Dark Doses Page 10

  He shook his head and glanced at the mountain.

  “All I know is… our way asks too much. Things have to be better, made easier, so people aren’t forced to this.” His fingers traced puckered splits in the steering wheel cover. “You’re not of my people. Not of our customs. But I hope I have your commitment and dedication, Alise. What you’ve shown for our way to all those desperate people for all these years.”

  “Your great grandfather would know, more than anyone.” She could hear Ulysses’ timbre driving every word he said. “You can do it, Junior. Nobody’s better suited.”

  He nodded again.

  Hours into her trudge up the path, the truck still sat at the trail head. Were she to misstep, twist her ankle or tumble, Junior would be there, no doubt. He would help and care for her, like a devoted son she didn’t deserve.

  But she mustn’t falter. Not now.

  The throb felt like a football lodged within her chest, filling, expanding. Alise pressed on into lengthening shadows until she stood panting at the mouth of the chute.

  Alone this time.

  Or not.

  A throaty coo coo on her left announced company. She locked eyes with a roadrunner, near invisible in his speckled brown backpack. With a mousetrap head snap, the bird plucked a scorpion from its cubby hole and began wolfing down the squirming form.

  “Guess it is dinner time, huh?”

  The segmented tail vanished last, its stinger slapping uselessly against the triangular beak.

  Harsh and rugged.

  The desert endured, even if she could not.

  “You go right ahead. I think I’ll just skip the whole last meal part.”

  Ambient light penetrated only a short distance into the chute opening. It sloped gently away at the start and then plunged into near free fall before swooping back to a slight incline. Somewhere far below, sunlight from the western opening penetrated, likely to maximum depth about this time of day, welcoming quilt and rider into a fiery embrace as they shot from the mountain to soar skyward.

  “Might as well get this over with.”

  Alise draped the quilt across the chute’s pocked–marked steel lip. She crawled onto it feet first, the orientation she chose for the ride, wrapped it around her, and pinned the sides together from bottom to top. Snug in her cocoon, she wiggled forward inch–by–inch until gravity did its job.

  The hurtling plunge that followed happened so abruptly and with such shock from her sensory–deprived state that, thankfully, no new agonies registered on her already tormented body.

  She fell, near weightless. It went on and on, a drop into forever.

  Somewhere along the way, Alise let go.

  She felt herself drawn upward, soaring like a bird of prey riding a hurricane’s updraft.

  Blackness yielded to brilliance without references, except for one fleeting instant when another presence registered alongside her, a confident, powerful essence that somehow touched her with a solitary note of deep appreciation and then was gone.

  She’d done it.

  “Allliiise.”

  Alone, she drifted in a milky void without form or substance. No temperature, pressure, motion, or feeling assailed her. Only light.

  “Allliiise.”

  And sound?

  Not a true sound. A pull. A very familiar call from something that should be far behind by now.

  “Allliiise.”

  Motion came. She complied with the summons, like a trout fly drawn across a placid stream back to the rod. To the source of its flight.

  “Alise!”

  Stone surrounded her. What should have been the densest rock seemed porous, diffused with dappled light.

  “Where am I?” she said.

  “The Mescalero name translates to Death’s Mouth,” came a subdued but familiar voice. “Most prefer calling it Singing Mountain.”

  “Singing Mountain?” That couldn’t be right. “I left the mountain. I… died.”

  “You left the bounds of flesh and soared free. Briefly. With a worthy companion, I should add.”

  “Edmund?”

  “So he was named.”

  Then she truly had accomplished everything.

  But nagging questions remained.

  “Who are you?”

  “The gaan Ulysses chants to. Keeper of the Passage to the Constellations. Preserver of timeless ways of primordial creation. Singer of lullabies.” The voice chuckled. “Ask your next question.”

  “Why am I here?”

  “Because it amused me.”

  Confusion turned to dismay. “Amused?”

  “Yes, Alise. You’ll see. To be in close proximity to the darkness, as Ulysses calls it, is to court its touch. I kept the darkness at bay in you for 18 years.”

