Lesser Gods (18 page)

“Here he comes,” Key said, pointing down the hallway. “Here comes Old Red. He’s the one they send when it’s time for guys to check out — or get the chair. Today he’s bringing good news. I’m headed out. It’s my day to go free.”

I moved over to the bars and looked down the hall toward the skeletal bot moving toward us like a battle tank on stilts. Somewhat like the murderous creations on the processing docks, it was crimson instead of black. It jerked along like something from a nightmare — which it was, as far as I was concerned.

Old Red stopped at our cell. “All back,” it warned, holding out an arm that ended in a wicked-looking electrode.

I took the hint and plastered myself against the far wall.

“Francis Scott Key,” Old Red said. “Step forward and exit the cell.”

“So long, fellas,” Key said, picking up a small cloth bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “Sorry I can’t be staying to keep you company.”

“Leave your bag,” Old Red said as Keys stepped toward the doorway that opened in front of him.

“I have a right to take my gear.”

“You will not be needing it.”

“Wait a minute. Where’re you taking me? Hey, give me back my bag.”

“Francis Scott Key, 814-85-8692-82733. Slated for termination at oh, eight hundred. The time of execution is nearly here, Mr. Key. Please come peacefully with me or I will use force.”

“Wait a damned minute,” Key said, jerking his arm free from the mech’s grasp and stepping back toward the cell. “There’s been a screw up. I’m supposed to go free. All I did was steal a — “

Old Red moved in a blur, its claw-like hand wrapping itself around the old man’s neck. It yanked him from the cell as the electrode hand zapped him so he yelped in pain. The door zipped shut and the automated nightmare dragged Key, kicking and screaming, down the hallway.

“There’s been a mistake,” Key sobbed over and over again. “There’s been a mistake.”

I stood at the bars listening to the old man’s cries until they abruptly ended in a gurgling moan.

Minutes later the PA crackled to life and announced, “Francis Scott Key, 814-85-8692-82734, has been executed for the crime of… ‘Term Served, Prisoner Free to Be Released.’ All who commit this crime of ‘Term Served, Prisoner Free to Be Released’ will be punished. Anyone contemplating such a crime should remember today’s execution. Good prisoners are happy prisoners. Drug-free citizens are good citizens… Are good citizens.”

There was a loud snap and the halls became ominously silent.

“Welcome to Hell,” I whispered to myself. Where every prisoner is a happy, model prisoner — once he’s dead.

Jeff Huntington

I watched Ralph as he regained consciousness in the new world I’d created for him. “I’ve been waiting,” I said softly.

He opened his eyes, taking a moment to focus and then gazing at the canvas tent around him before settling on me. I gave him my harshest glare, doing my best to look portentous with my neatly trimmed beard and black enameled armor.

Ralph started to fade so I dope slapped him with a steel gauntlet, just hard enough to wake him up. “I challenge you to a duel.”

“Nooooo wabbbbyyy,” he answered, climbing to his feet.

My puzzlement must have shown.
What’s wrong with this dingbat?

He spit some blood and a tooth and tried again. “No way. This is a dream and I’m going to get some rest. There’s nothing you can do to —”

The pain of the second slap of my gauntlet argued against his nightmare theory.

He took a step back so I couldn’t reach him. I could see that he still thought he was dreaming and, for some reason, it struck me as funny. I had to laugh before speaking “I know you’re not a slow learner. But, I swear, sometimes….”

Ralph said nothing.

“Don’t you realize that you’re back in the realm of the SupeR-G? Pinch yourself if it helps.”

He made no move, simply stood glaring at me.

“See these suits of armor?” I beckoned toward the ten suits hanging on poles inside my dark tent. “I’ll give you a hint. They belonged to knights I’ve challenged in the recent past, and none of them require their suits any longer. Look at this one; almost brand new. Well, except for the bloodstains.”

Ralph swallowed hard, eyeing the holes punched in several of the breastplates with obviously fatal results for previous owners.

I leaned forward and hissed, “Hope you enjoy our fight.” Then I spoke to the two squires standing at his elbows. “Get this sorry excuse for a knight ready for the tournament.”

Ralph Crocker

Each of the oddly garbed young men beside me grabbed one of my arms and escorted “my lordship,” kicking and cursing, from Huntington’s tent onto the grassy field outside.

“I don’t suppose there’s any graceful way out of this,” I mused to the two muscle-bound pages dragging me across the sunlit field toward what I took to be the striped tan and yellow tent belonging to me.

They made no reply.

“Could I maybe slip you each a golden coin so you can sneak me into the forest?”

“No, my lord.” The page touched the wooden hilt of the dagger in his belt. “We will be forced to kill you if you try to escape — to preserve your lordship’s honor, of course.”

“But of course,” I said. “Wouldn’t want to have my honor ‘spilled’ when my blood can be shed instead. It’s a beautiful day to die?”

“Yes, my lord, it is,” they replied in unison, my rapier sarcasm lost on the two clods.

Moments later, inside the coolness of my tent, I blinked for a moment as my eyes adjusted to the dark interior that smelled of rusty iron and leather. The two squires stood me in the middle of the tent, and proceeded to dress me in woolen padding. Then, since I was still able to stagger under the weight of the outfit, they augmented the ordeal with the addition of cumbersome armor that reminded me why iron was such a popular metal among anchor manufacturers.

As they worked, it became painfully obvious that the two squires were automatons created by the computer program I was trapped in: They named each piece of armor they bolted or strapped onto me, apparently in an effort to add “educational value rating” to the SupeR-G’s inevitable upcoming bloodshed.

