I’d never planned a fight. Usually in a fight you charge someone and give them a Superman punch, just one usually does it. Nobody fights like they do in the movies; usually people who aren’t trained fighters go right down after taking a single punch. And if that doesn’t work, you get them on the ground and squeeze.

How to apply these principles to a large-scale fight, though? Harrigan had a whole island with a network of caves and assorted stone ruins in which to lurk freely. He also had an army of idiots, which were in truth a horde of hostages.

So what kind of fight would this be? A single punch or a down-on-the-ground and squeeze? And how could I avoid being punched or squeezed myself, and also what about my guys? I couldn’t allow my guys to be hurt. Ever.

Deep thoughts, that’s me. I was out digging ditches for Gary, and the Radio was playing its weird mix of music and commercials. The sun was up, the breeze was going, and it was a nice morning. I had only gotten hurt once today, which was a good thing, but the day was young yet.

“Freeze-Dried Ectoplasmic resin, for all your spiritual and alectromantic needs! From Thaumaster!” A jingle that I didn’t understand at all, a repeated chant of the words Bromo Seltzer Bromo Seltzer Bromo Seltzer, over and over, so it sounded like a weird choo-choo train. Then a kind of yodeling war cry, just going on and on, brought to you by the good folks at Timepiece Cumbanchero. Alien advertising.

And the music, of course. Someone, possibly an alien monster, named Xavier Cugat and his band of cool dudes. Lots of bongos. He could have been Human? I’d lost track.

“Radio, this is another world. Why play Earth music?”

“Owen knew his good friend the Green Radio was part of the Observatory. That it had been alone a long time. Owen had repeatedly been given this information.”

“You pointed me at a downed plane, and said it was a spy aircraft from world war two. How did you get ahold of it?”

“The Big Broadcast.”

“Yes, that’s the name on the plane. How did it end up here?”

“Owen would be given the tale shortly, but first: a word from Doctor Jeffrey Harrigan, known as the First Human.”

I dropped the shovel. “What?”

“Did you like my present?” It was him, sly and cold. I hadn’t heard his voice in weeks, but it cut right through. Right in there. The guy who paralyzes you, who burns your friends right before your eyes. Call me Doctor Jeff. That guy.

“The Doctor was in his office, full of what may have been medical equipment. He wore his office casual garb, topped with the white lab coat. On the folding plastic table in front of him, Harrigan was working with his reasonably-priced tablet computer.”

“The Doctor was serious, but also amused. He leaned back in his chair, which creaked–” A sound effect here. “--And folded his arms behind his head.”

He purred some more: “She’s lovely, isn’t she? I knew you’d like her.”

Oh. Basic unpleasantness from him. I said: “Cassie. She’s doing okay. Send Armand.”

“That’s not on the table, Owen. You’re doing well out there, all by yourself. How do you do it?”

“By myself? Lots of people live here.”

“Animals. Those little dinosaur creatures, the weather balloons, some other things. Because you can’t make friends, you have those?”

“Do you want something? Why are you talking to me at all?”

“I was hoping to get an apology.”

“Sorry.” I started shoveling again. It helped.

“You stole my property. That body; it’s not yours. You agreed to the terms. You burned my camp. And I thought you might have stolen my son.”

“Sorry.” Just another bully; running the Bully Script from time immemorial. Like his son. “Super sorry, my bad.”

“I find myself questioning your sincerity, Owen. I thought you’d taken him, but I was able to get him back again just two days ago. Did you have anything to do with that?”

“You mean you were able to rebuild him? Reboot him, whatever you call it? Only one version at a time.”

“Well look at you, figuring out that part. Yes, only one at at time. I was worried for my son, and he’d been taken from me. I blamed you, and I think now that was unfair. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“There is.”

“And that is?”

“You suck.”

“I'm a monster, yeah?” He sounded wistful. “But everything I do is legal, you know that.”

“Endlessly killing and rebuilding people? You think it would hold up in front of a judge?”

He snorted. “The courts have changed on Earth.”

“How about the court of public opinion? You think the parents of these kids would allow this?”

“It’s an interesting question, isn’t it? I think they would. If you give them a licensing fee, I think people would allow it just fine. It wouldn’t be for their actual children, after all, and I’m betting people wouldn’t care otherwise. You’re all just copies.”

