Captain of the Clouds

Introduction: In January 2016 a small ezine named Aurora Wolf published this alternate history tale. The back story to this alternate timeline seems very appropriate today - the Spanish Flu pandemic in 1918 was much more severe than in our timeline, and as a result it's impact as well as the ensuing quarantines the U.S. has fallen apart into a number of different republics. The story takes place a number of years after that.

Like so many small ezines, Aurora Wolf s gone. but we republish the story here, along with its original art.

CAPTAIN OF THE CLOUDS

By Lou Antonelli

The Second Confederacy used unremarkable biplanes to patrol its side of the international border, but the Greater Texas Republic used helium-filled dirigibles on its side of the Mississippi River--and Billy Greer knew each one by sight.

The Texas airship on patrol the summer of 1936 along river was the Gov. Ferguson, named for the Texas governor when the U.S. imploded in the wake of devastation caused by the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918 and Texas seceded, taking Louisiana and Arkansas with it.  Living in the State of Mississippi side of the river, Billy was a future citizen of the Second Confederacy.

During the summer Billy and his friends would wait every afternoon to see it float past Natchez.  This afternoon, though, Billy was alone.  Some of his friends had been distracted by a report of a dead cat run over on a nearby street.  Billy took advantage of being alone to do something he’d wanted to do for a long time.

On the banks of the river below the southern terminus of the old Natchez Trace trail there was a communal Huck Finn-type raft which had been assembled by the local boys from old pallets and planks.  Billy had always wanted to see an airship up close, but that would mean you would have to go to the far side of the river.

The dirigible always stayed on the other side of the mid-river boundary, inside the limits of the Greater Texas Republic.  In the past, the boys had debated amongst themselves how dangerous it would be to set off across the great river, and had always managed to talk themselves out of it.  Today, Billy decided, he was going to do it himself.

He set out into the river as the first spied the Gov. Ferguson on the northern horizon.  The silvery aluminum exterior glinted in the late afternoon sun.  He estimated that he would be in position on the Louisiana side of the river by the time the aircraft reached him. 

He used a rudder and an oar to maneuver himself.  Despite it being a seat-of-the-pants operation, his plan worked.  The river was at a slow and sluggish summer’s pace, with no currents or eddies strong enough to drive him off course. He sweated profusely, but he succeeded.

It was an impressive sight. The aircraft was 1000 feet long, and it flew only 200 feet above the river by the time it reached Natchez.  Billy had the best seat in the house.

He noticed the ship shuddered slightly as it passed -- as if the steering wheel was being shaken-- and then he saw a panel open on the underside.  Then a mannequin on a rope fell out.

Billy snapped his mouth shut when he realized the “mannequin” was kicking its legs.

It was obvious from the man’s body language that he was looking up frantically as he quickly lowered himself down the full length of the rope, which extended halfway to the water. In a moment he was all the way down.  Then the rope went limp and plunged down past him.

The man spread-eagled himself like a parachutist, obviously intent to slow his descent. Billy began paddling furiously in his direction.  In a moment the man crashed into the Mississippi River.

Billy could hear the engines of the airship rev up as it sped down the river, veering inland towards the Confederate side.

By the time Billy reached where the man had plunged into the water, all he saw were diminishing air bubbles.

Billy was a good swimmer, but there was no way he could try to dive and search for the man.   Then he saw the bubbles increasing.  A moment later the man’s head broke the surface.

He gasped for air and groaned.  Billy called out to him.

“Over here mister, I’m over here!”

The man laboriously turned around as he treaded water and Billy continued to paddle towards him.  As he drew close, Billy extended the paddle and the man grabbed it.

In a moment the man had pulled himself to the edge of the raft.  Billy grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Thanks kid, you’re in the right place at the right time!” the man rasped.

He floated there for a minute, his arms locked on the edge of the raft, as he caught his breath.

“What happened mister?  Did you have an accident?”

The man looked up at Billy. “No son, it’s a mutiny--a hijacking.  They were throwing me overboard, but I managed to a grab a line to break my fall.”

They both heard a motor and turned to see a speedboat coming from Natchez.  In a minute it reached them.  The Mississippi state trooper behind the wheel looks startled as he saw the man bobbing in the water.

“Dear God, Captain August!  What happened?”

Billy took a good look and realized with shock he had just rescued the most famous dirigible captain on the Mississippi River.

The trooper stretched out his arms.  “Let’s get both of you in this here boat, and back to shore, pronto!”

He pulled the airship captain in and then gestured to Billy.

“But my raft!”

“To the devil with your raft,” the trooper said.  “I’ll buy you a rowboat.  We need to get back!”

He quickly hauled Billy in, and gunned the engine as they headed back to Natchez.

“What happened up there?” asked the trooper.

“They crew was infiltrated.  They jumped my men at mess, and then confronted me and the navigator in the cabin,” August said.  “They made him steer at gunpoint, but they grabbed me and dragged me to the hatch.”

“That fall would have killed you!”

“I’m glad I saw the rope and grabbed it as they shoved me out,” August said.  “Thank god the boy was right there,” August said as he grabbed Billy by the shoulder.  “I might have gone under before you got to me.”

There was no radio on the motorboat, but the trooper hopped onto the dock when they pulled in and spoke to some Natchez city policemen, who ran to their patrol cars and got on the radio.

The airship captain turned to Billy.  “Son, I’ve got to run, we’ve got some hijackers to catch.  But thanks for getting me out of the river.”  

He extended his hand.

Billy went to shake it, and as Capt. August pumped it, Billy felt a coin in his palm.  He looked down to see a gold double Eagle.

Billy’s eyes got wide and he looked up at the famous Captain of the Clouds in awe.

The airman winked at him and smiled.  Billy stood at the end of the dock as the adults left to go on the manhunt.

#

Word quickly spread across the small city.  The next morning the headlines in the Natchez Democrat newspaper told the story:

“Capt. August eludes death with help of 11-year old”.

“Authorities baffled – Airship vanishes!”

“U.S. tells Texas Germany probable culprit.”

The German regime led by the bitter ex-corporal who was gassed in the Great War was itching for a rematch with the U.K. and France--secure in the knowledge that this time, the U.S. would not have the resources to come to the aid of them.

Indeed, the U.S. was a shadow of itself after the Spanish Flu pandemic killed 60 percent of its population.  What started as the quarantine between states led to “E Pluribus Unum” becoming “E Pluribus Sixtus” as the central government collapsed.

But the rump U.S. President Al Smith in Washington still had enough clout to convince President Huey Long in the Greater Texas Republic--which now held a monopoly of the element --not to sell the Germans any helium for their airships.

The next morning Billy’s faced glowed brighter than the double eagle Captain August had given him.  All the neighbors wanted to see him, and the other children were pop-eyed in amazement.

Just the previous week, they had seen the newsreel at the Odeon on how the famous airship captain marked the tenth anniversary of patrolling the Mississippi for the Greater Texas Republic.  Between rum runners--Prohibition was still in effect in the Second Confederacy--arms smugglers trying to supply the Mormon insurrection in the Rocky Mountain Republic, and tariff cheats, Capt. August and his small but efficient crew made headlines constantly because of their effectiveness.

“He combines the morals of a Boy Scout with the determination of a U.S. G-man,” wrote a reporter for the Minneapolis Star earlier in the year, in a piece explaining how the stable Texas-Confederacy border benefitted the remnants of the United States which now only straddled the Upper Mississippi.

Mrs. Greer insisted to her husband Billy go to school that day – “Honey, he musn’t get a swelled head!” – but that had the opposite effect.  Billy was the object of everyone’s attention.  Even the teachers stared at him, and talked among themselves.

That afternoon, The Captain of the Clouds himself appeared at the door of Billy’s classroom.  He was accompanied by a Confederate Secret Service agent.

 Capt. August winked at Billy as they spoke to his teacher, who then called Billy to her desk.

“Son, both President Long and President Bilbo have agreed to let Captain August participate in the search for his airship, since it was last seen crossing over into our state,” the CSS agent said.  “Once his airship is recaptured, he would like to have you join the crew as an apprentice airman.”

“Would you like to help me stop smugglers and spies?” asked August.

“Would I!  When do we start?”

“First, I need to get my ship back.  And you can help me find it,” August said, bending at the knees.  “How well do you know Natchez?”

“I know it like the back of my hand,” Billy said.

“Good, you can help me in the search!” August said as he stood up.

