Subject: [FFML] [SMJ][Orig]Terrible Swift Sword 11-15
From: David Pascal
Date: 2/22/2000, 7:07 AM
To: ffml@fanfic.com


11.

Ezekial P. Skinner wriggled his posterior deeper back into the seat atop
the round metal-leg casings of his Mark Five Combat Robot.  All the
green-brown camouflage-color parts lay splayed open on hinges, like an
orange cut six ways, and in the center Skinner tried to wedge his legs in
further.  Some might say Skinner was getting a bit heavier these days,
but Skinner blamed those damned Japonaise.  Oh he gave them credit.  Them
and those equally damned Gartlantlers had slapped Dolls together in the
first place, and when it came to ground combat a saber marionette was it.
There was no way a man could go up against a sword-class doll toe to toe.
 He�d need a hide as tough as theirs.  It was inevitable that they�d
figure out that you could make a doll big and roomy enough to stick a
human being inside and take him along for the ride. 

But why the hell did they seem to keep designing them for those skinny
Japonaise behinds?  A real man�s behind, a Texan�s behind, ought to be
broad and wide as the prairie, like Skinner�s.  He wriggled further in,
and grunted.  He didn�t like the Japonaise.  They had those big eyes. 
Skinner�d heard that Japonaise had once had dark, narrow eyes.  Then
genetic cosmetology got developed on Earth, and all the young Japonaise
born in the Age of Anime went and got their eyes bobbed till they looked
like saucer plates.  Shit:  they looked like a pack of over-sensitive
puppy dogs now.  What sort of look was that for a man?  A man ought to
have narrow, evil eyes, like Clint Eastwood in the Sacred Videos that
Frank Joy had had downloaded amongst his personal effects when the escape
pod from the Mesapotamia first crashed on New Texas soil.

�Ahhh!� he said, letting the air escape around the short cigar clamped
between his mostly gold teeth.  He finally felt seated properly.  He
pressed a button under his crotch and the back section rose up.  He slid
his fingers inside the arm openings and extended-them, Christ-like.  The
metal bands moved up over his tough professional soldier�s biceps, and
clamped softly.  Then more metal fanned out, till his arms seemed covered
in small iron barrels.  He pressed another button inside his hand pads
and the chestplate moved up and clamped down, with a sharp snap.  He
stood, eight feet of looming imminent iron carnage, the little nub of
head atop barely visible from the floor.  He looked around at the
aircraft-hangar-like Ops Readiness Room and the three other metal suit
operators gearing up amidst a sea of hoists and winches, and non-com
officers and security types running around, and techies taking readings
and making adjustments.

�Captain Skinner Sir!�  Some shaven-headed punk of a corporal had run up
between them to Skinner with a handful of papers.  �I have the
information you requested Sir!�

�Don�t wet your pants, boy.  Just let me just set myself up here right
first.�  He pressed the next-to-last sequence inside his glove and two
electroencephalograph-like antennae extruded from his neckpiece and
curled around till they touched his temples.  With that, the brain
impulses of wearer of a metal suit could be transmitted to the suit
itself, and moving would be almost like moving normally.  Reflex and
response and especially speed would never match that of a sword-class
marionette, naturally.  Men wore the suit, but dolls *were* the suit. 
But then � he smiled -- a full-combat metal suit had its own unique
points, didn�t it?

�Let�s see �em, boy,� said Skinner.  His large metal hand reached down
and the fingers � talons, rather � picked up the papers and brought them
up to his face.  The other gleaming green-brown talons curled over past
his zebra eyepatch and took his cigar out of his mouth.

�Ha!� said Skinner, delighted.  �Well, I�ll be damned!   Hey -- Lucius!�
he shouted.   

A man with a slack heavily lined face, a Hitler moustache, and long side
whiskers, grunting inside his own metal suit, said, �What?�

�Guess who we�re going after?�

�How�m I supposed to know?� he muttered, occupied.

�Belt!  That crazy andy�s busted out again!  Ha!�

The other man said nothing.  Skinner was delighted.  Belt!  Belt gave him
the best two chases of his career with Marionette Control.  He�d been
assigned to MC after the Civil War ground down to the lousy guerilla
skirmishes it now was, and he hadn�t cared for the reassignment.  Till
he�d actually gone out, that is, and hunted down and killed one of the
damned things.  They were the best prey a hunter like Skinner ever had! 
He�d hunted chevies and even those stupid Ponta cubs and of course killed
more than a fair share of human beings in the war.  But animals were
stupid, and killing people wasn�t fun.  People were weak and whining,
always begging you not to kill them or rape their boys.  They�d cry and
puke � shit, shutting them up by putting a bullet through their heads was
a pleasure.  But it wasn�t sport.

A doll, though � a sword-class experimental! � that was something!  The
last time Belt had got out it took a squad of sixteen combat veterans
plus Skinner and Lucius in full suits to pull her down.  It was sweet. 
Skinner could taste the drool in his mouth remembering it.  It took a
solid three weeks to run her to ground.  She�d killed over half the
damned team and tore Lucius� suit-leg clean off and one.of his real leg
along with it.  When Skinner finally trapped and immobilized her, the
first thing they did, after all of them raped her and beat the shit out
of her and peed on her, of course, was hack her arms and legs off and
slide a rope around her neck, and drag her torso back over the dust and
rocks a good three hundred miles before they finally killed her and
tossed the junk leftovers back to Pierce and the Experimental Projects
Division.  Out of respect for Lucius, Skinner�d adjusted her
pain-sensitivity setting to maximum, and even so the bitch didn�t so much
as utter one peep the whole long while!  That was an opponent!

�Oh, man.  We are going to have us one fun weekend, Lucius,� said
Skinner.

�Yeah,� muttered Lucius.

Skinner laughed.  �Hell, don�t be like that, Lucius.  It�s gonna be fun.�

�I am going to kill that bitch,� stated Lucius.

