Clash of the Geeks (3 page)

That none could slay sceop    for telling of tales.

So Scalzi the Screedling    was banished and banned. 

His arms they did grant him     and also his armor

And four days of freedom    to take leave of the land. 

•••

Rocks rose around him   the road was in ruin

But Scalzi was stoic    as he strode the stones. 

Though weariness wore him   and hunger and hurt,

Braved he the barrens   the high hills of Harrow. 

Armor all war-worn    he bore on his back

The weight of it woeful   but barely a burden 

Next to the heaviness   hardening his heart. 

Fleeing the wrath     that the Wheaton king bore him 

Scalzi had traveled    for five days and nights. 

Southward he sped     to Samarand’s safety

Tomorrow his tramping    would be at an end. 

Long were the leagues     he had stretched out behind him

Four days of freedom    had lengthened his lead.

Still Scalzi strode on     to Samarand’s border 

For he knew the swiftness     of King Wheaton’s steed. 

Cresting the hill   Scalzi saw Samarand

Lush were the lands    that he gazed on below. 

Then heard he behind him    full feathered wings stirring

While beneath the bass    of a murderous mewing

Came the thunderous thrum    of Proud Petrifax purring. 

His sire had been Kestran   King of all Kitten-Kind.

Of the line of Lesandre   upon whose broad backs

Rode the lords of Leaydan    feared for their felines 

Proud Persians all    but now lost to legend

Save for the splendor    of this single son. 

Fleeing was folly    so Scalzi the sceop 

Gave one longing look    down on sweet Samarand.

Then brought out his broad axe    great Grimnir gleaming

Forged from the fire    at the dawn of the world.

Weapon of Wodemar    fiercest of fighters

But crap at canasta    so Scalzi had skinned him

And won the brave blade    with a cut of the cards. 

Wise Wheaton’s spear    shone like gold in the sun

The face of damned Doramun    bold on his breast

Straddling his steed    the king called a challenge 

While Petrifax paused    and purred low in his chest. 

Brave was their battle    in the high hills of Harrow.

Harder than hammers    they struggled and struck

Their fury so fierce    it shattered the stone. 

Petrifax pounced    his pummeling purr 

Rang on the rocks    as his hard horn decended 

But swift as his wit    was the strong arm of Scalzi  

The bright blade of Grimnir    flickered and flashed 

When the king of all kittens     did buckle and bleed. 

Mourning his mount    the king gave a cry. 

His spear like a thunderbolt     bitter and bright. 

All down the mountainside    sounded their strife

And Wheaton the Warrior    spilled Scalzi’s life.  

Sly Scalzi sharp tongue    bloody and broken 

Silently slid    from the shaft of the spear. 

Wheaton stood staring    fast fading his fury 

And loud he lamented    what his wrath had wrought. 

The king bent to embrace him    while Scalzi the Sceop

Spoke to him softly     the secrets he kept. 

Of love for Felicia     but more for his liege lord.     

Then Scalzi stilled     and the Wheaton king wept. 

Vintarini’s Peak
Scott Mattes

On the days when the ash didn’t obscure the skyline, you could see its glowing rim from miles outside the range, jutting up into the heavens like a skyscraper plopped into the middle of a third world village overshadowing everything in its vicinity. 

Vintarini Volcano. The big one. It was an awe-inspiring sight that left an impression on everyone who saw it. For some, it was a thing of beauty, simultaneously majestic and deadly.  For others, it was a challenge; nature’s way of throwing down a gauntlet and saying, “Scale this, fuckers.”

John looked at two college-aged kids in front of him, high-tech climbing equipment piled onto their backs like they were embarking on a two month excursion, and knew which group they belonged to.  

Amateurs, he thought. All that gear would be the death of them. You needed to pack light in this environment; heatstroke killed twice as many climbers as the unpredictable eruptions and constantly shifting lava flows. Back when the press followed his every move, John’s detractors thought that his Orc outfit had been for show. It hadn’t. Shorts and short sleeves prevented him from overheating. A fireproof shield in case the volcano erupted. An axe to bury into the rocky face when a handhold wasn’t available. Sure, he’d embellished it a little to give it an Orcish theme. He’d gotten the idea when he found out the genetic enhancements led to a greenish skin tone.

The ears cost extra, but they were worth it.

