Dragons droids and doom, p.27
Dragons, Droids & Doom, page 27
It had to be the producer! What was the fat fuck's name? . . . Zephyr . . . Zachery Z. Zephyr. 'Z-Cubed', as he liked to be called. The sonuvabitch wanted more bloodshed so he blocked the requests for air support. Without the cell phone, he also couldn't direct the fire of his weapons platoon at the base of the hill, and his riflemen had used most of their ammunition on the way up the hill. He looked around for the camera trucks that should be in the village with his men. Both crews were still at the bottom of the hill, drinking beers. Even worse, the hum-vee with the officials sped down the hill to join them. Stiller almost threw up his lunch.
He took a deep breath. The whole day was an outrage. First, he had to shell the illegal immigrants because it was too expensive to send them back to their native countries. Second, he had to fight off a frenzied mob of bankrupt people. Third, Zephyr put his men in extraordinary danger to punch up excitement and to increase the ratings of his reality show.
In the last year, his respect for the Pentagon had plummeted because they supported this gross and dangerous spectacle to placate the entertainment industry, amuse the public and earn money. He could take no more of this immoral charade and he resolved to resign his commission before the day ended.
If he survived.
He pulled out the canteen-shaped bottle of sports drink, took a swig, spat it out and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "Boisenberry! I hate that flavor."
Mathis chuckled and offered his own canteen. "Coconut-kumquat."
"Gawd!" Stiller swallowed a mouthful. "How can the supply people accept this shit? Better round up some runners, Mathis. We'll have to do things the old-fashioned way."
While he waited for the runners, he wondered if the other officers felt like he did. Two other rifle companies had undergone similar maneuvers recently. The producer would splice together a two-hour-long special from tapes of all the battles.
Mathis returned with three privates.
"Tell the platoon lieutenants I want an ammo check," Stiller told one of them. "Fast." The runner sprinted toward the closest platoon. An idea sprang into his mind. To another runner, he said, "Go down to the tanks and tell them to get their asses up here. Go! And don't come back without them."
The ammo report was as bad as he anticipated: an average of twenty rounds for each rifle. His troops didn't have enough ammo to stop a force of five hundred maniacal attackers. Not without air or heavy weapons support.
"Fix bayonets." The lieutenants looked at him as if he was insane. The soldiers hadn't practiced bayonet fighting since boot camp. The officers gave a terse order and the blades flashed in the sunlight. Every bayonet carried the logo of a condom company on both sides of the blade. "Set all rifles on single shot," Stiller yelled. "No automatic fire."
Mathis pointed in the air. The network helicopter swooped down and hovered behind the south side of the hill. Stiller frowned. The position of the chopper made no sense. If the attack echeloned to the north face of the hill, a distinct possibility, the helicopter would be in the line of fire.
A deep growling noise interrupted his thoughts. Thank God! The two tanks, call names Bud-1 and Bud-2, bellied up the top of the slope with his runner on back of the lead tank. Stiller placed a tank on each of his flanks. With armor anchoring his lines, he felt a bit safer.
"Here they come!" a soldier shouted. A burst from an automatic weapon sent bullets whizzing over Stiller's head. The soldiers in the second platoon returned the fire.
"Hold your fire!" their lieutenant yelled. "Wait 'till they get closer. Much closer."
Stiller moved toward the point of attack and sucked in his breath. Only fifty attackers ran up the slope. Where the hell were the other four-hundred-fifty? In answer to his question, gunfire and more shouts came from his rear. Bud-2 fired its cannon and opened up with its turret machine gun.
The fifty attackers flopped to the ground and sniped at his men. Stiller cursed at them. They would pin down a portion of his soldiers; troops needed to repulse the much larger attack. Someone had given the attackers a good strategy. Z-Cubed?
Stiller ran over to Bud-2 where heavy fire from the insolvents churned up the dirt on the edge of the hill. Protected by the bulk of the tank, he saw the main strength of the debtor force charge uphill on the east flank of the hill, an area undefended except for the tank. He had been outflanked! He backed away from the tank and grabbed a runner. "Get the first platoon over here. Fast! You," he beckoned to another runner. "Get the other tank."
