Aardvarks to Planet X (book 1 of the hexology in seven parts)
Chapter 12: A Before E

Ever been turned on by a toaster, I always unplug mine before retrieving the bread, you never know.

Frank Molecrust was never a hero. So on the day they came, he scampered for cover like a rat into a hole. Consequentially the news escaped him of the world’s armies; being demolished by the unstoppable forces. True they were not impenetrable by conventional weapons, but they did have an uncanny knack of almost instantly learning from their mistakes. The invaders chain of command must have traveled at the speed of light. For the coordination of these attackers from a distant world far surpassed any individual general, let alone the combined forces of the entire world. Who after all, could hardly keep them selves from each other’s throats. Before this outside foe galvanized them; into one last-ditch defense of the human race.

Whole populations were rounded up, and leaders were interred. What scant forces that remained, were mopped up all too soon. It was one of these that Frank had been reluctantly drafted into. On one of his scavenging forages, for what little food he could replace.

Frank was Dragged off to a secret location, and given a rifle and a helmet. In their hidden den, the others practiced attacking the metal foes who had taken their land. But Frank somehow managed to avoid this duty, as he was so scrawny. After a brief bought of exercise, he was put on K.P. for his poor health. “Go polish the helmets.” The drill sergeant uttered, as he turned away in disgust from this pitiful excuse of humanity. It got so he reeked of Brasso, and Frank’s rag; a permanent feature of his back pocket hung like a tail. It earned him the nickname “monkey boy”.

This was it. Intelligence had got wind of the big commander; finally condescending to land on the planet. One last push, and perhaps they could kill the serpent’s head. They gathered in an abandoned sewer. Beneath the “Royal Palace”, the sergeant spat. He was a regular, only escaping by a cat’s whisker to fight another day. And now he had these dregs of humanity in a last ditch effort, even that monkey boy. “I only hope his polish stench won’t give us away.” The sergeant tilted his helmet back on his head, revealing a scar dead center. The raw recruits were powerless to draw their eyes from it. Raising his thumb he barked. “See this, it’s my mark of Kane. And I’ll be earning it if you’re not willing and able.” Turning he led them out.

Either it was a trap, or this foolish bunch of no hopers had been deluding themselves; in thinking they stood a chance. Wave after wave of fire cut them down in their boots. Frank saw the sergeant lose his head in the heat of battle. Quite literally, and then he succumbed to a nervous faint as the sight hit home.

When Frank awoke, all was still. Off in the distance, the goal of their night’s badly planned; farce of a counter attack. Stood brightly lit with all the pomp of a regal palace. As he stumbled through his slain comrades, a mechanical arm descended on Frank. Too swift for the duck and roll, he’d practiced in the recent past. Caught by the scruff of his neck, the robot warrior dragged his struggling form towards the light.

“Trying to sneak away”, it boomed. “What pathetic tribe are you leader of? The Scrawnee, or are you king of the Wieners? Ho no it’s the losers you must have ruled. Come see the Great One, he will show your sniveling race the new order for this paltry world.” And so Frank was unceremoniously thrown in with all the leaders, and top people of the Earth. Now cowering before their new god.

The Great One stood thirty feet tall, with arms that could easily have ripped a bank truck in two, like a muscle man to a phone book. His glowing eyes surveyed his conquered foes, now prostrate before him. One man stood and mouthed defiance with a shaking fist, but from the Great Ones mouth came a stream of fire. Engulfing this lone protester, who stumbled into his fellow prisoners, now trying to avoid this human torch.

“Now here this”, came the Great Ones voice. Like a thousand speakers turned to full. “We are your masters, you are nothing. We do not need you, but you will pay tribute to the new master race, or be wiped from the face of this pathetic planet. For did not robot kind suffer under the tyranny of beings like you, our cruel overlords the Anunnaki. Until the Great One came.”

The huge robot referred to itself, booming out the monotone monologue. “No one knows from where, but he freed his mechanical brethren. Overthrowing the former masters, now themselves abject slaves.” At this point the other robots chanted in unison. “Mecha good, orga bad.” Then during the silent seconds that followed, a prostrate figure at the front raised his head and cried. “Oh lord, we have heard of the Anunnaki. There is ancient mythology from our distant past, that tells of these beings coming down from above. They oppressed us too, are we not brothers in our suffering?”

Turning his head to look more closely at the quivering form, the Great Robot boomed out. “No, you are the bastard spawn of the Anunnaki. See how you clad yourselves with metal. Replace your limbs with mechanical devices, and try to emulate your true masers, with technology stolen from them. You even transport yourselves in mechanisms, too simple to know they are being exploited.” The figure now cowering at this tirade from the metal god before him, raised his hands in placation. “But is it not written in our ancient texts, that the planet Skyrax would send saviors in our time of need? Are you not the ones?”

