[ 13 ]

THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME LIVE

Now just in case I’ve failed to grasp the particulars of the situation, I guess Trenx wants to make sure he drives his point home.

Because then without warning the robot leaps up and whips his metal scaly head and rams his horns straight into the wall, burying them up to the hilt. His giant black horns are obviously securely anchored in the wall. Because then he quickly flexes his long neck to hoist the rest of himself up off the ground so that now his chrome-flex body is rigid and sticking out of the wall. As if he’s a spear that’s just hit its target.

I mean at the base of his neck you can see a small sprocket bulging under his silver scales, but other than that he seems completely relaxed.

Now the robot looks at me with this stupid grin on his beak. “So you tell me, Weak Sauce, could prosthetics do this?”

I’m speechless.

Then he flaps his wings twice—thwack-thwack—and yanks those horns out of the wall and then drops to his silver webbed feet and stands there leering at me.

“That, Weak Sauce,” growls the Datalizard as he points an index claw at the two new gaping holes in the wall, “is what happens when some nasty Normal bastard tries to mess with my scaly ass. They get their ass ventilated right quick!”

This robot doesn’t need to explain what he means when he refers to some nasty dragon messing with him. Because we both know he’s spent the last four years getting sadistically tortured by Normals on a near daily basis. And some of the bigger DataHater dragons on the island like to use him as target practice for their lavaloogies.

And I remember one day last semester some fiendish DataHaters kidnapped Trenx and tied him up to a palm tree out in the jungle part of campus. And then for well into the night, they proceeded to blast him with so many firebolts and flamestreams that he’d nearly died and eventually had to be airlifted out of there by the Medevac and rushed to the psychosurgery ward. I heard the medics found him in six pieces strewn across the jungle floor over a half-mile radius.

He’d also had a bunch of sessions of intense psychosurgery, until they’d wiped most of his memory clean. But I judged that was cruel to give the robot psychosurgery and wipe the memory of his abuse away.

Because when those DataHater dragons came for him the next time, he wouldn’t know how scared he should be and so he wouldn’t activate the proper levels on his ESCAPE & EVASION program. So I figure those psychosurgery sessions actually increased the Datalizard’s suffering in the long term.

Bullying isn’t considered a problem at WarWings, our professors actually encourage it. Most professors will even let you turn in a holovid clip of you bullying another dragon for extra credit. Because bullying is considered a healthy gateway activity that leads to planet conquering. And bullying a robot? Well for some of the old-timer professors, that’ll get you extra extra credit.

I mean, technically, MortalMachines are supposed to have the same basic rights as us Normals, though of course in reality it doesn’t exactly work out that way.

Or as Professor Ponk from the Robotics Lab likes to say with a smirk on his beak, “Suuuurre these bots have the same rights as the rest of us dragons.” Then he pauses for a second, before shouting, “The right to get eaten!” That always gets a big laugh from the Normals in the classroom.

But there’s some truth in the professor’s joke. Because out of the 500 robots from Fribby’s line that started out at WarWings, 147 of them have been murdered by Normal cadets. Well actually two were suicides. But the only reason those Dragodroids killed themselves was on account of they’d been endlessly ridiculed by Normals and so they couldn’t take it any longer.

But mostly, like I said, those robots were murdered by these DataHater cadets. And in pretty horrible fashion. I can’t tell you how many times on Central Campus I’ve chanced upon a metal headless Dragodroid hanging from the ceiling. With the words NO ROBO scratched on their shiny chest.

Anyway, as I study those two giant black horns on Trenx’s metal head it’s pretty obvious his days of being sadistically used for lavaloogie practice are over. I don’t think those DataHater bullies will have the gumption to try and blast him with firestreams until he breaks apart into little puzzle pieces on the ground.

Not with those nasty-looking horns on his silver head.

Because a dragon’s WILL TO POWER is generated in his horns.

