Holding the Fort: The Storm Follows

By Ryan Peek

After thwarting the machines' newest attempt at taking over the world, Ethan and his squad from Blackwoods must go back to the year 1999 and destroy the malevolent artificial intelligence that started it all.

Through an epic road trip chock-full of perils and pitfalls, Team Blackwoods races to a small town outside Mount Rainier to intercep

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pebbyville Press
• Release date: Nov 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781735706085

Ryan Peek

Ryan Peek is the author of the Young Adult Sci-Fi book series Holding the Fort. The series is based on an idea he's had for a long time. Or possibly, it's based on the true story of him and his friends thwarting a robot rebellion while living near a secret military research facility during the summer before eighth grade. Either way, whatever you believe, he hopes this book teaches you never to turn your back on the machines.The author lives in Indiana with his wife, Erika, and two genius cats (Holly and Pippi) who have made two points quite clear: One, they will never be setting paw inside a Chrono-Warp. And two, they now find the author's blond hair to be kind of creepy.www.ryanpeek.com www.facebook.com/ryanpeekbooks

Book preview

Chapter 1

No Deal

The massive room that had once housed the Chrono-Warp was now nothing more than a blown-out crater inside the research facility. The air was thick with vaporized debris, and piles of twisted metal and concrete rubble littered the area, mounded fifty feet high in some places. Occasionally, here and there, weak blue bolts of electricity would fizzle and crackle through the mess, but they were the last traces of life the Chrono-Warp showed now. Ethan’s father’s final act on earth had not been in vain. The Chrono-Warp machine lay in ruins, completely destroyed.

Beyond the dust cloud of the gutted room, a faint red glow was getting brighter. The Zyvantian-type Skulley entered the room first, stepped over a pile of clutter, and stood on a rare clear patch of floor. It took a moment to observe the disaster, and evaluate the setback. A dozen or so Human-type Skulleys followed along into the room, stepping over a few of their dead and dismembered comrades as they moved. Their eyes burned an intense crimson as they scanned over what was left of the time machine. The Skulleys began to communicate with each other in furious, high-pitched buzzes and hums. But one angry machine stood out above the others: their leader—the tall, lanky being with an oversized cranium and large almond-shaped eyes that seemed to stalk their prey. Those eyes now resembled high-powered searchlights bathed in a pool of blood. Sinister. Demonic. Evil.

The Zyvantian-type machine spun around quickly and faced the other Skulleys. It belted out an ear-splitting screech and backhanded one of them across the face, sending it flying into a pile of shattered concrete. The rest of the Human-type Skulleys backed away from their incensed leader.

Then a large-framed man covered head to toe in dust entered the room. It was General Turnbull. He owed his survival to the thick, steel blast-proof walls of the research facility, and his innate ability to somehow always find cover in the nick of time. He was not unlike a cockroach in that way. There was no hiding from this, though—he had made the group’s escape possible.

The machine stared at General Turnbull with those hateful, bright crimson eyes. The general decided to speak first, gain the initiative as they called it in the military. He spoke as strongly as he could, but his words were laced with weakness. He knew any one of them could be his last. I’m sorry…but my son was on that platform. And you promised me you wouldn’t kill him…I just reacted.

You know that reasoning will not keep you alive, General, the machine said coldly.

General Turnbull bowed his head in resignation. Then he looked up with an idea glistening in his eyes. I can help you, you know…I did before, and I can now.

The Zyvantian machine spoke in a low voice tinged with vibration. Go ahead, General. Tell me how.

General Turnbull nodded quickly and wiped some dust from his eyes. Once you rebuild the Chrono-Warp, you’re going after them…Right?

"Oh, that is very, very right," the machine said, its voice eager, ominous, and extremely determined.

Okay, then…Take me with you, the general said, sounding nearly as determined. I can track them down. I know those boys, not just my son, all of them. It will help you having a human along. The best person to track a human is a human. General Turnbull stepped closer, then looked at the machine pleadingly. I promise, if you give me a chance, I will find them.

Tell me, General, the machine said. If you’re such a good tracker of young humans, where and when exactly do you think they’re headed?

General Turnbull stood up straight and clenched his fists, summoning his last reserve of courage for the negotiation. I’ll tell you both, but you’ll have to take me with you, and you have to make me a promise.