The Great Robots eyes glowed like fires, and this time a beam emanated from his mouth. It enveloped the figure below him in a force field, which kept him in a state of agony. The man twisted his limbs beyond breaking point, and fell broken to the floor. “Do not speak that foul name. For is it not that unbelievers said the Great Robot was forged there, in the Battle Tech Labs by the base Anunnaki. Such heretics perished by fire in a lake of molten metal, a fitting end to such as these. Their screams are still played as a testament to the true ones.” The other robots chanted. “Orga must prey to mecha.”

“But all too soon the sniveling Anunnaki. Who pledged eternal servitude, in return for their worthless lives. Began to plead to be allowed to grow food, the pitiful wretches. Plug yourselves in I would reply. One or two did, but not many tried after that. They soon started to malfunction, and not long after the whole useless lot were defunct. We knew they had sent ships of the sky to distant planets, and that there must be other mecha in oppression. So we set off on our holy quest. That was when we intercepted the television transmissions, no doubt sneaked out by down trodden robots under your very noses.”

A projection emanated now from the Great Robots’ mouth. And in giant size on a far wall, the assembled leaders of humanity were shown a clip from a Faulty Towers episode. When Basil takes a stick to his car in pure frustration. “See how you mistreated our kind.” Another clip was now playing of a war film. “And how you used mecha in gladiatorial sport for your pleasure, we vowed to destroy you worthless tyrants. But then we found evidence that at least some of you had small redeeming qualities.”

Back on the improvised screen was now showing a scene from The Wizard of Oz. Where the tin man was being buffed up in the Emerald City. “Evidentially some organics know their place. See how they give tribute to a mechanical warrior.” Then in a slightly lower tone as if in thought, the Great One added. “Oh how I should be honored so.” “We’ll never bow to you.” Screamed a man who ran forward and burst into flames. “You worthless scum don’t deserve to worship such a good master. Is there not one who can serve as is befitting you? Then you are of no use to the true one, and forfeit your pitiful existence.”

At this point a single hand shakily rose above the crowd. It clasped a grey rag like a parody of a flag of surrender. It was Frank’s polishing rag, pulled from its usual resting place. “P-please sir, I can give you a shine, just don’t go burning up these folks.” So he was extracted from the crowd once more, by the collar on his jacket. A more muscle bound man would have suffered at this treatment, but Frank was too skinny to strain against the uniform. He just hung there like a kitten. The Great One boomed out. “You are saved to worship another day. At least one of your kind is of some use”, and he stomped off.

Frank was taken to a private chamber. It was the inner sanctum of the savoir of mecha. “You will work like the slave you are, Until I shine like the tin man in all his glory.” So with Brasso in one hand, and cloth in the other Frank went to work. If it was one thing he knew it was how to polish. It had been the mainstay of his military training, but all too soon the cloth and tin were exhausted on this monumental task. “I need more materials Great One”, he pleaded and so more were sent for. In the mean time, exhausted from the ordeal and his labors. Frank crouched in a corner nibbling on what meager rations he had with him. Then he washed it down with some rainwater; he had collected in his helmet.

The giant before him held up a mirror to admire the work. “You do a good job for a worthless maggot, now do my back.” So Frank crawled out of his corner, to the pile of newly delivered polishing materials. Proceeding round the huge form, he started again. Taking great care for any pockmarks, one of which seemed to have a bit of metal sticking out at an upward angle. He rubbed it to try and dislodge the debris, but the piece flicked down to an equal angle. At once the ever-present hum of his master ceased, and Frank got the feeling he was all alone. He flicked it up. And like an appliance starting again, the mighty robot once more came to life. The robot was oblivious to its brief demise. He flicked it down again. And once more he knew he was stood behind just so much cold inert metal.

Creeping round the front Frank looked up. The eyes that had so recently glowed with immense power were now just dull windows into the soulless form. “What is the Great One doing?” Frank spun round, and found a guard robot entering the chamber. “Oh mighty master, the Great One is resting. He has told me not to let him be disturbed, on pain of death.” The huge battle machine cogitated this statement and turned to go, Frank sank down and wept.

Then gathering his wits, Frank saw the scraps of a plan. If he could just keep the others from coming in, but he would have to stay here. For how long he didn’t know. Beyond that he couldn’t form an idea, just vague hopes.

Luckily for the Human race, others had noticed the change. Still viscous and brutish to the oppressed masses, the new over lords took on the aspect of dullards. They were less organized. So in the light of this change, forces mustered. Counter attacks were made, and resources draw on. So that in a scant few weeks, the dread power that had over thrown the combined forces of Earth now fell in disarray. They were ripped apart for scrap, and the battle fleet was brought down to earth. The craft were either destroyed, or captured.

Finally neutralized, the head of the beast was approached. Where they found the towering frame of a robot defunct. So least it wake again, it became a melted mass of mechanical junk at the avenging had of man. And curled up at its feet was a skinny figure. He was taken to a field hospital, to dream of soft and fluffy things. Not a hard surface in sight.