“Smart public relations, bringing the kid on board,” the CSS agent side-mouthed.  

August turned so they were face to face.

“Yes, but he really can help, wait and see,” he said.  “I have a gut feeling about this.  I can still fly by the seat of my pants.”

#

After a brief visit to Billy’s parents, Capt. August and Billy were driven to the Mississippi state militia’s barracks, where the Confederate war room for the search was based.

“Stay here on the sidelines and wait, you’re going to be going out on a search,” said August to Billy.

August went over to a table and spoke to a cluster of troopers and agents as he pointed to Billy.  Billy could see they were poring over a large map.

“The airship was last seen heading towards an area of cotton fields and tobacco farms,” an agent said.  “No one lives there, you could lose the moon over that county.”

“Yes, but if it didn’t continue on, where could it be?” asked another.

“If the krauts stole the airship for its helium, they still need to park it someplace while they drain it,” a third said.  “We’ll see it from the air.”

“It may be camouflaged by now,” August said.  “Still, they’ll need to smuggle the helium out somehow.”  He nodded in Billy’s direction.  “That’s why I brought along my Baker Street Irregular.  He’d notice something out of place.”

He gestured to a state trooper.  “Drive him all around this county, and Franklin County, where my ship was last seen.  Let’s see if he notices anything unusual or anyone out of place.”

August went over to Billy.  “I want you to go on a scouting patrol. This trooper is going to drive you all around Adams County, and then you’re going to go out to Franklin County. If you see someone you think looks hinky, or something strange, tell him.”

He shook Billy’s hand very seriously. “You’re my apprentice now,’ he said as he saluted him.

“Yes sir!” Billy barked, returning the salute.

They left, and August went back to the table.

“I don’t see why you think the kid can help,” said a trooper.

“He’s young and uncorrupted, and eager,” August said.  “Another set of eyes can’t hurt. Besides, I’m serious.  A kid like him, with all his moxie--I mean, damn, he fished me out of the Mississippi!--I want him as an apprentice on my airship.”

#

The rest of the afternoon and evening the trooper and Billy were on patrol in Natchez, and then they left Adams County for Franklin County.  Billy peered out the open window of the patrol car like a German police dog, but nothing caught his attention.

Back in Natchez that night, the trooper stopped to get himself and Billy a moon pie and an RC Cola before dropping Billy off at home.  While the trooper was in the store, Billy noticed a large open truck loaded with pressurized tanks being fueled up.

The shiny sign on the side said “Rachen’s Welding Service, Natchez, Ms”.

When the trooper sidled back into the patrol car, Billy pointed to the truck.

“I’ve never seen that truck here before,” he said.

The trooper squinted.  “That’s a lot of acetylene to be carrying.  Come to think of it, who’d be welding this time of night?”

He opened his door.  “Stay inside, but if something happens, get on the radio.”

The trooper walked around the back of the truck and saw the driver, who was leaning on the side smoking.

The trooper drew his weapon.  “Put your hands up, now!”

The cigarette fell from the driver’s mouth as he reached for a shoulder holster.  The trooper shot him in the chest.  A second man came around the front, but when he saw the trooper had him in his sights, he threw his gun down.

The attendant who’d been pumping the gas came around the back, arms raised.

“Don’t shoot!”

“That’s okay, boy, I was talking to these two here,” the trooper said.  “I think we just flushed ourselves out two spies.”

He kept his gun trained on the man at the front.  Billy came running up behind him.

“I called the barracks on the radio!”

“Good job!  You and the boy here take my handcuffs and put them on our friend here while I keep a bead on him.”

#

Billy was sucking down the last of his RC Cola as he listened from his corner in the barracks.

“Your hunch was right, those tanks are full of helium, not acetylene,” said a CSS agent.  “They were planning to sneak the helium to New Orleans in truckloads.”

“I wasn’t much of a hunch,” the trooper said.  “The kraut was smoking.  No welder smokes around acetylene.”

He nodded to August.  “Besides, it was the kid who noticed the truck.  You were right, he’d notice we’d otherwise overlook.”

Another CSS agent spoke up.  “Still, that’s only a fraction of the airship’s helium in those tanks.”

“There’s probably a bunch of other trucks already on the road,” August said.

“All the roads are being watched,” the CSS agent said. “We’ll get them.”

“What about my ship?” asked August.

“The spy says it’s hidden in a tobacco barn in Franklin County,” the agent said.

“A tobacco barn?”

“Yes, it’s long enough to hold it. They brought it flat on the ground and dragged it in. That’s all that was needed, they never planned to fly it out.”

“Bastards!  They probably banged it all to hell,” August snarled.

A florid face interposed itself between the two men.

“Don’t worry, Charlie, we’ll have you back up in the air in no time!”

The CSS agent drew back. “President Long!”

“Took a quick flight over from Baton Rouge to offer my personal congratulations,” said the Greater Texas President as he shook August’s hand.

The Captain sniffed at the fumes.  “It’s really because of the help of the Mississippi state troopers, and also my young apprentice airman over there.”

“Yes, and I have already telegraphed my thanks to President Bilbo,” Long said.  “Is that the boy I read about?  The boy who hauled you out of the river when they gave you the heave-ho?”

Billy had fallen sound asleep in the corner.

“It is,” August said. “Let him sleep. Tomorrow he starts a new life.”

#

“Trey” Greer gazed from the gondola of the aerostat at Natchez on its bluff above the Mississippi River.

“This is it,” said Col. William G. Greer (Ret.) of the Greater Texas Airship Corps. “This is where I was floating on the raft when the German agents stole the Gov. Ferguson and threw Captain August overboard.”

“Wow, I’ve never been here before,” said Billy Greer III.  “Y’all caught them the next day.  What a story!”

“I fell asleep at the barracks that night. They brought me home and put me to bed--I never woke up that night.  President Long was in town, and he gave me a medal at an assembly at school the next day.  The Germans never got their helium. It was a major international incident.  General Goering led the coup that toppled Hitler a few days later.”

“And August took you aboard the airship as soon as it was relaunched?”

“Sure did. I started as a cabin boy, and by the time he retired in 1962, I had worked my way up the ranks to replace him as captain.  Between the two of us, we patrolled the Mississippi River 75 years.”

“What ever happened to Captain August, anyway?” asked the grandson. “After he left the Airship Corps, he like disappeared.”  The teenager looked down the Mississippi towards the Gulf of Mexico.  “It was like he just went off in an airship into the clouds.”

Bill Greer stood next to his grandson.  “Nothing quite so dramatic.  He went to live back where he grew up, which was Minnesota.  Nobody knew he was there.  He’d had enough limelight, he enjoyed the peace and quiet.”

“Minnesota? I thought he was a Texan!”

“No, he adopted a new identity when he joined up with Greater Texas.  He was making cross country mail runs when things fell apart because of the pandemic.  Texas was looking for top-notch airmen for its own air force, and he joined up. They offered a good signing bonus, when they--we --assembled their own air force.  Like when you join the foreign legion, he took a new name.”

He smiled at his grandson. “He was a Swede from Minnesota. He really didn’t change his name, just dropped the last part.  His full name was Charles Augustus Lindbergh.  When he joined up with Texas, he just shortened it to Charlie August.  When he retired, he went back to living as Charles Lindbergh in Little Falls, Minnesota.  He passed away 20 years ago.”

The shadow of the aerostat seemed as long as Natchez atop the river’s bluff.

“Wow, I didn’t know that!  I wonder what would have happened if he had stayed in the U.S. and flew airplanes instead?” Trey asked.

“Who knows?  He probably would have flown the mail run 10, 20 years or until he crashed.  Airplane pilots are a dime a dozen.”

The retired colonel smiled an almost childish grin as they passed by Natchez.

“He never would have been The Captain of the Clouds!”

The old man looked down, and for a second – just for a second – he thought he saw a homemade raft floating across the Mississippi.