One of the kids jumped a little when he noticed John standing behind them. “Whoa, didn’t hear you come up behind us.”

The other turned, surprised to find another person in their midst. These idiots were oblivious to their surroundings.

He almost said as much, but then one of the kids recognized him. “Hey! You’re that Orc dude from the picture. Yo, James, you remember him from that climbing book? The two guys who raced to be the first to climb Vintarini. Neither of you made it, but you were famous in your day.”

The second guy spoke up. “Yeah. Didn’t that clown-sweater guy fake a picture of himself up there?”

John didn’t want to answer that question. Part of it was pride. There had been a time when everyone knew the names John Scalzi and Wil Wheaton. Now, they were “Orc dude” and “clown-sweater guy.” It was embarrassing. Plus, he wasn’t sure what the whole truth was anymore.

“Yes,” he answered.

It was the truth, just not all of it. 

“Yeah, that was some crazy shit. Everyone thought he was the first for like two weeks, and then you proved he was a fraud.”

“I proved the picture was fake, not that he was a fraud. There’s a difference. And that wasn’t nearly as damaging as the fact that he rode in on…”

“On the Unicorn Kitty.”

“Unicorn Pegasus Kitten. Yes. His fans thought I was going to fake a photo to discredit his real photo. But when that thing showed up… They just couldn’t get around the idea that he could have just flown up to the peak instead of actually climbing it.”

“Yeah, that shit’s cheating.”

Wil had cheated. He’d taken a photo of himself at the top of the smaller volcano right next to Vintarini, and cropped the photo to make it look like he was on the higher peak. It looked good, but the angle was all wrong. John had set out to get a picture capturing both volcanoes, to show the public what Wil had done. What he hadn’t expected was the Unicorn Pegasus Kitten. 

They attacked right after he set up the camera. He spun as soon as he heard their screams, a combination of Wil’s battle cry with a screeching hiss that was three octaves lower than a normal kitten’s. He raised his axe in defense, vaguely aware of a flash from his camera. Wil threw his spear, and John screamed as it impaled his foot. John swung his axe, cleaving into the giant kitten’s brain, killing it instantly. The Unicorn Pegasus Kitten fell on him, smothering John in a pile of fur, warm blood, and moist, cat food-scented breath.

John tried to fight his way out from under the hindquarters of the Pegasus, but he found himself trapped beneath rump and wing. All he managed to accomplish was a slight view from between the wing’s feathers.

Wil collapsed the camera’s tripod, so that he could grip all three legs at once. Swinging the tripod like a tennis racket, he flung the camera far out into the lava. His gaze focused out in the distance at a point John couldn’t see. One minute. Two. It seemed like an eternity, before Wil was satisfied enough to turn away from the lava. The adrenaline visibly drained out of him, his form slouching slightly as it left. He looked over at John trapped beneath the beast, the realization of the line he’d crossed surfacing on his face; in all of their years of rivalry, they’d never resorted to violence. Not once. Wil cursed beneath his breath. And then he ran.

It took the rest of the day for John to struggle out from beneath the Unicorn Pegasus Kitten. Even with his enhanced strength, the beast’s one and a half ton weight was too much for him. He fought his way out inch by inch. Thankfully, the spear’s shaft had broken off when the beast fell on him, but every time he moved, the head of the spear dug in against the wound in his foot, causing a new spasm of pain. 

He threw the spearhead out into the lava, and pulled off his boot. Two middle toes were completely severed. They’d grow back (he’d paid extra for limb regeneration), but for the time being, he couldn’t walk on his foot. He crawled on his hands and knees over to the edge of the ledge, hoping to catch a glimpse of the camera. Nothing. The camera was gone.

He spent two days waiting for his toes to regenerate. Two days of roasting in the heat with nothing to do except dwell on Wil’s attack. His rivalry with Wil turned to hate. Each time he hacked off a piece of the Unicorn Pegasus Kitten and roasted it over the lava, it got worse. Wheaton needed to be destroyed. He prayed that the camera had been able to connect to the Internet and email the photo before Wheaton threw it out into the lava.

It had.

And it was glorious. The photo captured exactly what John had hoped for; the sort of thing that would bury Wheaton forever, and it did. In the press. In the court of public opinion. In a court of law, where Wheaton was convicted of attempted murder. Everything John had prayed for during the two days he was stranded and more.

