Part 32 (2/2)

'Excellent. Finally a legitimate chance to roll out the QUEST.'

Generally Mown loved a good acronym, but today every letter may as well be D for desperation. Also death, and more than likely d.a.m.nation.

'Go on, son. I know you're dying to know.'

'I'd like to know!' said the gunner brightly.

'QUEST stands for Quite Unwieldy Experimental Sublimation Torpedo.'

Mown did not think that having the word 'experimental' in a weapon's name was very encouraging.

Mown managed to fish an idea from the mire of his despair.

They were about to kill a G.o.d. A G.o.d.

'Prostetnic, sir. Don't we have to issue a verbal declaration of intent?'

'The Earthlings have had their declaration. Just because these stragglers weren't around to hear it doesn't mean I have to waste valuable Vog seconds issuing it again.'

'But the immortal, sir. The special directive on Extraordinary Encounters states that communication should be attempted before firing upon an immortal.'

Jeltz was pleased with the challenge. You had to trounce these young pups when they threw down the by-the-book gauntlet.

That is what they will call me, he realized and felt instantly lighter. By-the-Book Jeltz. Perfect By-the-Book Jeltz. Perfect.

'But this G.o.d is an aggressor,' he declared. 'Which negates the special directive.'

Inside, Mown quailed, but he forced himself to nod appreciatively.

'Of course. Well spotted, Prostetnic.'

'Well challenged, Constant,' acknowledged Jeltz graciously, and then, over his shoulder, 'Gunner, plot me a solution for the QUEST.'

'It might be difficult, sir,' admitted the gunner. 'I don't know what this being is made of, but the laser slides right off him.'

Jeltz s.h.i.+fted in his chair. 'No, no. Target the Earthlings. Let's see how much this G.o.d loves his people.'

Smart, thought Mown miserably. Very smart Very smart.

Thor was having the time of his life. The horse missiles thundered towards the planet's surface in tight bunches, with horsy sound effects and everything.

Thor whinnied aloud, then thought Zark, satellite cameras Zark, satellite cameras and clamped his mouth shut. and clamped his mouth shut.

Harrrummphhh, he thought, feeling a little subversive.

He switched tracks from 'Let's Get Hammered' to the cla.s.sic instrumental piece 'Gathering of the Vindleswoshen', broadcasting to every network within Mjollnir's range. Thor had always liked the 'Vindleswoshen' for battle scenarios, though lately its effect had been diluted somewhat when a carbonated drinks company had used it as backing music for their 'guy sun-surfing while drinking a pouch of Bipzo Blaster while seducing a gaggle of groupies' advert.

A lot of the younger G.o.ds liked to use targeting software when they were facing down a bunch of missiles, just let the computer do all the work for them. But Thor liked to conduct his business the old-fas.h.i.+oned way.

Nothing makes an impression on mortals like a bit of muscle and sinew, Odin liked to say. Break all you can break Break all you can break.

Listening to Odin speechifying could be about as much fun as a sword in the shank, but occasionally he came up with a worthy desideratum.

Break all you can break, thought Thor and swung Mjollnir in a wide arc, peeling off to starboard and hitting the first bunch of missiles from below.

Wow. Those are some good holograms.

The horses thundered towards the surface of Nano, tossing their heads and even kicking up dust. Inside their transparent hides the red eye and steel glint of imminent death by nuclear fission was vaguely visible.

Thor went among them with incalescent eagerness, smas.h.i.+ng their guidance systems with his bare fingers, delivering one ma.s.sive rec.u.mbentibus after another, making shards of the casings. The torpedoes were s.h.i.+fting at ma.s.sive speeds, but for the Asgardian they may as well have been sugar pears hanging from the sky on straw twine. He zipped among them, trademark thunderclap booming in his wake, excising detonators with sharp chops of his free hand. The horses froze, flickered, then dissipated, their pixels falling apart like electronic snowflakes.

Thor heard the fizzle of a detonation inside one warhead and he stuffed it into his belly, absorbing the nuclear blast, feeding his mitochondria, growing larger. From the ground it seemed as though Thor had swallowed the sun. The entire planet juddered and crepuscular rays flashed from between the G.o.d's square teeth.

Nano Hillman was impressed. 'Now that's a f.e.c.kin' G.o.d. None of your ”dead but dreaming” s.h.i.+te with this fella.'

Zaphod was beginning to think he'd sold Thor a little cheap. 'I think we should talk about some sort of bonus system. I mean, come on, Hillers, those are big torpedoes.'

Hillman didn't even look at him. 'One: don't call me Hillers. My Na grandmother used to call me Hillers and you and a thousand like you wouldn't be fit to dip a soldier in her boiled egg. And two: bonus me a.r.s.e.'

The Business End Business End Jeltz held one finger aloft, holding the crew enthralled, mesmerizing them.

I could break Daddy's finger, thought Mown with suicidal desperation. Then stuff something in his mouth, one of my legs maybe. How then could he give the order? Then stuff something in his mouth, one of my legs maybe. How then could he give the order?

Daddy would chew off my leg, he realized. Then write the order on the screen in blood Then write the order on the screen in blood.

The finger wavered to a collective rattled intake of breath.

Down went the digit. The order was given.

'Kill that G.o.d,' said Jeltz phlegmatically.

Now Mown's finger went up, pointing at the for'ard camera display.

'I think that's Thor, sir. The The Thor. Are you sure you want to...' Thor. Are you sure you want to...'

'Kill that G.o.d,' repeated Prostetnic Jeltz, grinding out the words.

The gunner span a ratchet three times, then honked down a voice tube. 'QUEST away. G.o.d will soon be dead, sir,' he said.

Nano Ford Prefect had managed to hack on to several Galact-O-Map Sub-Etha sites and was watching the big blow-up from a dozen angles on his. .h.i.tchhiker's Guide Hitchhiker's Guide screen. screen.

'My bookie is giving me ten to one on the Vogons,' he told Arthur. 'I'm putting a few thousand on old Red Beard.' He shrugged. 'I might as well. If I win, I win big. If I lose, then none of you will be around to listen to me moaning.'

'You don't have a bomb-proof towel, I suppose?' said Arthur.

'Sure, I have a bomb-proof towel and a matter-converting pillow case.'

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