Skinner looked at Lucius� worn, lined face and shook his head.  He�d
really gone to pot since losing that leg.  Even took to sporting one of
those Hitler-style moustaches that were getting trendy in Washington now,
to look �tough�.  Oh well � working with fools was all a part of career
government service, Skinner supposed.  He looked over the other papers
quickly.  �This all the information they got on the escapees, boy?�

�Sir yes sir!�

Hmm.  Well � they�d put Humpty Dumpty together again:  this Belt was
version 3.3 now.  He wondered if they�d given her a memory wipe.  He
hoped not.  He grinned.  It was a pleasant memory for him.   Otherwise
there seemed to be a couple upgrades on her, some new optional energy
source, but nothing spectacular.  The other two didn�t seem like much,
thank God.  Two more Belts and Skinner would think twice about the hunt. 
He wasn�t a fool.  But the others looked like nothing.  One was
sword-class, but barely three weeks off the conveyor belt.  They must
have made her just to see if that Plasma Nuke would blow a fresh model
away.  And the date on the last Sword � �Sword�, hell, she was archaic. 
She was based on straight original Japoness specifications � phew, that�d
make her even older than that piece of shit Pierce himself.  The
designers couldn�t have have had much more in mind for her than 
bodyguard work, if that.  Babysitters like that were barely worth a
bullet.

�Tell you what, corporal,�  said Skinner, leaving the paperwork on a
nearby body-holding frame, and picking up a 400-pound tubular
surface-to-surface missile launcher like a toy rifle.  �You go and tell
Jesse over there to stand down.  It�ll be just me and Lucius and Wilbur
suiting up this time around.  Ground team of twenty-five � no, twenty. 
And we�ll be taking one of the new Timex Caterpillar models along.�

�A Caterpillar, sir?�

�Got a problem with that, boy?�

�No sir!� hollered the corporal.

Skinner snorted.  Yeah, taking a whole Cat out was overkill.  But he�d
gotten drunk with the Cat boys on leave last month and cleaned them out
at the poker tables.  He owed them one.  They could use a little fresh
air and target practice.  Pierce�d OK it.  Pierce -- .

�Well?  Don�t just stand there kissing ass, boy.  Move!�

�At once sir!�

Belt�The metallic clamp-fingers holding Skinner�s cigar placed it back
between his lips.  He grinned broadly.  Hunts like this was what his job
worthwhile.  The only thing that bothered him about the whole business
was Pierce.  He shook his head.  He certainly wished he could put a
bullet into Pierce.  These scientists and their bombs and nukes and
technologies.  It took all the glory out of war.  Single combat, glory,
valor -- the Confederates had babbled their noble rhetoric throughout ten
years of Civil War, and Skinner had laughed and blown the words away with
the skulls that thought them up, eventually, but the longer he lived the
more he sympathized.  Getting Belt down would be fine, but killing
spineless whining civilians all along the way to shut them up � that was
lousy.  The job of a predator, not a soldier � a warrior.  And, hell, he
didn�t think Pierce had that kind of arbitrary authority anyway.  Why
else was he trying to keep things quiet?  What the hell was so important
about these andys that Pierce should actually turn over to Skinner a
signed piece of paper possibly incriminating himself?

Pierce was up to something.  Skinner wondered what.  Something big; had
to be something big.  He grinned.  Be nice to find out what, and get
Pierce under his thumb.  He certainly wouldn�t mind a crack at that new
�assistant� of Pierce�s, Tracy.  Dolls were better fits than boys, but
doll screams just didn�t carry the same � conviction.  He smiled.  Who
knows?  Just maybe he�d manage to get Belt and Pierce both.  Now that
would really be sweet.  He lifted the 400-pound missile launcher to his
shoulder and swiftly dropped to one knee.

The little thumb-like piece of head visible atop the metal suit
whispered, �Boom.�  Then chuckled.

To his left, Lucius�s metal-clad arms brought a thick saucer of heavy
metal up over Lucius�s head.  He looked at Skinner, sourly, then at
Wilbur, straining away to get his seat planted right.  I�m going to kill
you, bitch, thought Lucius.  I am going to kill you.  He pulled the metal
oval down over his head and clamped it into place.


12.

�Whoa!  Whoa!  Are you deef or something, girl?  I said whoa!�

Belt stopped.

McCabe, nearly whipped out of her arms by the sudden stop, whipped back
against her ribs and into her arms.  She dropped him.  He hit the ground
like a sack of rocks.  He would have hollared, except that Belt pressed
most of his air out as she stepped on his stomach stalking over to Billy.

�Why�d you stop?� she barked.

Fall let Billy gracefully down.  He shook some sand out of his
sun-lightened hair, and looked up a bit up at Belt and smiled.  �We can�t
go running into Red Hat like a bunch of jackrabbits out of Hell, Miss
Belt.  The whole town�d have a fit.  It�s a well-armed place, full of
many a veteran and a good assortment of scurrilous polecats.  They�d
probably pull out their shooting irons and blast at us like we was a duck
pond.  Besides, maybe they even got a radio.  If we lived, word�d spread
halfway across New Texas before the day was out.  And we don�t need that.
 Not if we�re going to get you away safe.  You�re on the run, ain�t you? 
You and Miss Fall here.�

Billy pulled his denim shirt up and undid the buttons and took it off.

�I was on the run myself once,� he said.  �Here, Miss Fall, you put this
shirt on.  It�ll make you look a little less conspicuous walking into
town.  Mr. McCabe, you got a blanket in that saddle bag?  We can put it
over Miss Belt.�  He turned to Belt.  �Red Hat�s only an hour away by
foot.  We can just mosey in quiet as you please.  And do some friendly
talking along the way.�

�What�s that!� said Fall.

Billy looked at the sun, while Belt looked at him.

�That�s the sun rising.  You never seen the sun rise, Miss Fall?�

Fall stood there with her mouth open, as a thin line of purplish-red and
white, glowing across the horizon, threw crimson and lavender and gold
over the hills and the land and the revolving, burgeoning clouds. 
Soundlessly her mouth said:  wow.

McCabe sat up.  Billy came over and gave him a hand, and McCabe got to
his feet.  He knocked some dust off the seat of his pants.  �You got the
most damned defective set of andys I ever seen in my life, son,� he
muttered.