The head Skulley’s slit of a mouth crooked upward, though it wasn’t a smile, more an expression of intense irritation. Fine, General…Tell me, what is it that you want?

The general took another wipe at his eyes. A line of dust streaked with tears ran across his face. He drew a tight breath and spoke. All I want is a promise that you won’t kill my son. He swallowed hard and said, You can kill everyone else. I’ll help you do it…Just not him.

The machine’s bright red eyes dimmed a few shades. "And that is all you want?"

Yes, yes, I promise, General Turnbull said with earnest eyes.

I see, the machine said. You do make a good point…Who better to find humans than another human?

Exactly, that’s exactly right, General Turnbull added enthusiastically.

The forbidding Zyvantian-type machine nodded for a moment, then abruptly stopped and stared hard at the general. Its eyes were getting redder and more sinister.

That’s a very generous offer, General, the machine began calmly, "but the problem is we’ve never really honored a deal with a human before…And since all we have to do is peek into your tiny little mind to get the answer, I see no need to start now. The Zyvantian Skulley’s eyes reached a blistering, blinding shade of crimson. No deal, General."

The machine grabbed General Turnbull’s head and yanked it forward, toward its blazing blood-red orbs. Lasers blasted out from the machine’s eye sockets and slammed into the general’s. He howled in pain and desperately tried to shut his eyes, but another Skulley came from behind and clamped them open, and held him steady. The general flailed and thrashed, and he managed to free a hand. He punched it quickly into his pocket. When his hand came out, the Zyvantian Skulley saw a brief flash of light reflected off a shard of polished stainless steel—a pocketknife, the kind the general had already given his eldest son, but one he hadn’t yet found occasion to give his youngest. General Turnbull used every bit of muscle in his arm and sank the three-inch blade into his own neck. The general gasped and became limp in the Zyvantian Skulley’s hands.

Noooooo! the Zyvantian Skulley shouted. The human worthless to it now, the machine let go of Turnbull, and he hit the ground with a thud.

The head Skulley leaned over the general as he choked and retched his last seconds away. It watched him die with scathing eyes. The last thing General Turnbull heard in this world was the Skulley’s brutally cold, pitiless words. The machine bent down and spoke them right into his ear. "If at all possible, I will kill your son first…I wanted you to know that."

General Turnbull’s eyes slowly closed, with a final tear streaking down his dusty cheek. Then the last breath his body had in it seeped away, along with all his regrets. The Zyvantian machine fired a single, angry, pointless shot into the general’s chest. As the laser struck and vaporized flesh, a red-tinged dust cloud puffed out of his soiled officer’s jacket and burned away into nothingness.

The head Skulley’s eyes finally went dark, which didn’t make it look any kinder. Those hateful black orbs seemed to slowly swallow the space around them. How long will it take to rebuild the Chrono-Warp? the machine asked of anyone willing to answer.

One Skulley stepped forward. It took the humans almost two years to build…But we could do it in four weeks.

The Zyvantian machine turned sharply toward the Skulley. We don’t have four weeks! it yelled in a harsh, vibrating, gravelly voice. The machine thought for a moment, then spoke in the chilling voice of a serial killer without remorse. Execute the remaining humans in Blackwoods. Then bring all the machines back here. We will work nonstop, day and night, on the Chrono-Warp until it is operational…And find out exactly where and when those humans were transported.

The other machines nodded obediently. The Zyvantian Skulley cracked a small, wicked smile. Its eyes somehow seemed to get even darker as it stared at General Turnbull’s dead body on the floor. The next time I look into the eyes of a dead human, I want to be leaning over the lifeless bodies of those five kids.

One Human-type Skulley turned to the leader. But there were six kids.

Yes, the head Skulley said, its small crook of a smile vanishing. But that sixth one is one of us…I have a special punishment in mind for it.

Chapter 2

Smooth-Talking

The team walked along the shoulder of a lonely state road in North Central Idaho, in the direction of a town called Romero. It was getting close to noon, and they had been walking for about two hours at a pretty good clip. The sun was beating down on them now, hanging in the gap between the pines that flanked the road. It was a hotter-than-average summer’s day, and, with the exception of Andy, sweat dripped down everyone’s face as they lugged their supplies. Each had a backpack, and they took turns carrying the large duffel bag and metal briefcase, despite Andy’s open offer to carry it all. Caleb looked especially exhausted as he brought up the rear of the group, straggling behind the others by more than a few paces.

