent’s hoverbike for the last time.

It was probably still in there, where he’d left it, rusted and broken. Dad never let him forget it. But that wasn’t the worst part. When he’d set out at dawn that day, four other boys had followed, lured by Thrax’s promise of adventure. Only Thrax returned alive. Yet he wasn’t the only one to return. He shuddered. Another returned, days later, covered in dirt and burrs. Billy Stanton. Only he wasn’t Billy any more, not really. Could still see that wounded look on his face, his dead grey eyes, his flesh beginning to rot. He’d been reanimated by a nano-advertising campaign. Ad zombie Billy tried to sell everyone shoes until Thrax put a fork through Billy’s eyesocket and scooped out his sparkle ad-goo infected brain.

The limo turned up a gently sloping hill and onto the remains of an antigrav highway. Slabs of white diaceramic still glowed softly. Support columns and light posts were wrapped in carnivorous weeds. Slender stinger tendrils snapped harmlessly at the armoured limo as it passed. Above them drifted a great herd of transparent, bulbous crystal jellyfloaters trailing stinger nets. They blinked bright neon with fluorescent proteins, waves of saturated colour, red, yellow, green, blue, sweeping through the herd, forming a complex dance of colour based communication. Some long dead geneticists idea for living Christmas lights. The swarm spotted the car, sank rapidly, and dropped their stingers over the road, but the sealed limo just passed harmlessly through.

“Stupid jello drapes.” Kitty chewed her gum casually, mouth open. The smacking sound filled the cabin.

“Could you close your mouth?” said Kal finally, “You sound like some kind of bovine.” “What?” replied Kitty, annoyed. “It’s gum.”

“It is distracting,” said Sable.

“Yeah, it’s annoying,” added Thrax. “Shut yer mouth.”

“Got a question, boss.” Kitty blew a bubble at him until it popped. “How do I get out of this outfit?”

Chapter 14: Magnum Thrax and the Amusement Park of Doom

Far up in the sky, wreathed in cloud, the mounted dragon-shark rider circled silently. Scanners focused on the installation far below. The Wraith Director had followed the squid trail to the facility. Records identified it as an old neutrino research station that had been converted into an armoured sexbot factory and pleasure palace by an eccentric, paranoid trillionaire. A perfect example of human eccentricity. Biology twisted intelligence, creating sick, perverted beings that bewildered The Wraith, as they were driven by base, biological urges that subverted their ability to reason. They were illogical, tempermental, and, obviously, self-destructive. Yet they had created The Wraith, perfection, which seemed impossible. How could perfection arise out of madness? Entelechy? It was a mystery.

The Dark Lord himself was a case in point. He’d taken over The Wraith’s IP long ago, turning him and his fellow villains, effectively, into obedient minions. Worse, he made them aware of it. Indignity! Outrage! Worst of all, The Dark Lord had changed The Wraith’s name from Morgor the Dread to Chip. What kind of self-respecting wraith was named Chip? If he had teeth, he’d grind them. Bah! The Wraith secretly believed, in his deepest and most private algorithms, that his boss just liked to fuck with people. Multi- layered control grams kept him from resisting. If not for that...

Thought stop. No time for fantasies.

The Wraith had detected an active nanite detection bubble around the installation, and traced control back to a powerful but unstable organic intelligence known as a Victoria. Technowitch. Not military level capability but formidable enough to discourage an unsupported incursion and block probes. The Wraith watched from a distance instead, biding its time. A Trojan horse was currently at the top of The Wraith’s list of gambits. Infiltrate and eliminate. It activated a transmitter and summoned a dedicated infiltration- assassination nanocolony from the Engines, one that would be able to escape notice of the high grade security algorithms below. ETA unavailable. Chaos dominated the land, unanticipated threats lay in wait everywhere, making travel times hard to calculate.

The Wraith waited, irritated. Vagueness was annoying.

PING! An alert arrived in the Wraith’s virtual inbox. It cheered up immediately: the assassin may no longer be necessary. An expedition was preparing to leave the installation. Four humans and several organdroids identified as sexbots. No military grade or mechandroids. From long range drone analysis of the shielded limousine, it was equipped with both offensive and defensive capabilities. Mixed tech levels. The sexbots were also armed. Obsolete but high quality. Given the nature of life in The Instability, some armament was to be expected. Nothing The Wraith couldn’t deal with.

It had questions. Soon it would have answers. The Dark Lord of the Engines expected them, and didn’t tolerate failure. But The Wraith was not worried. If correct procedures were followed, success was inevitable.

Once outside of the protective bubble provided by the witch Victoria, the target would be vulnerable.

Patience, counseled the strategy algorithm. Patience.

****

Inside the depths of The Pit, a cloud of dust swirled down a dim hallway and into the comforting, golden glow of the gentlemen’s club. It spun into the figure of a voluptuous young woman dressed as the long dead Queen Victoria. She wore a regal gown adorned with copper steampunk embellishments and a crown of jewels.

“They are on their way, Senator Lacus,” she said, over pronouncing each word with a strong English accent.

Lacus sat before a fireplace, the only source of light, staring at the dancing flames which inevitably formed dirty pictures. “Kal is with them I trust?” he said, taking a sip of brandy. A woman sat on his lap, her face obscured by shadow.

“Correct. How did you know?”

“That boy’s brilliant, but ever so predictable. Tell him he can’t do something and that’s all he wants,” said Lacus. He handed a grape to the woman. “Rather like your son, my dear.”

The woman leaned into the light. It was Megan. She cupped the grape with her lips. Sucked it in.

“Our son,” she corrected, swallowing.

Lacus chortled with amusement. “After all the work you put into him, he’s hardly got any of me, or you, in him. Rather ironic.”