�They ain�t no worse than some of the regular folks I met.� 

�You must of met some real doozies.�

�Miss Belt, would you mind helping carry Mr. McCabe�s saddle?  He seems a
mite frazzled, and it�s a little heavy.�

Belt turned towards it, then stopped.

�Miss Belt?�

She turned and looked at Billy.

�Why?  Why should I?�

�Pardon?�

�Why should I?  Why should I carry this jerk�s saddle?  He�s got arms. 
Why tell me to do it?  I�m not a piece of property.�

�That�s exactly what you are, you ornery piece of tin and chicken wire,�
said McCabe, angrily rubbing his backside.  �You dumb andys is supposed
to do whatever we tell you.  That�s why we made you in the first place.�

�Who asked you to make me?� she nearly screamed.

�Whoa, easy.  Don�t you want to help, Mr. McCabe, Miss Belt?�

�No!�

Billy stood there and scratched his chin.  �Well � OK, then I guess you
don�t have to.�  He reached over and pulled up McCabe�s saddle and slung
it over his shoulder.  It was heavy, and when it landed Billy bent
beneath it more than a bit.   But he got it balanced, and stood  up
straight.  �C�mon, Mr. McCabe,� he said.  �Red Hat�s just over them
hills.�

�Why the hell are you carrying that thing when that crazy andy�s standing
there doing nothing, bold as you please?�

�She don�t feel like carrying it.�

�So what?  She�s supposed to do what you tell her to do, and like it.�

�Well, maybe she�ll do it, but when it comes to liking it, Mr. McCabe, it
seems to me she�s got her own opinions on the subject.�  Billy�s face got
serious.  �The Lord says we oughtn�t to push folks around, specially if
they�re � well, defenseless.�

�Defenseless -- !�

�Besides, she saved me from getting all fried up.  And got hurt doing it
too.�  He looked McCabe in the eye.  �She don�t want to carry a saddle,
she don�t have to.�

�She ain�t a �she�, she�s an it!�

Belt swerved and glared at McCabe.

�Um��course, a mighty fine-looking �it�, don�t get me wrong, now, ma�am
-- mighty fine!�

Belt growled at McCabe and then, even more harshly, at Billy.  Then she
shouted and bounded twenty feet into the air over and over till she
vanished away behind a ridge of some white birch-like trees with red
leaves.

�Damn!� said McCabe, agog.

�Guess she wants to be alone,� said Billy.  He turned his head to look
for Fall.  She was running and bouncing around and dropping on all fours,
staring at rocks and bugs and leaves, holding them up and laughing and
clapping and going �wow!� and �cool!�  Billy smiled.  �Well, come on, Mr.
McCabe.�

McCabe walked behind Billy for a few minutes and then he reached over
behind Billy and pulled the saddle off his back and slung it around
McCabe�s own.  He looked at Billy, said, �Shut the hell up,� and then
they continued walking in the direction of Red Hat.


13.

Four riders in white-and-silver radiation suits moseyed their chevies
carefully down the side of a rocky slope down towards a ravine.  One
thing about chevies:  they handled slopes and rocky terrain well.  Three
six- and one eight-legged chevy pick their way down the side of the slope
with the easy, almost contemplative, dexterity of tarantulas.  The riders
bounced calmly and easily in their saddles, like Egyptian potentates
shouldered carefully in lifted carriages by slaves.   When the four
approached bottom, two of the chevies, who had been carrying the
shattered marionette between the two of them on a kind of immobile
metallic rope bridge, stopped.  The ravine was too narrow.  

The horsemen dismounted and made adjustments on the marionette�s support,
while she lay in the middle like the onyx sculpture of an Auschwitz
survivor.  The horseman reconstructed the support into a long narrow
stretcher-shape and connected the front of the stretcher to the rear of
the first chevy�s saddle, and the rear of the stretcher to the rear
chevy�s neck harness.  The riders re-mounted and the four chevies formed
a straight line.  They moved down the ravine with careful deliberate
speed, avoiding scraping the tall red slate walls hemming them in on
either side, turning left at one twist in the path, right at another,
left at the third, and at the fourth they came into a clearing �

And stared into the Gatling Gun arm extension of Captain Ezekial P.
Skinner�s Mark Five Combat Suit.

�Hi boys and girls!� said Skinner.  The Gatling Gun opened up like a
thousand firecrackers on Chinese New Year.

200 bullets per minutes roared out and caught the the first of the four
riders in the chest, which all but evaporated.  His arms and shoulder and
head hung in the air, still attached to each other, and fell down onto
the red-topped hips with a wet plop and fell forward.  The second rider�s
head and hat flew away like twin frisbees in a desperate race and the
third rider pitched face-forward when the torso of the chevy under him
got hollowed out like a flute and collapsed to the ground.  He reached
for the Uzi-like assault rifle strapped to his back but when he pulled it
out, the Uzi and the arm he reached for it with got blown off and slammed
into the face of the fourth rider, who fell backwards.  Until caught in
the back by a burst from Skinner�s associate in the second Mark Five,
Wilbur P. Wilson, who�d rolled down and in from behind.  The last rider
pitched into the third rider, who was not yet dead.  Not entirely. 
One-armed, he staggered out into the long grass of the clearing and
tripped and fell and got up and dashed bleeding for the trees.

The top of Skinner�s Combat Suit head unit popped open and the bulbous
front chest unit fell open like a beggar�s palm.

�All right!� said Skinner, pulling himself out.

�Aw, Zeke�� radioed Wilbur.

�Shut the hell up, Wilbur,� said Skinner, pulling out a Sterling Steel
twelve-inch Bowie knife and putting it between his teeth.  He slithered
out of the rest of his straps.  �Gonna add this Rebel�s ears to my
collection, boy!  You pick up the package -- that�s an order!�

Skinner dropped into the long dry grass in his Army boots and slacks and
T-shirt and pulled the knife out of his mouth.  �Come on, Reb,� he
shouted at the one-armed man staggering and moving ahead almost drunkenly
from loss of blood, his radiation protection suit now striped red like a
scarlet venetian blind.  �Come on, boy!  Come to Poppa!�  Skinner dashed
forward into the grass  like a thresher, knife in his right hand, pistol
in his left, grinning and giggling.

