These modifications to the initial design vexed Dank and took much more time than Junior would have liked.
It was Saturday afternoon before they were able to wheel the Beater down into the crater for a practice run.
Since fuel was in short supply, the session would need to be short. Junior had limited time to familiarize himself with the controls as well as to acclimate himself to the unique sensation of moving his body by proxy through a twenty foot high articulated robot composed of scrap. He would also need to learn to fight in it, and fast.
With the flick of a switch, the engine roared to life, charging the capacitors and sending a light blue LED glow through the joints as the limbs powered up.
Junior took a step. By association, so did the Beater. A pile of aluminum siding seemed to crush in complete silence under the foot of the Beater, masked by the shrieking noise of the engine and rubbing joints.
Dank gestured to a partially buried and rusted out tour bus.
Junior nodded and slowly turned the ponderous bi-pedal machine they had built. In three ear-tearing steps, he was close enough to try out his slag mitts.
Junior raised his arm over his head and the Beater mimicked his motion. In a swift, simultaneous movement, the slag block came down hard on the front of the tour bus, tearing a hole the size of a human head through the hood and pushing the engine block into the soft ground beneath.
With a sparkle of shattering glass, Junior used the Beater to push the tour bus onto its side and then over. He beat against the muddy exposed engine and axle until they tumbled free.
The Beater gave a whine and a shudder and then lapsed into deafening silence. Fuel spent and test run over, they began to wheel the machine back up the incline.
Junior could hear the tinkle of dropping glass fragments from the detroyed tour bus. He could not recall more beautiful music.
Chapter Four Interlude
File: Datanet Core Server Gamma Delta One Hundred and Forty Seven, Galactic Technology, Era: Modern -75, Index Foreign Culture, EcoHope 11, Native Tech, As reported by anthropological research drone
A few months into the survival process on EcoHope 11, the residents seem to have discovered a rudimentary alpha version of the Benevolent States United's now-famous RCM (Robotic Control Mechanism), which, as all school children are taught, the most highly regarded members of the Earth Prime Protection Force use to control their own state of the art mechanized defense suits.
It was eventually reverse-engineered but, being an alpha version, lacks the refinement of our modern and efficient military hardware.
These control systems have been retrofitted into the primitive melee combat devices the natives of EcoHope 11 refer to as "Beaters".
Instead of the laser communication drive technology, these control units rely on simple electrical signals from the pilot's own muscle system.
Movements are matched (as well as possible given the limited and primitive articulation methods employed) in real time from pilot to "Beater".
Thus, while our modern suits could be driven by quadriplegic operators (were not all physical handicaps eliminated at birth by the Benevolent States United, long may they reign, for the good of the Faithful), the archaic "Beaters" of EcoHope 11 could be completely incapacitated by a simple injury to the pilot.
Dank glanced up. "We gotta find you a helmet, Junior."
Unable to tow the Beater into town behind the now engineless mower, Dank and Junior left for town early. They pushed and dragged the machine on a large, metal sled to conserve fuel and having busted three sets of casters already.
After maneuvering the Beater into place opposite Big Roy's robot on the street in front of The Rusty Tankard, Junior entered the bar and left Dank to complete a few last minute adjustments.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light in the tavern, Junior was shocked to see Big Roy holding court again with a throng of supporters -- and Lizzy perched playfully on his lap.
Her eyes, normally so warm and inviting, appraised him coolly.
"What's goin' on?" Junior asked.
As Lizzy stood, Big Roy's hand emerged from under her skirt. She walked over to Junior and leaned in conspiratorially.
"Sorry, sugar. Big
Junior was at a loss for words.
"Good luck, sugar," she smiled over her shoulder and returned to her place on
Junior walked over to the bar and ordered a drink from Doc, who supplied him with one and waved off his attempt to pay with a beer voucher.
"It's on the house, Junior. Just knock Big Roy on his ass for me, won't ye?"
Junior made a show of casually drinking half of his beer, which tasted as bitter to him as chalky coolant, before exiting the bar and pouring the rest in his Beater as a top off.
"Dank," Junior asked, looking from his Beater to the slick and polished Beater Bessy covered in World Championship stickers and glowing magma red through her joints across the street, "What are our chances?"
"50/50, Junior," Dank tightened a bolt with a rusty ratchet, "We will win or we will lose."
Junior was not heartened by this.
Dank added, "'tween you an me, I'll consider it a win if you survive."
Half an hour later, Junior stared out from behind the closed hatch on his beater, his gaze narrowed slightly courtesy of the tortoise shell shaped helmet Dank had procured for him.
He flexed his arms and watched as the Beater followed his movements.
Black smoke and a dull and uniform thrumming emanated from the Beater across the street. Junior could see Big Roy's smile through the vents in the sticker-coated Beater.
Half way between them, Lizzy carried a small flag and a dizzying smile. She walked to
She sauntered back to the middle of the street, tittered and spun, then dropped the flag and dashed into the growing crowd surrounding the improvised battle ground.
Junior stepped to the side and raised the left arm of his Beater defensively.
By moving forward and to the right, Junior managed to blunt the impact of
Junior swung the connected arm and left a nasty scrape on the finish of the back of Big Roy's Beater before
Thrilled at the successful attack, Junior moved in to follow up. His intended upper cut caught nothing but air as Big Roy leaned Bessy back out of the way.
Reflexively, Junior pushed against
Big
He leaned his head forward into the vent and said, "Stick to racin' mowers, boy," before harnessing Junior's momentum into an over the hip joint throw.
In the loudest noise Junior had ever heard, his Beater landed, back down, on the unforgiving surface of the street.
Just before he blacked out, he heard a high-pitched tittering laugh over the sound of Big Roy's Beater moving methodically away.
