And I was the lucky bastard whose job it was to stop it.

  Like I said, everyone thought it was some kind of automaton. Thing is, they were wrong. It was just a man in a metal suit. Not that it made it any less impressive, mind you. It was still chock-full of fancy technology way beyond what most people had ever dreamed of. I didn’t know this for sure until much later, when I joined The Program, but I suspected it for a long while.

  The guy who built it had been some kind of genius who started working for the Feds during the war. Turns out the suit didn’t help much with the war effort, since he didn’t finish it until ’67. Way too late to save Mr. Lincoln, that’s for certain.

  The suit did do some good later on, though. Kept some upstart Rebs in line, for sure. Had a field day with the Ku Klux Klan and whatnot. They nicknamed it “Blastbucket” after the way it shot bursts of steam and fire out of the cannons on its arms, but that was mostly just to make themselves feel better. As long as everyone thought it was some kind of invincible machine-man, they were scared to cross it. And when the Rebs were no longer a big concern, they shipped it out West and used it in the Indian Wars.

  I don’t know who they had running it, but it couldn’t have been an easy thing to do. I figured it was some highly-trained soldier, or maybe a group of them who took turns. No matter how good they were, though, there was one thing this metal monster definitely wasn’t able to do—swim.

  *****

  Before President Custer agreed to attend the opening of the Brooklyn Bridge in ’83, he made damn sure he would be able to get his tin bodyguard there for protection. There was talk of the Irish being up in arms because the ceremony was taking place on Queen Victoria’s birthday, and the President wasn’t about to appear in front of a large crowd without his good luck charm. Funny how a man who was fearless in battle could be so paranoid about his safety in a big city.

  The metal man had been on a mission all the way in New Mexico Territory taking out some kid who had been on a killing spree ever since killing a lawman named Pat Garrett. Apparently, it drove him over the edge when he realized who it was he shot. They sent a train out there special, just to race Blastbucket back for the Commander-in-Chief’s safety. Good thing, too, since there was another attempt on the President’s life during the ceremony. Nothing fancy, just the typical firearm up the sleeve, like the guy who had tried it at the train station a couple of years earlier.

  Why any man would think he could get a shot at the President with the metal man around is beyond me. As soon as the assassin stepped up and revealed his weapon, Blastbucket was right there in front of him. In about a second, he had crushed the pistol in his grip—while it was still in the man’s hand. The assassin let out the same blood-curdling scream I had heard emanate from many an Indian on the battlefield, and then collapsed onto the bridge as he passed out from the pain. I heard it took the doctors hours to separate the metal from the flesh afterwards. The crowd roared and applauded at having seen their national hero in action, and saving their popular leader to boot. But in all the commotion of people pushing forward to get near the metal man, nobody noticed a small child who had climbed up onto the guard rail to get a better look. Nobody except Blastbucket, who was so much taller than everyone else it could see over the crowd. When the boy started to slip, the metal man moved as fast as the gears in its suit would take it. I’m sure more than a few toes were crushed as it waded through the crowd, more concerned with saving the boy than with watching out where it was stepping.

  Blastbucket reached the boy just as he started to slip off. It grabbed the child and was able to toss him to some nearby onlookers just as it lost its own balance. Time seemed to slow as the metal man went over the side of the bridge. There was a collective gasp from the crowd, followed by silence as everyone waited to see what would happen. A few seconds later there was a huge splash from below as Blastbucket went into the East River. The President ordered a full-scale search of the river, and they tried to find it for weeks, but didn’t have any luck.

  That’s where I come in. With the metal man’s creator long dead and the economy still slowly recovering from the last Great Panic, there was no way the Feds were building another one any time soon. But the country had gotten used to the idea of having a hero to take out the biggest threats and protect the President, so they decided to create one.

  I was flattered at first, thinking they actually considered me some kind of crackerjack since they chose me for the big job. That wasn’t it at all. They were just looking for a loyal soldier who would keep his mouth shut, follow orders, and most importantly, could fit the new suit they created. It probably also helped that I was at the Little Bighorn with the President. The reason I worked for the Colonel in the first place was because I had saved him from a bullet during the battle, although he seemed mighty upset at my method.

  “Young man,” he had said. “I appreciate your diligence.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I replied.

  “But might you have found some other cover besides my own horse?”

  Apparently, he really liked that horse.

  But it did manage to make me known to the Colonel, and after he was elected, he asked that I be part of the detail that guarded the President’s Mansion. And following the assassination attempt at the train station, he had me with him most of the time, especially since Blastbucket was being used all across the country.

  The new suit, of course, was nothing like the metal man outfit. It took them over a year to create it, with the help of the nation’s best scientists, including Mr. Edison and some young European gentleman who had recently begun working for him.

  It was mostly leather, with various parts made of some new bullet-stopping material, all buckled together. They gave me two weapons, which I wore in holsters on each side of my hips. The first they called the mini-cannon, which shot huge projectiles that could take off a man’s arm or leg. The other was the lightning gun, which shot a burst of electricity capable of taking down an elephant.

