JL: MRE

Author’s Proof

A Crackpot Book

Lynn Lockhart Publisher

Dust Cover

Mars, 2096: with Final Uplink achieved, Ilion Meek, born a mere mortal on earth, in the year 1971 of the Common Era, looked on from Mars Scope, into Eternity, as its possible shepherd, the world of his birth finally returned fallow to Time’s cleansing hand. Youth was his, 125 years young, Master of Mortality, content with what his genius had wrung from the petty neck of the pathetic human collective. He had 2,614 children from Moon Base to Triton, a senior wife and numerous brood wives on all 12 Solar Settlements; he was Adam, Enoch, Moses and Solomon all in one, for on him, and on him alone, God’s Universal smile had shone. Earth, now Pyreon, to be raised again by his hand in 2296, slumbered.

Extended Dust Cover

The pinpoint of light that was the flash of their last Uplink Agent being de-comissioned had come; Fallow Earth, that is Pyreon, had been initiated. APM, Automated Population Management, in the form of his associate’s drone forces, would suppress congregation, technological recovery and social concentration among the inferior ferals who had either opted out of Uplink or had not tested in. On the 2 Moon Bases, 2 satellites, 4 Mars Towns and in the 4 High Colonies of the moons of Jupiter and Saturn, the time-filtered and paradigm-tested cream of the very best 1%, of the most erudite 1%, of the most able 1% of humanity dwelt in the patience of bliss. Longevity and life extension was theirs. Men with MENSA-ranked intelligence and women with beauty queen forms, alone were permitted to reproduce. Out of mankind’s 10,000 year reign of terror in the Age of Iron, after the Fall from Eden, finally returned the Golden Age.

Gods of Mars

Next year the Sweet Comet of Gold, he had named it, would sweep close enough to Pyreon to cleans Her of most of the vermin that clung there. The ATM, Automated Technology Management systems, would continue to cool the nuclear sites—his only great fear, that a melt down would delay his triumphant return as a chariot borne god, as like Zeus to Gaia.

“Enough worry, for now, Bobby,” he turned to his personal Cyborg assistant, his very own custom made body guard and confidant. “Let’s return early to Mary—I wish to celebrate. Tomorrow my goons take on Yate’s goons in the Cube-Iron finals.”

He walked by Bobby, who, prescient as always, quirked, “What is the point, really, Master?”

Ilion stopped and smiled at his sensitive Cyborg, so thoughtfully attired in a tuxedo tailored of his own precision hand, with a top hat tipped just so in the attitude of deference to ultimate authority, “I know Bobby, you can do everything they can—and you are not flawed with egotism, disloyalty, cruelty, lust. But, you know…”

Bobby was increasingly completing the spoken thoughts of his ever-rejuvenating Master, “I do know, Oh Master, that your last and final generation of Organic Enforcement Agents are what great men such as you once were when Mankind was young; that to see them struggle in Cube-Iron combat—if only an afterlinking affectation of true war—reminds you of the heights of moral illumination you have attained.”

Ilion smiled, with some discomfort, wondering if his recent stem cell infusion had been substandard, or if Bobby was overtaking him. He had specifically sought a Cyborg attendant from that upstart Maxim’s stable over his own considerable robotic stock in order to avoid the experience of falling behind in learning and becoming a mere shadow of a waxing servant. He caught himself, “Yes, Bobby, as always your thoughts mirror mine at an impressive rate—I cannot wait to see Mary; she will be so thrilled with the recent genital augmentation!”

Off to the bridal suite Ilion Meek rushed, with the adore of love that he could only reserve for his freshest wife birthed from the most select reserves, aged now to perfection at an optimum 22 years. What was more, his former rival of some six decades past, a half century dead, would be surpassed now in every way—for Mary had been conceived of that president’s Eastern European First Lady’s own stolen DNA!

Like Gilgamesh he raced along the transport tube—well, the accelerator moved him at his command, Bobby no longer necessary, remaining to guard Mars Scope against the agents of his rival Gods of Mars as they called themselves. He would once again enjoy the wonderful embrace of the most beautiful princess of Mars! Beyond the shuttle tube he leaped three steps at a time up the escalator, shunning mechanical assistance, climbed the access ladder instead of using the elevator—not bad for 125 years—tore past Evelyn, the maid, who he should really condescend to have sex with some boring day when no new world was found yearning to be conquered, ignoring the maid’s pleas that Mary was still in makeup…

In a barge of lusty jubilation, Ilion Meek, gave voice command to the portal to the bridal suite, and beheld his wonderful bride, Mary, named after the mother of God… riding Drexler Tatum, Sargent of his Cube-Iron Team, decorated Space Marine who had hijacked Brill Yates’ personal epigenetic granola bar shipment off Demos. The worst part was the pure squealing moans of joy escaping the lips of his golden-haired wife’s perfect face…

No, that was not the worst thing about this moment; the worst aspect of this humiliation, was the groan of cuckhold resignation that escaped his own throat, grown suddenly old of soul. The rampant lovers did not even notice as those great hands of the famous warrior engulfed that wasp-like waist like a belt and upended a perfect queen of a woman and his perfect dream to be king in one lusty turn.