Wilbur sighed.  He always got to mop up.  His Mark Five turned to look
for the package.  The stretcher had twisted, naturally, and she�d fallen
off it, most likely under �the muck and blood of victory�, as Skinner
would say.  Wilbur could hear him shouting �Hee-yaaa!� and old Cherokee
Indian cries.  That Skinner really needed a mental examination, in
Wilbur�s opinion.  Wilbur made an estimation and retracted the suit's
Gatling arm extension and replaced it with a pincer arm extension.  He
waddled the fat metal legs over and reached out and picked up a
half-legless Chevy carcass and tossed it aside.  Yup.  There she was. 
Cripes � imagine throwing away four lives to pick up a scorched-up piece
of junk like that.  Oh well.  Wilbur took a careful step forward �
balance wasn�t exactly a Mark Five�s major selling point, and Wilbur
didn�t want to slip in chevy guts � and then reached out, extended the
pincer arm, and closed it carefully around the marionette�s wrecked
waist.  Careful, careful.  Don�t want to snap the damned thing.  He
straightened and retracted his arm in, bringing the thing close to his
metal face, looking almost like a big version of a little girl holding
her rag doll in front of her.  Wilbur looked into the gutted hollows of
her eyes, the onyx scar of a mouth.  He wondered if it had been pretty.

A long horrible scream issued from the dry grasses.

Wilbur's suit's metal head rotated in its direction.

In the deep hollows of the marionette�s eyes, two dim lavender points
suddenly began to glow.

Stronger.

*Stronger*.    

14.

McCabe and Billy walked along about a quarter of an hour without saying
much.  Billy was watching Fall.  She was swooping away in front of them,
leaping flips in the air, playing and laughing.  At one point she
out-raced, running backwards, one of those four-eared Terratoo coyotes
and banged smack into a red cactus.  Billy almost ran to her, but she
bounced up immediately, with a dopey look at first, then hopping up and
down and clapping.  Another time she caught two long-eared rabbity
critters and juggled them, barking along with their little puzzled barks.
 Mostly she sniffed and felt and stared at things with a look of utter
surprise and delight.  Billy liked that look.  McCabe, on the other hand,
watched for Belt.  She�d vanish completely for a minute, then you�d see
her eyes peering out from behind the cover of a tree or a ridge, probing,
stalking.

They paid more attention to the respective marionettes than they did to
where they were going, which is why they walked into each other.  They
both pretended they didn�t, and then McCabe said, �Never seen anything
like them damned Dolls of yor�n in all my life.�

�They�re in trouble,� said Billy.

�Who ain�t?� said McCabe.   He looked for Belt, who�d vanished again, and
then, not for the first time, he noticed Billy limping.

�Your leg holding out OK, son?� he said.

�Yeah.  It�s fine.  Fall bandaged it up, I think.  It helps.�

�Can�t see what a boy like you�s doing out here in the first place.�

�Prospecting.  Ain�t that why you�re out here, Mr. McCabe?�

�No.�

�Then how come?�

McCabe grunted.  �Me and citified life don�t get along.  A man ought to
live free, that�s how I see it.  You can�t do that in New Texas no more. 
Not nowadays.�

�It ain�t so bad so bad in Jacksonville."

�Then why you out here panning and digging with a gap-toothed old coot
like Israel?�

�For the Home.�

�What home?�

�The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Clones got a Home for orphans
and runaways and such, down in Jacksonville.  That�s where I live.  Or at
least where I been living the last eight years.� 

�You ain�t got a Poppa, then?�

�No, sir.  After I was cloned and grew up some, the government found me a
home with a barber man, Mr. Jacob J. Truman down in Buffalo Horn.  He was
a good Poppa too.  Solid gold, he was.  But, well � you know.  He got
called to the war.  He died.  So I got sent to another fella in Stockton,
called Cardigan,� said Billy.  �He wasn�t no good at all.  Worked me like
a dog every day, and got drunk and beat the tar out of me every night. 
That�s how I got this leg.  He got so real bad drunk one night I
suggested he stop.  So he threw me into the street when some loco
cowpokes and their chevies were charging down it, and they got spooked
and trampled my legs.  But it�s OK.  Least I�m alive.�

�How�d you end up in Jacksonville?�

�Well, soon as I could walk � I ran.  Snuck out of Stockton and hopped a
wagon train.  The driver found me out and booted me off in Jacksonville. 
I had no money, no place to go, so I took to stealin�.  Food, mostly. 
Boots off of dead men shot up in saloons, and the like.  One day pickings
was so slim I slipped into a Church to pry open the poor box, and the
Reverend Nimrod Pell, who was bigger than an Ox and its momma put
together, caught me and picked me up by the scruff of the neck.  Darn if
I didn�t think he�d swallow me whole and spit out the ankle bones! 
Instead he pops open the poor box and takes out all the money, a good
five dollars and 44 cents and puts it in my hand and says, �Boy, you go
fill your belly with the best steak five dollars can buy.  Then if you
want a warm bed and a blanket, and Eternal Life, you come back here
tonight for my sermon.

"Well, sir, I filled my belly and back I came.  And a glorious sermon it
was, full of hollering and weeping and shouting about Satan and judgement
and angels and devils fighting it out on the Last Day and such like. 
People was sniffling and moaning, and when it was over, the Reverend
walks up and looks down and says, �You heard me deliver God�s Holy Word,
boy.  You want to be Saved or you want to be Damned?�  I said,  �I want
to be Saved, Reverend!�  He set me up on his shoulders and strolled over 
to the Home and placed my hand in one of the marionettes there and said,
�Well, Miss Lucy, I done snatched another fresh chicken leg out of
Satan�s mouth.�  And she nodded and walked me to a room full of bunk beds
and young �uns like me.  I won�t like to you � I was really hoping to get
another $5.44 out of the man, and skedaddle, but I stuck around for a
while, and one day � heck, I did get Saved!  And there I been ever
since.�

�Boy, if I�d known you was going to be one of them Bible-thumpers, I�d
have told Gilhooley to go get lost.�

�Why, you must be one of them Damned, Mr. McCabe.�

�Damned, and damned proud of it.�

�You ain�t afraid of Hell?�

�What for?  All my friends�ll be there.  You stick some bottles of Red
Eye and a couple poker tables behind them Pearly Gates, and maybe I�ll
reconsider Salvation.�

Billy laughed.  �Actually, I didn�t think much of them Church folk myself
at first, to tell you the truth.  It just felt good to have a warm bed
and a blanket and some food.   But � I started reading the Gospels, and
seeing what they was doing.  They was doing good.  They weren�t lying or
cheating or stealing from nobody.  They were helpin�.  People need help. 
Specially people who ain�t got no place to go.  They took folks and boys
like me, off the street and cleaned �em up and gave �em food and a home
and some book learning.  I seen sick folk get better, and bad ones grow
straight.  We�d find homes for some the boys, jobs for the men folk. 
Nothing for me, of course, �cause of my leg.  Not much use as a farm hand
and the like.  But I got to cleaning and cooking, and learning to read,
and teaching the younger boys.  We started a soup kitchen for old folks
too last year.

"But, you know, Mr. McCabe, food and beds and taxes � it takes money.  We
been hit pretty hard lately, specially with them new war taxes out of
Washington.  There�s even been talk about closing us up.  Well, one day
after the Reverend was preaching God�s Word to the latest bunch down at
the soup kitchen, I hears one of �em trying to talk two others into going
prospecting in the badlands.  Knew of a spot with veins of plasma all
over the place, he says.  Hit one and they�d all be rich as King Midas,
he says.  The other fellas didn�t go for it � anything could happen to
you deep in the badlands, they said.  Well, I got to that fella who was
trying to convince them, and shovelled some webfoot chicken and beans on
his plate, and I whispered, �Sir, you figure there�d be enough plasma
veins over there to pay off the taxes on the Home here?� and the old
fella strokes his beard and says, �Boy, you can find enough plasma up
there to buy ten of these places and fill them with chicken for five
hundred years, or my name ain�t Israel Gilhooley.� �  Billy smiled and
scratched his head.  �I reckon his name must be Elvis Katz or something.�

�If he wasn�t a crook he wouldn�t have gotten his front teeth knocked out
like that.  Never  trust a man  with no front teeth, boy.�

�You got to have faith, Mr. McCabe.�

�I got two Colt forty-fives.  I don�t need faith.� 

�One ain�t shooting at the moment.  Maybe you could learn something from
that.�

McCabe grunted and checked the brush for signs of Belt.  �Like what?�

�Like what I learned at the Home.  Power don�t mean nothing without
righteousness.  That six-shooter wouldn�t have kept you from getting
killed last night.  What saved you was God�s Word.�

�What saved me was you telling that hellacious andy to back off.�

�I only repeated God�s Word to her as it was told to me.  His Word is
�Thou Shalt Not Kill�.  Mercy and forgiveness is His Word,� said Billy.

�I was in the War, boy.  I don�t know who made the world, but I know what
runs it and it ain�t God�s Word.  It�s guns and killing.  Guns and
bullets and killing.  Mercy don�t exist.  Nor forgiveness nor Justice nor
any other such claptrap.�  

�You fought in the Civil War, Mr. McCabe?�

�Ten long years.�

�Yeah?� said Billy.  �For the Confederacy?�  Billy�s eyes shone, briefly,
with quickly suppressed hero worship.  �Darn, all I could do was read
about the Civil War and the Rebs.�

�You�re one lucky kid.  I seen the whole damn thing.  Everything --
Reagan Run, Pick Point, Chancellorburg, Little Kettle, Lackawanna -- .�

�You were in the cavalry charge at Lackawanna!  You�re joking!�

McCabe spit.  �I don�t recollect going ha ha.�

Billy shook his head, dazzled.  �I can�t believe it!�

�If you�re as impressed as you sound, boy,� said McCabe, �then you�re as
dumb as you look.  War ain�t nothing to be impressed by.  War ain�t
nothing but butchery.  Sometimes you�re the butcher, and sometimes you�re
the meat.  And sometimes you�re both.�

�Lackawanna.  Pick Point!  Gol durn -- I�d sure like to hear about it, Mr
McCabe.�

McCabe bent over and picked up a rock and tossed it at long-eared rabbit
watching them walk by.  It ran off, half as quick as Fall.

� �Like to hear about it�.  Shit.  Ten damn years.  I signed up, I wasn�t
much older than you.  My head was filled with the same sort of Justice
and States Rights crap everybody else�s head was.  I signed up because I
thought we were right.  We were right!  But what�d it get us?  A whole
territory covered with hills of corpses.  And that fat-assed sonuvabitch
Frank Joy sitting on his throne in Washington stronger than ever.�

McCabe didn�t continue.

�That�s a mite harsh, if you don�t mind my saying so, Mr. McCabe,� said
Billy, quietly.  �I don�t care for a lot of what�s going on these days
neither.  But we wouldn�t not one of us be here without President Joy. 
There�d be no New Texas at all without him.�

�I know.  I heard the story.  They preached it at us in the POW camp
night and day and cracked us in the head with rifle butts if we didn�t
repeat it right.  I know it all right. Six men from Earth crashed on this
damn planet and they had no women and crippled technology and if they
wanted humankind to survive all they could do was clone.  But the
technology was so screwed up all they could clone was men.  They could
fiddle with it and make different kinds and sizes and types of men, but
only men.  Joy was from Old Texas and the land spread out every which
way, so he chose some land and started fillng it up with people like him
and ways like his and here we are.  I don�t say Frank Joy did wrong then.
 But damn it, we are people.  Ain�t we? Frank Joy ain�t no better than we
are.  He ain�t no God.  Who gave him the right to sit in judgement over 
us all forever?  He runs the show all his life long, and when he dies,
they put a �pure� clone of ol� Frank back up in his place, to keep
cracking the whip.  Why can�t we have elections?  Let the people choose? 
That�s how it was, wasn�t it?  On old Earth a Texan was free and equal,
good as any other man.  But here, here we ain�t free and we ain�t equal,
and one man, and the people licking his boots, is better than all the
rest.  �Free and equal� �  hell, we ain�t even free to leave.�

�I didn�t see no �Keep Out� sign over the badlands when I strolled in
with Israel, Mr. McCabe.�

�I�m talking about the Southern Territories, as you well know, boy. 
That�s what gave Frankie the excuse to turn the whole thing into a
shooting war.�

�The Southern Territories seceded.  That�s what started it.�

�Secede?  Secede from what?  It�s been 250 years since the Mesopotamia
got to this planet, and none of the Six Nations have even seen so much as
tenth of the place.  The land�s as wide open as the sky.  A bunch of men
crossed the border south into virgin land, owned by nobody, and built
towns and cities and railroads.  Where was Washington when their blood
and sweat was turning deserts and forests into houses and streets and
libraries?  But once they called themselves �Independent� and elected
their own President � then suddenly it was all Texan property, because
they were all �genetically Texan�, like those Nazi buttheads down in
Gartlant.  So any place a Texan sets foot belongs to Frank Joy, and
anything they do there�s got to have Frank Joy�s OK.  Bullshit.  We ain�t
property.  We�re people!�

Billy laughed.

�What�s so funny?� barked McCabe.

�That�s what Belt said.  Remember?  �I�m not a piece of property�.�

�What�s funny about that?� growled McCabe.  �That�s what she is.�

�Why?  �Cause she was put together in a lab?  You and me was made in a
lab too, Mr. McCabe.�

�An andy�s different from a man, son.�  McCabe frowned.  �I remember a
battle took place at Pike Ridge.  Two thousand of us fought all day,
taking the same damned hill and losing it to the same number of
Blue-coats, then taking it back again.  Then at midnight, under a full
moon we heard this whirring, tramping sound.  The Blues got sent a unit
of twenty-two saber marionettes.  And there they was, dressed up
Napolean-style, with white pants and black boots and long Blue jackets
with gold epaulettes on their shoulders.  They came over that ridge every
step, every move, exactly alike, like little toy soldiers.  Big blank
blue eyes, and pretty smiles on their pretty faces.  Then they pulled
their swords out of their scabbards and ran down on our boys like
threshing machines butchering hogs.  Slash, slash, slash, slash!  Heads,
legs, hands and arms, flying, and them rushing into us, tearing us to
bloody pieces, smiling those pretty smiles.  They must have cut six
hundred of us down the first ten minutes.  Six hundred of us.  Boys half
your age, sliced through like sausage.   It took cannon fire to take one
of the damn things out.  Cannon fire!  But we didn�t have cannon to
spare, and when they reached the cannon and took it out, all we could do
was break ranks and run for our lives.  The whole war was like that.  We
had �right� and �justice�, and Joy had the technology, the marionettes,
the grenades, the bombs, the helicopters.   The technology diced our guts
to bits like so much hash.  We could beat the men.  We just couldn�t beat
the machines.�

His eyes noticed Fall.  She was holding up a grey rabbit and rubbing its
nose with her nose and laughing.

�And y�know?� said McCabe, shaking his head at her, sounding quietly
impressed and surprised.  �After that fight, me and my buddies � any of
�em that was left alive -- headed direct to the nearest saloon and got
stinking drunk and finally ended up in some pimp�s Dollhouse screwing the
same damned things killing us not one day before.  Looking into the same
blank eyes, the same pretty smiles.�  McCabe looked out at the long
shadows cast by twisted alien cacti.  ""Billy, this world is all screwed
up."

Billy was blushing deeply.  McCabe noticed, and laughed.  �Oh  that�s
right.  You Bible-thumpers stay virgins till you�re fifty-seven, don�t
you?�  A satisfied smile rested on his tight lips.

Billy smiled too.  A crooked smile.  �You ain�t mad at Bible-thumpers,
Mr. McCabe, and you ain�t mad at Dolls.  Bible-thumpers didn�t start the
war, and Dolls didn�t have no choice in what they was made to do in it. 
You ain�t mad at all.  You�re scared.  You think that Evil�s going to
beat Good.�

�It already has, son.�

�The real  war ain�t over  till the end of time, Mr. McCabe.  And the
Lord�s going to win that one.� 

�He didn�t do so good in the scraps I was in.�

�The Lord�s hand was there.�

�Yeah, slapping the shit out of boys your age fighting for the
Confederacy, and turning it over hog-tied to Frank Joy and his pack of
sissies.  Hell, why not?  The Lord can do whatever He likes with us,
don�t He?  Just like we can do anything we want to to a Doll.�

�Not according to the Gospels.�

McCabe cocked an interested eye at Billy.  �That�s a new one on me.  I
don�t recall as the Gospels got anything to say at all about Dolls.�

�Maybe not directly, but the Reverend Pell and many a Church Elder�s
given a lot of thought to it.�

McCabe snorted.  �I bet.�

�You done a lot of religious study on the subject, then, Mr. McCabe?�

�Hell, boy.  A man don�t have to read a book of sermons to hear them
crazy Preachers standing outside Dollhouses calling men taking a swig and
going inside �fornicators and idolators�.  What the hell�s a man supposed
to do?  Stick his thing in a pack of ice cubes all day?�

Fall climbed up on a white tree and waved to Billy.  Billy waved back,
gently.   She jumped off it, and bounded toward him in spiralling hops
like one of those little girl Olympic gymnasts Billy once saw in a movie
clip at the Jacksonville Museum, landing precisel an inch in front of
him.

�Where are the walls?� she said.

�Pardon, Miss Fall?�

�The walls!  I�ve been running for hours, Billy, and we haven�t reached a
wall yet.  Where are the walls?�

Billy scratched his ear.  �Um � if I catch your meaning, ma�am � there
ain�t no walls.  Not outdoors.  There�s just ground and sky.�

�There are no walls?�

�Nope.�

�What holds up the sky?�

�Um -- .�

�A big utility pole in Jacksonville, ma�am,� said McCabe, tipping his
hat.