There’s even an old Blegwethian riddle that goes like this:

QUESTION: What came first, the horns or the WTP?

ANSWER: Both.

Now somewhat in a daze, I turn and stick my eye up to one of those new holes in the wall like you would to a telescope. And even with my night vision skills I can’t see where the hole in the wall stops. It’s like staring down a tunnel, it just goes on and on. I mean this Datalizard’s horns are so freaking mega that it’s as if he’s just carved out a whole new hallway in the Main Building.

I step back and gape at the robot.

He grins at me and belches up a mega firestream that shakes the floor beneath my green webbed feet. Then he points at his horns and says, “Talk about a game changer, huh?”

“How did you make your horns grow so fast?!”

The Reptilizoid just snarls at me and shakes his scaly silver head like he pities me for being so stupid. “The same way I got this cape. What do you think, fool? Your grandpa, Dr. Terrible. I went to see the righteous old nasty himself. That dragon’s a genius. He could turn a goldfish into an assassin. Speaking of which, he actually had a goldfish with big black horns on its head and the goldfish’s name was Little Gork. Weird, huh?”

My mind is instantly reeling and I can’t quite process what he’s saying. “Did you say Dr. Terrible?”

“Yeah, fool, I know he’s vanished,” says the robot. “I saw the RageFest last night out on the quad, just like you. But just because he’s gone, that doesn’t mean he’s not alive and ticking. Sheesh. Your grandpa sent me this letter a couple days ago telling me he’d seen me around campus and he noticed my pathetic horns and he invited me to come see him so he could fix my scaly ass up in time for Crown Day. So I figured hey, why not give it a shot. Cuz as it was those Mech-Freak chicks weren’t exactly lining up to be my Queen for EggHarvest. Speaking of which. Where’s your hot-ass scalebot friend, Fribby? That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted to show her my new horns. And plus what with it being Crown Day and all. Well I was going to see if she’d be my Queen. That is one smokin’ hot scalebot, my friend. So where is she? Where’s Fribby, yo?”

“You met up with Dr. Terrible? When?!”

“Last night,” says Mr. Gigabyte, snorting blacksmoke out his nostrils. “I saw Dr. Terrible last night. He sent a spaceship for me. Your grandpa is a seriously righteous nasty! He got me the hookup! He straight cured my ass is what he did! Hey Weak Sauce, I can’t even begin to tell you how much better my life is now that I have two big black horns on my dome! It’s like I’m not even the same dragon anymore! I mean I’m still me but I’m also better than me, if you know what I mean. Of course you don’t know what I mean!” he says, looking at my puny horns.

My heart is cranked up and pounding away.

And if you want to know the truth, I feel like I might faint. I’m having a hard time breathing. I can see yellow dots swimming through the air. Everything is swirling around me and my brain feels like it is sprinting to catch some critical piece of information which is galloping just up ahead, permanently out of reach.

I flutter my wings and croak, “I need oxygen.”

“What did you say, fool?”

“Can’t breathe.”

The robot grins and reaches in his utility belt and pulls out a couple chunks of gold. “Yo, check out this loot! Just a couple minutes ago I took these off some sophomore fool Normal in the Library. And when I took this loot from that nasty little dragon, he didn’t even put up a fight.”

I look at the shiny chunks of gold in his talon and my heart flutters a little, like it always does when I’m in the presence of gold. “What do you mean you took them off him?”

“I mean I just walked right up to the fool and demanded he give me all the gold he had on his scaly green ass! And he did it. And you know what else he did? He thanked me for letting him live!”

“Thanked you for letting him live?” Which we both know is incredibly rude, for this sophomore punk to have thanked him for letting him live like that. “Did you eat him?”

“Naw,” says Trenx, flapping his wings. “He didn’t mean for it to be disrespectful or nothing. He was actually just that terrified of me that he forgot his manners, is all.” Trenx belches up a cloud of blacksmoke and pats his chrome-flex belly. “Besides. I’m already stuffed. I couldn’t eat another bite.”