-The End-

Berserker􀀀

By Lou Antonelli

My football-scarred ass was floating on a neat little maglev plate in a sonic􀀀
whirlpool. I was just beginning to relax. I had to fill two piss pouches that􀀀
day, the regular daily doping test, which was only going through the􀀀
motions, of course, as well as a second one to show that the regen nanites I􀀀
had taken for my ACL tear had washed out.􀀀
Everyone cheated. You were expected to. Those regen nanites I took􀀀
for the ACL tear--yeah, the ones Doc gave me washed out, but I pumped in􀀀
some silicon ones gray-marketed from Vilnus. I got them from a trainer.􀀀
Those little Lithuanian buggers didn’t react to anything. Of course, I’ll􀀀
probably never get rid of them. I’ll be pissing out sand when I’m old. If I􀀀
live that long.􀀀
Brad Carlisle sidled up to me and bent down. “The Hillman is going􀀀
berserk tomorrow,” he said quietly.􀀀
I didn’t turn my head. “How do you know?”􀀀
“I heard him tell Coach we’re sure to win.”􀀀
“Shit.”􀀀
The Hillman. That was his nickname, because of his name as well􀀀
as because he was as big as a hill. Hylton Hawkins had been a defensive􀀀
lineman with the Cowboys for ten years--a long damn time in pro ball,􀀀
especially when you’re constantly being doped with nutraceuticals, nano-􀀀
particles and gm-protein supplements. It took a toll.􀀀
The Hillman was really sort of dumb and sweet; he was just a big􀀀
East Texas country kid out of Texas College in Tyler. For years after he hit􀀀
the big time he threw away his money on drugs, whores and cars. Of course,􀀀
team owner Joe Jenkins got a cut of it all. It was Jenkins who spread the􀀀
money around to pay off the police and the media. And it was Jenkins who􀀀
sent the word down that a berserker payoff was available.􀀀
4􀀀
Not that it was very common, or people might have wised up. Even􀀀
as corrupt as the U.S. and especially Texas was, you couldn’t pay someone􀀀
to go berserk very often.􀀀
The summer of ’27 we were a tight race in the west division with the􀀀
Raiders. Oakland was coming to town for the second-to-last game of the􀀀
season and everyone knew it was an important one. Tuesday that week􀀀
Coach said it was a “must win”. We all knew what that meant. That was the􀀀
code.􀀀
I thought we could win anyhow, so I didn’t give it much thought.􀀀
Then Carlisle dropped me the word.􀀀
He slipped away as quickly as he came. I muttered under my breath.􀀀
“Oh, Hillman.”􀀀
Three years earlier he had met a nice gal and married. He really􀀀
settled down, in every way. Had his mook block the drug dealers, stopped􀀀
going to the titty bars. Christ, he traded in the candy apple red Viper for a􀀀
fuel cell SUV.􀀀
Last year they had a sweet baby girl. His wife brought her to the􀀀
sidelines during training camp. Adorable little booger.􀀀
I’ll never have any kids. I went to a Big Ten school. The steroids I􀀀
took in college turned my cojones to stone. In the big leagues you didn’t get􀀀
anything as crude as steroids--unless and until you went berserk.􀀀
The news from Carlisle hit me like a horse dose of respirocytes.􀀀
Goddamn, why didn’t I think of it? Hylton has squandered millions over the􀀀
years. Even from the nosebleed seats you could see he was struggling this􀀀
season. His pro career was coming to a close--and he had a wife and a􀀀
daughter he probably couldn’t provide for in the future.􀀀
I was a strong safety slash corner back. The shit I took to do my job􀀀
would probably make me hobble and wheeze by the time I was 60. That was􀀀
the trade-off for being a pro. A big lineman like The Hillman--he’d proba-􀀀
bly be in an augmented wheelchair by the time he was 45.􀀀
Well, now he’d never have that problem.􀀀
I must have looked stunned when I got out of the whirlpool and went􀀀
over to the physical therapist doing rubdowns.􀀀
He rubbed his mech-gloved hands over my calves and thighs.􀀀
“Marcos, man, you look puny.”􀀀
Nanites are supposed to be too small to cause an immune reaction,􀀀
but the silicon jobbers from Vilnus didn’t seem to know that. Between the􀀀
nanites and the bad news, I was sweating like a hog.􀀀
I faked a smile. “I had to give two UA samples this morning. I feel􀀀
squeezed like a lemon. Sometimes it’s awfully disconvenient, as Coach􀀀
would say.”􀀀
Berserker􀀀 5􀀀
The trainer laughed. “You’ll bounce back soon enough.”􀀀
Hylton was already on the field by the time I was suited up. I􀀀
slapped his shoulder pads as I ran by. He didn’t turn or acknowledge me.􀀀
With those carbon nanotube plates, he might not have even felt it.􀀀
He was subdued and held back somewhat from the other players􀀀
during practice. There wasn’t much of the normal macho chatter and􀀀
cussing, and what there was sounded tinny. I think the word had begun to􀀀
spread. The grunt trainers and second stringers might have􀀀thought we were􀀀
all concentrating on the next day’s game. In a way, we were.􀀀
The locker room bullshit and bragging seemed forced. A few of the􀀀
players hailed Hylton as they walked by; he only grunted or said “hey” in􀀀
that squeaky voice of his. He showered and dressed quickly. He didn’t look􀀀
to the right or the left. He looked down, and then walked out.􀀀
A few of us shot glances at each other. We really couldn’t say􀀀
anything that might get back to Jenkins. I just shook my head a little.􀀀
“Goddamn Jenkins.” I thought.􀀀
Running a pro football franchise was a big business. In an evil way,􀀀
he was real smart. He made millions, but spread a lot around. The league􀀀
and the officials were kept happy.􀀀
You know, by then, some people had begun to wonder why we were􀀀
still using cash in the U.S. If you ever saw an official pick up a fat envelope􀀀
before a game, you would have known why. No smart chips in cash.􀀀
I was doing well myself. I had a big ice machine that rattled the􀀀
bridge over the condensation canal as I pulled out of the parking lot.􀀀
That year the canal was almost overflowing all summer as the􀀀
cooling towers sucked the moisture from the domed stadium. Welcome to􀀀
the Texas Tropics. And God bless Houston, the poor bastards. I paid a fat􀀀
fee for the right to drive that internal combustion engine. It was worth it to􀀀
hear the roar and watch people turn as I rumbled down the streets in North􀀀
Dallas.􀀀
Other players lived in the gated community. Carlisle was one of􀀀
them, and I banged on his door as soon as I got out of my car.􀀀
“You went straight home, too, I see.”􀀀
“I guess I’m like you, I don’t feel like going out tonight.”􀀀
“Where’s Melissa?”􀀀
“She’s off with some friends at the Galleria.”􀀀
We sat down with some microbrews.􀀀
“You know, when I was in high school and a player would drop􀀀
dead, I thought it was like they said, stress, you know, and the strain of pro􀀀
ball.”􀀀
OG’s Speculative 6􀀀 Fiction􀀀
“It’s not like it’s common,” said Brad. “Hard for the public to see a􀀀
pattern. John Tomachevski with the Pats two years ago--from what I heard,􀀀
he really did have a aneurysm.”􀀀
“Yeah, but was it caused by drugs, anyhow?”􀀀
“Welcome to the Big Leagues. The point is, he didn’t go berserk.”􀀀
For the past few years, once or twice a season, a player had died􀀀
either after being stricken on the field or in the locker room. When I was a􀀀
rookie out of college, I thought it was the drugs and the stress, too.􀀀
“I’ve only been on the team a few years. I’ve never seen this happen􀀀
with the ‘Boys.”􀀀Brad smiled a thin smile as he wagged his beer bottle.􀀀
“Yeah, well. Money talks and bullshit walks. The Hillman wants his wife􀀀
and kid cared for.”􀀀
“You think she knows?”􀀀
“What do you think?”􀀀
“What will she think after the game?”􀀀
"She’ll probably think he took one hit too many.” He stared down􀀀
the long neck of his bottle. “At least, that’s what she’ll be told.”􀀀
Brad was an offensive lineman. The calcium-carrying nanocrystals􀀀
he took for his bones had begun to affect his face. When he looked serious,􀀀
it looked like a mask.􀀀
I stood up and looked out the window. “Do you think it’s really􀀀
his idea?”􀀀
“He probably thinks so. I’m sure Jenkins somehow dropped him a􀀀
hint. Maybe he read the􀀀News􀀀 on Sunday. You saw that story about J.J.􀀀
Jervinis.”􀀀
“J.J. was in a fight in a bar."􀀀
“Yeah, well, I'm sure Jenkins knew about his contract."􀀀
“You don’t think he’d arrange for somebody to beat J.J. up?” Brad􀀀
took a long swig. “Well?”􀀀
J.J. left the team the year before, banged up and broken after􀀀
spending years on the line. He was killing the pain the previous Saturday􀀀
night when he got in some kind of fight in a West End bar. The beating left􀀀
him brain dead.􀀀
Usually people go years before passing away and having their􀀀
organs harvested.􀀀
“Everyone knew he signed that organ contract so he’d have some􀀀
money for himself and his wife,” Brad continued. “But he only collected a􀀀
few months. Hardly got anything at all. His wife’s screwed now.”􀀀
“What do you think it would take to take J.J. down in a fair fight?”􀀀
he asked bitterly. “It was obviously a set-up.” Also, J.J. didn’t read the fine􀀀
print. The company he signed with exercised its option once he was on life􀀀
Berserker􀀀 7􀀀
support. Instead of pumping him full of hyper-accelerated regen nanites,􀀀
they parted him out.􀀀
“Shit, you think Jenkins would do that just to drop a hint to The􀀀
Hillman?”􀀀
“Hey, he’s not the sharpest guy in the world, but he knows what’s􀀀
coming at the end of the season,” he said. “He sees someone like J.J. push􀀀
off and leave his woman high and dry, and then a day or two later, a􀀀
berserker bonus is hanging out there. A sure ten million dollars.”􀀀
Something about quoting an actual dollar figure startled me. “Is that􀀀
the going rate?”􀀀
Brad flipped open another bottle. “From what I hear.”􀀀
“I wonder if he knows how much his wife and baby girl will miss􀀀
him?”􀀀
“I think he sees it as a self-sacrifice, which it is.”􀀀
The sun was setting over Dallas. The late afternoon monsoon rain-􀀀
bow was fading into the orange twilight.􀀀
“You know, what pisses me off the most is that we can’t say􀀀
anything,” I said. “You know what a businessman like Jenkins would do.”􀀀
Brad shook his head in a short jerky kind of way. “There’s not much􀀀
guys like us can do.”􀀀
He took a really long swig. “We’re just twenty first century gladia-􀀀
tors. Sometimes, you win, sometimes they drag you out by your heels.”􀀀
“Yeah, well the gladiators were forced to do it. Or they did it for the􀀀
glory. We do it for the money.”􀀀
Brad gave a bitter chuckle and raised his bottle in a mock salute.􀀀
“God bless America!”􀀀
I could tell how he was dealing with his feelings, so I left him to􀀀
soak and slouched over to my apartment. I kept the TV on flat as I watched􀀀
the news and sports; I wasn’t keen to have the sports AI’s jumping across􀀀
