… In such a world as this, when all the world is a battlefield, where even teenagers can be given access to weapons of incredible power by the arbitrary choices of alien artificial intelligences; Where do we draw the lines between child soldiers, and the purported saviours of the earth? How do you tell a Protectorate AI that children should be in school, and not fighting a war? Especially when we as a people continue to fail to provide such things for them?

Excerpt from Protective Parents Pod-cast, in response to the selection of a 13 year old Vanguard.

When Eustace Eugene Edmond Waltenor was 12, a trio of his peers, thinking themselves clever, had taken to calling him Eeew, after his initials. The entire classes full names had been revealed when a document pertaining to class grades had been posted on the mesh. At the time he knew intellectually that it was out of envy, for he was far above them on said rankings. Emotionally however, he was still a 12 year old boy; a portion of society that has never been known for self control or emotional stability.

Eustace’s parents, corporate ladder climbers that they were, had taught him better methods of revenge, than fists in a dark alley. Upon arriving home that evening, he laid out a digital presentation of his revenge plot to his parents, asking for no assistance other than being allowed access to a small portion of his college fund ahead of time, to which they agreed. His presentation had been very well executed, and if all went well might actually turn a profit beyond simple revenge.

For 47 days he endured the derogatory nickname with straight backed dignity. He neither played along with a smile in an attempt to appease the bullies, nor simpered, nor wailed for them to cease. He acknowledged each utterance with a nod, and a tick in his digital diary.

On day 48 the three boys came shuffling into school, heads downcast, fear hiding in the corners of their eyes. Eustace Eugene Edmond Waltenor allowed them a private meeting. They had each fallen to their knees, tears beginning to fall, and begged him not to fire their parents.

It had taken longer than he’d hoped, but no plan is without obstacles. In the last month and a half Eustace had managed to work his way into owning a significant portion of the companies the boys’ families worked for. What he could not own himself, he had secured through promises and favours, just enough power to hold the parents employment contracts in his grasp.

Now, Eustace was not cruel, he understood these were just teenage boys trying to assert dominance in any way they could. So he gave them an option, for every utterance of the distasteful pseudonym, they would promise him one year of service, with pay of course, he wasn’t a monster. In return their parents would retain their jobs, and if the boys, or their parents worked well, who knows, perhaps promotions might be in line. Or, if they refused, Eustace would have their parents fired. They all agreed to work for him.

Less than a decade later, when they’d followed him to college, Eustace annulled the contracts, stating “I’d rather you stuck around because you want to, not because you have to. Forced labour never works out in the long run anyway.” Each of the three immediately renegotiated their employment contracts, using every skill they’d learned from him to squeeze out the best deal they could.

***

Some 15 years after the renegotiation, Eustace arrived in front of a towering tenement on the fringes of LA. He was accompanied by Daniel, the most physically talented of the trio, who was also his current head of security. Both were dressed in sharply tailored slim black suits.

The sandy haired Daniel spoke up. “Are you sure this place is a good investment? You know if it flops, your bid for CEO is going to die in the womb.”

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times Dan, you’ve got to look below the surface, sometimes even below the bones of a place. This building, total trash, it’ll be gone in a few hours after we finalise. This is all about location, look around, clear sightlines out past the edge of the city, just the lip of the upper platform casting shade. The top floors of the building I have planned will even get to see the sun for parts of the day.”

“Is that why we’re here? To see a bit of sunshine? We could do that from the comfort of our own homes, Eustace.” Daniel grumbled.

“We are here because one of the inspection teams ran into a few squatters, who are apparently quite good at setting traps, and other deterrents.”

They had entered the building while they talked, and now stood in the middle of the mostly empty foyer of the derelict tower, lit only by failing emergency lights. Daniel started with surprise at his friend's words, his right hand reaching for a conspicuous lump under his suit jacket. “Traps? You led me into a trapped building, and didn’t tell me first? This is ludicrous! Just call the sweepers, they’ll clean the place, quick and easy.”