�Oh,� she said.  She broke into a bright merry grin.   �You live in a
world of great structural and aesthetic complexity, Billy,� she added,
and backflipped away into the countryside.

McCabe chuckled.  �That�s how Dolls is.  Cute as kittens and dumb as --
.�

�Sir, don�t you go talkin� that way about Miss Fall,� said Billy.  �It
ain�t nice.�

McCabe looked at Billy, who was blushing again, and was aware that he was
blushing, and was aware that McCabe was aware that he was blushing. 
McCabe burst out laughing.

Billy frowned.  �The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Clones believes
that Man was made in the image of God, and Dolls was made in the image of
Man, and so Dolls reflect the image of God too.  And it's a mean, bad
thing to desecrate God�s image and Man�s image.   Somebody who abuses
something that looks human is getting himself ready to abuse something
that is human.  So we don�t hold with hitting dolls or pushing them
around.  Some of �em are a mite slow, I know, but who made �em that way
but us?  No, Latter Day folk sit down with �em at the table and take �em
along to Services and --.�

�Services?�  McCabe laughed out loud.

Billy�s ears got red.

�We treat �em polite.�

�In bed or out?�

Billy cleared his throat.  �The Good Book says �Be Fruitful And
Multiply�.  Only way to multiply is to clone, so the Elders say that�s
OK, for now.  The Good Book also says we can�t sleep with the beasts of
the field, and a Doll�s made up of beast parts, sometimes, and bird or
flower parts other times, so the Church Elders say that sometimes it�s OK
and sometimes it ain�t, but either way the Church Elders remind us that
Saint Francis preached to the birds so if he could do that then we ought
to preach to the marionettes so -- .�

McCabe broke out again into a loud tall laugh.  �Sheer bible-thumpin�
hogwash.�

�You can�t be a good human being if you don�t act like one, Mr. McCabe. 
A man�s got to treat a woman with respect and charity,� said Billy. 
�Even if he ain�t exactly a man and she ain�t exactly a woman.�

McCabe looked at Billy with amused pity.  �Boy, they�re just machines.�

�They�re more than that. They eat, don�t they?  They got live pieces.  I
read it in a book.  Bits of fruit and flowers.  Living tissue.  They�re
alive.  Just a little bit.  Maybe all it takes is a little bit.�

They walked along a minute or  two, saying nothing.

�I had a Doll once,� said McCabe.  �Melissa was her name.  Cooked for me,
cleaned for me, brushed down my chevy, got me beer.  Pretty as a picture
and sweet as pie.  Won her in a card game from some pig skinner down in
Tupelo.  She was nicer to me than my momma.  Not that I had a momma, of
course.�  He kicked a rock with his boot.  It skipped to the left and hit
a stump of cactus.  �Sure miss her.�

�What happened to her, G.V.?�

He frowned and kicked another rock.  �None of your  damn business.�

They walked along in silence for a while.  Suddenly, out of nowhere,
McCabe began to sing:

Terratoo Dolls, won�t you come out tonight,
Come out tonight,
Come out tonight!
Terratoo Dolls, won�t you come out tonight,
And dance by the light of the moon.

Billy laughed.  �Gosh.  You sing real pretty, G.V.�

�Don�t you go soundin� like one of them girly boys, Billy.�

�I didn�t mean it that way!�

�I know,� he said.  �I�d have kicked your ass across that hill there if
I�d thought you did.� 

A low metallic growl emerged from somewhere in the brush to McCabe�s
left.

�You shut up too, andy,� said McCabe.  Then he screamed.  �Aiiie!�

Fall had bounced down out of nowhere smack in front of McCabe and was
pinching out the cheeks surrounding his lips.  

�What was that?� she said.

�Whud wuz whud?� gurgled McCabe through pulled-wide lips. 

�That sound!�

�Dat wuz �thinging�.�

�Cool!  Do another �singing�!�

�Weggo o� my cheekth furst!�

�But you sang some song to me earlier yourself, Fall,� said Billy.

�I thought that was the only song there was!�

�Weggo o� my *cheekth*, damwwit!�

She let them snap back into place.  

�Don�t do that!� said McCabe.

Fall wound her arms into McCabe�s and looked up like a vast-eyed tiny
puppy dog.  �A song, a song, a song, a song, a song, a so-o-ong!�

McCabe looked at Fall and then at Billy, who shrugged.  McCabe stopped,
cleared his throat, and sang:

Clones, clones on the range!
Where the queers and the marionettes stray,
Where often�s rehearsed
An obscene Texas curse,
And even the damned andys pray!

Fall looked on dazzled, and then began to join in.  Billy took her arm.

�Miss Fall?  I � uh � I think maybe you�d prefer �Shall We Gather By The
River�,�

 �What�s that?�

Billy began to sing �Shall We Gather By The River�.  Fall, simply
astounded that Billy could do �songs� too, followed the first verse and
sang along on the second.  They walked on, progressing through �A Mighty
Fortress Is Our God�, �What A Friend We Have In Jesus� and, as an
introduction to counterpoint and harmony, �Row Row Row Your Boat�. 

And after ten or so minutes of it, Billy stopped and pointed to a painted
board on a post which said:


Wecom To Red Hat!

Pop. 17

& 1 Dogg.

No Big-Eyed Japs Or Dam Sausij-Eatin Garts Allowed!

�I can feel that hot bath now!� said McCabe.  He broke out into a few
bars �Row Row Row Your Boat� himself, and Fall joined in, clapping in
time, and Billy whistled along, and over the ridge they went.  After a
minute, Belt bounded up beside the sign, crouching, scanning left and
right and looking back with a low snarl of suspicion.  And then Belt
slipped over the ridge to Red Hat too.

And many minutes after that, a third figure also walked slowly up and
stood beside the sign.  Someone burned terribly black, silver bones
visible through charred dark skin, pindrops of blood dripping down from
the fingers down to the sand.   The head turned, and nine small separate
eyes stuffed in each eye socket stared out and looked down over the ridge
and down into the town of Red Hat.  A sudden bark of white electricity
spit out of the back out of the black burned head, and curled about the
slightly smoking naked shoulders like a halo.   The wind blew golden
leaves slowly across the face.