the room at me. The old pro, Dale Hammond, was live and real, though, and􀀀
holding forth.􀀀
“The Cowboys’ game tomorrow against the Raiders is an important􀀀
one, but both teams are in the playoffs. The only thing to be decided is who􀀀
plays against whom, and for Dallas, whether they can put the hurt on a􀀀
tough Oakland team which will try to keep them from making it out of the􀀀
division.”􀀀
“It’s an important game, a big game, but let’s get past the hype,” he􀀀
continued. “Nobody needs to go berserk, if you know what I mean. Cool􀀀
heads will prevail.”􀀀
I sat up like a shot. “Goddamn, he knows!”􀀀
“Troy!’ I shouted. My mook came on.􀀀
OG’s Speculative 8􀀀 Fiction􀀀
“Yes, most worthy buster of butts?”􀀀
“I need an e-mail to Dale Hammond. Just say, ‘I saw your report on􀀀
the 10 o'clock news. Hylton Hawkins is a player to watch in the Oakland􀀀
game.’’’􀀀
“Do you want to send this as ‘anonymous?’’’􀀀
I thought hard for a few seconds. I guess it was time to be a standup􀀀
man. “No. Fuck Jenkins. Use my proper name. Marcos B. Taylor.”􀀀
“Yes, sir. Sent.”􀀀
I know it wasn’t much, but it was something. If anything came􀀀
down, well, shit, I could make a dash for the Pacifica Republic. That would􀀀
be funny--I might even play for Oakland.􀀀
I thought about Hylton as I drifted off to sleep listening to my restful􀀀
playlist coming through my audio chip. I saw the face of his wife and􀀀
daughter, who would not have a husband and father tomorrow night.􀀀
I thought about what Brad had said. “Yeah, bread and circuses,” I􀀀
thought. “Beer and football.” I rolled over. “Let’s not forget about drugs􀀀
and nanites,” and after the endorphins kicked in, I slept.􀀀
#􀀀
I saw the video bots buzzing around under the dome like vultures as􀀀
I looked out the runway. I had to wait my􀀀turn as we all were dosed with􀀀
our protein/calcium supplement. I didn’t see Hylton at all; he was in a back􀀀
room probably being prepped like an Aztec sacrifice.􀀀
The supplement was supposed to be simple gm-proteins and miner-􀀀
als; we knew Jenkins, as well as all the other owners, paid off the league to􀀀
look the other way. It was a witch’s brew of nanoparticles and crystals that􀀀
looked as ugly as swamp water and tasted worse; we bitterly called it􀀀
Nanorade.􀀀
The linemen on both sides of the ball also got a shot of respiro-􀀀
cyctes, to carry extra oxygen in their bloodstream during the game. One of􀀀
the few things they dosed us with that was actually harmless, but still illegal.􀀀
It was given under the guise of a vitamin shot.􀀀
I was on the sideline when Hylton came out right before kickoff.􀀀
They obviously didn’t want him talking to anyone. I saw the head trainer􀀀
wave a little hand-held device alongside his helmet. He was disabling his􀀀
MEMS chip so the medical staff wouldn’t get an accurate reading of his􀀀
vitals during the game. The doctor had to be in on this, too, for it to work.􀀀
I took my place for the opening kickoff. From behind I could see􀀀
Hylton and could tell everything was ready to kick in. The Hillman looked􀀀
like he was ready to take off like a rocket. In addition to our normal􀀀
Berserker􀀀 9􀀀
pre-game preps, he was now full of nanites to increase his muscle metabo-􀀀
lism, along with others carrying steroids. He also probably was pumped a􀀀
few gallons of enhanced methamphetamines. His metabolism sped up to the􀀀
point that I could almost see the heat coming off his helmet.􀀀
He probably had a normally lethal dose of nutraceuticals to fuel all􀀀
this, and probably some narcotic happy juice for good measure. I just caught􀀀
out of the corner of my eye his wife with their daughter on her knee sitting􀀀
in the third or fourth row on the fifty yard line.􀀀
The other corner back took the ball and sprinted up the field as􀀀
Hylton cleared a swath. He batted and banged away the Oakland line and􀀀
secondary like so many toy soldiers. Our runner tripped over his own feet􀀀
at midfield because he was running so fast.􀀀
On the next down, Oakland made a line shift. One of their largest􀀀
linemen, Dexter Ward, lined up opposite Hylton. I thought, “poor chump,􀀀
he doesn’t know what he’s in for.”􀀀
On the next play, the pair hit squarely. The stadium almost shook.􀀀
The play stacked up in the middle.􀀀
I couldn’t figure out what happened. I looked over to Brad on the􀀀
sidelines. His eyes just got real wide. I guess he got a better view from􀀀
where he was. Then it hit me.􀀀
I hadn’t cussed like that since when I was in college and realized􀀀
what the steroids had done to me.􀀀
That had never happened before, two players at the same time.􀀀
Oakland had a player going berserk, too.􀀀
I learned later the progression of the nanites and other drugs was􀀀
accelerated by the increase in a player’s metabolism and adrenaline as the􀀀
game progressed--but normally a player went a few quarters before he got􀀀
real sick, because he was batting away his opponents.􀀀
Now with two equally enhanced and aggressive players facing each􀀀
other, they quickly went out of control. After a couple of downs, our􀀀
quarterback was shouting at Hylton in the huddle, who couldn’t hear􀀀
because of the blood rushing in his ears. The Oakland QB was screaming at􀀀
Ward, too.􀀀
You could tell from the hush that fell over the stadium that the fans􀀀
knew what had happened. All the players, both on the Dallas and Oakland􀀀
teams, were stunned and weak-kneed. To see a player go berserk was bad􀀀
enough. To see two players killing each other on the 50-yard line was a􀀀
horror show.􀀀
The pair began to hit each other so violently blood splattered on􀀀
other players, who began to shrink away, afraid of being infected by the􀀀
OG’s Speculative 10􀀀 Fiction􀀀
raging nanites. The refs looked like they were trying to walk backwards out􀀀
the stadium.􀀀
And neither team was scoring.􀀀
After a punting the ball back and forth a couple of times, neither QB􀀀
could keep either lineman in the huddle. They paced the line of scrimmage􀀀
and groaned like animals.􀀀
At the seven-minute mark of that first quarter, the pair hit each other􀀀
so hard and evenly they both bounced back three or four feet from the line􀀀
of scrimmage. The ref’s whistle was futile. They shouted and went after􀀀
each other.􀀀
Ward landed a crushing blow on Hylton’s head that crushed the top􀀀
of his helmet. Hylton’s simultaneous blow, to the side of Ward’s helmet,􀀀
obviously broke his neck.􀀀
It was over.􀀀
Ward was dead, but Hylton was still breathing, and now the medical􀀀
staff had to go through the motions of trying to help him. Jenkins mean-􀀀
while had come down from his sky box and, as he so often did, put on a􀀀
show of fake concern over the injured player.􀀀
The doctors and trainers were mumbling and looking at each other.􀀀
Hylton began to convulse.􀀀
Jenkins stood next to Doc. “Can’t you do something for the boy?”􀀀
he shouted. For the record.􀀀
He looked down and over at Hylton. In one gigantic spasm,􀀀
Hylton’s back arched in a violent thrust and the contents of his stomach􀀀
erupted all over Jenkins.􀀀
Hylton’s body relaxed and as his head turned sideways blood ran􀀀
out onto the artificial turf and towards Jenkins, who stood there with puke􀀀
all over his face and suit. You could see him raise his hands like he was􀀀
ready to scream, but then he saw Doc’s face and he froze.􀀀
Doc saw Jenkins had aspirated some of the vomit. A trainer dumped􀀀
a water bottle over Jenkins’ head. Another began to wipe his face with a􀀀
towel. Coach spun Jenkins around and told him to run towards the locker􀀀
room, and then shoved him ahead of him as he ran.􀀀
Brad came up to me as everyone stood there stunned. We listened􀀀
as the ref called off the game.􀀀
Brad took off his helmet. “Can you believe this?”􀀀
I thought I heard a baby crying in the stands.􀀀
I looked towards the runway where Jenkins disappeared, and said􀀀
the most hateful thing I ever have said in my life.􀀀
“I hope he dies, too.”􀀀
I meant it.􀀀
Berserker􀀀 11􀀀
#􀀀
Hammond went live after the game, and bless his artificial heart,􀀀
laid it on the line. Some of the other sportscasters still couldn’t get over their􀀀
fear of Jenkins and they hemmed and hawed and babbled from the sidelines.􀀀
Hammond was live and livid. Everyone who saw it remembers it. I􀀀
was ten feet away.􀀀
“Two wrongs don’t make a right, but it does make it over,” he􀀀
declaimed as he began.􀀀
When he was done and the lights went off, he muttered, “The suits􀀀
can have me fired, but I don’t care.”􀀀
I went over to him. “We hold these goofs to be self-evident. There’s􀀀
no turning back.”􀀀
“Thanks for the e-mail, Marcos.” He smiled. “You confirmed what􀀀
I suspected.”􀀀
“You didn’t know, for sure?”􀀀
“No, not really, but with my experience, I had a real good hunch.􀀀
Actually, I was more sure of Dexter. There is much more freedom in􀀀
Pacifica and I have good sources in the Bay Area.” He threw his bag over􀀀
his shoulder. “In fact, I feel a trip to the West Coast coming on. I have a jet􀀀
at Addison Airport.”􀀀
He turned away.􀀀
“Hey, you old sports hound, can I come?”􀀀
He smiled a crooked smile. “What do you plan to do out there?”􀀀
I threw my helmet to the sidelines.􀀀
“Defect.”􀀀
#􀀀
I was still wearing my uniform when we arrived in California. On􀀀
the way to the hotel we watched the video as a representative of the Pacifica􀀀
Council met the Oakland team at the airport. The coach was quickly in jail,􀀀
the owner in France.􀀀
Reforms haven’t moved as quickly in the U.S. That’s why I have􀀀
welcomed the opportunity to testify before this congressional committee. I􀀀
think every intelligent and honest person in the U.S. supports the nanotech􀀀
legislation proposed by the Administration. Although I am no longer a U.S.􀀀
citizen, I urge its passage, and I hope my first-hand account of Bloody􀀀
Monday has been enlightening.􀀀
OG’s Speculative 12􀀀 Fiction􀀀
I hope you understand my reasons for not coming in person. There􀀀
are still people like Joe Jenkins in the U.S. ready with bucks and bribes. I􀀀
think I’ll stay put in Pacifica for the time being.􀀀
Jenkins hasn’t died, yet. They’ve been trying to purge the nanites, I􀀀
understand. Apparently he’s little more than a zombie . Mrs. Hawkins and􀀀
her daughter received a $50 million settlement from the court-ordered sale􀀀
of the team.􀀀
Because of the reforms enacted by Pacifica after Bloody Monday, I􀀀
have enjoyed playing football for the Raiders. I know the abuses in the U.S.􀀀
are disappearing. Let’s finish the job.􀀀
#􀀀
Sometimes I have nightmares. Nightmares neural-interface chips􀀀
can’t control. I see a metal box designed to hold ashes, sitting on a mantel􀀀
in a home in North Dallas. It’s late at night, and there’s not a sound.􀀀
I can see the box move just a little. And I hear it groan􀀀
Berserker