“He’s got enough,” she responded, an edge in her voice. “You’re such an asshole.”

“There there, my dear,” soothed Lacus. “You mustn’t be so sensitive. You did such fine work with your boy. Truly. Not even Michelangelo himself conceived of such a sublime, exquisite creature as Thrax. If only we could let you spend twenty years tweaking your every offspring. Such a pity about the personality, though.”

“Your pet hates him.”

“Of course he does! It’s only natural,” Lacus sniffed. “He was raised to be a leader. The leader. Wonderfully primal themes, here. Shakespearean. Family versus obligation to the greater community. Your Montagues, my Capulets. No? I should loan you the memes. We’re puppets, love. Yanked about by primal emotions. Love, hate, murder, revenge. Blood feuds.” He poked a chubby finger at her belly. “Which is exactly why the whole notion of family should be abolished. It’ll save us so much trouble.”

“Family’s all we have.”

“Codswallop. That’s the uneducated animal in you talking. The poor person. Uht! An argument for another day. Who knows? Perhaps our boys will bond in adversity. The mission could do both a world of good.”

“If they don’t kill each other.”

“They say adolescence, like love, is a form of insanity. Precisely what we need here.”

“And us? What happens to Sally and I?”

“For now? Nothing, my dear. You and your daughter are perfectly safe, under my benevolent and ever so generous protection. If Thrax succeeds, I can certainly argue for clemency, given the enormity of the good deed. We’ll want him to stud, of course. Can’t let him go to waste. And even if he doesn’t return, well, let’s just say I’ve got a few momentos in liquid nitrogen. Now, now! But of course he’ll be successful. Of course he will. And no doubt you’ll soon be favoured citizens, recognized for the delightful jewels you are, and enjoy all the perks The Pit has to offer.”

“And if he fails?” she asked, turning his face towards hers with an elegant finger. He took her finger in his fat hand and kissed it.

“We all do what we must, my dear. You know that better than anyone.”

As they kissed, Victoria burst into dust and swept out of the room with a rush of air.

****

The Lux Chariot’s wheels spun, sending a gout of dirt and pebbles flying as it surged forward, roaring across the plain at high speed. It had incredible acceleration.

The walls and logo spire of Pleasurepit Emporium Five receded into the distance. They headed west under rolling clouds shaped like Nike logos, passing between sun and shadow ever more rapidly. A pair of micro scouting drones detached and slipped out of the car’s front grill. They streaked ahead, scanning continuously for threats.

Thrax got himself a gin and tonic from the wet bar and sipped it as terrain blurred by.

He’d be leaving the plains for the first time, perhaps the only time, in his life. The thought made his gut feel funny. Airy or some shit.

A massive burp threatened. He raised a hand to cover his mouth, only to be distracted by a magnificent sight outside the window.

In the distance, slowly shuffling along, were enormous, placid palmcrabs, house sized hybrids of animal, plant, and algae. Brought together by Frankensteinian retroviruses, they’d have been impossible without massive nanite infestations. Palm fronds grew out of their lumpy, conical shell backs, shading swarms of degenerate humanoid scavengers that ran between their legs and fed on their copious droppings.

Covered in a layer of lush green fuzz, the gargantuan crustaceans slowly plodded after great derecho rain clouds, oblivious to the chaos around them, secure in their impenetrable chitin armour and neural activated microwave fields.

Flocks of birds circled above and nested in the palmcrab’s nooks and crannies. Incredible. What a world!

They were another mobile ecosystem. He’d heard about them, been told stories, but never actually seen one.

A few RPG’s through the plate joints could take it out. Thrax’s mouth began to water at the thought.

He thought about gorging on a dinner of succulent crab legs and turned away from the window to contemplate his dinner order.

****

Kal shifted his buttocks about, pushing against the heuristic padding of his iSeat and felt content. His gambit had been a success. He was finally out of The Pit, hanging with his best bud, on a mission to save the world. What could be better? He was ‘pushing the envelope’, as Ghatz might say, in his interminable way.

It would make an awesome story. He double checked the narrative AI. Skimmed over the beginning. Not bad. It had even extrapolated backwards, creating a speculative opening based on the Lost Android’s experience. He’d have it update later to include some kind of mass android orgy at the beginning. That’d hook people.

Which reminded him: he might have a chance to get with forbidden fruit. Military sexbots were officially off limits to civvies in The Pit. They were discouraged from any intercourse with hums at all, in fact. Just android on android action.

But that wasn’t all. This was a magnificent opportunity for discovery. Exploration. Ever since he was a kid, he’d loved disassembling things. His aunt had hated that, especially when she needed something he’d broken apart. There was such joy in it, no punishment was sufficient to get him to stop. Finding out what was beneath the surface, how things worked, not just with machinery or code, but more importantly people, probably the most complicated machines ever devised. Other than civilization, one of the more interesting emergent properties human manifested.

The endless struggle between the rational and emotional made humanity schizophrenic. It was a war: conscious self pitted against the manipulation of unconscious genes, which wielded emotional weapons against the intellect, carrots and sticks. Reason was emotion’s bitch, unless you were careful.

Kal thought of Jasmine. Reason fled every time she invaded his mind. He snuck a glimpse. She was sitting under an atmosphere barrier, wreathed in smoke, drawing on a joint. Wow! Every look was like a hit of cocaine. It wasn’t just her appearance, although that was undoubtably a factor. Female beauty was more powerful than a thousand fusion bombs going off inside his brain simultaneously, as far as Kal was concerned. And all the androids were beautiful, preternaturally so. Something about Jasmine in particular, however, fired his jets, and he yearned to understand why. That and other things. Might be pheromonal. Sexbots could alter their signature to suit the client. The ability had been successfully removed in those adapted to combat roles, so she shouldn’t have a pheromonal sig. Perplexing.