Comprehension flashed across Daniels face as he turned to his boss. “No freaking way. This isn’t a building inspection, it’s another recruitment pitch! You dragged me into a collapsing building full of traps on the edge of LA, miles away from backup, to recruit someone who makes traps?”

“One hundred percent yes. I recruited you, Clarence, and Tae, because I saw your potential to be more than the bullies you were starting to become, and look where that’s gotten us? This building apparently contains a young man that has patched together scroungings and scraps to secure a home for himself and a few others. He has even developed his own projectile launch systems, based off of something he found on an old data drive called a “Potato Cannon”. That sort of mind, that intelligence, he deserves better than scraping by.”

“Everybody deserves better than to live like this Eustace, not just the talented.”

“You know I don’t disagree Dan, unfortunately I don’t have the power to fix all the world's ills. And I admit, maybe I enjoy a few too many half million credit bottles of champagne now and then. I can’t chalk them all up to business expenses.”

A shuffle of sound near the defunct elevator at the back of the foyer had them both turn to look. Eustace spoke up with confidence. “Hello to the building. My name is Eustace Waltenor. My friend and I have come to have a conversation with you all. We mean you no harm.”

“Ace, I don’t think that’s a person, heat signature is all wrong. Wait, getting something on the cars proximity sensors… Shit! Fuck! Something just totalled the car. Last glimpse was four legs, no metal. I think we’ve found a bloody nest or something.”

A message crackled with static from the building's old PA system. “Head up the south stairs if you want to live. I, Potato King, will protect you! Fifth floor, hurry.”

The two men glanced at each other as something began to batter at the elevator doors. With a shrug and a crisp nod, they both pulled slick black pistols from beneath coats and headed for the stairs.

“I’ve sent the distress signal, boss, ETA is 45 minutes…”

***

Howard Unpardon, or Potato King as he had named himself, unplugged his aug link from the sparking PA interface. He still hadn’t figured out how to keep it from overloading. He hoped the two suits could follow directions, he wouldn’t be able to tap back in until he replaced some melted components.

He walked quickly and efficiently through his workshop, gathering his supplies. He strapped to his back, three contraptions of white plastic pipe, marked with stripes of colour: Pink for the shortest that almost resembled an old shotgun, yellow for the mid sized one with extra tubes, and green for the big wide mouthed one, almost as tall as him.

He spoke to the air around him, as his small hands worked the dials of a large cast iron safe. “Never thought I’d actually have to use these babies, my most dangerous potatoes of all. If we all get through this, I’ll have to thank Henrietta for teaching me chemistry.”

With the door to the safe open, Howard whistled over his rebuilt four legged wagon. It trundled smoothly over on rubber tipped feet. Holding still to allow him to load a dozen half metre square crates full of oblong shapes onto its deck. “These are pretty dicey for transport buddy, let's not have a repeat of last tuesday.”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Heading out the doorway, clutching a pair of sacks full of less volatile rounds, the eleven year old boy turned to his right heading toward the fifth floor lobby, and the first defensive line.

A small head covered in a mop of bright red curls peaked out of one of the apartments to watch him walk past. Howard looked at her and spoke up, trying to hide the quaver of fear he was denying he felt, in his voice. “Penny! What are you still doing here? We rang the bell minutes ago, you should all be in Metal-Heads bunker up on 6!”

“I, I forgot Bafpo!” She said shyly, a tear starting to form in her eye, as she held out the patched plastic Build-A-Face Potato “Potato King” had gifted her.

“Hmmm, that was awfully brave of you to come back for Bafpo like that, Penny, he deserves to be safe too. Run along now though, take the stairs in the spare room up to 6 and let them fall when you’re up. Hurry now!”

Penny nodded and started to run off down the hall, only to stop and turn. “Please come too… It’s the bad plants, not the bad people…”

“It’s ok Penny, this is what I’ve been training for. Potato King will kill all the bad plants and become a Samurai! Then I’ll fix this whole building, I’ll get you and Bafpo dozens of friends.”

