Do you remember a few weeks ago, when I rhapsodized about my love of powered armor? Well, related to that, I also have a fondness for giant battle tanks, mechs, and other giant armored weapons platforms. Maybe, like other aspects of my personality, it’s thanks to Metal Gear Solid.

The titular “trolls” in this story are massive battle tanks called “Bolos”. Our protagonist is a man named Jackson who has awakened from suspended animation in some sort of military base. He stumbles outside to find the door guarded by one of these huge units. He manages to evade it and sets out to find his way home.

Unfortunately, as often happens in science-fiction stories, he realizes he’s been asleep far longer than he realized, and that the world has turned into a war-torn dystopia. He returns to his old home, and finds it a ruin, inhabited only by an eccentric old man.

Gradually, Jackson learns that this ravaged hell-scape is ruled by a mysterious figure called “the Baron,” who is believed to possess powerful and terrible mana which enables him to control the “troll” guarding his estate—that is, another Bolo. With help from the old man, Jackson makes his way there, and infiltrates one of the Baron’s social gatherings by disguising himself as a haughty officer.

So far, this sounds like a typical post-apocalyptic affair. And it is, but what sets it apart is the style of writing. It’s written like a hardboiled Chandler-esque detective story, with memorable lines and plenty of gallows humor. Darkly comic metaphors and similes abound: “The joy ran out of his face like booze from a dropped jug.” “The grin fell like a stripper’s bra.” etc.

At one point, the old man tells Jackson many of his shotgun shells are spent:

“There are shells–but the magic is gone from many.”

“That’s the way magic is, Pop. It goes out of things before you notice.” 

And then there is this magnificent passage from Jackson’s infiltration of the Baron’s estate, which I cannot resist quoting at length:

This was Baronial country, all right. A pair of guards stood at the far end of the corridor.

I’d passed half a dozen with no more than a click of heels to indicate they saw me. These two shouldn’t be any different—and it wouldn’t look good if I turned and started back at the sight of them. The first rule of the gate-crasher is to look as if you belong where you are.

I headed in their direction.

When I was fifty feet from them, they both shifted rifles—not to present-arms position, but at the ready. The nickle-plated bayonets were aimed right at me. It was no time for me to look doubtful; I kept on coming. At twenty feet, I heard their rifle bolts snick home. I could see the expressions on their faces now; they looked as nervous as a couple of teen-age sailors on their first visit to a joy-house.

“Point those butter-knives into the corner, you banana-fingered cotton choppers!” I said, looking bored and didn’t waver. I unlimbered my swagger-stick and slapped my gloved hand with it, letting them think it over. The gun muzzles dropped—just slightly.

“Heard the rifle bolts snick home!” “Banana-fingered cotton choppers!” It’s all so vivid, and, despite being a tense moment in our hero’s journey, rather funny.

If I have a complaint about the book, it’s that it all moves a little too fast. There a surprising number of plot twists packed into this for a short story, and sometimes it feels like we receive a really head-turning bit of information, but have to move on to the next thing before it’s even been processed. It’s a little like a Twilight Zone episode, if the Twilight Zone had had the budget to build futuristic battle tank sets. Can you imagine?

I highly recommend this story to anybody who enjoys sci-fi adventure or Golden Age pulp stories told with flair and wit. And, of course, to my fellow giant tank enthusiasts. I haven’t talked about it much so as not to spoil anything, but rest assured that the Bolos see plenty of action in the last act of the story.