I cleared my throat. “I don’t suppose you guys would consider undoing some of this so I could go to the bathroom?”

They both ignored me, instead continuing with their scripted speech.

Squire One squirted some chicken grease onto my squeaky knee joint, and then they guided me toward a table upon which was spread an imaginative collection of instruments designed for the annihilation of one’s fellow man, with the utmost pain.

“For the joust,” Squire Two said, “you may carry three weapons of your choosing,”

I had doubts about my abilities with the heavy two-handed sword. The unwieldy battleaxe looked more likely to get me killed rather than killing anyone else. I continued my search of murder weapons.

“What’s that,” I said, pointing to an antique clawed hammer on steroids.

“A maul, my lord.”

“Let’s put that in my belt. Looks efficient and I have experience driving screws with a hammer. Either of you know what Lord Huntington generally carries into combat?”

“Usually a long sword, dagger, and lance, my lord.”

“Then let’s add a dagger and lance to my armament,” I said. “Might as well die in the style to which the fans have grown accustomed.”

Minutes later there was a fanfare of out-of-tune horns followed by the din of pounding upon pig-skin drums.

“The signaling of the court orgy?” I asked hopefully.

“No, my lord. The pealing of trumpets and thunder of drums signals the joust is about to commence.”

“I was afraid that was the case. Gentlemen, if you can escort me to the nearest taxi, I’ll be on my way.”

“Pardon, my lord?”

“Damn the torpedoes. Full speed ahead.”

No response. Hands edged toward daggers.

“To my steed.”

“Yes, my lord.”

I was escorted to the wooden lists where my king-sized, armored stallion awaited, snorting and pawing the ground like the battle animal with a taste for blood. Three varlets helped my squires manhandle me into the high-backed saddle, guiding my feet into the stirrups and making sure each leg was behind the jambes.

Next my lance was hung and counter-balanced on a projection extending from my breastplate, and the midsection of the weapon thrust into my gauntlet. An iron-sheathed shield was added to my other arm already protected by a leather rerebracet.

As my helmet was screwed on and bolted into place, I gazed through the visor slit across the lists toward Huntington who sat on his steed about fifty meters in front of me and on the opposite side of the jousting fence.

He smirked as he saluted, and then pulled down his visor with a resounding snap.

I could learn to hate that guy.

A priest conducted his short pre-game sermon — mostly the usual principles of chivalry and how there would be no biting, gouging, or hitting below the chastity belt. As he droned on, I glanced upward at the morning sun that had climbed halfway toward noon, making the heat inside the armor uncomfortable.

There was another flourish of mistuned trumpets, and Huntington lowered his lance.

This is it,
I warned myself, battling to get my own lance aligned so it at least pointed across the lists that separated the paths we’d follow during our charge toward each other.

“Lords and ladies,” the high-pitched Host trilled. “This will be a duel of honor, a combat to the death. Combatants have abandoned blunted lances in favor of battle armament, designed for the efficient spilling of blood. This combat will determine which of these knights is truly noble, and which lacks valor.”

I started to protest, twisting my head inside my helmet to peer at the stands. Then I spied a hooded figure with an ax, no doubt attending this festive event to dispatch any coward desiring an easy way out. I bit my tongue and said nothing.

The lord-high muckamuck in the stands held up his perfumed handkerchief and the crowd grew quiet.

And then time stood still.

I had spotted Alice.

She sat next to the Host — my Alice from Wonderland that I had thought fell to her death from the cliff. I sat in the saddle trying to decide whether it was really Alice or just a bit of code that had somehow duplicated her. Then she erased all doubt, smiling toward me before turning to whisper to the stuffed shirt running the show.

“One moment, my lords,” the Host said, his voice rising in pitch as he lowered his kerchief. “My lady has chosen a champion to carry her token into this battle.” He handed Alice’s scarf to the Chief Marshal of the List who, in turn, gave it to my squire.

The handkerchief made its way toward me, and the lad carefully affixed the yellow silk favor to my lance.

I was unsure what response was called for by medieval protocol, but bowed slightly (nearly falling from my saddle), and half saluted the stands by raising my lance and tapping it against my helmet. That seemed to suffice.

The crowd applauded.

Alice beamed.

For a moment I forgot I was about to die.

The Host raised his handkerchief once more and continued, “These two lords have come into our presence, recommended by our good grace and as humbly as they can, beseeching us to discover the better combatant through the joust. My Lords, let the contest begin!” He released the handkerchief, the horns blared a nerve-grating dissonance, and the murderous festivities began.

Huntington kicked the flank of his horse, bringing it to a trot that grew ever faster. Realizing that the battle had commenced and that greater momentum would at least make the fight quicker and the outcome less certain, I spurred my horse as well. It charged with a whiplash of speed, and would have spilled me to the ground had it not been for the high back of the saddle that sandwiched me in leather. I struggled to maintain my balance and avoid dropping my lance as I bounced forward like a rust bucket Model T on a washboard dirt roadway.

Huntington sped toward me, riding with the practiced precision of a killer.

I tried to raise my heavy iron shield to cover as much of me as possible, and then I attempted to center my lance on his approaching chest, only to realize that the angle of attack continued to change the closer we got to each other, making it impossible to actually judge the correct point of aim for my weapon. I forced myself to make a continuous adjustment as we drew nearer — not an easy task on the back of a charging warhorse when peering through a tiny visor slit that bounced with each hoof beat.