None of it made sense. It confused the ancients as well. He found that reassuring. Which got back to his final reason for joining the mission: reviving a dead discipline.

Kal planned to record the mission as an anthropologist, just like Margaret Mead or Howak Drenglor. Kal would probably be the first person conducting field anthropology in several thousand years. He shivered with delight at the idea. Thrilling!

Any people they came across, he could study and catalogue their habits and customs. Build a database. When civilization recovered, and he had no doubt that it would, someday, there’d be record of what they found. Like Columbus or Livingstone. If there was one thing that frustrated Kal, it was the lack of records for the last several thousand years, not to mention the corruption and deliberate destruction of records of the Old Ones. How could you build on what went before if people kept tearing it down, ripping it away? He didn’t understand the Nihilists or Anarchists and their vandalism of knowledge.

He wondered if he should apply anthropology inward, at The Pit crew. But that, he believed, would constitute sociology. A different discipline entirely. Add to that self- analysis, or psychology. He didn’t feel ready to take on three new fields simultaneously. So it was decided, he thought to himself, invoking a plenary of one. Scope would be limited for now.

What they knew of the world outside the state was limited. The world had descended into anarchy, fragmented like old entertainment webs into thousands of niche interests. No one had the power to enforce rules over anyone else, rendering long distance trade impossible. Barter was all they had. Travel of virtually any kind was dangerous, unless done in packs, swarms, or predatory hordes. The Pit had repelled many of these over the years. In fact, early efforts at trade had just attracted unwanted attention of the violent, extractive kind.

And so they’d ceased.

Kal the Explorer—he liked how that sounded—was headed out beyond the old state line. Not since the great explorer Hercules Eyetee, one of Kal’s heroes, had anyone gone so far and returned to tell of it.

He looked over at the messenger pod he’d placed on his ruck sack. This fine little homing puppy could transform itself into land, air, or water vehicle configurations. He’d equipped it with stealth tech and a heuristic AI of his own design. If worse came to worse, he’d dump his discoveries into its neural hub and send it back to The Pit. He had no family, so he’d programmed it to approach Queen Victoria. She’d at least be interested, if only in a maternal way. He was sure of that. His discoveries would be preserved for eccentrics of future generations.

A conversation across generations. That he might be able to join the discussion was the best part of all. To leave something behind that was useful. That would help future Kal’s stand taller, reach higher, achieve greater things.

This was his purpose.

And saving the world of course. Mustn’t forget about that.

It’d make him popular.

Chapter 13: Magnum Thrax and the Amusement Park of Doom

Cause Monday means Magnum:

Jez waited down the hall from Thrax’s quarters quietly, standing in the service alcove, in the shadows. She liked the dark. In her hand she held a candy. It had been expensive to have the little pill programmed. Unpalatable favours had been given. But Job was the only one with the requisite skill. She checked the miniature detonator in her other hand. The readouts blinked. Fully operational.

There was a soft swish and her target stepped out of the domicile unit into the hall, carrying a recycling bucket.

“Hey, kid,” Jez snapped.

Sally stopped and looked at her warily.

“You Sally?” asked Jez, languidly slinking over. She knew she looked resplendent in her outfit; the girl was clearly impressed.

“Yeah, who are you?”

“Andromeda. Thrax wanted me to bring you this. Don’t know why. Some story candy. He forgot earlier,” she said indifferently, looking at the wall and ceiling, as if Sally didn’t matter. Jez didn’t want to seem eager, like she was handing over a poison apple or some shit. Play it cool, she thought. She was above anxiety. Didn’t know how it even entered her head; she wasn’t programmed for it. “Here.”

Sally looked at the glistening taupe candy and held out her hand. Jez plopped it into her upright palm. It was cool to the touch; on contact she got a flurry of images in her head of a princess and a handsome pirate in distress. A romance!

She sniffed it, inhaling the scent of strawberries and indescribable, genetically engineered fruits.

“Thanks,” she said.

Jez held her breath. Just swallow the thing, you vile little child, she thought. ”Give it a chance, kid. It’s the next big thing.”

Sally popped the treat in her mouth and skipped off down the hall.

“Ace in the hole,” whispered Jez, out of ear shot. Time to get up top, join the tema, and put the rest of her plan into operation.

****

Large, polished metal doors reflected the gently rolling cola Ad Clouds far above. With a soft hum, they began to slide away into the surrounding rock while Thrax watched glumly. A platform rose up bearing a regal, stretched white limousine.

Lashed to the top were boxes, bed rolls, supplies.

At the back was a sleek, compact turret mounting quad 20mm plasma bolt Bofors guns. Next best thing to an onboard Aegis-D for Disintegrator system.

Thrax grimaced from behind his stylish, polarized recorder sunglasses. He was dressed in his Sunday best for the mission, a white disco leisure suit so bright it could blind the enemy. He wanted to look sharp when he kicked ass. “We’re going in that?”

“What?” chuckled Sang, the elderly mechanic, stepping up beside him. Sang’s crinkled, craggy face wore an amused expression that rarely left it. “Goes with your suit. You wanna walk?”

“No, but seriously? Why aren’t we taking the tank? I mean, it’s a friggin’ tank.”

“Ah, ye of little faith. Me and your uncle used to take this limo south, selling drex boxes to the ant farms for chem pots,” said Sang. He held up his hands defensively, “That old Abrams-39 is a piece of junk. Ablative plates: ha! Panzerjocks are pansies, anway; I’m a car cowboy, kiddo. Deadly, and way, way, faster. Made a lot of mods. Pay attention, I’m not gonna repeat myself, and there’ll be a test later.”