On a Spiritual Plain

The deadline for The Hugo Awards nominations is March 10. My story, "On a Spiritual Plain", which was published in issue No. 2 of Sci-Phi Journal last year, is on the Sad Puppies recommended reading slate. Here is is:

---

The alien cleric gestured for us to come closer.  I pressed my back up against his bulk, and drew my knees under my chin.  "Thank you," I said simply.

Around us, the various clan groups were drawing together--their masses the only thing breaking the gray monotony of the planet’s polar plain.  Ymilans on pilgrimage traditionally slept clustered together--including ghosts of the dead.  The spirit of Joe McDonald stared at Dergec and me, still somewhat uncomfortable by what was going on.  I beckoned to him. "C'mon, Joe, you're with us," I said.

The ghost of the dead human scooted over to us.   He sidled up beside me, his back against the Ymilan cleric.  Dergec became dormant--Ymilans really don't sleep in the human sense--and I eventually began to drift off myself.   Joe didn’t move.  I didn’t know if he was asleep.  Do the dead sleep?   Can the dead sleep?

#

Compared to Earth, Ymilas has an energetic planetary core, and the planet has a very strong magnetic field.   Its ionosphere is constantly permeated with brilliant auroras.

The planet, however, is spectacularly bereft of minerals useful to Terrans, and there would be no reason to visit it, except for it being near a wormhole.

Some Terrans also find the Ymilans interesting.

Unlike Earth, Ymilas has only one sentient life form.  The Ymilans have a low-tech highly-ritualized culture.  Their religion is genuinely unique because the living and the spirits of the dead coexist side by side.

Dergec is the chief cleric of the continent where our Terran base is located.  After my posting there as Base Chaplain, we spoke frequently and found a surprising amount of common ground.   The Ymilans believe--as do many Terran religions--that each individual has a spark of an eternal extra-dimensional over-arching consciousness that is imbued in each of them at birth and ultimately returns to a higher dimensional plane when the physical form is no longer viable.

I told him we call it the “soul”.

They also know--I won’t say believe because the evidence was obvious on Ymilas--that while alive we develop an electromagnetic imprint as a result of the experiences of life that survives after death.  I told Dergec an ancient Terran religion had the same belief, and in fact built elaborate pyramids and tombs filled with personal belongings to keep those spirits happy.

The ancient Egyptians called that type of a spirit the “Ba”.  The Ymilans call them Helpful Ancestors, and they are considered part of one’s extended family.

I explained Earth’s weak magnetic field apparently allows most of our spirits to dissipate, “Although there were many cultures on Earth that believed their ancestors were a part of their everyday lives," I said.  "But you couldn't interact with them."

 "But are you sure of that?" said Dergec, with the Ymilan equivalent of a smile. “Don’t you have a type of literature called The Ghost Story?”

He was smart as well as wise.

#

This first Terran base had less than 50 people.  Because of the isolation and sparse conditions, it was traditional for the Service to “suggest” a posting to the planet.

Although most people went along with being “volunteered”, after the suggestion was made I agreed willingly.  I was single and so nobody else had to suffer with me; I thought it would be worthwhile experience for a young Methodist minister.