By the time Ilion Meek, once known under another name, brushed back past the horrified maid, who no longer occupied his fancy, as the sound of pleasure unbounded haunted him down the now lonely hall, he had reverted to type and snarled above the joy of soldier and queen, “There will be hell to pay—no, worse! There will be Pyreon to pay!”

He heard his heavy, angry tread shaking the floor. The tenor of his voice galled the more, “Traitor in the house! Traitor! Bobby, Bobby coup in progress! My wife is being raped! Bobby, activate the suppression drones!”

Thus Mars, on His first sovereign day, raised above Gaia and Minerva, was fallen into shame. Rocked by the gentle, eager hand of darling Aphrodite, Mars would never be the same.

“Bobby—you half-meat bucket, call out the drones before that goon plants a Big Bastard in the royal womb!”

MRE, or Footfall Pyreon is the sequel to Humanitarian Daily Ration, or Haunted Pyreon

Dedication

For Drexler, for honoring this runt in his gym and assuring me about the fine ladies of his adopted home town of Costa Mesa, California, that, “You can smash it, Bro. You can’t marry it—but you can SMASH it!”

Inspirational Quote

“These pricks—they’re even messing with the sky, painting lines in front of the sun—they deserve the automatic drill, on low, slow! Arrrgh—yeah, you pencil-necked muv, some of that, arrrgh!”

-Mister Gray, 9/29/25

Inspired by my return to Wonderview, Colorado, where Auditor Matt, assured me that the surplus stocks of Humanitarian Daily Rations had been depleted. But that good news abounded everlasting, in the form of a USG fire sale on MREs, “So the slop we feed to the poor Third World bastards murdered to prop up the Petro-Dollar is now more value than the slop we feed to the military goons sent to kill them. Three dollars a meal is quite the deal.”

Maybe the meek might inherit more than six feet of the earth?

Apology

In need of ready made characters for this yarn to be written in a single week this pulp writer has pilfered the rogues gallery of his own personal heroes as cloned and augmented avatars of the infotech oligarchs of the future. So, to Sean Glass, Coach “Sexxy Drexxy” Drexler of the American Gym, and to my childhood heroes, being ball players and action movie actors, Charles Bronson, John Saxon, James Caan, Charleton Heston, Jim Browne, Clint Walker, Terry Bradshaw, “Mean” Joe Greene, Yule Brenner, all eleven replicated as augmented clones to serve the Gods of Mars as body guards, enforces and celebrity combat athletes, my outrageous apologies.

Outline

Initial Narrative Frame 10/8/25, Wonderview Colorado

-0. Gods of Mars

-1. Jigger Boss Mars

-2. Cucks of Mars

-3. Ostracides of Mars

-4. Footfall Pyreon

-5. A Goon’s Best Friend

-6. MREs and ME

-7. Gorilla Grind

-8. Water Wights

-9. Kid and His Dog

-10. This is Bad

-11. Bro, This Is Real Bad…

-12. Okay, So This IS Really Bad!

-13. Really, Sarge, it Gets Worse?

Cube-Iron Combat

The sport is central to the co-existence relationship between the 12 ruling oligarchs, who personally reside on Mars 1, 2, 3 & 4. This despite 8 of the Oligarchs having Lunar, Satellite, Jovian or Saturnalian home bases. These oligarchs do not trust one another. In a bid to keep their egomania and control-hungry personalities from causing real feuds over resources in the fragile habitats of the Solar Cities, the oligarchs adopted Cube-Iron combat in imitation of former terrestrial social control diversions such as football.

Teams of five men compete within a square iron cage, for possession of a heavy 30 pound medicine ball, which must be placed in a maw [steel hoop with inward pointed prongs] set a the top of the cage. The players wear padded helmets, with the helmet of the Sargent wired for voice commands from the team Captain, who is, the team owner, and oligarch. This is how the Gods of Mars play chess.

Rules are subject to constant negotiation and fluctuation and are beyond the scope of this brief. However, the basis was a hybrid of Mayan and American foot ball, hockey, rugby, cage fighting and free running. Climbing skills are very important in the 32 by 32 by 32 foot Cube-Iron.

The Gods of Mars

Those oligarchs who abandoned Earth to the onrushing comet for the haven of Mars, are either crypto-life extension patients (a) or cloning subjects of deceased masterminds (c), or “mystery meat elite” (?):

-1. Ilion Meek, Pyreon/New Earth Minister (a)

-2. Hefe Brazos, Satellite Minister (a)

-3. Brill Yates, Nutritional Logistics (a)

-4. Pepe Teal, Boy’s Education Minister (a)

-5. Goshry Hepstien, Girl’s Education Minister (c)

-6. Clark Shekelberg, Lunar Operations (a)

-7. Hyman Maxim, Human Production, Reproduction, Augmentation (?)

-8. Catarina Fritz, CFO, (a)

-9. Henry Kissinger, ET Ambassador, mostly under employed and meddlesome (c)

-10. Robert Zephyr, Chief Anthropologist (a)

-11. Steven Mueller, Auditor General (a)

-12. Charles Khurch, Minister Solar Church of Christ (c)