  Then there was the mask they made me wear so I’d be easier to replace if any great harm came to me. It had special lenses in the goggles that helped me see in the dark or through thick smoke. And, finally, I needed a helmet for safety because of the fanciest feature—a rocket pack that they strapped to my back.

  The rocket may have seemed like a good idea to whomever it was that came up with it, but I assure you, in practice it was no easy thing to maneuver. For six months I worked with it nearly every day and was still more likely to run myself into a wall or a tree than reach my target. So whenever they showed me off to the public, they always made sure it was in an open field with no obstacles.

  Two years later I hadn’t gotten much better at flying with it when Blastbucket returned.

  It was only by chance that I happened to be at the President’s Mansion when the ruckus began, since by then I was spending most of my time touring the country and going on special missions. The President was signing an historic document completing the annexation of the Northwest Territories and wanted me there, which wasn’t surprising considering the ceremony had notable representatives from Great Britain and Canada, including Louis Riel, whose recent rebellion had given Custer his opening to grab a huge corridor of land connecting the U.S. to Alaska. When Indian leaders who had escaped to Canada after the Little Bighorn began rallying tribes there to come back and resist, the U.S. used it as an excuse to move the army north. Against President Grant’s wishes, Custer had taken the lead in not only capturing the tribes, but setting up an occupation of the area to ostensibly protect the U.S. from future invasions. The idea was very popular with the American people, and that made it difficult for Grant to put an end to it. Several years later, when the Métis people started their second uprising, the cavalry supported them with the understanding that they would join the U.S. if they succeeded.

  So there I was, standing behind the President and some other important muckety-mucks when the incident began. It started out front with people cheering at the sight of their long-missing hero making its mysterious return. A crowd gathered around it and started following it toward the front door of the Executive Mansion. The two soldiers who guarded the door weren’t sure what to do. On the one hand the metal man had served as the President’s bodyguard on many an occasion, so they figured it had to be safe. On the other hand, they had no idea whose control it was under, since it had been gone for so long.

  After looking at one another and at the gathering crowd, they decided to let it pass (as if they really had a choice). After all, it seemed like everything was fine so far. But that all changed in an instant when the metal man threw the soldiers aside and crashed through the front door, turning it to splinters.

  The metal man pushed through the reporters and photographers and headed straight for the President. The other guards shot at it, but the bullets just bounced off as usual, and Blastbucket took them all out within seconds.

  I pulled out my sidearms hoping to at least slow it down, and shot the mini-cannon first. Not only did it not even put a dent in the thing, it barely scratched the black paint. I got luckier with the lightning pistol, which seemed to affect its circuitry. I fired directly at the center of its chest, and it became enveloped in blue electricity. This caused it to come to a standstill momentarily—long enough for the President to run out the back doors and get out of firing range at least. When it started to move again, it didn’t try to walk, but raised its arm to point in my direction. I covered my face with my arms just in time to block the flames that shot from its arm cannon.

  They had tested my suit under similar conditions before, but this was the first time I had to face something like this for real. It got hotter than hell, but the specially-treated leather withstood the high temperature, and I was able to dive for cover behind a large table.

  Blastbucket headed outside after the President and I rushed out in pursuit. A couple of times it turned and shot its flames at me, so I had to stop and cover my face. There was no way I could catch up in time, so I put my head down and aimed right at the metal man’s back, figuring I’d most likely break my neck on impact. But I thought it’d give the President some time to escape if I could at least knock the thing over. As soon as I fired the rocket, however, I knew my trajectory was off and I was going to overshoot it by at least a couple of feet. Everything was a blur as I shot past, directly over its head, but I did manage to grab hold of the thing’s helmet as I flew by. I felt a momentary tug, and then it came loose and flew out of my hands.

  I managed to cut the power to the rocket before I ran into a tree, and found myself hitting the ground with my shoulder and rolling uncontrollably. I found out later I had separated my shoulder, but at the time I was too wrapped up with what was happening to pay any mind to the pain. When I recovered from the fall, I saw Blastbucket trying to find the helmet I’d torn off. I tried to get a look at the face of the person in the suit, but all I could see was long, black hair. I gave my rocket a short burst of power and was right next to it.

  I finally got a glimpse of the person in the metal suit, and it was such a shock that I froze where I stood. It was a young Indian girl, probably in her teens, with a round face and dark eyes full of hatred. She glared at me and then swung a giant metal arm, swatting me to the ground. She bent down with her hands outstretched and reached for my throat. I thought I was done for, when suddenly a shot rang out and I was sprayed with blood as the girl fell onto her back.

  I turned and saw the President with a revolver in his hand, still aimed where Blastbucket had stood a moment before. I crawled over to see if she was alive, and saw that the bullet had grazed her skull. She turned her head and looked at me.