Now the position of the helicopter made sense. It hovered out of the line of fire of the attack and could take ground-level film of his men getting overrun.
The fire power of Bud-2 rattled the attackers and slowed them enough for the first platoon to move across the hill and drop into firing positions.
To the panting runner, Stiller said, "Round up as much ammo as you can from the other platoons."
The defaulters slogged forward, firing their automatic pistols and howling, "Debt free! For you and me!"
The crack of weapons rose to a deafening volume then subsided only to rise again.
"I'm hit!" one of his soldiers yelled. The man gripped his forearm while blood flowed through his fingers.
Bud-1 joined the defense and the two tanks ripped holes in the attackers who surged forward but in smaller numbers. Stiller heard more screams followed by cries of "Medic!"
The cannon blasts, the steady fire from both the turret machine guns and the infantry broke the attack. The survivors retreated toward the woods and prison, their chance at economic redemption ended. The bodies of those who no longer needed a jail cell littered the slope. His men had executed a large number of people who wouldn't be guilty of a crime back in his parents' time. He gawked at the red-stained grass, then forced his mind back to business.
He waved to the commander of Bud-1 who stood in the open turret. Stiller pointed to the area in front of the first group of attackers. The tank commander nodded and the tank spun around, sending a shower of sand over the nearby soldiers.
"Get me a casualty report," Stiller told a runner. He saw a number of soldiers writhing on the ground.
Stiller heard a blast from Bud-1's cannon.
"Where you goin', cowards?" a soldier near that tank yelled.
"Come on back and give us a fight," a second called out.
When the runner returned, she reported, "Sir, fifteen wounded. No KIA."
Stiller tried his phone. "Now! Mortgage rates guaranteed to be lower than any other lending company—" He closed his eyes and held the phone against his shoulder until the spiel ended, then called for medical helicopters. Two arrived within minutes, one emblazoned MERCK and the other WYETH.
Stiller heard more approaching helicopters.
A pair of them set down outside the village. One had WWBC on the side and the other COCA-COLA. To Stiller's surprise, the division commander, General Westly, jumped out of the red Coke bird followed by Colonel Maitland, his battalion commander. Both wore starched and pressed Class A uniforms in contrast to his rumpled, sweat-stained fatigues.
Z-Cubed and a few go-fers climbed out of the WWBC helicopter. Z-Cubed wore an iridescent blue-green djellabah and yellow combat boots. Six-foot tall and weighing close to two-hundred-and-fifty pounds, the man's weight was concentrated in a huge paunch that stretched the material of the gown. A rubber band held his black hair in a pony tail but his untrimmed beard flowed in all directions. When Z-Cubed moved, the sunshine changed his djellabah into shimmering patterns of light that dazzled the eye. It was like looking into a bank of strobe lights. He kicked a rock, said something to a go-fer and backhanded the man in the chest.
Stiller came to attention, saluted the officers and watched for an opportunity to resign his commission.
The officers returned his salute.
"This man," Z-Cubed wagged a fat finger in Stiller's face, "screwed up the whole production. Shoot him or hang him or whatever you do with traitors."
Stiller made a fist and shifted his weight. Before he could throw a punch, General Westly gripped Z-Cubed's elbow. "That's how our officers respond when you fuck with them." Westly's voice came out like a snarl. "You changed the script without telling him and he changed his tactics." He turned to Stiller and held out his hand. "You turned a potentially bloody defeat into a victory. Well done, Captain."
"My boss loved the new script." Z-Cubed pounded a fist into an open palm. "The public is tired of watching people get slaughtered by air strikes. Viewers want to see some dead-beats get to the top and win."
"Captain Stiller," Colonel Maitland said. "Everyone in your command can now wear a combat badge."