15.

�Doctor Pierce?� said Tracy.

�Status Report,� said Pierce.

Tracy entered, in over-tight military jacket again, and short skirt and
green stockings, and shut the door.

Pierce had put away his calculations.  He�d been sitting in front of a
bank of television screens behind a panel in front of his desk.  From
here Pierce could monitor the activities in every room in the enclosure
at any time.  He never did.  He had no hobbies, no entertainments. 
People�s activities bored him.  But the computer could bring up news
reports, eyes-only secret briefings, videos of scientific research and
lectures.  Pierce virtually never watched them.  But today every screen
was on, and Pierce�s eyes darted from one to the other.  He was
searching, searching.

Tracy walked up behind his.  Pierce was oblivious.  Tracy removed his
military jacket and shirt.  Beneath was a pale down-filled skin-like
brassiere with soft pink artificial nipples.  Pierce was following a
geographic report on slightly unusual seismic conditions in Japoness.  He
leaned back in his expensive black leather recliner chair, utterly
absorbed in the report, his chin resting on his fist.  The screens lent a
flickering blue to his close-cropped monk-like white hair.  Tracy watched
the light play on his hair.  It seemed ethereal � angelic. 

Tracy reached out and stroked Pierce�s cheek.

Pierce�s eyes widened and he slapped the hand away violently, sitting
instantly at attention in his chair, and turned and looked at Tracy with
absolutely livid fury, too furious even to shout.  He looked at the
shirtless boy and, in a barely controlled trembling voice, said, �Do you
have a last name, �Tracy�?�

�Evans.  Doctor.�

�Well, Mister Evans � if you *ever* so much as get within three feet of
me again, I will have you *dissected* and delivered to Section C in boxes
as fresh meat for medical experimentation!" sputtered Pierce.  "Have you
got that?�

�What�s -- wrong with you?� said Tracy.

� -- What?�

�You never talk to anyone.  No one visits you.  No one touches you.�

Pierce shut his eyes.  He trembled with anger

Tracy took a step forward and reached out.  Pierce could suddenly feel
his breath.

�Touch me,� said Tracy.  �Touch me��

Pierce opened his eyes and gave Tracy a resounding open-handed slap that
knocked the boy to the floor.  Pierce looked at his hand in disgust, and
pulled out a handkerchief,  wiping coolly at the places where he had come
in contact with the boy.

�Listen to me, Mister Evans,� he said, �and listen well.  I am a
scientist.  I am concerned with truth.  Truth.  Not make-believe. Not
fantasy.  Not illusions.   Reality.  You are a � pathetic � illusion.  A
fake.  A pretense.  An impersonation.  I detest impersonations.  I detest
falsity.  Putting on a wig no more makes you a female than putting on
horns would make you a cow.  Don�t include me in your infantile games of
make-believe.�

�I�m not here to hurt you.�

�The very existence of a thing like you hurts me.�

�I'm not a *thing*.  I�m here to -- to *give* you something.�

�Communicable diseases.�

�Human emotion.  Human feelings.  From a human being.  A *human being*.�

� �Human�?  You?  You�re an object, a commodity, a mouth and anus bought
and paid for by the government.  The very sight of you makes me sick.  I
detest you, and I detest the odious social structure that produces
entities like you, and I thank God it�s coming to an end.�

�What does that mean?�

�It means, Mister Evans, that you can get out of my office right now!�  

Tracy�s face turned red.  �Sometimes when a person hates something, he�s
hiding from himself the fact that he really wants it.�

�Sometimes when a person hates something, he knows *exactly* why he hates
it," shouted Pierce, "and he knows exactly what he needs to do to get rid
of it!�

�I -- don�t understand.�

�Get out!  Do you understand *that*?  Get out of my office now!�

Pierce turned and began slamming buttons on his intercom.  �Security. 
There�s an intruder in my room.  Get someone in here.  Now!�

Tracy got up.  His long platinum blond hair was all disheveled.  His
lipstick was smeared across his jaw by Pierce�s slap.  He gathered up his
shirt and jacket, and two armed guards stormed in.  One immediately
twisted Tracy�s arm behind his back and slammed him into the wall while
the other�s rifle swung across the room in a professional arc.  The first
twisted Tracy�s wrist nearly up between his shoulder blades and Tracy
screamed.

�This the intruder, sir?� said the security guard.

Tracy screamed again.

�Sir?� said the guard.

Tracy began weeping.  �My arm!�

Pierce lips were pressed together tightly.   He opened his mouth, took a
deep breath, and exhaled.  �A � false alarm, gentlemen.  My apologies.�

The guard looked at Tracy.  �You sure, sir?�

�Mister Evans failed to identify himself properly upon entering.  Let him
go.�

The guards looked at one another.  The one holding Tracy let him go. 
Tracy fell to the floor, a false breast askew.

�Dismissed,�  said Pierce.  �And take � that � with you and wash it up,�
he said, indicating Tracy.

The guards clicked their heels and saluted.  They exited, each one
holding Tracy by the upper arm, and shut the door behind them.

Pierce turned and stood there for a moment and then he grabbed his cane
and slashed it across his desk, sending the phone and pencils and pens
and calculators and paperwork flying.   He slammed his palm on his desk
and then fell back into his chair, breathing heavily.   �Monsters,� he
whispered to himself, staring at the faces and images flickering on the
screens.  �Monsters.  Monsters.  Monsters. �  He put his face in his
hands for several moments and then, almost with desperation, he pressed a
coded sequence on his bottom desk drawer and reached in and pulled out a
book of photographs from under a stack of material marked Top Secret.  He
opened it to the first page.

It was the picture of himself as a boy, smiling and laughing, being
hugged from behind by a calmly smiling marionette with long black hair in
a magnificently flower-patterned red-and-yellow Japoness kimono.  He
reached out and touched a finger to her face, and then bent forward and
pressed his forehead against the picture.  A knife-edge tear cut down his
cheek, like a sudden crack in a window pane.

�I�ll kill them all,� Pierce whispered.  �I�ll kill them all.�


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