The Medida War Page 8

  But the peaceful existence of the trimorphs was now about to be rudely shattered.

  The night sky was lit up by liquid flame that streaked down on the six-wheeled military carriers as they lumbered towards the ghetto. A deluge of burning rock rained down on the Biohazard Troopers. It was Medusa expressing her fury with these extra-martials who would harm her creations. The troopers wore black, rubberised, muscular armoured suits and cradled in their arms the latest high-tech rifles permitted by the Chancellor of Inventions. The Martian Republic flag was emblazoned on their shoulders. It was composed of a crossed chainsaw and a toothed excavator digger, symbolizing the terraforming of Mars.

  Some of their vehicles had trimorph limbs hanging off them and the troopers intended to make some new additions tonight. The trimorphs were perceived as a biohazard so operation "Cleanse and Purify" was a clean up mission that would eradicate them.

  The major stood in his command post at the front of the lead troop carrier and chewed thoughtfully on his cigar. Descended from a long line of African-American military, he only ever felt at home on the battlefield.

  His mottos were "Kick butt 'til doomsday" or "You only really know the enemy when you smell their fear."

  His clean-shaven head was crowned with a communication link-up device. This was a back-up in case his DA got jammed. He was in an ebullient mood tonight. "We gonna have ourselves some fry, crisp an' dry," he roared to his troops. "Let's boogie!"

  The convoy of military hurtled forward. At the same time, a meteor found its target. A soldier on one of the carriers barely had time to scream, "Man, this is a major shake-down! That Medusa bitch's trying to blaze us!" before the vehicle exploded in a brilliant orange burst of flame. There were no survivors. All on board were reduced to blackened and charred husks.

  The major urged the rest of his troops onwards: "Let's locomote! Step on it!" He could see fear creeping into his men. This was good. It would sharpen their resolve.

  Another blazing meteorite tore a second carrier apart. A soldier cried out, "Simpson's crew just got roasted! That's dark, man."

  "We're almost on target," shouted the major. "When we reach the ghetto, the Medusa effect will stop. She'd never harm her own! So let's get busy and hit it - hard."

  "Yeah, major! No small change business! Let's burn a large one!"

  The soldiers, filled with new vigour and bloodlust drove noisily into the clearing in the metal-girdered forest. They began blasting trimorphs who had come out of their homes to see what was going on. More were dragged from their houses and finished off. Never mind relocating them to special camps, they were going to relocate them to Hell.

  "Come and get it, you triple-eyed freaks. You want some? Here's some! You want some? Here's some!"

  "We're Biohazard Troops and you morphs are a serious biohazard," called the major, his voice rising over the general din of laser fire as he mowed down a few morphs himself.

  The Medusa fire overhead had ceased as the major had anticipated. The soldiers whooped triumphantly, sure in the knowledge that they were safe and the morphs wouldn't fight back. "Rule the school, bitch! Put these freaks under heavy manners!"

  The major turned to his lieutenant. "Those Redpeace boys think we should live in peace with the Martians! But how can we when the planet itself is causing meteorite storms and zombie outbreaks? We gotta bring this mother under manners, then we can start talking about peace. We believe in peace through superior fire-power!"

  He gave an order to his first tank commander. "Turn on the music, Jo! Make it loud!"

  The tank had quadraphonic speakers on its topside. On its side was scrawled "Ghetto-Blaster". Its commander replied, "You got it, major. Music, maestro!" A huge bass drum with the piercing whine of a wildly playing electric guitar filled the ghetto. The throbbing words of the latest sky-denseing song, currently topping the charts, pulsed out with it.

  Yo man

  you supposed to be da man

  yo man

  so don't you bail from the set

  cos you and I got dis seriuss bet

  that you dah wicked in dah house, hot damn!

  So wot I hear about mah brother,

  he's rude an' a big bad luvver

  like ah said there ain't no other

  his slick and maximum undercover

  Yo man

  ahm sad and need some advice

  yo man

  on being down and cool as ice

  you dah cat with the biggest trigger

  not like me, who cares?

  Go figure!