Dergec was always polite if not a little bit bemused when I peppered him with questions. "A mutant race like yours asks a lot of simple questions," he said.

The Ymilans were comfortable being a race with both physical and spiritual members and had evolved with sensory organs that could both detect and communicate with their spiritual world.  When Dergec learned of humans' inabilities in that regard, he was compassionate.

One thing I had noticed in passing was that I never heard of an Ymilan extended family of the dead going back more than six generations.  I made a mental note to ask Dergec why these ancestral houses didn't extend back farther.

That "note" was the first thing I thought of when Joe McDonald's ghost appeared to me.

#

Joe was an average Service "grunt”, just another face under the dome.   He never had come to me for any counseling or help--until after he died.

I had been updating my sermonblog when I heard the base emergency siren.  I ran out and saw a large shipping container swaying back and forth from a crane, a body lying on the floor beneath.

Apparently Joe took a left when he should have taken a right and walked just close enough to the edge of the container as it was being swung around that it clipped him.  The sharp corner punctured his helmet and crushed in his temple.  The light was gone from his eyes by the time I reached him.
His base file did not indicate any religious preference.

That night, I noticed the lights flicker briefly in my quarters--not terribly uncommon, our shielding constantly battled to protect our tech from the strong Ymilan magnetic field.  I did think it strange, though, that the lights flickered from white to blue, and back to white again.

During the next few minutes I got the strangest crawling or burning sensation on my skin.  Despite its violent climate--or perhaps because of it--Ymilas does not lack for water.  I thought it would help to take a nice, hot shower.

When I left the bathroom, gusts of steam poured into my bedroom--and I saw Joe.

He gestured, looking alternately angry and scared.  Despite the fact I was speaking to a ghost, his look of discomfort and anxiety was so pronounced my natural pastoral reaction was to put him at ease.  “It’s OK, Joe, I’ll help you any way I can.  Stay here with me.”

I commed the base Commander.   "A quick question," I asked.   "Was Joe McDonald the first human die on Ymilas?"

"Why yes, he was. Why do you ask?"

"He's here in my quarters.  He's become his own Helpful Ancestor."

The Commander cursed, then asked "What do we do now?"

"I don' know about 'we'," I said, "but I have some counseling to do, and then I call Dergec."

I turned off my lights, and as I hoped, Joe appeared as a dimly lit apparition, as ghosts do on Earth.
I determined--through questions on my part and nods and gestures on his--that he understood his spirit was somehow trapped.  "Did you ever see the container?" I asked.

He shook his head vigorously, looking very sad.

"Did you look at your death?"  He nodded, slowly.
I commed Dergec,  and explained what happened.  "I will be there as soon as I can," he said.

I spoke to Joe again. “We will get through this. I know on Earth, when we die, the soul leaves the body and moves on to the afterlife.  Things are different here, but my friend the Ymilan priest will help us.”
Joe made a gesture of helplessness.  “It’s my job to deal with spiritual matters, thanks for coming to me,” I said.  “We will get through this together.”

My port signaled. "That must be Dergec."

The Ymilan was far too large to enter my quarters.  I stepped outside, assuming Joe followed me, as there was no way I could see him as we stepped into the light.

Dergec looked to the side of me and addressed Joe directly. "What is your name, my friend?"   He paused for a moment, then replied, "Your proper name is Joseph, then?"

I realized Dergec could speak directly to Joe, just as he could to his own ancestors. Despite the fact I listened to a one-sided conversation, I could tell Joe was relieved to be able to make himself easily understood.

"I understand your discomfort, your people do not exist this way," said Dergec to Joe.
"Can you help Joe to move on?" I asked Dergec.

Then with a start, I remembered that "mental note" I had made to myself.

 "Sir," I said, using an untranslatable word that is an extreme Ymilan honorific, "I have observed that your Helpful Ancestors do not go back many generations." I paused.  "Is there a way for them to move on?"

“Since when I first learned about the spiritual nature of your people,” he said, “I knew this day would come.”

#

Our lone base on Ymilas is located near the equator, where the electrical storms are the weakest.   The planet's magnetosphere dips down at the poles.  It was Dergec who suggested using the specially shielded segway for my own protection.

The Commander raised her voice.  "You want to take a Faraday segway on what?"

 "A pilgrimage, Ma’am."

"Why?  Whose idea is this?"

"Monsignor Dergec," I said, using the closest human word to the Ymilan title.  "We need to make a pilgrimage to the north polar plain so the soul of Joe McDonald can move on.  We have no idea how the ground level magnetic field at the pole would affect an unshielded human.”

"I have one Faraday segway, if you wreck it, we won’t have another one for months, until it is requisitioned, approved and shipped.”

"Bureaucracy is your problem,” I snapped.  “Do you want a haunted base?”

On cue, her case folder slid off his desk and slammed on the floor.  The Commander jumped up from her seat.  "I felt something on the back of my neck!"

I sighed. "Do you believe my ghost story or not?"

She began to type on her desktop.  "Take your segway, take the Ymilan, take Joe, get out of here.  I don't want to hear any more about this."

Dergec was waiting outside. "Did you get what you needed?"

"Yes, despite a little reluctance from the Commander.”

"Joseph accompanied you."

"I know, the Commander's hemming and hawing infuriated him enough that he was able to manifest himself a bit."

"I have noticed that human emotions generate spiritual turmoil," said Dergec.

"I'm a little angry myself," I said. "But that won't help things."

Dergec turned around and plodded off.  "Let us begin our journey.”

#

The Ymilans have well-worn trails to the polar region where the magnetic field bends down to the surface.  There the Helpful Ancestors can dissipate.

The Ymilan pilgrimage trails loop and wind, because they need to avoid serious fault zones, another result of that active planetary core.

Dergec said the journey would take 12 Terran days.  Like everyone in the colonial Service, I maintained Earth days.  Ymilas’ sun had contracted in the distant past, and the planet's orbit has adjusted as a result.  It was that gravitational disturbance that had shifted its core into such an active state.

We were joined by other clan groups along the way.  Dergec led the way, and Joe, of course, had no trouble keeping up.  I brought up the rear of our little group, my treads grinding along the slate gray landscape.  There were caravanserais at regular distances.  Clusters of pilgrims gathered and parted along the way.

The other Ymilans were fascinated to see the first humans on a pilgrimage.  It is an accepted part of their life and society and they accepted our participation with great equanimity.  Dergec spoke often to Joe, who seemed “talkative” enough in his current state.

During one stop, Dergec said some Ymilans expressed something akin to admiration for Joe and myself.  "They are proud of you," he said.  "They say humans are finally Ymilans now."

Of course, I couldn’t see Joe, but it was usually obvious from Dergec's "body language"--a strange term considering how different Ymilans are from humans--where Joe was.  I spoke to Joe whenever I could, and when necessary, Dergec repeated Joe's side of the conversation.

I noticed about the halfway point that Dergec's interactions with Joe began to diminish. "Joseph is speaking with Helpful Ancestors now,” said Dergec.

“Is he away from us?” I asked.

“Yes, he is with that clan over there,” he said gesturing.

“Why does a Helpful Ancestor finally decide to make the journey?" I asked him.

"The closest word in your language would be futility," said Dergec.  "Our term might be translated as understanding that your role in the material world is over.”

I took the opportunity to ask a question.  “Does he realize that this trip means extinction,” I said. “That his soul has already flown, he is just a ghost?”

“No.  That is something you must work out amongst yourselves,” said Dergec.  “It is not proper for me to interfere in the spiritual matters of another species.”

“Your Helpful Ancestors don’t seem to mind trekking towards dissipation,” I said.

“We are a mature race,” he said.  “I would be cautious is discussing it with Joseph, though.”
"How is Joe taking the attention from the Helpful Ancestors?"

"I believe he is enjoying it," said the wise cleric. “He did not receive much attention from his own kind in life."

The severity and frequency of the electrical storms increased as we neared the Ymilan pole.  I monitored and inspected my Faraday segway more than ever.  The pilgrimage route meandered through a landscape of diminishing hills until, on the 11th day we hiked over a ridge and saw--nothing.

"It is another day's journey across flatlands to the Temple of Release," said Dergec.

As our caravan of pilgrims marched across the plain, we began to line up abreast of each other.   Despite the many dissimilarities between the two planets, one thing Ymilas has in common with Earth is a tilted axis, and therefore seasons--as well as long polar days.