I snort firebolts out my nostrils and get this real serious look on my scaly green face. “Trenx,” I hiss. “What are you talking about? What do you mean you’re so stuffed you couldn’t eat another bite?”

Trenx suddenly gets this real hush-hush vibe. And then he leans forward in a conspiratorial way and lifts his shiny silver wing to show me something. “Now check this baby out.”

I do what I’m told. I lean in and look. And I sure am glad I can’t see myself right now, because I’ll bet my eyeballs are rolling around in their sockets. Probably my horns are wilting on top of my skull like a couple of dead flowers in a vase.

Because there on the underside of Trenx’s metal wing is a tattoo.

And the tattoo needs no explanation.

Because the tattoo says everything you’d ever need to say.

Because somehow this robot Trenx has been initiated into our school’s most elite secret society of dragons, called Masters of Chaos. Which is comprised of the most ruthless and fiendish horned nasties to have ever flown the halls of WarWings.

We’re talking about a secret society of seriously deranged cadets whose CONQUER & RULE FACULTY is so freaking monster that a new initiate has to eat his own dad before he can gain membership.

And now this Datalizard belongs to Masters of Chaos.

How do I know?

Because Trenx has the Masters’ motto tattooed right there on his silver wing: FEAR ME.

There’s no denying it, Trenx’s tattoo is seriously boss. And these black horns on top of his scaly silver head are mega, and he’s way beyond legit.

This cadet’s game has straight blown up.

Now as I squat there in the hallway it feels as if my life is a typhoon, and I’m just barely clinging to a palm tree trunk with the tip of my index claw to keep myself from being blown away by the gale force winds.

“Hey Trenx,” I growl, snorting firebolts. “You got to tell me where Dr. Terrible is hiding! I need to ask him for his advice on this Queen Quest situation I got brewing!”

“Sorry, but Dr. Terrible made me sign an NDA. This beak is sealed. Even if you tortured me, I wouldn’t tell you your grandpa’s new secret location.”

“Secret location? Torture? What the hell’s an NDA?”

“NDA stands for non-disclosure agreement. Means I can’t tell nobody where Dr. Terrible is or how Dr. Terrible got me these big black horns. And if I do tell anybody how I got these big black horns then Dr. Terrible has the right to chop my durn head off and mount it on the wall of his new secret location. Dr. Terrible even showed me the spot on the wall where he would mount my metal head if he caught me blabbing. But I can promise you one thing, Weak Sauce. You’ll never in a million years guess where Dr. Terrible is hiding!”

“Did he say anything about me? Dr. Terrible, I mean.”

“For reals.”

“For reals what?”

“For reals this beak is sealed, fool.”

“Answer my goddamn question.”

“ ’Course he did. Your grandpa griped about how he’s been trying to cure your horns for years and years, with no results. He said you were bad fruit off the family tree. Oh, I almost forgot,” says Trenx. “He also asked me if I was an orphan.”

“Why the heck would Dr. Terrible want to know if you were an orphan?”

“Duh! Because your grandpa wants to adopt me! He was practically begging me to let him adopt me!”

“That doesn’t make sense,” I hiss. “Like how would Dr. Terrible adopt you?”

“Like I’d be his son and whatnot,” says Trenx. “He even gave me my own brand-new spaceship as a gift. He said I could keep the spaceship no matter what.”

My belly instantly twists up into painful knots. Because as I study Trenx’s silver beak I get a premonition that if Dr. Terrible adopts this robot then he’ll rename him Gork II.

I mean you have to wonder if I’m squatting here looking at my replacement?

“But how could he adopt you if you already have a mom?” I growl.

Trenx comes from one of the nearby islands here on this part of Blegwethia. One of those islands where the Dragodroids live, to keep a safe distance from the Normals. Once Trenx showed me some holophotos from his recent trip home. It was just metal dragons for as far as you could see.

