Full Morning
Vunak is Assigned “The Dirty Dozen You Wish You Had” to Combat the Best Warriors from History.
The Twin Suns had risen clearly above the ramparts of the ampitheatre to shine through two notches in the East. There, under that dual light, a body of what looked like giant insects reclined in hammocks of a sort, some five hundred feet above the relatively indistinct masses of spectators. Silence reigned at this moment and the wizened little goon next to him mumbled, “The Twin Suns of Scorpio rise above the morning gates there, and set for a moment, once a year, consecrating our plight as the blue heels of this rite.”
VU could see, just 30 paces to the east, in line with the morning rays, two red gates of some hard metal or wood.
The gnome opined, “We get the sun in our eyes, of course.”
“What the hell are those things?” wondered VU.
The gutter gnome gave him a set of folding spectacles. VU put them to his eyes and could clearly see what looked like scorpians, if—oh, it was insanity to ponder it—with clearly intelligent eyes, with mechanical mouths speaking to one another.
“That, Sir, is the Prince of Morning, the chief warrior of the Lords of Scorpio, who are the Gods of Antares, this prison planet. If any of us are granted favor it comes from him. When the suns, sets, however, in those two notches at the west end of this eliptical death pit, it will back light are final battle. There sits the King of Scorpio and his Peers.”
A romantic notion struck VU, “No queen, to appeal to?”
“Of a sort,” answered the gutter gnome. Tracking with his finger slowly down the tiers, “The first tier is reserved only for the Prince and King, priests, necromancers, pyromancers, chefs—they eat us, by the way—and officers. The second tier is filled with the warriors, the knights.”
“No way, they are huge, armored…” absently mused VU.
“The third tier is occupied by those hideous pink humanoid flotation devices. Those are the mothers of Scorpio, not queens and wives, but impregnated grays. They will each die as they give birth to their son, who will eat them. For now, they have an easy life.”
“The grays? You mean the alien abductors, the little…”
VU was scanning the fourth tier down.
“Yes, Sir. They are asexual drones, biological agents more compatible as shepherds to we, their herd. They seem to be ageless until they get raped with a two-foot, barbed scorpion dick. Then they blow up into those pink incubators, their face rounding out. This is a big day for them. After we are skinned, our junk will be pureed and fed to choice brides. The knights eat our flesh, the big wigs our other organs, the Princes and King our brains and hearts. The grays, they drink our blood.”
“Wedge-headed pricks. Never liked the idea of them.” [1] said VU as he scanned down to the fifth row, and down further as the sardonic gnome narrated:
Tier 5: “Nordics, blond kings of men.”
Tier 6: “Lesser Nordics, red-headed princes of men.
Tier 7: “Alpines, black-haired killers of men.”
Tier 8: “Asians—mostly female—administrators, slave girls and such.”
Tier 9: “Red Indians, for fun I guess. We call ‘em the Chiefs.”
Tier 10: “Blacks,” some things never change…”
“How many lower tiers?”
“Tiers 11 down to 30 are occupied by the mob, the proles and workmen, the mongrel men and women not of pure blood.”
“Indeed, as it should be,” interjected a high and mighty British voice. An imposing man with a scar on his cheek and piercing eyes, in staunch, early middle age, put hands to the two hillbillies and commanded, “Dunce and Runce, stand clear to the right of our instructor—there you go, good mongrel grogs.”
VU felt intimidated before this man, felt like Paul again, yet extended his hand and met that uncompromising gaze without blinking, “Sir Captain Richard Francis Burton at your service. I have instructed in sword, cudgel and fist and will gladly use these two for examples in fence as their rude nature warrants. I preset myself as your likely team captain, versed in all the languages spoken by your men, including the Negroes and the ancient Greek, as well as that uppity Spawn of nether Spain.”
“How could I say no, Sir. Much appreciated. Had not thought of language being our advantage.”
The other men had been gathering in a huddle about Burton, who presented as the natural leader. A short, wicked Spaniard of an iron-like face glared jealously at Burton. The two darker blacks put their shoulders together and backed Burton. Two old criminals and the bald African American with the gold front tooth, bunched up around the hillbillies.
Blue Team, Team VU was about to tear itself apart with him at the center. The crowd was humming, buzzing, then cheering and roaring.
“Here comes Charon!” yelled the big British hillbilly.
Silence gripped the arena as a flapping of wings worried the dual-lit sky.