They shared a final look. Howard trying to look brave, Penny holding Bafpo, and holding back tears. They both turned and walked away from each other, one to hopeful safety in a cobbled together shelter, the other to face down the enemies of the world, and some alien plants too.

Potato King walked the hallway toward the elevators. The others had put the 5 barricades in place as they headed toward the stairs to the shelter. He double checked each one to make sure they were secure as he passed. Depositing a case of deadly potatoes at each, the rest would stay secured on QW’s flat deck, close by.

***

Eustace and Daniel reached the 5th floor foyer not long after the young man had finished settling in. They had taken it slow, while neither had been in an actual combat situation before, the 4 boys had spent more than a few hours playing combat sims during their college years. Important for team building Eustace had said, just plain fun the others had insisted. As such they had channelled their virtual experiences into reality, taking turns to progress from floor to floor, covering one another, checking corners for threats, and such.

Their professional demeanour, and slick black pistols clashed greatly with what greeted them beyond the stairwell doors. A barricade had been erected across one hallway. It was cobbled together from a wide variety of materials, both metal and polymer. Despite its patchwork appearance it looked sturdy and well built. As the door clicked closed behind them a young voice called from behind it. “Get your butts on this side of the wall, they ain't far behind you.”

With a glance at each other they hopped over a folded over section of the barrier. As the last over, Daniel folded it back upright, and secured it with a bar leaned nearby. When his head swivelled to take in their new companion, his jaw dropped, and he sputtered as he spoke. “Ace, when you said kid, I didn’t think you meant a barely grown toddler”

“Hey! I ain’t no toddler, I’m eleven, and at least I brought real weapons to the fight,” He said, patting his trio of plastic pipe works. “That little pea shooter will barely wing an M1. And how many clips you bring? Even one backup? Sheesh, here, lemme give you the rundown on my babies. You two can help me keep em’ primed and loaded.”

Before either adult could comment further on his age or appearance, he did not look eleven, even growing up malnourished should not have left the boy as small as he was, he started into a rapid fire lesson in his hand made tools of destruction, and the lines of defence behind them.

Stuff in the “potato”, none of them were real potatoes, can’t get real veggies outside of the fancy glass towers. He made these himself, glue, sludge, oil, scraps of metal, rubber, and concrete, whatever he could find that would make a stable missile. The ones in the bags were basic, would hopefully knock a head off, the ones in the crates were experiments, fire, acid, shrapnel, and more. Unfortunately he’d forgotten what each colour signified, so they’d find out the hard way.

After the “potato” was in, you prime the chamber by holding up the matching coloured aerosol can to the cannon’s intake port for 2 seconds! No less, and especially no more, or things might get dicey.

Pink was the go to, all rounder, yellow was rapid fire, multi barreled, good for peppering targets. Green was for when things get heavy, you can load 4 of the smaller rounds into a sabot for maximum umph.

To fire, make sure it’s pointed at the enemy, then, and only then, hit the button, or pull the trigger. Sparks will happen inside and hopefully a potato flies out the end, and it doesn’t explode.

There were 5 barricades, leading back into the last stand in the “spare room”. There was an escape hatch in the ceiling, which came out not far from the shelter with the others. Each barricade had one or two spare cannons, some accelerant, and ammunition. None of the spare gear was as good as his 3 special ones though.

The last few points were expressed as the trio took position on the barricade, the door on the stairwell had been ripped off its hinges by a pair of quadruped antithesis, and something was shredding the elevator doors from the other side.

Eustace fired a couple rounds from his pistol into the plants, keeping his eyes on them, while he asked, “What’s the ETA on our rescue team Dan?”

Daniel replied with a grimace. “Looks like this is bigger than just us, we’re on the edge of it I guess, so they’ll have to circle around. Rough ETA, at least another 90 minutes.”

Eustace hated the thought of the young boy staying here with them, but he could tell nothing he could say would convince him to flee. “Alright Potato King, I guess it’s just the three of us. Time to answer that age old question, can a brussel sprout withstand the mashing of a potato?”