  My mouth was so dry that I could barely speak. “Why? Who are you?” I asked.

  “My name…is They Fear Her, daughter of Crazy Horse.” A tear ran down her cheek. “I am here to kill Yellow Hair and avenge my father.”

  I had heard of Crazy Horse. He was one of the best warriors the Lakota had, and had killed several soldiers himself before Blastbucket took him down.

  I pulled off my mask and showed They Fear Her the large scars that crisscrossed my face. “I understand wanting vengeance. I’ve spent much of my life fighting your people for what they did to me and my family. But somewhere it has to stop.”

  I saw the hatred begin to leave her eyes as she stared into mine.

  Then I heard the familiar sound of a hammer being drawn back on a revolver. “Get back.” I turned and saw the President close behind me, his pistol pointed directly at They Fear Her’s face. “I said, ‘out of the way.’”

  I stood up and put myself directly in front of They Fear Her. “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t do that.”

  Looking into the President’s eyes, I knew right away that me being in the way wasn’t going to stop him from firing. When I saw the bright light, I figured it was the flash from his pistol and was ready for the impact. But it wasn’t.

  The flash was followed by several more, from the cameras of the photographers who had managed to catch up to us, along with the reporters. The President turned and looked at them, seeming to come out of a fog.

  “Someone find a doctor!” I shouted, as the reporters started shouting questions at both the President and me.

  *****

  I was surprised by the outpouring of sympathy for They Fear Her from the American public. Most people didn’t blame her for wanting revenge, and the President’s popularity had already been waning. When people saw the pictures of him pointing the gun at the helpless girl’s head, it didn’t help matters, even if she had been trying to kill him. That was probably the only thing that saved her from being executed for the assassination attempt.

  We never did find out how They Fear Her ended up with the Blastbucket suit. She refused to tell us because she didn’t want to implicate anyone else, but there were many rumors going around for a long time. Most of them contained a combination of medicine men creating spells and the British government helping out in retaliation for what they claimed was a planned invasion of Canada all along. Supposedly, they had gotten hold of some secret plans called “Operation Arnold,” named after the American Revolutionary War hero who had been killed trying to capture Quebec City. Not wanting to start a third war with the U.S., they had taken the espionage route instead.

  Meanwhile, the newspaper reports made me look like a great fighter and an expert pilot—a real crackerjack—since they thought I had done it all on purpose. Who was I to set them straight? And since my face had been plastered all over the front pages of newspapers around the country, I wouldn’t be so easy to replace anymore.

  As for ol’ Custer, he was just glad he had the damn suit back.

  Beneath Familiar Suns

  Konstantine Paradias

  Some might argue that it was chance rather than necessity that had Phlogiston Kane perform a perfect circle around the Universe, all the way back to dear old Earth. Others might say it was fate and the invisible machinations of the cosmos, arranged by a millennia-old mind.

  Regardless of the above, it was cosmic irony that arranged for Prague to be his point of impact, in the district where he had been born and raised, before he plagued himself with immortality.

  Phlogiston Kane entered the solar system at a speed exceeding that of observable light, particles of aether dancing around him as elegantly as ballet dancers, floating in the void, swept up in their cosmic reverie. Like a comet, silent and unstoppable, he careened past Pluto and entered Neptune’s atmosphere, his aura briefly brushing with the methane-rich surface.

  The planet ignited seconds after his passing, its primitive race of people (philosophers and artists all) incinerated in a matter of moments. Kane, caught inside his eons-long trajectory, trapped in this state of perpetual motion, barely noticed.

  He crossed the horizon of Uranus, shining like a miniature sun. The great lumbering beasts on the planet’s surface, which experienced time at the rate of a thousand sunsets a minute, noticed his burning aura as a passing flash on the facets of the great icicle plains.

  He set the rings of Saturn aflame in his passing and the silicon life-forms on its surface (whose lives were quick successions of moments, human lives seeming to them divine and inalienable as mountains, with minds that could outrace human thought) took it for a clear sign of divine presence. By midday, they discovered organized religion. By afternoon, Crusades. By nighttime, they had done their best to forget about divinities once again.

  *****

  Kane’s passing from Saturn did not, however, go unnoticed on Earth. As a matter of fact, it occurred according to schedule for the ancient intelligence, the very intelligence which had arranged for his coming. Stirring the waters of the ancient pool on the top of the world where it dwelt, it reached its way into the thoughts of a single man. A man, who had attended to it since the time before history.

  Without a word or sign of acknowledgement, the man opened his eyes (crusted over by frost), shook the ice from his plain silk robe (tattered and faded, its once bright orange now the color of Baltic amber) and started on his way, to his appointed destination.

  *****

  As he crossed through Jupiter, he was tickled by the gentle caress of its perpetually fusing core, the killing radiation soothing against his face. He danced among the great whales of Jupiter and watched them with the corner of his eye, as the behemoths tried to catch him in their great maws, their baleens snapping together silently with the force of crashing continents.