Jigger Boss of Mars

MRE: Footfall Pyreon #1

Sean approached the quarantine bay, used for visiting Ilion, once called Mars 1, though this affront to the other Gods of Mars had fallen from favor. The great hatch closed behind the Drex Rover. Sean sighed as he jogged up, seeing some of the other Cube-Iron Sergeants piped in on the visiting team discs, that were dressed up with rails to look like ancient chariots. He was not first.

“But I am not last,” he snarled within his helmet. He did recall then that his helmet had a useless Trojan crest on it, something that now felt like a comic crown of thorns.

Striding up to the side hatch, mostly used by maintenance robots, Glass looked through his visor into the facial recognition port, which blinked like a great red eye, and stated, “Sergeant Sean Glass, Team Christkhurch, reporting for quarantine.”

He thought to his critical self, ‘Copies of movie actors are my peers. Drex always wins, that augmented, genetic freak. Why does Charles never field a better team behind me—why must Christians always get trounced by the others?”

The outer lock open and Sean reflexively stepped in. It locked behind him, did what it did while he griped inside that he’d rather be on old earth facing a mob of Philistines with a jawbone of an ass for a club… “Aggrrh!” he barked, embarrassed to have let himself go when the inner lock opened and none other than Ilion Meek stood before him, grinning that jealous grin, flashing his too small sibilant eyes, “Sean, you amaze me.”

Sean saluted, as one does to a god of Mammon, with gritted teeth, noting that the Cyborg next to meek craned his human head above his armored body, pressure and oxygen ports locked tight under a tuxedo. Sean, felt jealous for a minute, that if he were Bobby, Meek’s prize robotic steward, he would explore this entire planet, still so little known to them.

Bobby spoke to him, noting his sideways glance from under his salute, “I too am jealous, of you, Glass. I have never run from Khristchurch to Ilion, never considered such a rash act, so girded by safeguards designed into my mind.”

With a start, Sean slid his visor up and looked at Bobby, then at Meek, who was flashing that reptilian grin, “Sean, so nice to see you go the extra mile to attend this unscheduled Quarantine. I have often offered two, even three, of my team in trade for you.”

Sean could not help but back sass a nonbeliever, “But never Drex.”

Meek grinned wider, “No, NEVER Drex. You know, Sean, it is a shame that Charlie saddles you with ordinary team mates, no augments, not even retroclones, simply poor, suffering, normal-G Christians.”

When he wanted to knock in an unbelieving face, he reverted to rote and began stripping his kit, “Yes, Sir—we trust in Christ, as does Pastor Charles.

Bobby took Sean’s gear and soothed, “I understand, Sean.”

Sean looked into his eyes, the eyes of a robot blasphemously supporting a human heart and head, and saw there something he had seen among conflicted members of his team, after their inevitable, organic defeats against the augments and retroclones. The strobbing windmill above the drive port, where Drex parked his rover, brought his attention from this dilemma.

Meek intruded, “Bobby’s self-augmenting empathy protocols are impressing even me, Sean. Bobby could use a Christian friend to witness to him.”

Sean ground his teeth, closed his eyes, and turned to his old foe, feeling a good five injuries sustained fighting this goon.

There, helped by his autoclone driver, out of the championship vehicle which some called the Mars Cup, climbed the champion of every one of the 9 Cube-Iron seasons. For nine years, the planetary pastime of Cube-Iron, obviously intended to divert popular attention from the comet set to streak past them towards earth, had been dominated by Drexler. The man had been an MMA fighter, the first to be put into Meek’s augmentation-life-extension program. He lead a team of augmented retro-clones, who collectively, had less years on them than their sergeant. These guys had all been copied from Rugby, NFL, Gymnastics and free runner champions. Drexler unsuited and slashed a wicked grin across his battered face, below the scarred brows and great malformed cauliflower ear, “Glass, My Dude! Good to see you outside the Cube.”

Sean snarled and saluted, “Sergeant,” and looked at Meek with a simmering need to choke the galactic nerd out. Bobby’s mechanical hand, covered in human looking skin, emerging from the tuxedo tailored to expose his ports, landed easily on Sean’s shoulder. “Sean, all is concord,” and squeezed lightly, bending his bones until they almost cracked, Glass showing none of the extreme pain he felt, able to summon no rage for this machine trying to be human and doing its job.

Drexler laughed, “Bobby’s got the grip, don’t he Glass!” Meek then flashed a rageful start at Drexler, and, Bobby placed both hands on his master’s shoulders, padding the padded suit shoulders ever so gently, “Oh, Master, the barbarian slave has no means to affront thee, trustless wretch that he is.”