Caleb stopped walking, squinted into the sun, and wiped the back of his hand over his forehead, clearing some perspiration that was just about to hurdle his eyebrows and find a resting spot in his eyes. He bent over and put his hands on his knees. How far have we walked, Andy? he asked wearily.

The group looked back and stopped when they saw Caleb. Then Andy said, We’ve gone just a little over seven miles.

Seven? Caleb muttered in disbelief. Feels like seventy.

Ethan set his backpack down on the ground. He wiped his own forehead, then said, Yeah…We could all use a break.

They walked off the shoulder of the road and plopped down under the first tree they found. They stretched their legs out and opened their backpacks, then took a few sips of tepid water from their canteens. Caleb lay back and spread out like a starfish on the ground. He let out an exhausted groan. The rest of the group wondered if he might ever get back up.

You okay, Caleb? Glenn asked.

Caleb nodded without saying a word. It was hardly convincing.

Andy stood over Caleb, watched him on the ground for a moment, totally motionless, then said, Caleb, if you want to, you can ride on my back the rest of the way to Romero.

Caleb opened one squinty eye and looked at Andy. He saw enough of him to understand that the offer was real. And Caleb gave it serious consideration, too. Finally, he shook his head and cracked a smile, realizing how ridiculous they would seem to any onlookers passing by on the road. Making matters worse was that Caleb was a fair bit larger than Andy. It wouldn’t just look stupid, it would look abusive. And the last thing they needed now was to attract attention to themselves. It was probably strange enough to people driving by that six kids were alone on the highway, but one boy riding another for long stretches of road—like a husky cowboy riding a miniature horse—would definitely turn heads. And just might prompt a call to the police.

No…but thanks, anyway, Andy, Caleb said.

The rest of the group appreciated Andy’s offer as the thoughtful gesture it was, but that didn’t stop anyone from getting a good chuckle from it. Andy laughed a little too, but he wanted Caleb to know the option was still there.

All right, let me know if you change your mind.

Caleb laughed louder, the idea really hitting his funny bone now. Okay, I will, he stammered through breathless fits of chuckling.

Andy seemed to catch the laughter bug from Caleb, then everyone in the group was soon laughing their guts out under the shade of the pine trees by the highway in the middle of nowhere. Letting loose felt good, relaxed them, and somehow gave their legs a shot of energy.

Ethan was the first to make it back to his feet and strap his backpack back on, followed shortly by Annika. Then the others followed suit, with Caleb prying himself from his starfish-resting position last. They dusted themselves off, gathered their gear, and resumed walking toward Romero.

*

They had seen only four cars on the highway since they’d begun their walk. The group’s main worry was that some concerned adult driving by would wonder what six kids were doing in such a remote location—without supervision—and stop to check that everything was all right and that their parents were close by. No one had stopped yet, but people had surely cast suspicious glances at them, looking at them as if they might be runaways. Even though it was summer and they wouldn’t be expected to be in school, it was only a matter of time until someone stopped and pressed the issue, asked some questions. When they heard the tires of a car chewing the rough asphalt on the shoulder of the road, then coming to a stop behind them, everyone knew that time had come.

The group turned slowly to face the car. The nervous knot in their throats slowly eased when they realized it wasn’t a police car. The vehicle was a large Buick sedan, with three little kids in the back and their mom and dad in the front. The parents had concerned expressions on their faces as they watched the group, trying to figure out what to make of them. They glanced at each other one last time, then the mom rolled down her window on the passenger side.

Hi, there, the woman said, sounding very friendly as she leaned out of her window a little. Are you guys okay?

Ethan walked slowly toward the car with the friendliest, most composed look he could stamp on his face. Hi. Oh, yeah…we’re fine. Just hiking. Great day for a hike.

The mom glanced at her husband again. They both looked skeptical of Ethan’s answer. The mom leaned out of the window again and passed her eyes over the group, examining them carefully. Where are your parents? she asked, her tone shifting a bit from friendly to accusing.