  “You kept— But… but why?”

  “A chance for you to understand and appreciate. Which you did not want. Remember?”

  She did. Dismay became alarm.

  “You wanted a husband, but not the babe you made to snare him. Especially not when that child arrived with physical defects and great needs. What did you do then, Alise?”

  “Pleeease.”

  “Just like Susan Campbell did, wasn’t it?”

  She moaned. “No. Worse than.”

  “A young life compared to old… is that what you mean? Well, perhaps. If mere mortal time is the measure. In the end, when that time is up, the result is the same though, isn’t it?”

  No comparison. Never would be. Not for her.

  “How did you know to set the binding, Alise? You added Susan’s blood to the quilt.”

  “I… I just thought—”

  “You hoped someday she might come to appreciate her action, didn’t you? Just as you came to finally understand, appreciate, and devote to the path you selfishly chose at first. Chose and violated.”

  “I was wrong. I learned.”

  “So will she, in time. And she will return to Death’s Mouth. Permanently.”

  “W–will you arrange that?”

  “No, Alise. You will.”

  “Me?”

  “As I did for you. Beginning the day I climbed this mountain with your babe’s quilt, threaded with his, mine, and your own blood. I, too, soared up to the Passage, only to be halted, called back to learn what you now know. To feel as you now do.”

  “Feel how?”

  “Trapped. Yet again. All very amusing, wouldn’t you say?”

  “This whole time, then, after my baby… you’ve been—”

  “I guided your hands and sustained your body. You guided your heart and, at long last, finally enlightened your spirit to the true responsibility of the choice you made. So now it’s your turn to open the Passage when the Mescalero chants swell. Let through the faithful ones who’ve soared free so they can meld back into the heart of creation with its infinite possibilities. Preserve the cycle, Alise. As before. One day you, too, can follow, when your replacement arrives here. Until then, I recommend singing to her. Often.”

  Later, the Mescalero chant soared. The mountain trembled with power. Or maybe it was just Alise rumbling as she surged into the recently vacated space within the highest crags of stone. There, she flicked open the Passage to the Constellations for the worthy ones and watched familiar essences surge through; their giddy delight prompted pangs of envy, surprising Alise that she could still feel.

  She then hurled her song eastward along the blood bond, eventually to blend and rattle with raindrops on the windows of a small house. Inside sat Susan Campbell, who wondered what dark recess had spawned the storm’s mournful voice as she flipped open the crisp cover of a new book on quilting and read.

  PERFECT SOLDIER

  Published in Electric Spec, January 2007

  What kind of war fighter is perfect? Is it:

  One that never tires?

  One that feels no remorse?

  One that can’t be hurt?

  One that doesn’t falter?

  One that has no conscious?


  Be very careful what you wish for.

  #

  The back of the Wal–Mart erupted, a volcanic spew of cinder block ash, particles, and molten chunks. The shockwave nearly tumbled Sergeant Michael Edwards from his vantage point atop the deserted I–35 overpass. The HARM skittered through the dust and across the rubble to a meadow behind the former low–price leader.

  “I hate robots,” Mike muttered as he crouched behind the guardrail, skin crisping in the mid–morning Dallas sun. In particular, he hated ones about to kill him.

  ***

  “Target in sight.” Gus Pritchard, the contractor, stabbed at the satcam image of the HARM.

  “No shit, Gus,” Colonel Benjamin Yancy replied, staring over Pritchard’s shoulder at the same laptop display. “For a second, I thought that was the goddamn stock boy hauling out the trash.”

  A blue icon blinked insistently in the laptop’s system tray.

  Pritchard thumbed the laptop’s omni–directional mic. “Delta Nova. Uh–huh. Hold.” He addressed Yancy, “Colonel, Fort Hood indicates candidate two–four is ready. Awaiting your orders.”

  “De–metaled?”

  The contractor nodded.

  “Standby. Helo him here on my signal only.” Yancy’s voice echoed in the dusty air of the abandoned warehouse.