“Well,” says Trenx. “My mom’s very open-minded. Most of the mechs from her generation are like that. Honestly, you Normals could take a page out of our playbook. Your scaly green asses can be very uptight. You hear what I’m saying, Weak Sauce?”

Now I don’t mention Trenx’s dad. Because it’s just a given that Trenx has eaten his dad as part of the Masters of Chaos initiation rites. And as I study Trenx’s silver scaly belly right then, it looks awfully swollen and I know that’s his Dragodroid dad right in there. That’s what he meant when he said he was so stuffed he couldn’t eat another bite.

Trenx is really something else. I mean here the bastard hasn’t even digested his dad yet, and now he’s jabbering on about becoming Dr. Terrible’s son. And if you want to know the truth, there’s a tiny little part of me that can’t help but admire this Datalizard’s swagger.

“Dr. T said he could pay my mom off. Build a planet made out of gold and name it after her and then give it to her. Shoot, he said he’d have his engineers build five gold planets if that’s what it took.”

“Wait a second. Dr. Terrible is going to purchase you from your mom?” I reach out and grab Trenx’s silver forelimb like I’m inspecting him. “I don’t see a price tag on you. I didn’t know you were for sale.”

Trenx gazes at me through lowered lids. “Well that’s a real cynical way of looking at it, Weak Sauce. But yeah. Payment would be made to my mother. And in exchange she would give up her custody rights as my legal guardian. Your grandpa said once she waived her custody rights over me, then he could legally adopt me. He said us Mech-Freak dragons were the future for our species. And he wanted to get himself his own little piece of the future. By having me as his son and all.”

On one level I can’t believe what I’m hearing. But on another level I know this robot isn’t lying because everything he’s saying is classic Dr. Terrible. You can’t make this stuff up. Because when Dr. Terrible tries to get you to participate in one of his schemes, this is exactly the kind of insanity he’ll try and get you to sign on to.

I remember how the previous semester my grandpa taught a special weeklong intensive seminar here at WarWings called “I Win, You Die: The Art of Brokering the Diabolical Deal.” The seminar was so popular that I heard some of the professors even enrolled in it.

And here at WarWings, there’s a holophoto of my grandpa Dr. Terrible on the Notable Alumni Wall. After graduating from WarWings he amassed a gigantic fortune by conquering and plundering more planets than you can shake a stick at.

And somewhere in the midst of all this planet conquering, my grandpa still managed to find the time to write several critically acclaimed tomes of epic poetry about his intergalactic reign of terror. And probably his most famous book is titled: My Belly Is Green and I’m Terrible and Mean!

They say at one point my grandpa commanded over a million foreign slaves in his personal army. Then one day without warning my grandpa abandoned his career as Intergalactic Conqueror so he could pursue his lifelong dream of being the most feared scientist in the universe. And make no mistake, my grandpa is one seriously demented genius, and so when he puts his mind to something there’s really nothing anybody can do to stop him.

My grandpa got his M.D. and his Ph.D. in molecular genetics, lickety-split. He made it look so easy it was as if those advanced degrees were a couple of sheep on a hillside he happened to spot from the air one night and then swooped down and snatched up by toe claw under the moonlight.

And until just last night, my grandpa Dr. Terrible held the title of Distinguished Research Professor at WarWings, where he ran the Institute of Advanced Biokinetics and Neuroanatomy.

Now standing here in the corridor, looking at Trenx’s stupid grinning beak, I say, “What about that spaceship you said Dr. Terrible gave you?”

“That thing is dope! You should come check it out. It’s got all these beasty green tentacles inside and it’s a living creature. Your grandpa said he built it using real dragon DNA and—”

“Hey Trenx. Your spaceship. What’s the name of it?”

“ATHENOS III. Why?”

My belly instantly twists up into painful knots.

Because my spaceship’s name is ATHENOS II.

And the spaceship my parents died in on their Fertility Mission to Earth was the original ATHENOS.