  The major hollered, "That's smoking, man! That's smoking! My favourite! Pure studio one sound!"

  Tank and anti-personnel fire bellowed to the beat.

  The major looked on as a few surviving trimorphs were rounded up and put into trucks. But they only did this so they could claim to the media that they had relocated the morphs. The soldiers wrinkled their noses. "They smell bad, major! They're rank!"

  Up until now, the troopers had met no resistance from the trimorphs. But now a group of males was hitting back. They could fire spikes from their body and they had ferocious retractable claws. Their leader, Trigon, fired a hail of spikes from his torso into the Biohazard troopers. Some penetrated armour and killed the wearers. Others were impaled against walls by terrible thorns.

  "I'm hit, major! Oh, Gaia, I'm hit! They're crucifying me! I ain't gonna live! I ain't gonna live!"

  A blizzard of barbs hailed down on the troops. The major dropped to the ground, "Yo, everyone, let's get horizontal!" They returned fire from their positions on the ground, but their attackers were sheltered in craters.

  One of the soldiers, Jonn Blackcrater, had a flame-thrower attached to his gun. He directed a jet of flame at the morphs. It cremated a number, but failed to destroy them all. Trigon and a few others beat a hasty escape.

  "Good work, Blackcrater. You okay?"

  "Yeah, I'm safe, major. I'm good to go! Ready to move and groove."

  "I'm proud of you, son."

  "But I don't get it, sir. They're supposed to be peaceful and stuff. This should be a walk in the park."

  "It's 'cos the males haven't got their Mits with them. They go ga-ga without their third sex. Now fix up your tuxedo, boy, and let's get busy."

  Blackcrater began checking a side alley. The flame on the front of his laser rifle illuminated the way. As he looked from left to right, peering into long claustrophobic shadows in dingy alleyways, he cursed softly to steady his nerves. "Anymore of you freaks want to be carbonised? I can do you fried, crisped..."

  He never finished his sentence.

  There was the impact of something very hard hitting tissue and bone. A short cry. Then Blackcrater collapsed to the ground.

  The major turned back. "Blackcrater? Blackcrater? What happened to our fireman? Who's down there? Report, report."

  Another soldier, Peet Redmound, found his dead body. He mind-commed over his DA to the major. "Sir, major, sir, have discovered Blackcrater's body His head has been smashed in, by forces unknown, sir."

  "What are you talking about, Redmound?"

  "Well, it looks like his head's been flattened by a hammer, sir."

  At that moment, an icy breeze washed gently over Redmound, causing him to shudder involuntarily. He looked around him.

  "Can you see anything, Redmound?" queried the major.

  "No, sir, I'm scoping for any activity."

  The dense shadow on one wall started to slither forward. Yet there was nothing there. Redmound twisted round. Now the shadow was behind him. He opened fire on it. Pointlessly. Again, there was nothing there. "What the frag am I doing shooting at shadows?" he said to himself.

  The next moment found the shadow rearing up from another direction. Now it formed a helmeted silhouette carrying a large sword.

  The sword swept down through the air.

  There was a sound like a whip being snapped. A thud, and something bounced out of the alleyway. It was Redmound's head. It rolled towards
his comrade, Jayn Sandsister. The eyes were wide, the mouth still trying to move. She cried out, barely concealing her terror, "Major! There's some heavy stealth stuff going on here! Redmound just lost his head."

  She looked around her, desperately, fearfully, wondering where the next attack would come from. And what it would be. Like Redmound, she fired at shadows, at walls, at windows, anything to keep the unseen menace at bay.

  A pentang flew through the air, glinting evilly, and the deadly ninja star embedded itself in the frontal lobe of her brain. Sandsister gurgled and collapsed.

  A Magnum Macho 3000 sniper rifle projected from an alley and cut down six more soldiers before disappearing again.

  As a troop carrier raced down an alleyway, a huge power paw lashed out from the darkness and punched it high up into the air. Survivors spilled out and were cut down by unseen machine gun fire from the direction of the power paw.

  One soldier managed to crawl away under cover. Only to find himself looking up at... He screamed in terror at his cruel, gloating opponent. That was just before a road drill leg came down and stabbed him through his innards.