Everyone in the group had known that question was coming, but Austin still looked annoyed. He furrowed his brow and said, Look, lady…we’re like fourteen years old. We don’t need our parents to go on a hike.

Ethan shot a warning look at Austin, but the damage had already been done. The mom scowled at Austin, then eyed her husband and nodded. He picked up a cell phone that looked like it belonged in an ancient history museum and started punching buttons. Austin cringed, realizing too late that he should’ve kept his thoughts to himself.

Ethan stepped closer to the car. He smiled, extra friendly-like, and said, I’m sorry about that. We’re all kinda tired and cranky. Then Ethan put his actor face on and performed like a master. He pointed up the road. We’re meeting our parents in the next town. Our families are camping, on vacation together.

The man stopped dialing mid-number. The parents glanced at each other again, then the mom asked, And what town is that?

Romero, Ethan answered quickly, knowing full well that her question was really a test. We’re just under two miles away now. We made this exact same hike yesterday. We got tired and cheated then too—walked on the road the last two miles of the hike, he said, chuckling innocently.

Ethan’s explanation and charm seemed to satisfy the woman. The mom slowly nodded and even smiled. All right then, she said. Sorry to bother you.

No problem, Ethan said, innocent smile plastered to his face. Then he went all-in to seal the deal, to make sure this lady wasn’t going to be a problem two miles down the road. Thanks for your concern. Funny thing is, we already went through this once yesterday when a police car pulled up. He had to talk to our parents before he let us come out again today…That’s why my friend over there was such a Mr. Grouchy Bottoms. Ethan motioned to Austin, who smiled bashfully and waved on cue.

Oh, I see, the mom said with a giggle. She had swallowed Ethan’s every word—hook, line, and sinker. Well, that makes me feel so much better. Thank you.

"No, thank you," Ethan said, grinning like an angel now.

The woman nodded and returned every bit of Ethan’s smile, then rolled her window up. She waved to the group as they drove away.

The team sighed a big breath of relief. Wow, Ethan, Annika snickered. You really know how to suck up to parents.

Yeah, even better than me, Austin quipped.

Thanks, Ethan said with a wry smile.

Austin glanced at Ethan and grinned. Mr. Grouchy Bottoms, huh?

Ethan laughed. Yeah, just popped into my head.

Everyone had a good laugh at that.

Chapter 3

A Call to Arms

The team hadn’t even stepped foot inside the town limits of Romero, yet they could already tell this was a one-horse town. And barely, at that. "Population: 70" was what the welcome sign said, but that number seemed like a wild exaggeration. There was one diner, one gas station, and one general store. A lone stoplight cut the town in half, and the highway ran through it like it was eager to get out of there. Trees surrounded the modest clearing, with the area seeming much more like a rest stop than an actual town.

There were no visible houses or apartment buildings or any other obvious place where a human might call home. Ethan and the others figured the townsfolk had to live in the woods—in cabins, shacks, or something in-between. All they could see now that indicated people were around were four beat-up pickup trucks, one in front of the general store and three parked outside the diner. A blue and red neon OPEN sign flickered on the window of the diner, with a large part of the E missing.

Austin held his stomach as it growled. Anyone else hungry? he asked.

Everyone nodded in agreement, Andy excepted.

*

A bell flicked and rang above the door when the group entered the diner. They didn’t want the extra attention, but they got it anyway. Every soul in the place stopped what they were doing and stared at the six young strangers in the doorway. At least it wasn’t a busy day. Or maybe it was, for all they knew. The patrons consisted of four mountainous men crammed inside a booth in the corner and one scraggly, rail-thin man at the bar. A couple was standing behind the counter, presumably the proprietors of the diner, looking like Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus if the jolly old fellow had lost some of his belly. They both stared at the group along with the others, but their faces were rosy and friendly. The faces of the other men, not so much.

Well, c’mon in, said the couple who bore a resemblance to the first family of the North Pole. Their smiles were warm and inviting. They motioned to a booth on the opposite side of the room from the burly men’s table, the only one that could accommodate a party of six. Have a seat, be witcha in a minute, the lady told them.