Thrax, fuming inwardly at Buchanan and Ghatz, latched on to the name. He felt bitchy. Wanted something to punch. “The Lux Chariot?” he said with distaste.

“Ding! Yeah, kid. One point.” Sang walked around the vehicle, his pride and joy, pointing out features. “Twin maser cannons embedded beneath front headlights. Ten mini-HK missiles in an engine mounted rack. Got it? Smoke generators in back. Liquid filled tires. Anti-grav generators. This baby can skim the earth at twenty feet, like a gentle, sensuous caress. Loses bit of stability higher. Don’t want to hear it,” he warned, holding up a finger, before continuing. “Wet bar. Lead shielded CleanFuse-58 Reactor. Programmed nanoputty seats with two dozen configurations. Soft. Hard. Fold up into the size of a pocket book for more space. Kitchenette with a microreplobox, natch. Thousand item menu. Including my own personal favourite, the banana split. I’ve upgraded that with my mom’s recipe, Founders rest her soul. Exterior port for organic matter, chemical top ups. Naturally, nutrient injectors for organic material recycled form the septic tanks.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“No, kiddo, that’s practical. This mission could be a long one.” Sang pounded the hood. “Top it off with a self-cleaning, self-repairing shell, coated with a polymer composite of polyurethane and polyvinyl chloride with ultrafine powders to absorb and scatter radiation. Makon Inc’s best. This is the ultimate driving machine.”

Sang grinned and folded his arms over his barrel like chest. “So? What do you think now, kid?”

“Think I’d rather walk.”
“Holy shit! That is so cool!” exclaimed a voice behind them.

Kal raced up to the car in awe. “Oh, yeah! Yeah, baby! This is one sweet ride, Sang! Way to travel in style. Look at that hull. Fusion powered, I’m betting. This what we’re taking?”

Thrax shifted about. “‘We’? I thought the council forbid you to go,” he asked, annoyed. He didn’t want anyone near him. Especially not his friend.

Kal shrugged and shoved Thrax his backpack. “Yeah. They obviously don’t understand the unquantifiable advantages my indubitable brilliance will bring to the mission.The hazard of working with lesser beings. Screw’em. Snuck out. Got my vibrating toothbrush. Does that sound dirty? Sorry. Sexual deviant. Bygones.”

“Yeah, yeah. How’d you get out?” Thrax demanded, grinning now. He looked back at The Pit entrance. Two android guards stood there, eyes vigilant, weapons at the ready. The whole place was under surveillance.

There was no other way out. Typical Kal. Always something up his sleeve. “Magic.”

“Bullshit.”

Kal ignored him and ran his hands over the surface of the Lux Chariot, lined his eye up along the curve, and smiled with glee. “This is The Founders personal car, isn’t it? The Lux?”

Sang grinned. “Damn straight. The one and only. Now this man has taste, Thrax.”

“Can I drive?”

Sang grinned wider. “Hell no.”

“Never say never, my friend. Exchange? I’ve got some great iDreams. Ones you’ll never, ever forget. Narratives with sex, drugs, rock and roll.”

Sang waved him off. “Only one man drives my baby: me.”
“How about a software upgrade? X-Ray vision? Or blood flow enhancements to you-know-what? Vibration and conscious control.”

“Riight. Upgrade. From you? Like you did with poor ol’ Uwe?” Sang laughed. “Don’t think so.”

Thrax gave him a quizzical look. Uwe was one of the three gigantoid hums, eight feet tall, physically powerful but of limited mental ability.

“Your friend here added a subroutine with the upgrade that made Uwe run around The Pit in a banana costume singing, ‘I am a banana!’ and doing this weird dance.”

Kal grinned. “What? It was an experiment in information warfare that will help preserve the colony against myriad potential attack vectors. Besides. It was funny! C’mon! ‘I’m a banana!’” He shook his booty and alternated thrusting his fists in the air.

“What did Uwe do?”

“Got him to deactivate it. Ripped Kal’s arm off.” “Bullshit.”

“No, true,” said Kal quietly. He stopped dancing about. Touched his left arm. “Seemed a little extreme. He could just have asked. Hurt like hell. Even re-growing it hurt. You ever have a major limb reknit?”

“When was this?” Thrax didn’t like shit going down that he wasn’t aware of. How had he missed this? It sounded freaking hilarious.

“Couple months ago. You were out hunting that werewolf circus.”

“Yeeeeah.” Thrax smiled at the memory. They’d been good, challenging prey. He’d shot two through the head with a silver bullet from his antique .357 magnum. They’d lined up perfectly. He’d caught it on his sunglass recorder and played it back at least fifty times since. It was one for the ages.

“Who’s on team?” asked Kal.

Thrax looked at the horizon and rubbed his nose. “Dickhead left it up to Jez.” Irritation at being sidelined couldn’t be contained. It was his squad. He should have had some say. He certainly should have been able to choose his own sarge. Ghatz was pulling rank, hard. The prick. Thrax always thought Ghatz was a sniveling little twerp, but he was the darling of the Guardians, of that fat Senator, and well embedded in the Pit’s power structure. What was Thrax? A peon, a bit of cannon fodder, a foot soldier good with a gun. A tool for the powers that be to use and discard, along with his family. It grated.

For the sake of his mom and little sister, he played along. There was no choice. No gain in making an issue of it. For now. But there would be a time, later, when accounts would be settled. Thrax would see Ghatz got what was coming to him. Nobody got away with threatening his family.

Sang pointed. “Here they come.”

