The Time Trousers of Professor Tempus: A Captain Space Hardcore Adventure by Michael Ronson

Author:Michael Ronson
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2017-07-12T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

Holographic Death/ Ebenezer Catches his Breath

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The only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to join in with all the evil.

Susan Niley

My Book of Quotes

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Lars Ulrich let out a pained Dutch yell as I sent him flying, arms broken into Thin Lizzy. I spun just in time to wrestle Brett Michaels away from Brecon and snap his neck cleanly over my knee like a twig. He went up in that plume of wan yellow light I had come to know and savour as we few survivors we re-formed in a rough half circle around the elevator door. Above us was the Control Centre. Tantalizingly close, I thought, but equally tantalizingly far away.

“This thing usually this slow?” I asked, wiping blood from my mouth.

“Rasputin,” Delroy muttered as he cast an eye up at the blinking elevator display

The lift was descending like a glacier made of snails being piloted by a sloth. The Russian was up there in the control room making sure of that; having it stop at every possible point on the way down, holding the doors open as long as possible, stalling in any way he could. By the time it finally got down on the deck it might well be collecting five corpses, I thought.

We had closed ranks around the elevator door, each pointing fists and feet, knees, elbows and all other pointy and vaguely aggressive parts of our bodies outwards like weapons. Outside our small circle the hordes were massed. A thousand skeletons leered at us over the shoulders of a dozen mutated simulacrums of heavy metal bands, but that shifting sea of skull faces mangled and collided as we looked at them, smashing together to form individual members of AC/DC.

And they were coming in waves now.

If they all rushed us, I thought, they’d overwhelm us in seconds. Except they couldn’t. The masses were now an ever-shifting ocean of body parts that were melding into each other at the whims of Grace and their own code-based DNA. And for every complex, processor-taxing change, a handful of skeletons glitched into nothing or became subsumed into a bassist. I watched a rank of skeletons, glitch, freeze then pop out of existence. I saw one of a handful of Vlad the Impalers break ranks and start towards us, but as soon as he had taken two steps that green glowing rash of binary had seized him, running through him like a neon disease and he hurled backwards into a similarly convulsing bushel of Vladimir Putins. Smushing together the Vlads formed one enormous howling entity; an eleven foot tall James Hetfield, but one with a curiously blank face. He held up a malformed hand that was only pinkie and pointer finger and howled in dumb fury as he waggled his accidental devil horns at us; a terrifying sight but incredibly metal nonetheless. Hetfield retreated into the pack, his limbs pulsing and shifting as the hologram tried to figure out, in vain, what it possibly could be.

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