The Pentagon hadn't been in a battle since the Terrorist Wars ended and almost everyone with combat experience had retired. The Pentagon's press releases justified these battles as a way to fill this experience gap. Stiller knew this was the 'good' reason given out to the media while the 'real' reason was making money.
"What am I supposed to tell him?" Z-Cubed said, hands on hips. "I couldn't shoot the script because an officer can't get his men killed properly?"
Stiller cleared his throat to get the general's attention.
"You may not like it," General Westly replied, "but Captain Stiller is a hero."
"He is?" Z-Cubed gave the general a wary look.
"Sir, I want to res . . . I am?" Stiller didn't feel like a hero. He felt like someone who had been used by unscrupulous people.
"He is. You are."
Z-Cubed tapped his foot while he stared at Stiller. He made a frame out of his two thumbs and forefingers and sighted Stiller through it. "My God! The man'll photograph like a movie star. Look at that jaw line. The strong nose. The blue eyes."
Stiller's mouth dropped open.
"I can see it now, General." Z-Cubed grinned. "The show will feature this man as the heroic officer. We'll interview him before and after each film clip. He'll give us a voice-over of what's happening on those clips. Stiller'll be a national hero for his sterling defense against the low-life scum who dared to attack his unit."
Stiller gawked at Z-Cubed.
Z-Cubed stroked his beard. "Hmm . . . Our unspoken sub-text will be the superb training and adaptability of American officers." Z-Cubed hugged himself. "This show will break all market share records. We can raise our advertising rates."
"I have an opening up at Division," General Westly said.
Stiller broke his opened-mouthed stare at Z-Cubed and turned to the general.
"I need someone to re-organize the training. Someone who can teach the rifle company officers to think under fire. I love the way you compensated for the lack of air strikes and mortars by using the tanks. I want you to teach these people how to think like that. By the way," Westly paused to give Stiller a smile, "the position is to be filled by a major, so I'll have to promote you."
Stiller's mind threatened to shut down from the over-load, but before it did he postponed his resignation. After all, he had a family to support. It would be selfish to resign without talking it over with his wife.
"Not a bad day, Stiller," Colonel Maitland said. "You put up a great fight, you'll be on national TV and you get a promotion."
"And you knocked off those undesirables," Z-Cubed said, "in a most bloody and colorful fashion too. It'll be a TV classic in no time. The residuals alone will be worth a mountain of cash. You win the prize, Stiller. All ten million dollars."
Stiller blinked and tried to sort things out. His wife would love it that Wal-Mart sponsored the division staff and provided more lucrative discounts than the other store. His rifle company would split up the prize money. With his portion, he'd buy shares in Pentagon Inc., the subsidiary that owned all military advertising space and dealt with the corporations that wanted to rent some of it.
His resignation faded into oblivion. Maybe, the Pentagon knew what it was doing.
© 2007 by Hank Quense
First published in Darker Matter - Issue 5, edited by Ben Coppin, 2007.
Reprinted by permission of the author.
Orc Legal
James Beamon
I stopped counting two hundred and thirty-seven days in. That was the day the magistrate told me that I only had eight more hours of community service to earn my freedom. Magistrate also followed that up with "I'm going to see to it you never get those eight hours, filthy orc".
The jail cell was getting smaller.
Meanwhile rumors floated into my shrinking cell, talk of evil overlords growing powerful in different corners of the Seven Realms. Any one of those overlords would need orcs like me, making up their faceless hordes in black armor, ever-ready to do his/her evil bidding while raking in pillage and employment benefits like decent co-pays for dental and a viable retirement plan.
It was a great time to be a henchman, and here I was serving time. The new fish in the cell next to me wouldn't stop crying. And the warden was pissing in my water ration with religious tradition.
Speaking of, it was lunchtime in the dungeon. The other dungeon dwellers, humans naturally, complained about the food like they complained about everything else down here. I was still trying to figure out how anybody had the stones to complain about a consistent meal of bread and gruel. Seriously? This was a banquet ball compared to Lord Dreadbane's death marches . . . back when he was on the scene we basically had to eat any orc that fell to exhaustion.