  Pritchard relayed the command. His stubble–free jaw, crisp Dockers, and Banana Republic freshness contrasted with Yancy’s burning eyes, tarnished eagle, and fatigues wrinkled from far too many fully–clothed naps throughout the three–month state of emergency.

  Fucking idiot civilian, Yancy thought. The profusion of United Defense Alliance corporate logos emblazoned on the left tit of Pritchard’s polo shirt didn’t make him any less of one. Yet, Yancy knew his own job existed because of Pritchard and everyone else who never had pledged their lives in service to Duty, Honor, and Homeland. Those who took the oath gave everything for those who didn’t.

  The satcam image pulled back, revealing a naked man sneaking across a highway overpass. The current volunteer, candidate number 23, distinguished combat veteran, career soldier, husband, and father of two Cub Scouts, initiated his final assault, a valiant attempt at mission completion, most likely a suicide effort.

  That, too, was due to Yancy’s job. The weight of the world rested on those damn squawking avian insignia he bore. He refilled his mug with more of the evil sludge liberated from the wrecked Seven–Eleven at dawn. By lunch, he could have the “Dear Mrs. Edwards” letter typed and sent before mission prep commenced with candidate 24.

  ***

  The HARM, in precise Army parlance, Heavy Armored Response Mechanized, serial number 00000004, looked fit, if a bit blistered and scarred from its nonstop three–month rampage. At rest atop the last of the spring’s bluebonnets, it reminded Mike of an oversized stainless steel Dempsey Dumpster adorned with interlaced pipes and yawning cowls in multiple diameters, a trashman’s heroin–induced nightmare. Now it jerked away from its crushed azure carpet, reconfiguring its bipedal supports for open ground traversal. Joints swung and merged with appendages as the legs extended, hoisting the HARM to its full, two–story height. It tilted left then right before unleashing a tight spectrum pulse at the stucco houses across the meadow. Homes, trees, privacy fences, patio umbrellas, play forts – everything raked by the pulse – flared into a raging blowtorch.

  “Bastard,” Mike hissed. “Just give me an opening. One clear shot at you.”

  The HARM lurched forward. Mike shadowed it across the overpass before bolting the wrong way down an on–ramp, leaving bloody footprints baking in the Texas heat.

  Carry out your mission, soldier. Do your Duty.

  And so he would, with everything inside him aligned to this one task, a singular purpose now dictating his existence.

  Before the Bradley had dropped him off in the Denton morning gloom, the scrawny colonel had asked him once more about doing the mission in the buff.

  Mike’s response seemed obvious, almost scripted. “I came into the world that way, Colonel. I can go out the same way,” which satisfied the old officer who curtly nodded a tired face. As he doffed his bathrobe and dove out of the vehicle, Mike’s respect, already high–flying for the 22 grunts who’d gone before, shot through the stratosphere. Each had perished in only the skin God had given him. Now came his turn.

  ***

  “Delta Nova,” Pritchard’s voice droned. “Colonel, Command Ops is asking for a mission assessment report.”

  “Tell them we’re not Tango Uniform yet. No, wait….” Fuckwads at the Joint Chiefs scrutinized the same real–time satellite feeds he did. Mustn’t show weakness or incompetence. “Assault two–three engaging target. No resolution prejudice yet. Status update in fifteen.”

  Pritchard transmitted the report.

  If this strategy didn’t work, one of the upcoming missions would fall from high in megaton form. It amounted to torching city and county to eradicate a single termite infestation. Crude. Effective. And utterly stupid.

  Today’s Army excelled at surgically precise warfare, killing a squad of terrorists in a Waterford store without so much as a single chime from the crystal on display. Perfect death mated with point destruction – the twitchy world of capitalism demanded it. But area–wide obliteration, Yancy thought, that solution smacked of the very terrorism it purported to eliminate. The irony churned in his gut as he contemplated his fateful decision three months prior….

  “Excuse me, Colonel.”