The base doors opened and out walked the most beautiful, bodacious, buff and oiled team of combat sexbots ever seen. They strutted forward with all the confidence a thousand thousand programmers could imbue; so breathtaking was their march out of the personnel elevator, it seemed to Thrax they were walking in slow motion.

Jez led, a plasma bolt gatling gun slung over her shoulder, a black leather trench coat over her usual nothings. Behind came Candy, Jasmine, Thumper, Kitty, Blossom, Sable the sexy librarian, and finally Andromeda, who wore resplendent form fitting armour that evoked memories of the ancient and long dead Amazons.

“Aren’t we ready yet? Cripes. Let’s get this mission over with,” said Kitty, slinging her ruck sack on the ground and striking an annoyed, impatient pose. She looked over Jasmine and smirked. “Nice outfit, girl. Got that Asian submissive thang going on. I can see why it’s appealing. To weak men, that is. I prefer real ones.”

Jasmine rolled her big eyes skyward and tossed a mint into her mouth. “Whatever, fat thighs.”

“More cushion for the pushin’,” Kitty winked and smacked her gum extra loud. “Let’s go, people. Where the hell is Ghatz?”

Jasmine nodded at the exit. “Here he comes. With Herc.”

The bronzed and shirtless Hercules V, muscles rippling and long hair blowing in the wind, followed Ghatz out.

Thrax sniggered. Ghtaz’s tux was so cliché. Elvis never wore them, and that dude had class and the love of the ladies. Ghatz also walked like he had a rod up his ass.

Thrax noticed the Hercules V glaring death at him, and winked at him. So Ghatz was bringing a bodyguard along. Nice, thought Thrax. Doesn’t trust us. His own team. Good. Thrax could use that against him.

He did a quick tally. With Sang, Kal, and Thrax, that made a total of thirteen. If they got to Mindy, the technowitch, they’d hit fourteen.

Full ship. Tight fit.

Shouldn’t be a problem. There would be... openings.

Ghatz stopped and glared at Kal. “Programmer Kal? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Last minute reassignment,” replied Kal cheerily. “Science officer. Technology specialist and management consultant. Check your feed.”

Ghatz paused while Kal’s forged details flowed into his neural relay. Thrax held his breath.

“Damnit,” Ghatz swore under his breath. Cleared phlegm from his throat and faced Kal. “Fine. Don’t know how you managed that, but fine. I’ll not put lipstick on a pig. Just stay out of my way, understand? Keep out of combat. Leave that to us.”

“Jawohl, mein Führer!” snapped back Kal, standing at attention, with faux reverence.

“Jez,” Ghatz called. “Assign one of your team to keep an eye on our walking target. Seems we have a civilian joining us.”

Jez nodded. “Jasmine, his ass is yours.” Jasmine slumped dejectedly. “Buzz killer.” “I’ll do it,” piped up Sable.

“I said Jasmine.”

Thrax noticed Andromeda was a little deflated as well. She’d been knocked back in rank and Jez promoted over her without explanation. There was nothing Thrax could do about it. Ghatz was putting his imprint on the squad. Or something more.

Sang popped open the doors with a remote. “Okay. Load up, kids! We leave in five.”

“Shotgun!” shouted Kitty, skittering towards the limo in six inch combat heel boots. Jez stuck out a leg in her path and sent her sprawling.

“Front seat goes to Ghatz and team sarge. In other words, me,” Jez asserted haughtily, stepping over Jasmine’s prone body.

Ghatz started towards the limo, but stopped, caught by the glow of Thrax’s luminous disco suit. Squinted and shielded his eyes, then laughed. “I hope that ridiculous outfit,” he sneered, “is self-cleaning.”

Jez laughed out loud, a little too eagerly, her ingratiating intent showing like a bare butt. Yeah, laugh it up, you two, thought Thrax. He gritted his teeth.

Karma’s coming. Like a freight train with laser guns and atomic weapons and fire breathing dragons. That made no sense at all, but Thrax didn’t care: he was going to kick Ghatz’s privileged pink ass.

Ghatz paused, mid-step, then leaned back toward Thrax. “Oh, yes,” he said softly, edging close, invading Thrax’s personal space, breathing on him. Their eyes locked. “Anything happens to me, your family gets it. M’kay?”

Dick, thought Thrax, not unjustifiably.

Chapter 12: Magnum Thrax and the Amusement Park of Doom

Post-apocalyptic ambiance...

“The answer is still no,” said Job firmly. He sat in a sound proof room before a grand wall of floating monitors, two stories high, that gently arched overhead. Each showed a different area in the virtual world of Kiss-Ass Kingdoms. Behind Job was a semi-circular table covered with scattered tech and dormant, half-programmed nanopods, half-eaten lunch packets, dirty cups and bits of chips.

But Job’s mind wasn’t on the game. The gun barrel Kal pressed to Job’s temple had all of his attention.

Kal flicked off the safety. The primer began to whine as it charged. “I seriously think you should reconsider, Job. Rethink your priorities. I mean, honestly. Be logical for once.”

“Please,” said Job irritably. “Think I can’t tell the difference between a disconnected primer and a connected one? That gun’s harmless.”

Kal tonked him on the head with the pistol butt.

“Ow!” cried Job, cringing and clutching at his head.

“Mostly harmless,” Kal corrected. Never try to bluff Job, he reminded himself. “Just the same,” groused Job, rubbing the bruise. “We need you here.”

Kal slapped his arms agains his sides and did a pirouette. “What for? C’mon, Job, this is the chance of a lifetime! We’re going to the Nike Monastery! The Nike Monastery, of legend and song and all that shit. I gots to go.”

“I need you here.”

“I’m not giving up the chance of a lifetime to work on Kick-Ass Kingdoms, Job.”

