Copyright 2012-2016 by Mike Hayes – Makers of the Moon
Prelude
May 25, 2026 5:35pm CST
AT&T Stadium
Arlington, Texas
The great stadiums had been dark, since malsports evoking the brutality in humans had been outlawed. But now there were creatures other than human.
Jerry swung the freight truck in, then backed up to the marked spot in front of the stadium. He reached out to turn the engine off, then thought better of it. He looked at the slumped over, snoring man in the right hand seat, and shouted, “Jack, move it.” Then he opened the door, and jumped out. It was gusty, with paper, trash and weeds tumbling across the parking lot. The smaller and lighter ones flew. Heavier pieces skipped into the air, then scurried along the ground. Still heavier pieces moved sluggishly in the same direction. The crowds stayed behind the lines, the sixteen markers, in front of the stadium. But their trash did not. In the gusts, it all went flying. Cups went flying. Wrappers that had been around burgers, or around the hot dogs, went flying. Along with the napkins. Dozens of hawkers moving back and forth, working the crowd, feeding them more. The air hinted of moisture and ozone, the feel of a storm coming. The wind shifted, and there was nothing but the smell of diesel exhaust.
That reminded him of why he was there. Get it done, get the rest of the route done, get to Patsy’s. He went to the back of the truck, grabbed the latch to the rollup truck door, then almost cried out, and jerked the hand away from the burning hot aluminum handle. It was too hot. Way too hot to touch. He hit it a couple of times with his palm, swung it open, then rolled up the back door. A wave of heat struck him, like opening a hot oven door to check on the roast. He looked around for his assistant and shook his head, frowning.
Jerry jumped up into the dusty back of the truck. He began dragging the freight to the edge. This raised a choking cloud of the dust from the wood planks on the floor. He paused and looked at the freight. It was all heavy, metal machines. They came not in boxes or crates, and had no protection. Instead they were somehow folded back in on themselves to present armored, protective surfaces to the world. Address labels and shipping documents were stuck to their outer shells in pouches. Paraguay, China, Canada, Amsterdam – they were from all over the world.
Jack finally climbed. They started to work, each grabbing one end of the things, dragging them to the edge, and swinging them out.
They were like weird metal monsters from old movies. Legs, claws, camera eyes, axe blades, saw blades, or torch ends sticking out of them. Most were steel and aluminum, but some had the dull grey sheen of titanium, or the sparkle of polished beryllium copper. One, once out of the shadows, showed a finish like a rainbow, colors changing as the sun hit.
He didn’t care. Sweat had turned his shirt into a wet rag, and was pouring into his eyes and off his face in drops. The trickles that didn’t run down his neck and soak his shirt pooled under his chin. Then they fell and hit the wood planks. It was hot, and it seemed like it was going to take forever to unload the things. There must have been a hundred or more of them. Each looked like it weighed more than two hundred pounds.
The customer had been very specific about this freight delivery. They’d paid extra for special handling. He couldn’t just shove or kick them off the back end of the van. Each had to be picked up with two hands, carried to the back, and slung out underhanded. They’d said “Throw everything out by Marker 16. Throw them all out right on the concrete of the parking lot. Let them bang and get dented and scratched and maybe broke.”
They’d said, “Make a nice heap. By Marker 16 on the front steps of the Stadium.”
Finally, the last one was out. He dropped out of the truck, into the relative cool of the hundred degree Texas sun. The gusts cooled him down at once. Must have been one-thirty inside the truck. He reached up with a grimy hand toward the waiting quadcopter. Broken, blackened nails grabbed the clipboard with the envelope. Clawed feet opened and released it. He tore it open, counted the tip, and then nodded. He scribbled his initials on the clipboard screen, and with one arm raised it up over his head. The claws tentatively grabbed it, then fastened solidly on it. The pitch changed to a loud buzz, and the machine swerved and headed off.
But not before the Homeland officer saw what they were doing. The agent shouted some things to the other officers, and then started their way.
Jerry clutched the envelope harder, feeling with his thumb the ridge the bills made inside. He smelled Jack coming up, close behind him. Jack really was disgusting[U1].
“Jerry, he saw you take the cash. Shakedown time, man.”
“Yeah…shit. Gotta make us late. They never just grab the cash and go, they gotta make a big stinking drama. ”
He looked at the younger man. “It’s all ‘Yes, Sir,’ and ‘I just made a mistake, Officer. It won’t happen again.’ Repeat six times, and they might be happy just taking the cash and letting you go.”
“Yeah…well, maybe. But what’s the big deal, anyway? You can’t live on a salary. It don’t matter if the big shots in Washington say the prices are fixed. They might as well command the Moon to not rise each month.”
Jerry nodded. “Right. You can’t make it on a salary. That’s why you know I was splitting it with you. We can’t make it on a salary, and the agent can’t. We got our extras, and he’s coming to get his…. say, will you look there?”
The agent had turned and was trotting back toward the line, where the crowd was surging. A gang of teenagers was shouting, agitated, breaking through the line. The other agents needed help, it seemed. Then to the side, Jerry saw one of the kids signaling to him. Jerry caught his eye, and then gave him a high-five.
He chuckled and turned toward the truck cab. “Man, we’re in luck. Some guys in the crowd watching out for us!” The gang was now perfectly well mannered, nodding with downcast eyes, as the agents lecturing them with pointed fingers.
Jerry half ran forward, jumped up to the driver’s seat, and slammed shut the driver’s door. He felt, and heard, the back roll-up door hitting the base of the truck bed. Jack had closed it. He listened for the sound of the lock being secured, and it was, faint. Good, Jack didn’t forget. Then Jack came to the cab, jumped up and his seat belt slid on.
The last of sixteen heaps in the front of the Stadium was now completed. The crowds surged, barely staying behind the yellow Caution Cuidado tapes. Camcopters flew in and hovered at five meters, one over each heap, cameras in search mode.
A man walked up to Marker 8. He stayed quiet, holding the mike app close to his mouth. Slowly the crowds quieted. When they were completely silent, he started talking.
“To Last Bot Year Five! What do you say?”
The crowd roared.
“I’m not hearing you. What do you say?”
They roared five times louder.
“Last year, the stadium set was the ice flows of Antarctica. What do you say? How about that game last year?
They roared.
“And this year? Not just this year, but today? We’re talking now, bro!”
“This year it’s the Moon. And earlier I was walking around in the Stadium, looking at the Fight Zone, and let me tell you. It’s amazing! It’s such a good rendering; you could be on the Moon! Who knows, maybe in the future, Last Bot will be. But for now, let’s get this show going. What’d you say?”
The crowd roared louder.
“So, with no more ado. Here we go.”
He unholstered a genuine antique, a relic of gun fighters of the old West. An 1847 Colt Walker. He pointed it skyward, trigger finger outside the trigger guard. He cocked the hammer. The app’s rendering of his resonating, bass voice echoed against the stadium as he counted down.
“Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.”
He pulled the trigger, and the boom echoed off the towering walls of the stadium. The big gun kicked back in his hand, almost hitting his head before he gained control. The smoke partly obscured his surprised, frightened, look. By the time the smoke dissipated, fourteen hundred and seven mechanical fighters were moving.