This was the depth of the polar night, and the dark grayness of the sky matched the cold gray slate that made up the polar plain.  In the darkness I could now see all the Helpful Ancestors as well as Joe.  He marched near Dergec and me, but within a cluster of the Ymilan ancestors.

It was obvious he was in a position of honor amongst them, but when everyone stopped for the "night", all the Ymilans went back to their individual clan groups, which is why Joe was left alone and off to the side when Dergec and I stopped to sleep.

There was no indication of any danger so I slipped out of the Faraday cabin and sat down as Dergec gestured for me to come closer.  Joe looked at me.

"C'mon, Joe, you're with us."

Joe nudged himself between Dergec and me, and stopped moving,  I didn’t know if he was asleep.
“Do the dead sleep?  Can the dead sleep?”  I repeated to myself.

Dergec turned his head to me.  I didn’t realize I had spoken out loud.

"He sleeps the sleep of the dead,” said Dergec. “You would call it meditation. His mind is empty."
Dergec settled down into his posture of dormancy and I drifted off to sleep myself on that dark plain with the spirits of the alien dead--and one man.

#

Dergec stirred himself and I clamped myself in the cabin of the segway.

“We will be there soon,” he said to us.

He turned aside and spoke to Joe.  “Are you at peace, my brother?”

I could tell from Dergec’s body language Joe answered in the affirmative.  “It is well, then,” said Dergec. “Let us finish.”

As the long parallel line moved forward towards the unseen destination, I noticed the general grayness began to brighten.  After a while, I instinctively looked up.  There, high in the sky, was a glowing grayish green vortex of auroral light.  Dergec turned as Joe had obviously spoken to him.  “Yes, the Temple of Release is directly below it.”

I knew the polar magnetic vortex would be the location of the weakness in the magnetic field that would allow Joe’s “Ba” to dissipate, but I had no idea it would be visible.

“It looks like the eye of God,” I thought.

As the polar night began begin to imperceptibly brighten because of the glow, I soon was unable to tell where Joe was among us.

A few hours later, the plain was clearly lit by the glow of the “Eye” and I realized the previously uninterrupted flatness of the landscape was broken now by something rising directly ahead of us in the distance.

As we approached I saw it was an obviously artificial structure, and as we neared even closer, I saw it consisted of an enormous circle of upright blocks with the dimensional ratio of 1: 4: 9--the Golden Mean.  The lintels were of the same dimensions, and it was with a shock I realized that, except for the size and preciseness, the structure was essentially of the same design of Stonehenge back on Earth.
The actual size was the biggest distinction.  Although it was hard to judge at first, as we approached I saw the structure was more than 1,000 Terran feet high.

As we neared it, the various Ymilan clans began to bunch up as they would have to pass through the openings.  Dergec turned to Joe.  “This is the point of no return,” he said.

I turned in the same direction as Dergec.  “Are you okay with this, friend?  You ready to go home?”
There was a pause, and then Dergec said “He is fearful, but ready.”  He paused and continued.  “Joseph said he wants you to know he appreciates your kindness, but he knows nothing awaits him.  He learned the true nature of the pilgrimage from the Helpful Ancestors.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t...”

“He says it is good, he realizes there is nothing left for him here, and he would rather be nothing than a ghost on a strange world,” said Dergec.  “He said the others have given him courage.  He hopes his immortal soul has already reached your heaven.”

“I know it has, Joe,” I said, my voice cracking a bit.  “I have faith in that, that’s my job. To have faith.”

“Joe says he likes that,” said Dergec.

The other Ymilans on either side of us began to move forward.  “Let us go, then,” said Dergec.
We passed between a pair of giant uprights and passed inside the circle.  There was nothing there but another caravanserai.

I turned to Dergec.  “What happens next?”

“Nothing,” he said. “He is gone. They are all gone.”

“What!  That’s it?”

“There is no ceremony, if that is what you mean,” he said.  “The composition of these stones provides the shielding necessary to allow the dissipation.”

He turned to me.  “I’m sorry, I forget your people put a great deal of stock in theater and rituals, which is to be expected in such an immature race.  We take this process for granted.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We stop and rest and sleep, and then begin the trip home,” said Dergec.

#

When I was back at the base and I filed my report with the Commander. “This opens up a whole new issue in the Colonial Relations Division.”

“Yes, but  it was inevitable, if we stay on this planet,” I said.

“Well, you’ve done well as the lone chaplain on a base with many different religions,” she said. “This is just another issue you have to finesse.”

“For the time being, let’s not file a report,” I said.  “If this problem arises again, I’ll deal with it  personally.”

“Of course, all religion is personal,” she said.  “And I don’t want anything to leave the base that will bring bureaucrats down to us.”

She paused.  “And speaking of leaving the base, where is your condition report of the Faraday segway?  Is it back in inventory?”

#

Raju Bopardikar was not a grunt, but a low-level clerk in the transportation office.  He was drunk off his butt one night in the rec bar when he started hitting on a pretty Brazilian girl, whose boyfriend didn’t take kindly to his attentions, and was just as drunk as Raju--and a lot meaner.

The jealous boyfriend had a knife hidden in his boot, and before anyone could do anything, he slashed Raju across the abdomen.  Everyone grabbed the attacker, but his deep cut severed Raju’s abdominal aortic artery, and he bled out in a few minutes.

When I heard what had happened, I checked the base records, and then called up a copy of the Bhagavata Purana and read it until Raju appeared in my quarters.

I had to speak to Raju like anyone who is in deep shock, and with great patience explained the process I had gone through with Joe.

As I was counseling him, Dergec commed me.  “I learned of another death,” he said. “Can I help?”

“I think we can handle this ourselves,” I said, nodding to Raju.  “You don’t have to come on the pilgrimage.  Raju is one of us, and we can take care of ourselves.”

“I will assist in any way you need,” he said.

“Thank you, friend,” I said, “but we will make this journey ourselves.”

I turned to Raju.  “I know the way.”

-The End-

"The Cookie Crumbles"

Originally published in the ConDFW XIV program book, Feb. 13, 2015.

---

The supermarket door opened automatically with a rush of cool air and gusts of cigarette smoke.  The bag boy had his cigarette tilted at a business-like angle, like the prow of a ship cutting through the sea, as he carried groceries for an old lady.

Ray’s drove into the parking lot and saw the array of the cars that belonged to “the usual suspects” lined up in front of the supermarket – a collection of large sedans: Cadillacs, Lincolns, Buicks, Oldsmobiles and such.  Every day, a regular cast of retirees met there to sip coffee, smoke cigarettes, and swap lies.

Ray nudged his compact into a parking space under the shade of a large spreading tree.

There were some teenagers loitering nearby.  One boy held a sack of sugar cookies; another was eating from a pack of sugar wafers.  One Goth-looking girl was licking off the top of a marshmallow biscuit cookie.

Ray went down an aisle and found the shelves where the cookies were.  He was going to get himself some of those big fat double-stuffed Romeo cookies.

Warning signs and posters hung from each shelf: 

“You must provide proof of ID that you are over 18 when you purchase sugar cookies.”

“Don’t be an enabler— don’t purchase cookies for the underage.”

One poster depicted a graveyard with especially wide grave plots:

“Waistlines aren’t the only things that are expanding because of America’s deadly love of cookies.”

He walked up to the express checkout register.  The cashier tapped her cigarette and set it in down in an ashtray.  

“I don’t want to blow smoke in your face,” she said with a smile.

“That’s okay,” the old man said with a chuckle.  “If these cookies get any more expensive I’ll probably have to start smoking myself.”

He gestured to all the packs of cigarettes in the aisle leading up to the cash register as the cashier scanned his package. 

“That’ll be $15.99,” the cashier said.

He grimaced. “They’re more expensive than ever,” he said.

“It’s almost all tax,” said the cashier. “You could get a dozen packs of cigarettes for the same price.”

Behind them on the wall was a poster that showed a mother holding a plate of cookies for her children.  But their shadows silhouetted a scene of drug addicts shooting up.

“Don’t be a cookie pusher!”  It said. “Cookies are as bad as narcotics.”

Underneath the grisly scene it said in red letters:

 “The Surgeon General has determined that quitting cookies at any time will lead to improved health.”

As Ray walked away he saw two old friends smoking and chatting in the food court.  They waved him over.

“I see you’re getting your fix,” said Antonio.

Ray walked over and pulled up an empty chair. 