  Six sinister silhouettes emerged and confronted the major and his force. They were deathly silent but for the odd electronic bleep.

  "Frag! Check out these badass hombres, sir. They ain't trimorphs!"

  The major was silent. He was busy reassessing the situation as he took in the new hostiles.

  "They're extreme, man! They wanna whack us! Turn us into worm-food!"

  The major raised his hand. "Okay, you sweethearts. I want you to zip it until we establish what's going on here."

  He turned his attention to the ABC Warriors. "You got some personal beef with us? Whoever you are, listen up! And listen up good! We're Biohazard Troops, and our job is to clear the ghetto. The trimorphs are a security threat. So don't you stand in our way now."

  "That's exactly what we're doing," leered Blackblood, breaking the foreboding silence of the Warriors.

  "What is your problem? We got no problem with you guys."

  "We have a problem with you and your slaughter of these defenceless creatures," said Hammerstein.

  "I don't recognise your markings, but robot soldiers are usually on our side," remarked the major.

  "Then call it 'friendly fire,' buddy," grinned Blackblood.

  "This has gone way beyond friendly fire... buddy. If the Terran Federation sent you, you should know we only take orders from President Cobb."

  The soldier standing with the major shook his fist at the Warriors, "Yeah! The President of Mars himself. Independent Mars. The Feds shouldn't be interfering in Mars business."

  "We are Mars business!" said Hammerstein, as the ABC Warriors opened fire.

  NINE

  Because they were robots with super-computer brains, the ABC Warriors rarely missed. In the first exchange of laser fire with the Biohazard Troops, the trooper casualties were considerable. The major only escaped thanks to a microsecond heated thought-debate between Blackblood, Hammerstein, Joe and Mongrol. They were arguing over who should have the pleasure of killing him. By the time they'd decided it should be Mongrol, the major had found cover, so Mongrol's awesome artillery blasted thin air.

  The major didn't like the look of the way things were going. So he mind-commed HQ for a solution to the problem. He then directed return fire and some of the shots hit true. Hammerstein took a laser to his right shoulder, as did Mongrol to his chest. Blackblood was lasered in the face and Morrigun in the stomach. Joe and Deadlock were unscathed, but none of them showed any real concern as they advanced into the deadly lacing web of laser fire.

  Morrigun unleashed a constellation of pentangs that hit home at several intended targets. Then she leapt into a group of soldiers with a high roundhouse kick and used her elbows, fists and feet in a deadly combination that killed several more of the troopers.

  Hammerstein and Pineapples moved through the ghetto firing side-by-side. They formed a robotic duo that brought swift death to all that stood before them.

  Blackblood hummed his Judas song nonchalantly as he made short work of the dozen or so soldiers who poured towards him.

  Mongrol continued to destroy the Biohazard Troops' vehicles.

  The cries of fearful trimorphs could be heard through the sound of the gunfire. The air itself was drenched with bullets, shrapnel and lasers.

  The major was agog. "Those boys got some moves! But it ain't over yet."

  His men regrouped and fired with everything they'd got. They'd been drinking neuropeptide-A, the restricted version, to give them courage. So they were still on one. They were still good to go. Blackblood, Hammerstein, Deadlock, Morrigun and Joe Pineapples were marching side-by-side and retaliating now with devastating gunfire. "Let's finish the floppies," snarled Hammerstein.

  Mongrol crunched soldiers with his enormous power paws and tossed them about like so many rag dolls. He cut a swathe through the troopers. A napalm grenade halted him for a moment as the hot liquid covered his eye sensors. He tried in vain to scrape it off with power paws.

  As he did this, more Biohazard troopers fired and kicked and leapt on top of him. At one point, through sheer weight of numbers, the troopers had him buried under a hundred of their number. They were kicking, stabbing and shooting into his vast bulk. More men leapt on the growing heap, trying to keep him down.

  Then an ominous rumble shook the ghetto enclosure and a growl like thunder sounded as the men exploded from the heap, flying and screaming in all different directions. "Mongrol smush!" he roared, napalm dripping off his face.