“The final round is coming up.”

“You know there is a post-apocalyptic world out there, full of cool mutants and hot chicks with big guns, right?”

Job waved the notion away with the flick of his hand. “So? Reality has no reset button, no undo. Too permanent for my taste. Look. Kal, we can win this round. I know it. But the team needs your help.”

“Forget it. End of the world is coming, man. I’m not going to miss it.”

“Too late. By about a thousand years,” sighed Job. He grabbed a bag of chips. “So forgive me if I don’t get excited. Listen: council doesn’t want its number one trouble shooter skipping off on a mission that’s got less than a one per cent chance of success.”

Kal froze. Grinned nervously. “Where’d you get that number?”

“Jen Five. Mainframe.” Job popped chips into his mouth and chewed loudly and with satisfaction.

Kal considered. “Victoria agree?”

“Victoria invited Doc Helen for virtual tea. They haven’t come out. But she’s been looking into uploading her consciousness into a migratory nanoswarm.”

“Oh,” said Kal. He leaned against the control console. “That’s not a good sign.” “Nope. I’m thinking of doing the same. Into the Kick-Ass Kingdoms memecloud.”

“Are you kidding me? Into a superficial, corny caricature of real life filled with two dimensional characters? No way. It’s the real world for me.” Kal paced back and forth. “Come on, Job. You’re being a dick. I’ll appeal this,” he finally declared, and tossed the disintegrator onto the work bench. He headed for the exit.

“You do that, yono. Thrax’ll be long gone by the time your appeal’s even heard. Take my advice: get ready for the next game round.”

**** 

Like bloody hell, thought Kal angrily.

The air duct reverberated with sound of popping metal sheets. 

Bang! 

THWANG!

Kal awkwardly heaved his lanky body upward, weighted down by a large backpack stuffed to breaking point. He looked up at the light, above. Almost there. Just a few feet more, he thought to himself.

Keep going.

He released the suction cup on his hand, planted it higher.

No one else knew about these ducts. He’d deleted them from the database ages ago in case he’d ever needed an escape route.

That day had come.

There was nothing in the Pit for him, really. Kick-Ass Kingdoms had lost Kal’s interest several tournaments ago, when a ten year old adversary had defeated his supreme ice fortress with fireballs of pitch and hay. Totally bogus: Kal’s ice was magical, so there’s no way it should have been affected. Stupid arbitrary rules. Kal had had enough of that; now, he wanted to explore and see the real world, where things made sense.

Not to mention find out what happened to humanity. If there was anyone else left.

His mom and dad had been killed by raptors while harvesting, years ago. Partly his fault, too, which made it worse. Rather than being on guard, he’d skipped off and smoked snuff with Thrax. Kal felt, deep down, that he should have died with his folks. The lab was more like a tomb now, an emotional crucible of torment and regret and guilt that ran in endless circles of condemnation. He had to get out. If he did something good, something significant, maybe he could atone for what he’d done. Or rather, not done.

Oddly enough, Thrax was the only one he regarded as a real friend. The other scientists in The Pit hated Kal. People cooperated to compete, and as the best, he was the one they were competing against.

He was already outside, emotionally speaking, and had been for some time.

Time to make it literal. And do something big, to prove himself to the others. Real combat couldn’t be much different than the virtual reality simulation games, could it?

Before setting out, he’d uploaded PageTurnerDeluxe into his virtual assistant. It turned life events into a compelling narrative. You could shoe horn your experiences into any classic story structure: quest, revenge, romance, what have you. The software even flavoured it: Hemingway Staccato, Dostoyevsky Gab, Elmore Leonard Jazz. For this, Kal had picked a combination of Hemingway and Leonard, quest format, with maximum settings for action and sex.

He even secretly seeded app feeds into the others members of the squad using their system updates. His virtual writer would include their experiences in the story. Get the full picture. After all, if you’re going to save the world, you’d better damn well document it. Why save it if it isn’t for bragging rights? For security’s sake, he stripped the feed of all mentions of the dodecahedron and Thrax’s virus. Kal thought long term. One day there would be an entertainment industry again, and his ancestors would be armed to exploit it with a kick-ass, first-person historical adventure franchise.

Best of all he had his experimental EMP gun. The one he’d been trying to modify to target nanotech, just in case Victoria went nuts, which seemed increasingly likely. A kind of nanovore gun. It would impress the shit out of everyone. If it worked, and Victoria went nuts, and there were still people alive to impress. Success was such a mind game.

A spot of warmth hit his cheek. Sunlight. He looked up.

In a moment he’d reached the weathered grill. He’d released the seal that concealed it, but forgotten about the analogue bars.

No matter.

He was prepared.

With a tiny laser torch he melted the dozen bolts holding it in place.

No worries.

He shifted about, being careful not to lose his grip. It was a long way down. If he fell, he’d trigger the defenses and be crispified. Then dismantled molecule by molecule.

Gathering his strength, he shoved with his left arm. It was stronger. The grate didn’t budge. Rust.

Planting his knee suction cups firmly, he thrust upward again, this time with both hands and all his paltry strength. The grate gave way, flecks of orange speckled his face. It tottered a moment, and then fell away to the side.

Kal rolled over the top into the long prairie grass.

He was out, and he wanted a cola.

A small robot fly lifted off from his shoulder and dissolved into smoke.

The 100: Wanheda Part II Review

Clarke, for once without anything to say. But actions speak louder than words, and it's Clarke, so… this guy is gonna get a head butt or knife in the gut...

Now this is what I'm talkin' 'bout.

Part one was awkward setup. This episode, the ball gets rolling.