“That was a terrible line. It’s a good thing I’m going to become a Samurai, you need to be able to quip gooder to be one.” Howard had loaded a red potato into his pink cannon, it burst into flame as it struck the duo trying to claw their way out of the stairwell. “Eat flaming French Fries sprout-holes!” He yelled over the crackling flames.

***

The three of them managed to settle into a rhythm; one dedicated loader and shooter, the third would switch between as needed. After the first burst of fire the men had holstered their pistols, saving them for when the antithesis got too close, or covering fire during a retreat.

They were lucky in being so close to the edge of the swarm, it kept the numbers low, both in quantity and model designation. Just hovering on the edge of what they could handle, even giving them the odd chance to rest.

The crates proved to contain 4 varieties of payload. The incendiary that Howard had launched first, an expanding caustic foam, that proved useful in keeping the fires under control, as well as burning through herbaceous flesh, one resembled a traditional fragmentation grenade, filling the hall with shrapnel. The final type would explode into a goopy, stringy, sticky mass, that worked well to slow down the charge, and make them easier targets.

All was going well until they were preparing to withdraw from the third barricade. QW was already trundling back to the next holdout, Eustace and Daniel were carrying what they could in sacks, while leaving their hands available for their pistols. Howard had fired a quad of the sticky “mashed potato” rounds to clog the hall, and then loaded the rapid fire yellow striped cannon with mundane rounds. As they walked back and fired at the clog of antithesis, faithfull yellow, pushed past the limits of its plastic construction, exploded in the young boy's hands, leaving them a shredded bloody mass. He had fallen backwards too far into shock to scream, just staring at his shattered weapon and mutilated hands.

Eustace had reacted in a flash, dropping the sack of ammunition and spare plain white cannon from his back; he'd scooped up the boy, calling for Daniel to cover them, as they retreated over the next barrier, slamming the small gate behind them.

Daniel had done his best to bandage the boy's hands with the small first aid kit he kept tucked inside his jacket. Thankfully it contained a small vial of pain killers that were strong enough to knock out the diminutive child. He’d had to use his crisp white shirt to staunch the bleeding, the small roll of gauze and bottle of glue in the kit not being up to the task.

Eustace had kept up the pressure on the oncoming swarm, his hands growing more deft at rapidly loading and firing the improvised weaponry. He instructed Daniel to take the boy to the spare room, and to make him comfortable, before returning to help him here.

The fight continued to go down hill, the ignition chamber on the largest weapon was showing cracks, they felt it no longer safe to use. Daniel had left pink with Howard, not wanting to leave the boy unarmed, even if he was unconscious. Their pistols empty, and the boy’s custom weapons unavailable, they were left with the more cumbersome plain models, and they were running low on crated ammo.

On the retreat to the fifth barricade Daniel was dragged off his feet when a quadruped broke free, leapt the barrier, and bit down on his leg. Eustace clubbed it in the head with big green, beating it till it was mush and the cannon was a bent and shattered mess. The two had managed to get across the barricade, Daniel bleeding heavily.

Eustace grabbed every last incendiary potato and hurled them into the space between the barricades, hoping to buy them time, and quickly helped Daniel bandage his leg. He sent Daniel to watch over the boy, and gathered the last of their supplies to make his last stand. He didn’t know how long had passed, or when his company’s combat squad would arrive, but he was going to do his best to try and delay the seemingly inevitable as long as he could.

It was about this time he decided he was going crazy, or whatever chemicals were in those special potatoes were messing with his mind. He was starting to hear voices, they were calling him Potato King, and he should have been out of potatoes by now, where were they coming from, why were they glowing?

***

When the squad of corporate security managed to break down the door to the spare room they found two men and a young boy passed out in a pile of plush potatoes. They were a mess of torn clothes and dried blood, but looked otherwise hale. Each had a plastic crown with potato shaped gems perched off kilter upon their heads.

A hatch opened in the ceiling, a mop of curly red hair popped into view, followed by a young girl's face, putting a finger to her lip she whispered. “Shhhhh the potato court is sleeping.”