“In Line!” commanded Burton and all the men but the short, wiry Spaniard complied. That fellow stalked to the head of the line. The Red Team behind their crimson line and before their crimson gate, cast of some metal and worked in curved talons, the eve above carved in red stone into the heads of a lion, a tiger, a dragon and one of these insect men, stood to. Paul—not VU, who was having some effort ruling doubtful Paul in this nightmare born wrong—glanced over his shoulder to see the Blue Gate, their gate, worked in snake and vine images, over which frowned a human skull, a boar’s head, a bull’s head and a wolf’s head. Behind that gate worked a skinner, a butcher and a grill master, preparing a great boar for a barbecue.
Between the lines, the beating of wicked wings whirled the clinging sand, which did seem to clutch at their feet, softly, like a mute and curious lover in the dark. Here it landed, incredibly light of foot for its size, not a vibration felt through the thirsty, clinging sand.
The creature, if living being it was, could have been a machine, but smelled like cinnamon and cloves, not oil or synthetic rubber. It towered 12 to 14 feet, it’s shoulders six feet wide, its form articulated like an insect, but with joints that were more indicative of living, leathery hide. From feet to crested crown it was a wonder.
The creature stood upright on FOUR six-toed, toad-like feet. It’s gait was a kind of high prance. Each of the four feet had a knife like dew claw. The legs had a spiked knee and joined the body at about 6 feet high, where a wicked barbed penis rode, as if it could pierce armor. The creature was purple, its hide joints, and shell-like limbs, trunk, neck and head.
Above the wasp-like waist were two pick-ax size crab claws extending out ward and inward like two flesh eating arms of a horseshoe. These claws were set seven feet high and would only be able to reach down to 5 feet, posing a decapitation risk to humans.
Behind the hips, where the tail bone should be, was a curled scorpion tail, reticulated and barbed on the end. He would have to guess it could whip around overhead and forward for about 20 feet.
The arms that swept down form the crane-like shoulders where long enough for the creature to scratch behind its knees if it wished. The hands were, well, like human hands, but of an armored shell backing and a pink palm. Other than the eyes, the pink palms were the only thing about these creature that was not purple.
The chest was broad and corded and seemed to be devoted to powering the glider wings on its back, like a grass hopper, not capable of true flight, but able to make incredible leaps with its four prancing legs and then effect a flapping, controlled glide. The wings folded back in sections behind the shoulders.
Above the armored chest plate and shoulders, was a neck a full two feet long and a foot thick. Set atop this was a helmet-like head, with a sharp fluted crest, set with two telescopic eyes, not stalked or round or oval, but tubed and slit, like a spyglass with a feline pupil.
‘They must have poor peripheral vision,’ mused VU, only to be terrifyingly answered by the thing, which held a scepter of sorts between its great hands. It’s neck unfolded and fluted out into organ pipes and spoke like a clarion, in English, “Yes VU, our vision is mere binocular—yet our minds see your minds.”
“Fawkin’ ‘ell, Mate!” groaned the big hillbilly and the creature sang like an entire orchestra, “Charon, Gatherer of Heroes, decrees SILENCE!”
The thing called Charon was speaking in English, if an entire orchestra could speak in words. Yet it was obvious that the non English speakers, by their expressions, along the opposite line, understood. So this thing broadcast thought subtitles to non English speakers.
‘Why English?’
Silence there was.
‘Great, the high priest of our sacrifice is a telepathic battle bot,’ he grumbled inside, already working on a way a human, one of these great warriors, could fight one of these things.
In his mind echoed a clarion like thought, “Fascinating, VU, you are the first in all the ages since Beowulf to fix your war mind on us. In the interest of competition, I shall refrain from listening to the clamorous precincts of your jabbering ape brain. Behold your Master—whose most trusted agents speak English on Earth—and let not fear take hold; for my King hungers for the brain nectar of the BOLD—VU!’
VU felt an intense shiver grip his body, and felt Paul, leave, screaming down the stairs of some inner dungeon, running out of the monster’s claws into its maw. All that remained was VU, the Combat Calculator.
‘I did not shit myself; let’s call that a draw in Round 1.’
This he thought, confidently to himself, as he saluted Charon, who, despite his alien aspect, had impressed him as an honorable, if cruel, adversary.
…
Notes
-1. Editor, please insert the email from Vunak describing the obvious weak combat attributes of the Grays.