  Pritchard, hands clenched in his lap, headset off, sat facing him. When their eyes met, he continued in a low voice. “I’ve been reviewing the profile and scoring of candidate two–four.” His breath caught. “There’s something you really should know.”

  “Oh? Well, let’s see. His name is Stuart, though he prefers just ‘Stu’. Master Sergeant. Career soldier. Twice decorated in Iraq, once in Iran. Exemplary service record with a long string of promotion recommendations from his COs. His Myers–Briggs scores are extraordinary, particularly indicating strong leadership. Married to a lovely woman named Susan. Three kids. Always had dogs, including one now, a skinny rescue greyhound named Slick by his eldest daughter, who thought it would be cute to hear Daddy say, ‘Slick, sit’. Likes fly fishing, model trains, Chinese food buffets, and the Chicago Cubs, for some ungodly reason I can’t fathom. Has a jagged scar on his left forearm from colliding with a little league sandlot fence when he was ten, trying for a home–run ball. He made that catch, by the way. Kept the other team from scoring the decisive run. The only win for his team the whole season.” Yancy glared at him. “What else should I know?”

  Pritchard’s head dipped. “I just thought,” he said, fidgeting in his seat, “you might consider changing the prep, maybe giving him a few more details about the mission, a little better insight, considering—”

  “Fathers have ordered their children to war for centuries, and endured the consequences. It’s called Duty, with a capital ‘D’. No less important now than it ever has been. Why should this time be different? He gets the same training and information all the other volunteers get, so he can perform his own Duty. No more. No less. That’s how it is.” Nothing else was possible, though Yancy knew the civilian across from him could never comprehend that.

  ***

  Fifty feet away, the HARM chugged toward the neighborhood inferno. Mike saw his best opportunity approaching. Crouching, he darted into the meadow, circling to come up behind the thing, dancing through years of accumulated cockleburs mowed into a matted carpet.

  On the crest of a deep slough, the HARM stiffened. Mike slowed, prepared to flatten himself on the dirt if the thing showed any sign of swinging about. Side panels flared over the power compartment, followed by the banshee wail of the chillers, which vented their waste heat and byproducts extracted off the HARM’s micro–breeder reactor heart. Mike ducked into the roiling steam cloud, closing the distance.

  A sudden breeze whisked the steam away.

  Mike froze.


  The HARM had swiveled. Death now stared at him with an array of spectrum emitters. One micro pulse and he’d evaporate, adding his failed attempt to the next training vidcast.

  You’re a shrub, Sergeant, an inconsequential life form. No metals, fibers, or plastics distinguish you from the background clutter of native life. Safe to ignore. Insignificant.

  He became a tree and braced for death.

  ***

  On the laptop, the juggernaut prepared to claim its twenty–third victim.

  That should be me, thought Yancy, as he had every time before at this instant. Countless letters signed with his scrawl extolled pride and admiration to newly–made widows and fatherless children, when all he could think was that the very first letter should have gone to a modest colonial structure in Maryland that had been in his family for generations.

  During what seemed a lifetime ago, he’d applied that same scrawl atop a thousand–page contract authorizing a certain black program. Out of his pen a defense consortium was born. The might of capitalism backed by insane amounts of tax dollars yielded a HARM conceptual prototype about the time a radical faction made landfall in Redondo Beach, holding off a Navy SEAL assault long enough to trigger a small–yield thermonuclear device. America incurred a West coast terrorism tragedy that day, a bookend to the one on the East coast over a decade earlier. Yancy compounded the LA disaster by rushing the HARMs into production, consenting to manned vehicles in place of full automation. Only elite soldiers, those the Army considered nearly perfect, qualified as operators, but as a last minute precaution, Yancy directed UDA to include an undisclosed capability to forcibly replace the operator, intended for use only in dire situations. The first squad had emerged three months ago, serial numbers one through 10, near–invincible weapons of absolute power for urban and low–conflict settings.

  ***

  Mike sold it, the understated performance of a lifetime.

  His audience rewarded him with total indifference.

  The HARM spun about and crested the lip of a deep ditch. Its cab dropped as it descended.