Drexler snorted, with his constant good humor, “Bro, that hurts. You know I think of you as human, right?”

Bobby then turned his perfectly tanned face, under his beret, for the top hat seemed to be out on this day, and gave Drexler a look that froze the good-natured cube goon mid-smile, “You think as deeply, as I feel, Sergeant. Please, accompany Glass into quarantine. The rest are assembled.”

Meek walked off in a tittering huff.

Sean turned to follow Drexler, who waited respectfully with hand extended, while Sean thought on Meek, ‘Charles said that they all had psychosis issues, that only the clones, like he and Kissinger, were not going insane, that the life-extension therapies, or the extended life itself were wrecking their peace-of-mind, if world abandoning CEO’s could actually have peace of mind.’

“Bro, my dude, are you okay?” asked Drexler as Sean’s hand was shaken.

Sean looked into the stubble-grown, stone-jawed face into those persistent gray eyes and considered the man, rather then the opponent.

“Glass, you share my passion for the Cube—only Bradshaw has got your guts; all respect, Bro. This is on me, my fault, all my fault—just HAD to SMASH IT!”

Bobby spoke in his steel-edged way, like when he called a punishment break from above the Cube in his referee uniform, copied from old baseball attire, “Sergeant Drexler, initiate quarantine.”

Drexler’s hand got cold and sweaty right off as he nodded like an obedient bot and motioned Sean to follow him down the hall to the pre-game chamber.

Bobby stood in the doorway behind them as Drexler and Sean stepped in. Chuck Heston—his favorite opponent, an actual Christian, greeted them, “The real heroes, the Boy Scout and the Beast! It seems we have been gathered for a special event?”

The cyborg tipped his beret with that bone-crushing hand and affected his pregame tone of moderate empathy and infinite authority, “Gentlemen, the bar is open and its use encouraged. Mission briefing shall be at sunrise. Concord is encouraged, for your next game shall be as team members, and your opponent—one of awesome repute.”

The cyborg stepped out and locked them in. Quarantine was not a big deal to Martian Cube-Stars, for they were ritually isolated before each game. The entire spectacle was designed to help the spectators feel less confined than they were. Martian life was better than ship or satellite transits. Yet something in the human soul yearned to breath air directly and rove at will.

Drexler slapped hands and hugged the other Team Sergeants as Chuck Heston made for Sean and Mean Joe Greene, Jim Browne and Yule Brenner argued in whispers about something, with Browne finally pushing Brenner across the room into the arms of a reactive chair with a curse, “Hungarian Nigga, keep your slick ass away from her!”

Greene restrained Browne as Bronson grabbed Brenner, who was leaping form the chair to go at the bigger, much badder, man.

Drexler raised his voice, “My Dudes! Set too!”

They all turned, some glowering, some confused, Heston smirking. Drexler grumbled like gravel, “It was me that got you all here—It’s my fault. So, in hopes of making it all up to you…” Drexler then turned to the bar and picked up a double-ended silver shot glass and a bottle of MickFell’s Irish Whiskey, and announced, “I’m your Jigger Boss—Jigger Boss of Mars!”

Browne now went for Drexler, “Say what, cracker!”

Greene grabbed him and hissed, “Ain’t no sense in takin’ your sixty-third ass whoopin’ from this crazy cracker!”

Drexler continued, holding the whiskey jug and shot dispenser like sacred artifacts, “It is well known that God created whiskey so that the Irish would not conquer the world! So, when Glass’s Irish ancestors got drunk and sold off by my Britannic forefathers, to dig ditches and tunnels and such for pennies on the day, they had one happy moment, when, at the end of the day, the Jigger Boss—that would be me—brought the jig around—that would be this shot cup—and toasted a round for the days work. This is where we make peace, friends, as you all have my respect, all being men, not like those high money faɡɡots that run us like, like, well, some low down Irishman like Glass here!”

Sean put up his fists and got ready to roll on Drexler, waiting for the insulting goon to make the first move. Only Drexler smiled, “My Dude, look at you, hero fair, giving me the first move. Bro, I’m just the bartender, my penitent contrition for putting you all in the penalty net.” [1]

Bradshaw then held out a shot glass, which Drexler filled, with Terry handing the glass to Glass, and the men gathered around to find out what the nine-time champion had done to get them all in this fix.

Sean Glass looked at the demon liquid, something he had never touched in this life, Charles having informed him that this drink, as Drexler had kind of said, had a man-made, not God-made, purpose to addle the wits and get good men in bad situations.

…

Notes

-1. An electrically charged wire chamber that the Cube player must escape from, enduring great pain, in order to rejoin his team.