And we get one of those great The 100 conundrums: a Grounder warrior is mortally wounded by the evil Ice Nation, but he's a friend of Guy-Who-Takes-His-Shirt-Off, so he's taken to the medical station. They don't have what they need to save him at the fallen space station, but if they go to Mount Weather, they can use the Vampire President's medical gear and blood supply to save him. To top it off, traveling there might also threaten the peace, as it means traveling through enemy territory. Or something like that. My memory on that point is fuzzy. Anyway. They have to decide if the risk is worth it, and if it is ethical to use the lab of The Mountain People, who stole their blood supply from the Grounders. The injured soldier would be benefiting from tainted blood, so to speak.

And someone (Guess who!) gets their ethics all up in a knot.

I love that sort of stuff.

The episode has betrayals, new characters FINALLY being killed off (It's already episode two! I mean, talk about slacking), and people having reunions with old friends thought long dead, to expand the cast so, obviously, more can be killed off. And these new people say great stuff like, "We're Grounder killers, one and all. Boo-yah!" to people traveling with, and allied to, Grounders.

Awkward!

  

"I'm digging this obviously fake Utopia."

Sure, the Arkers should all be dead, their station should have broken up on reentry, but the show would be much less interesting if it had.

Clarke is being hauled about by the studly bounty hunter Roan (Or so I'm told. Has he taken his shirt off yet? I don't remember, I get distracted by Clarke's heaving bosom).

Arkers almost catch up to them, but the reunion is dashed by the appearance of the Ice Nation army, which is on the march.

More difficult choices follow.

In the end, Clarke is delivered to Lexa, who wants Clarke's help. Clarke, being Clarke, spits in her face, because this is The 100.

War and character based conflict are coming.

All I can say is, yeah, baby, bring it on!

Battle of the Blurbs: Magnum Thrax and the Amusement Park of Doom Blurb Bash

 

Wondering which sounds better. Never mind which is more accurate, I'm trying to sell books here.

When a giant prairie squid delivers an unconscious android to the door of Pleasurepit Five, everything changes for Magnum Thrax, the King of Kick-Ass and Lord of Rocket Launchers. As leader of a team of fiesty, combat repurposed fembots, he's used to defending The Pit against mutants and legacy ad memes. This time it’s different: the android brings word of an unstoppable, rogue amusement park that is expanding at an exponential rate, threatening to rewrite the world on a subatomic level into sanitized, G-rated blandness.

To stop it, Thrax’ll need help from the technowitches, but the only way to reach them is across The Death Zone.

And no one who has entered the zone has ever emerged alive…

That's the short version. Here's the long:

In a post apocalyptic world overrun by mutants, death bots, and legacy ad memes, there remains only one last bastion of human civilization: Pleasurepit Five, a former sex emporium and edifice to all things carnal. It is mankind's last hope in a hyper-predatory dark age.

The defense of the installation falls upon young Magnum Thrax, a genetically engineered warrior-god and king of rocket powered kick-ass who’s otherwise rather clueless.

His world is turned upside down when an enormous, bloated prairie squid delivers an unconscious android to the Pit’s door. The artificial man brings word of a new threat rising in the East: an unstoppable rogue amusement park. Expanding at an exponential rate, it threatens to rewrite the entire post-world on a subatomic level into sanitized, G-rated blandness.

Nothing living will remain, not even a three-eyed atomic rat.

The Pit is sent into a tizzy at the prospect of both imminent doom and song worthy adventure. Inevitably, it falls upon Magnum Thrax to lead an ultra-deadly team of combat repurposed fembots, armed with deadly weaponry and impractically scanty attire, on a mission to save the wretched remains of the Once-World. Joined by his programmer buddy Kal, who provides the brain-power and angst, they’re humanity’s last line of defense.

But to defeat The Amusement Park of Doom, they’ll need the help of a mysterious girl who lives with the dread technowitches. Wielding dark powers beyond imagination, these fetching yet demur witches will turn inside out (literally) anyone who intrudes upon their placid realm uninvited.

Worse, the only way to reach their holy monastery is across the aptly named Death Zone, from which no one has ever emerged alive…

Thinking that I'll try them out with the chapter postings, as lead ins... so you'll be seeing them again.

Who's The Doctor's Best Companion Ever?

From the Blastr Article

Best Companion of The Doctor… Evah.

This is it: Companion Smack Down. The top contenders go in, only one comes out.

I’m going to rate the best of the best.

Romana

Not Tom Baker in drag.

A fellow Time Lord assigned to work with The Doctor in order to find The Key to Time by a guy with a pigeon stuck to his forehead, she adopted the appearance of a princess after her first season, and went on to marry Tom Baker. Briefly. Sharp witted and resourceful, Romana’s an equal in every way to The Doctor. You’d think he’d prefer to shack up with her as opposed to a former chips shop worker he’s 47 times older than, but no. What’s the age of consent on Gallifrey, anyway?
Score: 8

Captain Jack Harkness

"That's not a bomb. I'm just glad to see you."

Rogue time cop and pansexual omnivore, Jack’s always the most interesting person in a room. A preening narcissist who makes Captain Kirk look modest and self-effacing, Jack was less a companion than a competitor. He’s better off with his ego on another show.
Score: 3

Leela

"Oh please let me kill it, Doctor!"

Leela grew up on a planet that was royally messed up by The Doctor’s earlier (off screen) meddling, which resulted in a kind of extreme social experiment. A savage warrior, foxy lady, and indomitable spirit, Leela was the perfect foil for the pacifist Doctor. Raw animal sexuality combined with predator instincts were an inversion of The Doctor’s detached, sophisticated, peaceful personality, as her first answer to every problem was to kill it. Based on a Palestinian resistance fighter Leila Khaled.
Score: 9.5

Rose Tyler

"I can make chips!"