“I will as long as I can,” he said.  “They’re  not illegal yet.”

“You should start smoking,” said Sol.  “It’s cheaper and better for your health.”

“Putting all that smoke in your lungs will eventually give you cancer,” said Ray.

“Bah,” said Antonio. “That’s never been proven.”

Another man walked up.  “Mind if I join you fellows?”  

They all nodded and he pulled up a chair. He reached across the table to shake hands.  “My name Dan, Dan Jackson.”

“You new in town?” asked Sol.

“I’m visiting my son,” he said.

Ray dangled the plastic package of cream-filled chocolate wafer cookies in the air and made a plea for sympathy and support. “They’re telling me I should lay off the cookies and start smoking like everybody else.”

“That sugar is ruining your teeth, clogging your arteries, and softening your brain,” said Antonio

Dan rubbed his chin the back of his hand and looked at Antonio. “You shouldn’t just repeat what the FDA says.  It’s all bullshit you know.”

“That cookies are bad for you?” asked Ray.

“Too much of anything is bad for you,” said Dan. “Cigarettes are bad for you, too.  The difference is that the government is fighting cookies but not cigarettes.”

Dan looked at them.  “I’ve eaten cookies in moderation all my life.  How old do you think I am?”

Ray squinted at him.  “I’ll guess 68.”

Dan smiled.  “You know, I had a wax paper bag of chocolate chip cookies my mom mailed to me when I hit the beach on D-Day,” he said.  “I should’ve eaten them earlier.   By the time I opened the bag two days later, they were all crushed to crumbs.”

“Holy crap!” said Sol.  “You were in the war?”

“Sure was,” said Dan. “I’m not 68, I’m 88.  And all the stuff the government says about how bad cookies are for you is bullshit.  It’s a scam.”

“What do you mean, a scam?” said Ray.  “Who’s pulling the scam?”

The old veteran leaned back in his chair.  “I was a lieutenant in the war,” he said.  “Afterwards, I went to work for the company owned by my colonel.  It was a heavy equipment manufacturing plant in Indiana.  I became his right-hand man, and worked for him for 40 years.”

He looked around at the three retirees.  “You’ve heard of how President Eisenhower warned in his farewell address about the growing power of the ‘military/industrial complex?’ All the country’s manufacturing had been brought under government control during World War II.  What people didn’t know is that a private group took the reins, as it were, after the war, and dictated products and prices afterwards.   Big manufacturing companies, like the one I worked for, had to answer to a secret roundtable of powerful businessmen. They call themselves the Consortium. You couldn’t do anything without clearing it with the Consortium.”

He reached over and took a couple of Ray’s cookies. “The Colonel wasn’t even supposed to let anybody know, but we were pretty close, and one night, when we were drinking by ourselves in the office, he started talking about it.  He said he hated the whole situation but you couldn’t cross the Consortium, they could make life hell for you.”

“That’s what Eisenhower was talking about in his farewell address,” he continued. “The Consortium was fixing production and prices in all the heavy manufacturing industries by the end of the ‘50s.”

“But what’s this got to do with cigarettes and cookies?” asked Ray.

“The Colonel had a brother who didn’t stay in the family business, but went to work for the American Biscuit Company -- or as everyone knows it, Ambisco.  One night late in 1963 I found the Colonel drunk in his office.  He was also really weepy.

He said, ‘We shouldn’t have gone along. It’s all our fault.  Now they have control of everything.’”

“What did he mean by that?” asked Ray.

“He said his brother told him the Consortium had taken over control of all the other large businesses in the country,” said Dan. “Not just the manufacturers.  But Ambisco wouldn’t go along, and a handful of bakeries stuck by them.  He said they defied the Consortium and said people weren’t going to kick their cookie habit.  The company president - he had been a big Democratic donor - supposedly went and told President Kennedy himself about it.”

“What did President Kennedy say?” asked Sol.

“The Colonel’s brother didn’t know, Kennedy was assassinated within a few days,” said Dan.  “It was early the next year that the Surgeon General presented his report on “Snack Cookies and Health” and called for the heavy regulation of the industry.  Ambisco’s been fighting it ever since.”

“It has nothing to do with obesity or bad teeth or hyperactivity.  Ambisco and a few others have been the only companies to buck the total control and coordination of the American economy by the Consortium,” said the old veteran.

“That’s hard to swallow, pardon the pun,” said Antonio as he took a puff of his menthol cigarette.

“Twenty years ago, just before he died, the Colonel told me that one of the last things his brother said before he passed away was that life is just a crapshoot, and it could’ve been someone else who took the brunt of being taught a lesson by the Consortium,” said Dan. “Apparently, when the Consortium gathered up the leaders of the one hundred largest companies in the country and told him that they would have to clear all the prices, policies and production decisions through them, it was the tobacco companies that pushed back at first.  Just like Ambisco, they thought they had too much public support to be threatened.  But they changed their minds, which left Ambisco and the other cookie companies out there on a limb by themselves.”

He popped a Romeo cookie in his mouth.  “That’s why sugar cookies are taxed so heavily and come with all those health warnings, while cigarettes are ninety cents a pack and everybody smokes,” said Dan.  “It’s all a racket.  Most of everything on the shelves over there would cost a fraction of what it does if the Consortium didn’t fix prices. The campaign against cookies isn’t about health, it’s about control.”

“Have you ever heard of ‘conspiracy theories’?” asked Sol.

Dan smiled wistfully.  “It isn’t a theory if it’s true,” he said.  He stood up.  “In any case, it really doesn’t make any difference, there’s nothing anyone can do.”

“How long are you going to be in town?” asked Ray.

“I’m heading back up to Philadelphia tomorrow,” said Dan.

“Where does your son live?” asked Antonio.

“He doesn’t,” said Dan.  “I came down for his funeral.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Ray.

“He was 56, died of lung cancer,” said Dan.  “He smoked since he was a teenager.”

As he walked away, Ray got up and took him by the elbow.  

“Hey, is what all you said true?  About price fixing and the Consortium and all?”

“I’m too old to give a damn any more,” said Dan.  “My wife, may she rest in peace, made me vow never to speak a word of what I was told.  And my only son is dead now.”

“Have you ever told anyone before?”

“No, I haven’t even thought about it in years,” said Dan.  “What you said when I sat down, about how they were picking on you, struck a chord, and it all spilled out.”

They looked at each other, and with a nod, Dan walked away.

Ray returned to his companions.  “Do you believe all that happy horseshit?” asked Antonio.

“He was at Normandy, he just buried his own son, at his age, too, why the hell would he lie?” asked Sol.

Ray gave them a look that stopped the conversation, and Antonio and Sol went back to smoking.  A few minutes later, they heard what sounded like the gunning of an engine, followed by the screeching of tires – and screams.

All three men rose and walked towards the front of the store.  They could see a cluster of people in the street.  

Ray went outside and angled for a view.

“The SUV never stopped!” said one bystander.

“It was a hit and run,” explained another.

A police car pulled up.  As the people parted, Ray could see Dan’s crumpled body on the pavement.

Ray stared, and took a few steps backwards before turning around and stepping back onto sidewalk.

“You were just talking to him, weren’t you?”

Ray focused and realized a man standing next to him was talking to him.  He turned and saw a young man with a square jaw and wrap-around sunglasses.

“Yeah, he was just in town for his son’s funeral, never met him before in my life,” said Ray. “Poor bastard.  He was a World War II vet, too.”

The young man turned to him.  “What did he talk about?”

Ray froze for a second.

“A crazy conspiracy theory,” he said.  “He was very old and he was just rambling.  We humored him, I guess he was lonely and needed someone to talk to.”

He ran his fingers through his silver hair.  “I’m shaking,” he said to the young man as he looked at the scene.  “I need something to settle my nerves.  Can I bum a cigarette?”

“Sure,” said the young man, as he reached in a pocket. “Need a light, too?”

“No, I have a lighter in my pocket.  Thanks, though,” he said as he took the cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. “I’m going home to get a drink.”

He turned and walked down the sidewalk, cupping his hand and pretending to light a cigarette. After he went around the corner, he tossed the cigarette away and ducked down an alley behind the supermarket to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

When he got home, he sat down at his computer and opened an internet browser.  He opened his email.

Very carefully, with two fingers, he began:

“You ever hear the expression, ‘That’s how the cookie crumbles?”  I want to tell you a story a man told me 20 minutes ago.

“He’s dead now...”

-The End-