05/20/2099
Quadrant: Central Time.
Sector: 24
Corporate Zone: NE-24.
1003 hours.
Ulysses DuPonte walked out of the large, dusty hangar into the bright, crisp day. His Opti-Flekt sunglasses glinted in the light. Clad in a light gray FlexForm business-casual suit, Ulysses looked both pensive and stoic as he stared into the distance…
Beyond the deserted parking lot.
Beyond the rough Texas terrain.
Beyond the horizon.
Waiting for the monsters.
Never thought I’d see the day where I was throwin’ in with wastelanders, but here we are…
Ulysses shook his head. The past forty-eight hours of his life had felt surreal; a total inversion of his humdrum existence. First, he’d waited until the RaptR jet had cleared Sector 19’s airspace, then he’d activated his DisRupTer. Captain Kramer didn’t panic when he lost contact with his neural-net, but came very close when he saw the Liquidator aimed at his head. Calm and professional, Ulysses ordered him to change course, heading due west for an emergency landing at the Alabama borderline.
Once grounded, four Omnert Consuls took Kramer into custody and escorted Ulysses to this top-secret base.
Frowning, Ulysses kicked a random rock near his Trachter dress shoe.
Damn shame what’s happened here. And I don’t care about whatever gobbledygook Omnert calls it. It’s still the National WASP World War II Museum, God-damn-it. A beautiful place, dedicated to heroes…
Senator DuPonte now stood in a large airfield on the outskirts of a town called Sweetwater, Texas. The museum behind him had once held vintage aircraft flown in long-forgotten wars. Gone now. Everything moved to Civilian Center 242—or Dallas, in Senator DuPonte’s vernacular.
This godforsaken war has ruined everything. And for what? Profit? Stocks?
Sighing, Ulysses growled under his breath.
Well, no more. Soon, I won’t have nothin’ to do but retire and take ol’ Jeeves fishin’ on the Ocmulgee…
A small grin appeared on the senator’s mouth … fading as he noticed movement far away.
Several moments later, he heard it.
The sound of dueling engines.
3.
Good God, Almighty…
Ulysses stiffened as they approached. A small convoy, with an old In-E-Ware cargo van bringing up the rear. Four Un-Civs on Iron Steed hover cycles in the lead, and two others behind them. Machines in the guise of man: glimmering frames and synthetic flesh. Mechanical soldiers capable of anything—even great destruction.
Both unholy and illegal—the apotheosis of Omnert’s infernal technology.
But still … just machines. They do what men tell ’em, nothin’ more…
Ulysses tried to calm himself with a deep breath. At his dark associate’s urging—and against his better judgement—he’d left his Liquidator inside the hangar as a show of good faith. But as this ragtag group of twisted humanity and twisted science drew near, the senator began to regret his decision.
Easy now … just hold the line…
Eyes hidden behind his Opti-Flekts, Ulysses stood tall and impassive as he watched the convoy slow, stop, and descend upon the dead grass of a nearby lawn. Dust swirled about them in a miniature cyclone. “Parking sequence complete,” each cycle’s onboard computer announced. “Shall I initiate power saver mode?”
“Yes!” six voices barked, creating an atonal cacophony of exasperation.
Senator DuPonte began to laugh at their unsophisticated bemusement—but flinched at the machines’ soulless, mechanized tone. Emotionless … inhuman … and somehow familiar.
“Mornin’,” Ulysses called as the Un-Civs dismounted with obvious relief. “How was the ride?”
Their leader, the humongous one with long, black hair, strode toward him, glowering from under his scarred, neanderthal brow.
“Hey, now…” Ulysses took a reflexive step backward, more from the stench than anything. The rancid odor of unwashed humanity now rode upon the cool breeze. “Ease up there, hoss.”
The monstrous man stopped. Still glowering, fists clenched at his sides. “Hoss, not,” he growled. “Am Skreth.”
Swallowing hard, Ulysses struggled to hide his growing fear. “Skreth … is it? I’m, uh … uh …” He began to introduce himself as Senator DuPonte but realized that political titles meant nothing to these people. “I’m Ulysses…”
No reaction on Skreth’s marred face. Just utter contempt.
“City-man…”
Ulysses stiffened. He knew a slur when he heard one. “No.” He pointed to himself. “Ulysses.”
Skreth’s countenance softened as he considered the senator. “Yeeew-lisss-eeez,” he said, lingering on each syllable. Then he shook his head. “Neh.” He raised his forefinger. “Ule,” he said, and to Ulysses it sounded like you’ll.
Ulysses grimaced. “I’ll what?”
Skreth shook his head, pointed again. “Ule, you.”
“Oh.” Ulysses relaxed his posture, almost slumping in defeat. His name had too many syllables for their pitiful dialect to cope with.
Now what?
Skreth sighed with a low, contemplative growl. “Trust you, I, Father say.”
Ulysses nodded.
Skreth turned and pointed to his ragtag group. “Aliss. Tic. Tac. Others. Strong-bots. Trust you, them.”
The others of which Skreth spoke began to climb out of the cargo van. Filthy wastelanders, but able-bodied and ready to work.
Ulysses forced a smile and raised his hand. Aliss, Tic, and Tac glared back with malice in their hard eyes.
Skreth turned back to Ulysses. “Them trust, you?”
“Oh, yes.” Ulysses stepped forward, trying not to breathe through his nostrils. “Trust. Yes.”
Skreth relaxed, though his gaze remained ever cold and calculating. “Trust. Good.”
“Why, hell yes.” Ulysses turned and motioned toward the hangar. “Come. Food. Water.”
Skreth nodded, then waved his gang forward. Hesitant, Aliss began to walk toward him, followed by Tic, Tac, and the machines.
Smiling, Ulysses shuffled back toward the gaping entrance. In truth, he didn’t trust any of these people for even a moment—but in the meantime, maybe he could at least get them cleaned up.
* * *
Hungry for more? Have you read the excerpt where Gunnar discusses his next mission with his family?
NO?!
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