  Hammerstein swung his hammer to and fro, each blow crushing skulls, snapping necks, breaking limbs.

  Deadlock moved silently and swiftly through the throng, his Ace of Swords sending countless numbers on the Great Journey. Occasionally, a Biohazard would fire in his direction and, if the missile seemed threatening enough, Deadlock simply split himself in half so it went harmlessly through his middle.

  Joe reverted to his balls bazooka. This fired implosion shells which sucked everything in its path into horrendous balls of human debris.

  Blackblood took a leaf out of the troopers' book and decided to gather some souvenirs of the occasion. He discreetly cut off some ears and other bits and pieces, as keepsakes.

  All this was witnessed by Trigon and his wife Tricorn as they retreated in the direction of their home. Tricorn nodded with assurance as she saw the new protectors of the Martian enclave defending their homes. "Trinity was right," she said. "Mit predicted seven robots would come to our aid."

  "Well, not completely right, dear," said Trigon. "I can only count six robots."

  When Trigon and Tricorn were without their Mit, they tended to squabble a bit.

  "No, dear," responded Trigon patiently. "Trinity is never wrong. Mit is the voice of Medusa."

  They headed down a narrow ghetto street, away from battle. "Come, let's make sure our medium is safe," said Trigon.

  "We should never have left Mit unprotected," said Tricorn. "That's your fault."

  "What do you mean 'my fault?'" protested Trigon. "I did my best to fight the extra-martials with my spikes. What more could I do?"

  "You're the man; you should have thought of something."

  "Like what?"

  "Oh, stop arguing! Why are you being so difficult? What's the matter with you today?"

  "Hmmph!" said Trigon. As they approached their little ziggurat, he growled, "I just wanted to kill extra-martials. To make them pay for what they did to your sister Trithong."

  "Why are you talking about that? I told you before I don't want to talk about it," said Tricorn. "It's still too soon. And too painful."

  "These humans. They call us freaks and animals. But the things they did to her-"

  "Trigon!"

  Trigon realised he'd better change the subject.

  Inside the ziggurat, they found their Mit waiting. "Trinity! Are you all right?"

  The thin wraith-like being faced them both with
a benign and greatly calming manner, like someone who had done at least ten years yoga practice. "Yes. Mit is in balance. Harmony to you both."

  The three came together and embraced, the medium between the male and female. Together they recited, "Three in one, one in three."

  Trigon noticed the babble coming from their tele-vid. As the trimorphs didn't have DAs, they couldn't watch on a screenless, so they still used antique screen devices for news. "What is this?" he asked irritated. "More extra-martial evil?"

  Trinity brushed Mit's hand gently across Trigon's face. "Relax. Calm down. It's all right. I feel your pain."

  "I'd like him to feel my pain," he said, indicating President Cobb on the tele-vid.

  "Ssshh! I can see a smile over each of your eyebrows."

  Despite himself, Trigon found he was relaxing.

  "It's the humans' chief, speaking to his tribe," said Tricorn.

  President Cobb was giving a presidential broadcast. The trimorphs listened intently to his speech, hoping for some respite, praying for a peaceful solution.

  "And for generations, humans and Martians have lived peacefully side by side, terraforming this great planet of ours," said Cobb. "But, unfortunately, of late, there have been problems." The president paused and furrowed his brows. "I'm referring to the Medusa effect, where Mars has reacted against us with meteorite storms and the return of the dead to life."

  The president leaned forward towards the camera in a practiced attempt to become more intimate with his audience. "Medusa has been aided by a dangerous minority of trimorphs. That's why my Biohazard troopers have been forced to relocate all trimorphs to special camps as a security measure."

  Trigon and Tricorn exchanged looks of impending doom. Trigon said, "If they do not kill us here, they will kill us in those camps."

  "Calm down," said Trinity.

  "Yes, why don't you listen to her?" said Tricorn.

  "But we have to fight," snarled Trigon. "I can go to the Crazies. Get some of their old guns and-"

  "That is not necessary," smiled Trinity. "I have told you. The seven ABC Warriors will save us. We're going to be all right."