Only it felt hollow. He remembered the look Wheaton had given him going in the courtroom, the mixture of helplessness and shame. A look that questioned how their friendship had come to this.

He looked at the two kids before him, with their packs piled high, and remembered the time before the rivalry, when he and Wil had climbed for the sheer joy of it. He didn’t know how to put it into words without sounding like a doddering old fool. He didn’t try.

“You know, you can’t climb up there loaded up like that. The heat will cause you to pass out.”

“Aw no, man. We don’t have to worry about that. See?” He pointed to a small hole on the side of his neck. Once it was pointed out to him, John saw similar holes all around the kid’s body. “Personal air conditioning units. Imbedded in the skin. This way, we can walk around all day without the heat getting to us. You still need to drink water to keep hydrated, but you don’t have to worry about heat stroke.”

“And you thought the flying kitty was cheating?”

“Hey, look at you, man. You did that whole genetic enhancement thing. I’m not saying you can’t improve yourself; I’m just saying you better actually climb to the peak, or it doesn’t count.” He looked off at Vintarini, his eyes getting lost in his future glory. “I’m going to be the first.”

“We said we’d draw straws once we got to the top,” the other one said from behind him. 

“Well, yeah. But once we get to the top,” he said.

They’d tear each other apart. Assuming those implants didn’t overheat and leak Freon underneath their skin. Physical alterations had a way of malfunctioning. Soon after his battle with Wil, John’s knees started going weak. The genetics company claimed that his regenerated toes proved that the enhancements functioned properly. It must be something psychological, they said, and that wasn’t covered under the warranty. It wasn’t psychological. John knew it, and he knew the Warranty Agent knew it. It wasn’t worth the fight, though; the only thing John couldn’t do was climb, and he didn’t have the desire to do that anymore.

Thankfully, the pain didn’t get worse.

It was a small price to pay for aging; especially when compared to Wil’s current condition. John hadn’t seen him in person since the trial, and the patient in the hospital barely resembled his old rival. His face had sunken in to the point of being skeletal. An oxygen tube burrowed into his nose. IVs protruded from his arms. Monitors bleep-bleeped in the background.

Wil’s mind was slipping; at first, he didn’t recognize John. His eyes slid past John’s face without even the slightest flinch. John sat there, watching his old friend and rival look around the room through the haze of delirium. A soccer game on TV. A gaze out the window. Back to John’s face.

Wil’s eyes squinted down. His jaw tightened. He was back in the present. When he spoke, it was the raspy equivalent of wet sand between your toes.

“I’m sorry.”

Wil’s hand made a grasping motion, but he didn’t have the strength to move his arm. He needed a hand to hold. John gave him his, and the grasping stopped.

“I made it…to the peak. I was…the first,” he continued. “The only one…to make it. Not you…not anyone.”

“The photo was fake,” John said. It might have been the delirium talking, but John didn’t think so.

“Yes. I dropped the camera…in the lava…when I was coming down…the flow changed…a new eruption. I faked a replacement…needed to show the world…didn’t think anyone would notice. I needed the world to see…to see that I’d conquered it.”

Something shifted inside of John as he heard these words. That deteriorating shell of a man left him feeling empty, wondering why he’d ever cared. 

He watched the two kids hiking off towards Vintarini, pursuing the hollow goal of being the first to reach the peak of a mound of rock that had existed before any of them, and would continue to exist long after they were gone. A goal that didn’t benefit anyone but themselves.

They wouldn’t be the first, but he didn’t care. Let them have the record.

He leaned back, and admired the view, lost in the awe-inspiring beauty that nature provided.

This Is the Way the World Ends
Catherynne Valente

Prophecies are serious business. That’s the problem. In order to maintain their lifestyles, prophets must never for a moment be ridiculed or disbelieved. If they did not foretell grand events, epic battles, noble sacrifices, lightning and heroes at the end of the world, who would pay for their monthly shipments of absinthe, their personal masseuses—so necessary to soothe the psychic musculature—their first class tickets to various inspiring locales? And a prophet without such things could hardly be trusted to predict his own lunch. If he was any good, his customers would happily resurface his foyer with Italian marble and fill his hot tubs with champagne. Who would not, to know the future?