The group shuffled over to the booth, stowed their supplies securely under the table, and slid inside. Slowly, the five other patrons lost interest in the young intruders. The scraggly man at the bar grunted a little, then turned back around in his seat and resumed his conversation with himself. The four men in the other corner of the room, who were each as broad as a barn and decked out in flannel shirts and durable work jeans, turned to their lunches—a steaming, heaping pile of roast beef and mashed potatoes spilling over an oversized plate. They ravenously scooped up their food with tablespoons and aimed for their pie holes, which were surrounded by a thicket of whiskers. The men had beards so thick and dense, they could be harboring refugees of war inside them. And their feeding time was hard to watch—like carnivores in a zoo, the big ones, when they were chowing down on something meaty and raw. No one wanted to see that. The group soon had to look away to save their stomachs.

The friendly woman who could pass as Mrs. Claus hustled over to their table with a stack of menus in her hand. Hi, welcome to Smitty’s Diner. I’m Ruthie, I’ll be takin’ care of you. She passed out the menus quickly, flipping them like poker cards. Everyone in the group was instantly reminded of Judy Dupree and her diner back in Blackwoods. Both ladies were about seventy years old, both acted and moved like they were much younger, and both made you feel right at home with their winning personalities. This diner was far more ramshackle than Judy’s establishment, with paint peeling off in spots on the walls and rips in the vinyl booth seats, but it possessed the same kind of welcoming charm. Watching Ruthie flit about the room, the team felt a strange sense of déjà vu.

Is it just you guys, or will your parents be joining you? Ruthie asked without a trace of judgment in her voice.

Just us, Ethan said. Our parents are still out hiking…We’re all on vacation together.

The lie was getting tiresome already. But they had to stick to it, at least in a place as tiny and remote as Romero, or someone would eventually involve the police. Every adult that asked them had to be made to believe that their parents were out there somewhere close. They were deep in National Forest territory now, prime camping ground all around them, so the hiking story seemed appropriate. It had worked well so far, at least.

Which trail are they doing today? Ruthie asked.

The group froze. They hadn’t the foggiest answer to give to that question. Ethan flashed a quick smile and said, I think they’re doing all of them…They’re pretty crazy.

Now those trails are real rough, Ruthie said. They must be in great shape.

Yeah, Ethan said. Better than us…That’s why we’re here instead, he said with a disarming chuckle.

Caleb rubbed his belly vigorously, shaking it up and down, and added, Yep…Too much soda and video games here.

That made Ruthie laugh hard, which helped everyone in the group relax a bit. She took their orders, then bounded off behind the counter and into the kitchen.

Caleb noticed that his shirt was hiked up and his fish-white belly exposed from where he’d been rubbing it. He rolled his eyes, then said with a healthy dose of sarcasm, "Now that’s a good look." He quickly pulled his shirt down hard with both hands.

Glenn leaned in close to the others and in a hushed voice said, "We have got to get out of this town, or whatever you call it, before they realize our parents aren’t playing hike in the woods and that we’re really all alone."

I know, Ethan said. Andy, what’s the nearest town? And I mean a real town, somewhere that might be big enough to have a bus station.

Andy nodded. Accessing satellites now. His eyes seemed to drift in a daze as he searched. They soon became focused again, and he came back with an answer. Shoals. The town of Shoals, home of the Jug Rox, population four thousand.

That’ll seem like New York City compared to this place, Austin quipped.

Glenn snickered. No kidding.

How far away is it? Annika asked.

Andy paused before his answer, hesitating for a reason. Sixty-three miles.

Everyone’s face dropped. Caleb’s looked the worst. The math hit him like a rock. Sixty-three miles. It would be like walking the distance they had just covered—seven times! He stared awkwardly at Andy. Sooooo, Andy…Is that ride on your back thing still available?

Andy nodded earnestly. Sure.

Ethan shook his head. No one’s riding anybody. And we’re not walking to Shoals.

So, how are we gonna get there? Annika asked.

I don’t know, Ethan answered. But I’m hoping we’ll think better on full stomachs.

*

Everyone on Team Blackwoods gobbled up their food quickly, and just about as messily as the roughnecks on the opposite side of the room. There was little in the way of conversation while any scraps were on the table. They had been ravenous and were still somewhat hungry after they’d picked their plates clean. But they only had twenty-eight dollars and sixteen cents, and that had to cover five meals, tax, and a tip if they didn’t want to wear out their welcome.