Old Lord Dreadbane . . . man, did he have a great incentives program.
I could hear the warden making his rounds with the food cart, with the squee squee of the wheels and the clang of tin bowls that he tossed at despondent prisoners. When he got to me, my water was surprisingly clear.
"What? None of your homemade lemonade?"
"I ain't forgot about you, sweetness. My proprietary blend's in there alright . . . I'm just giving most of it to crybaby next to you. Maybe it'll dry his throat out enough for him to shut up."
"Good plan. What's his deal anyway?"
"One of them weird races. Centaur, brought in for lewd conduct."
Warden glared down at the next cell. "Enough already, princess pony!" he shouted as he squeaked his wheels down to where the centaur was.
Sooner or later (you never knew which one was which down here), the centaur's crying downgraded to sniffling. That was about the time the elf came to visit him.
I saw the elf scowling into the centaur's cell, looking all dapper and tall and blonde.
"You're a disgusting sack of filth. I'm going to see to it that you never leave this cell unless it's as glue, dog food, and transplant organs. You make me sick. I'll see you in an hour."
The elf left and I called out to the centaur. "Man, the District Attorney really has it in for you."
"District Attorney? No, that was my court-appointed lawyer. And here I was thinking he wouldn't care about my case since I wasn't paying him anything."
"Sorry dude."
"Sorry for what? This is great! He's an elf. And his designer look lets me know he's a professional. I'm sure he won't let personal feelings get in the way of doing his job."
"Why in blue-green blazes are you so sure of that?"
"Duh . . . he's an elf."
Again with the myth of elvish nobility. Every race looked up to those lanky bastards just cause they were elves. Most orcs knew their secret; they used most of their fairy magic shrinking their guts or making their faces beautifully aquiline or keeping their hair from having split ends. That's cause if they just let themselves go natural most of them would end up looking like orcs, and then where would they be? In dark armor marching for dark lords to make ends meet, no doubt.
Screw this centaur. It would be just desserts to see him hang from his stupid notion of bright and right elvish goodness. I turned to do some pushups and an idea hit me.
Public defense counted as community service.
If the centaur requested it, no way the magistrate could say no.
"Hey centaur, what's your name?"
"Moxie."
"Nice to meet you, Moxie. I'm Anglewood. Listen, I think you deserve more for your defense. Someone who's not only a true professional, but someone who is passionate about your case and will work tirelessly for at least eight hours to see you free."
"Sounds nice. But no one will defend me because I can't pay."
"I'll defend you."
"You? What do you know about the legal system?"
"I'm an evil henchman for hire. I've been in and out of jail since I was a kid. What don't I know about the legal system?"
• • •
It took about three hours to make all the necessary arrangements and prepare the defense. That meant five hours away from freedom.
Moxie took the time to relay the particulars of his case to me from his cell. Like I cared. I took a nap.
The courtroom was full of angry townsfolk. I was glad they had to leave their torches and pitchforks outside.
The District Attorney was the same elf that was acting as Moxie's public defendant a few hours ago. Guess he got a taste of half-horse meat and refused to let go. The jury box was full of the same lanky elves.
Everyone was looking at me like I was on trial, including my client.
"Dear Judge?" the centaur asked. "Can I change my mind about my lawyer?"
I pulled his human head down to my level. "What are you doing?"
"I thought you were a human. If I knew you were an orc I would have said no in the first place."
My other hand pointed to the jurors. "Your racism isn't exactly warming any hearts over there in the jury box and I'd be kicking your horse's ass right now if I hadn't sworn an oath to defend it."
Moxie slapped my hand away from his head. "You ever been horse stomped and elbow dropped all at once? Cause I'm telling you, there's a first time for everything."
"Enough," the judge interrupted. "Pervert centaurs don't get much leeway round here. You made your bed, now lie in it, or sleep on it standing up, or do whatever it is your kind does when it's bedtime."
That's how the trial of the decade for this small township started.
