“My dudes,” called out Drexler in his Marine Corp voice, a trumpet gargling with gravel, “Gather ‘round.”

The other sergeants, clones of actors and athletes, milled closer, Jim Browne elbowing Bradshaw out of the way, Saxon glaring suspiciously, and Bronson with narrowed focus, over at Bobby as they came on. Drexler noticed, winked at Glass, then made his version of a peace overture, “My Borg Bro—what’s the deal? We’re men—heroes in fact, we can take it.”

Bobby cast off his judicial robes with one tearing motion of his crane claw disguised as a silicon hand, to expose his Cube-Iron referee uniform underneath, the sleeves cut out of the striped shirt to reveal his cable-like alloy arms. He strode over in deliberate mechanical manner, flicked the whistle hanging on his buttoned down titanium breast sadly, and tilted back his cap t affect a jaunt. Bobby’s mannerism were accompanied by attitudes with his hat, expressed with his eyes, for only his head and spine—the latter encased in adamantine—were organic. As such, he typically stood too tall.

“Sergeants, honorable and otherwise, Cube-Iron has been automated. The captain of each team and two spectators chosen at random from the attendance lottery, plus one from the medical viewership, shall command each, a robot, programmed to obey. The need for your kind is past; and alas, tragedy, the need for my expert and empathetic assistance to reign in your savage impulses, is no longer required. For, the robots, they have no soul, are programmed not to violate the rules. Here, we, stand.”

Sean whispered within, ‘We clones, and this monstrous cyborg, are creations of men. We have no souls, only the echoes of those departed or imagined.’

Bobby glanced at him, as if sensing his dissent. He recalled then, one of the guiding verses Charlie had mentored him in:

“Your enemy the devil prowls like a lion, roaring, seeking prey to eat.”

-1 Peter 5:8

Bobby was lion-like. On instinct—out of the echoes of his mortal model’s soul—Glass stood higher and sank a steely gaze back into those transhuman eyes, sustained by cybernetic wise. Bobby, blinked, and continued, “We, as a team, are being launched back to Pyreon; I as your Captain, Drexler Platoon Sergeant, Glass First Sergeant, Heston Gunnery Sergeant.”

“We get guns?” burst out Bradshaw.

“Within Pyreon parameters,” answered Bobby.

“Our mission?” asked Heston.

Bobby thanked Heston with a stern nod and cooled his tone, “To serve as empathy probes. We shall be fitted with remote view Audio/Visual/Emotional/Tactile, or AVET, implants—that is you will. I, already serve in that function, My Good Master. Likewise, you shall each serve in your function as the avatar of, Your Master, such as in Cube-Iron, except that Your Master shall hear, see from your perspective, experience your emotions, and feel your pain and pleasure. The purpose is to explore Pyreon, surviving as long as we might, in order to map the course Fallow Earth, come Pyreon, has followed, and will take. We have no “mission” other than that. Automated systems monitor the remains of Western technology, and lower forms of humanity. It is hoped, Heroes of Pyreon, to take what was bad and subject to regret in your Martian service, and turn it towards the cause of Higher Humanity. It is fervently hoped by all of Our Masters, that we survive to experience the passage of the Comet and serve as an advance team for the seeding of Eden Two. It is my honor, to commit to the leadership of you Fallen Fellows, to be ready to serve and aid Second Genesis, the return of Highest Man to the world of his birth.”

They were dumbfounded. Sean impulsively prayed, as he did pre-game, ‘Oh God, give me the strength to serve your will, rather than whatever wicked purpose is behind this obvious plot.’

Bobby looked at Sean, “Glass, do you have something to share with the Pyreon Platoon?”

‘Dear Jesus, sustain me,’ he prayed as he looked the cyborg in the eyes again, cleared the storm-tossed decks in his troubled mind, and dead-panned, “Yes, Sir, what are our gear options?”

Bobby stalked towards him a moment, letting go that he was emotionally man-like, autistic-nerd-striped, and disturbed by Sean’s faith, interpreting it, Sean thought, as a mechanical inner peace that the genius meat-machine was jealous of. Drexler gave Sean an ‘easy boy,’ pat on the back, reminding him to step back from the abyss of insubordination.

Exhaling evenly, he stood easy, emptying his well of rippling waters, envisioning his cares cascading from his, his—inner self?—washing the hands of an angel as the tribulation spilled from within.

Chuck Heston, by far the most human, most soul-like, of the clones, who made Sean wonder if he might, through faith, prayer and good works, develop a soul before God—if he could rebecome his model rather than copy him, spoke up in his rich voice, “Sir, Stone Age, Iron Age—black powder, one hopes?”

Bobby took advantage, like a beta male, of the chance to break eye contact with Glass and stopped, glancing at the entire group and smiling at Heston, “You guessed it, the onboard 3DP will fabricate on request any equipment you men have used in your various movies set before A.D. 1848. As for the five athletes, Bradshaw, Browne, Greene, Drexler… and Glass; a full range of muscle-powered tools, gear and weapons—for self-defense and hunting—will be available.”

Bobby smirked, then sneered into Sean’s face and let his smile widen to an impossible face-splitting grin, the cables encasing his spine flexing under the silicon skin, “These provisions were thought equitable by Your Masters, all of them. Your mission is not a competition,” Bobby cooed like a drill-press imitating a dove, gritting his teeth in Sean’s face. Drexler pulled his supportive hand away and mumbled, “My Dudes,” reminding Sean that he was actively engaging in a pre-game stare-down with this Mammon machine, which inclined him to grow smart-ass balls, “Yes, Sir, the actors who have never made it past the playoffs get guns, and us jocks get to be the Indians?”

“Exactly,” hissed Bobby as he backed down to his heels with such imposed over-ride, that the ‘muscles’ powering those legs hidden under the dark slacks, sang like the steel cables that kept these habitats from blowing away in the Martian wind, “Thank you Sergeants, Glass and Heston.’

Bobby then eased about, smiling like an animated cadaver at each man, of whom Bradshaw shivered and Browne silently chuckled, “Any more questions before your intubated augmentation?”

All shook their heads “No,” except for Glass who stood tall at attention, and Drexler, who always pulled smart-ass at Drop-Off [1], “My Dude, two questions.”

Bobby stopped and grinned, at them all, tight-lipped, in an actual human facial expression. Obviously well-used to Drexler going off script at dinner with the Meek’s, “Of course, Platoon Sergeant Drexler.”

Drexler was so innocently happy, flexing has lantern jaw, his broken nose cocked like Bobby’s referee cap, his mangled ear growing a bit more purple as the muscles in his bald had expanded, “Bro, can I have warpaint?”

Bobby looked around, smiling, as if to say, ‘See how I humor him,’ and said, “You may, with the understanding that you are not going to war, but on a surveying mission.”

“Of course, My, Du, D, Sir,” saluting sharply in contrition and continuing, with a guilty grin… “And, in that spirit, Sir, the spirit of exploration, of enabling The Boss to experience what we experience… Can we SMASH it?”

Bobby was taken by surprise, so Drexler side-stepped, “I mean, its a selfless RNR request, Sir; Jim wants to know if he can leap out of the woodpile down there!”

They all laughed, even Bobby, none harder than Jim Browne, and none with the steely ring of their hideous Captain.

Notes

-1. Dropoff was the release of the Cube Iron ball from the overhead steel weir it was to be returned to for a point.