With their stomach pangs gone, they went back to pondering their problems. Annika stared out the window, not a casual glance, but a focused stare. It was like she was on guard duty already, expecting Skulleys at any moment to jump out of the forest that surrounded the town.

What kind of lead do you think we have on the machines? Annika asked, never taking her worried eyes away from the window.

That’s hard to know, Ethan said. Then he spoke with a hitch in his voice, eyes soft. What my dad did at the end…you know…had to buy us some time. Ethan stiffened his jaw, then passed the question off. What do you think, Caleb?

Your dad said the machines didn’t know the location of the crash site, so that gives us an advantage. And they’ll have to rebuild the Chrono-Warp. Caleb paused for a moment and looked outside the window with Annika. "But they’re extremely intelligent and they’ll be desperately motivated…They will figure out a way to track us. And they won’t stop until they kill us or we complete the mission. It’ll all come down to a race, the most important race in the history of the world."

There was a solemn moment of silence on their end of the room. On the other end, the massive lumberjacks were whooping it up, arm-wrestling each other, and goofing around like kids a fraction of their age. The team watched them for a moment and wished they could be as carefree as that table of adults. Slowly, they looked back at each other.

Then I guess we better complete the mission…win the race, Annika said with determination in her voice.

Copy that, Austin said, echoing Annika’s resolve. And we sure as heck can’t be walking every mile of the race.

Just then, Ruthie walked up and slipped the check on the table. Take your time, guys. No rush, she said with a friendly smile. Nice meeting you all. Make sure to send your folks this way when they get back, ya hear?

Thanks, Ethan said. We will.

Ruthie nodded and winked, then went back behind the counter. Glenn picked up the check, read it, and frowned. We’re gonna need money…and fast.

How much is it? Ethan asked.

Twenty-five and change, Glenn answered. After a slim tip, we’re flat broke.

Austin watched the arm-wrestling men across the room for a moment, then eyed Glenn. You could see if someone wants to buy one of your baseball cards or autographed balls?

Glenn looked reluctant. I wouldn’t get fair money for it here. I’d rather take it to a collectible shop where I could— Glenn paused as he looked around the room, then outside into the woods. He sighed, defeated. Who am I kidding? We need whatever we can get. Finally, he reached underneath the table and grabbed his backpack. He unzipped it and retrieved an autographed Hank Aaron baseball in a protective acrylic case. Sorry, Hank, he said, staring wistfully at the ball.

Glenn was just about to scoot out of the booth and attempt to sell his ball, when Ethan put a hand on his shoulder. Glenn, stop. You can’t sell that ball.

Ethan, it’s okay. We don’t really have a choice. Besides, I have other things to sell in there, including the big one…the Mickey Mantle rookie card.

It’s not that, Ethan said. "I agree we need the money bad, but if we try to raise the money here by selling an autographed Hank Aaron baseball, it’s gonna look suspicious. Like we’re desperate for money. Like we don’t have anyone else to turn to for that…like our parents…who are supposed to be out in the woods hiking, not far away."

Good point, Glenn said. He began to put the baseball back into his backpack, but Ethan stopped him. I have an idea about how to get some money, and not look so desperate…but we’re still gonna need that ball. Glenn looked confused. But Ethan just smiled. Don’t worry…I have a good feeling you’ll be getting it back.

Now everyone looked confused.

Ethan watched the table in the corner, where one burly man’s arm wrestled another down to the table with a loud bang. Then Ethan looked across his own table and said, So, Andy…just how strong are you? Andy shrugged modestly at Ethan’s question. Ethan smiled and said, What do you say we find out?

By that point, everyone at the table knew what was on Ethan’s mind. They cracked nervous smiles. They knew Andy was strong, but the four men at that table in the corner were absolute beasts.

Ethan walked across the room with Andy in tow. The others straggled behind, none terribly eager to rattle the cage of the muscleheads who looked like they could eat them for breakfast. Ethan, Andy, and the others stood silently by their table for a moment. The lumberjacks paid them no mind and continued taking turns arm-wrestling each other. Three of the four men were sleeveless, exposing their cannons for arms. The fourth man had sleeves on his flannel shirt, though they looked like they could break away at any second under the strain of his muscles rippling underneath.