“What do you want me to tell Sean? Remind him that he’s just a copy, that he has no rights, and should just get his little fanny back to dad, pronto, chop chop?”

There was a pause. “Sean is here.”

“He’s here too. He got himself a soul down there in your cage, just like I did. Just like you and Mandy, he’s the newest god in the squad. He’s chilling in my tower, and he doesn’t want to go back to you. He seems to be a being of pure thought, Doctor. Smarter than you or I. He’s beyond Human, I think. He’s something new.”

“That’s…not true.”

“Why would I lie to you? So you bother me more?”

Why was I telling him? Why do that? What was I doing?

Guns over the table, that’s why.

“I wasn’t able to… Is that what happened?” He was asking himself.

“That’s what happened,” I said. “He was here, but not in his current state. We helped put him back together again. I’m betting your trick didn’t work because he was that guy. Now he’s this guy.”

“I need that soul, Owen.” The purr was gone. Steel was in his voice. “Do you have any idea how much effort, how much work went into giving him that soul?”

“Can’t have him, he doesn’t want to go. And I’m not sure I’d be able to give him to you anyway. Want to send him a message?”

That got a thoughtful pause. “What would I have you tell him…”

“He’s not your biggest fan.”

A sigh. “He’s always been stubborn. I don’t have a message, but thank you for the offer.”

“So that’s it. You want Sean, and you don’t want to bother talking to him. This means you plan on forcing the issue.”

“I guess it does.” He laughed. “I hadn’t really thought it through. You’re more than I expected, Owen.”

“I don’t want to hurt the people you send here.”

“So what? I have an infinite army, don’t I? I can send them to you, day after day, and wear down whatever defenses you have. Killing them is a meaningless act; I’ll just rebuild and redeploy, like in a video game. Hundreds of people, all attacking you, all the time. Ever play the original Warcraft? How about any of the Dynasty Warrior games?”

“No.”

“Kids these days. Anyway it’ll be a lot of pain and suffering, and it’ll be on your head.”

“So don’t.”

“I would do anything for my son, Owen.”

I couldn’t help it; I laughed. “Anything for Sean, huh? How did he get a soul? You left him in the dark, in that cage, and I think he died there. You left him there, and I’d told you where he was, and you did it anyway. Your son.”

“Eggs and omelettes. I have something to show you.”

Here it came. The thing he needed to feel like he’d scored a victory. Here it came, and it would be bad.

“I don’t know how things work with you. I want to show you something on my screen. Can we do that?”

The Radio played a bed of creepy background orchestra music, as if we were watching an old movie about a haunted house. “Harrigan leaned back into his chair again.” Creak. “His tablet computer was facing upward on his table. On the screen was a detailed personality description of Owen Walsh, first recorded 2025–”

“Ready, Eye of Sauron? Take a look on the screen, if you’re not looking already. Go on, take a look.”

The Radio narrated again: “When viewed through the double-cracked monitor, the video played tinny sounds through the old speaker. Laughter of young people, eager anticipation of a good meal.”

I whispered: “Radio. Lower right. Date. Later.”

Harrigan: “You know those little turkey dino animals you have infesting your place? The ones you have a creepy affection for? They have magic. I turned it off, all of it, when they came here for help. Turns out they really need that magic. I think it’s a key to their metabolic process.”

The Radio: “The camera shakily zoomed in on a wooden spit over the campfire. There were eight things roasting there; they resembled poultry, skinned and cleaned, but with long, heavy tails–”

I drew in a breath.

“The video cut to the happy young people, all eating their fill. The camera swung around, showing everyone, satisfied, with the exception of a young man who appeared to be Owen Walsh, standing with what appeared to be a joint of meat in one hand, looking at it, confusion on his face and hunger–Harrigan paused the video here, keeping the blurred face of Owen in the frame–”

“You ate it,” Harrigan said breezily. “Everyone ate that night. This was Owen iteration…I’d guess 24. You’d never met any nonhumans. The little dino critters have souls, I’m sure you’re aware by now.”

The guys. Schmendrick’s people specifically.

I was trying to come up with something. A zinger. A way to rid his voice of gloating, to shut his smug face up. Anything.

“Doctor Harrigan had concluded the conversation,” the Radio said.

I sat heavily in the dirt. Gary found me there, my face in my hands, and asserted that I was a fool. Gary had a point.