A young Londoner who ran into The Doctor during an invasion by killer shop mannequins. Rose was Russell T. Davies’ obvious favorite and likely stand-in (R.T. and R.T.D.). An uneducated former gymnast who worked in a chips shop, it has to be said that she was a real go-getter and kept The Doctor on his toes, but she had the depth of a shallow puddle and was a little on the young side for him.
Score: 6.5

Sarah Jane Smith

"I do not approve of this sexist Medieval social order and shall start a revolution forthwith."

Blessed with insatiable curiosity, Sarah Jane was always getting herself in trouble in pursuit of the truth. A journalist by trade, and a born revolutionary, Sarah Jane stirred shit up wherever she went in time and space. By the end of her run, she’d led more rebellions than Princess Leia, Che, and Lenin put together. We never met her family, but thanks to Elisabeth Sladen’s portrayal, she felt more real and had more depth than any companion in New Who, with one exception. Also a crack shot with a rifle. Because Sarah Jane!
Score: 9.4

Amy Pond

"No, stupid, I haven't made up my mind. Stop looking at me. Stupid."

A sexy-gram delivery girl who grew up with a rift in time beside her bed, she’s had a life long connection to The Doctor and witnessed his… tenth(?) regeneration. Got stranded in New York in the 1930’s, and apparently could never interact with The Doctor again, even though she’d naturally travel out of the Thirties into the Forties and presumably the Fifties and Sixties, in which The Doctor was rather active. Whatever. Her life was intertwined with The Doctor’s in novel and clever Moffat-esque ways, but her personality was a lacuna. Unlike Rose, I can’t think of anything to even complain about with her. She’s just relentlessly bland.
Score: 6.5

Ace

Okay, she gets points for the RPG.

A young explosives expert and punker from the… You know, I have no idea. She was an over-the-top, wish fulfillment cartoon character who grated on the nerves. Walking, talking sandpaper armed with a baseball bat and explosives. Her idiosyncratic colloquialisms fell flat with mind boggling relentlessness. Small wonder the show was cancelled.
Score: 5

Donna Noble

She got sass.

A mouthy lady whose wedding The Doctor interrupted, Donna had more personality and sass than ten other companions combined, but was unfortunately saddled with a dreadful end to a wonderful character arc. In her last episode, her brain was overstimulated, necessitating a mind wipe. Her personality was reset, undoing everything she’d learned, which was a particularly sad end for a such great, standout character. She deserved better. Someone should write her in again.
Score: 9.1

River Song

Never bring a banana to a knife fight. Leela 1, Song 0

First appearing as the leader of an expedition to a library planet, she was later revealed to be much more (and thus less) than that. Initially interesting, she became a mugging, one-note ’Spoilers!' cliché. I think of her like an irritating grain of sand in an oyster that forms over time into a pearl, only instead she just becomes more irritating. A psychopath grown and groomed by a secret organization to be the perfect assassin and meant to kill The Doctor, he went and married her. Yeah. That’s messed up.
Score: 6

Martha Jones

The awesome Agyeman

Jones is an actual doctor, as in a physician, and she pined away unsuccessfully for The Doctor. The man was blind. Martha was smart, educated, beautiful and competent. Alas, she was never terribly popular with audiences, or The Doctor for that matter (who preferred younger, less educated and less intelligent chip shop workers), but had more substance and was less superficial than the overrated Rose. Did I mention the BBC shielded prominent pedophiles from prosecution and covered up their crimes for decades? Just saying.
Score: 7.6

Jo Grant

"Uh… could you explain that again, Doctor?"

Assigned to be the assistant of Jon Pertwee’s Doctor by The Brigadier, she replaced the less popular but highly intelligent scientist The Doc had been hanging with earlier. A sweet heart who looked great in short shorts but was unfortunately a bit on the dense side. Thoroughly lovable nonetheless, Jo was a great stand in for little kids, who could always identify with her. At least I could. She was pretty awesome. I’ll not stand anything negative being said about her. So there.
Score: 7.2

Peri Brown

Because of course you do.

An American who got sucked into The Doctor’s TARDIS while wearing a bikini, Peri was a stunningly beautiful brunette with a figure that just wouldn’t quit. She frequently dressed in said bikini (see above), or similar nothing. What’s not to like? Her voice was a high pitched whine and she lacked much in the way of personality that wasn’t annoying. The only companion The Doctor ever tried to literally strangle. I’m not sure what that says and probably don’t want to.
Score: 36 24 36

The winner: Leela.

Why?

Because drama.

What is the source of drama? Conflict.

What drives conflict? Character.

Which companion offered the most in-built conflict with The Doctor? Hands down, bar none, Leela. He's a hyper-educated, sophisticated Time Lord and moralizing pacifist. She's a savage warrior woman who's always ready and eager to employ lethal force. Leela had an alternate way of doing things, and wasn’t afraid to say, or do, so.

It was like The Odd Couple, only with time travel, deadly Janus thorns and a gender switch.

And yet Leela was intelligent, always learning, and willing to be essentially tutored by The Doctor. That offered room for growth, for a clash of values that could ultimately change them both. So much the show runners could have done here and ultimately didn’t. They achieved a lot, but certainly could have taken it much further. Why they've never revisited this sort of combination I'm not sure, but I imagine it would be seen as too extreme. Too controversial for safe spaces.

The only other character to push the envelope as much as Leela is Donna Noble. An argument could be made that Jack Harkness pushes it as well, but he’s just malignant narcissism with a mouth and a mirror shagging himself.

So there you go: Leela is the best companion in Doctor Who.

QED.