Ethan cleared his throat. Excuse me, guys, he said, sounding far too much like a kid on his first attempt to get their attention. It didn’t work. Then he tried again, deepening his voice. Excuse me, guys.

Finally, the men stopped arm-wrestling and looked at the group, eyeballing them up and down with sour grimaces on their faces. The largest man in the group—six-foot-four and easily three hundred pounds of muscle—stared at Ethan. It seemed like every ounce of muscle he had flexed at once, and that his sleeveless red flannel shirt was begging for mercy, about to be ripped apart at the seams. Yeah…Whattya want? the man grumbled in a gruff voice.

Ethan swallowed hard, then said, I think my friend here can beat any one of you at arm-wrestling. He motioned to Andy, who waved politely at the group.

A chorus of belly laughs and snickering rang out from the table. The men laughed and laughed until their stomachs hurt. "Any one of our sisters could break that puny kid’s arm like a twig," the man in the sleeveless red flannel said, still chuckling.

Ethan nodded, then held up the baseball. Well…this autographed Hank Aaron baseball says you’re wrong about that.

The men smiled at the sight of the ball. You serious? the man in red asked.

Dead serious, Ethan replied. It’s a game ball, worth four hundred…You put up the money and we have a bet.

How do we know the ball is real? one of the other men asked.

The certificate of authenticity is inside the box, Ethan said. It’s the real thing.

The man in red flannel smiled wickedly, then turned to his friends. Well, all right, you heard the man…Cough up the money.

The lumberjacks at the table scoured their pockets and wallets and tossed all of the money they had on the table. The man in red began counting. His face furrowed in disappointment when he had finished. All we got is three-hundred and twenty, he said.

Ethan thought for a moment, giving the man a hard stare. Okay, close enough…We got a bet.

The man in red flannel grinned eagerly. We got a bet, he echoed. Then he eyed Andy. What’s your name, kid?

Andy.

I’m Logan. He looked Andy up and down and shook his head, dumbfounded. "Now what on earth makes you think you got a shot against me, anyway?"

Andy spoke modestly. Arm-wrestling is all about physics…leverage…and I know a little something about that.

Andy’s unique brand of pluck took Logan by surprise. The muscle-bound lumberjack nodded and cracked a respectful smile. I see, he said. Then he flexed his biceps, and they popped up, veins coursing through them like highways on a map. "This is my leverage, he said with a boastful grin. C’mon, now…let’s get this show on the road. Step up or step out, boy."

The booths cleared, and it was just Logan the lumberjack on one side and Andy the android on the other. The physical contrast between them was ridiculous. Andy looked like a small, malnourished boy squaring off against a grizzly bear on steroids. Then they interlocked hand and paw, staring each other in the eye.

You sure you wanna do this, kid? Logan asked. Because a challenge is a challenge. And kid or not, I’m gonna put your hand through this table. Got it?…Last chance to back out.

Andy simply nodded. I’m ready, he said with an eerie calm.

All right, then…Give us a three count, Logan said. He gripped Andy’s hand tighter, engulfing it completely inside his catcher’s mitt of a hand. All of the muscles in his arm stood at attention, poised to fire at will.

One of Logan’s buddies began the countdown. On three, he said. One, two…three!

Logan cocked his arm back and thrust it forward quickly, instantly going for the kill. When his arm hit the twelve o’clock position, it was like he had slammed his hand into a steel wall. Logan stared at Andy with astonished eyes as he strained and grunted, face turning red. But Andy’s arm didn’t budge an inch. Then slowly, only because he didn’t want the match to look too lopsided, Andy began to crank Logan’s arm counterclockwise. The lumberjacks leaned in toward the table, eyes widening, trying to make sense of the impossible. They began to murmur louder and louder. Logan watched his own arm, in utter disbelief the entire time, until the massive slab of meat hit the table with a light thud. He looked up and saw that Andy hadn’t even broken a sweat. It was demoralizing.

Stop messing around! one of the lumberjacks shouted. You let him win, you had to!

Logan just shook his