Surrender Aurora

by W. Strawn Douglas

  “Ideally, Colonel, we are looking for a disabled veteran who already possesses a security clearance. To test out the filaments, he would have to have lost partial use of a forearm. With the right financial incentives, it could be done.” The doctor looked at the colonel and said, “Finding a few of these youngsters willing to serve their country again will not be difficult. Presently we are testing the prosthetics and a few component parts of the total package, like the anti-rejection drugs. The trials are beginning now.”

  The colonel considered his words and said to the doctor, “We are going to have security issues to consider with this new weapons system. We will be the rival of the entire world. Hooking a pilot’s targeting capability directly to the brain will create a new standard for a good offense being the best defense.”

  The doctor responded, “We can run some of our funding through the Air Force Academy. They have a virtually unfettered grant system. Getting our pilots to be able to select from twenty weapons in less than five seconds will be linked with theories on air combat. Sad that Boyd didn’t live to see the next chapter of his dogfighting manuals get completely rewritten.

  “This test program,” continued the doctor, “must look for disposable heroes. We need to find good subjects who are not aware of the program’s real goals. There will be tests that could damage the minds of the professionals. We need to find these disposable heroes and test them to the fullest. We need the damaged and lame to serve their country in a capacity that has never been seen before. A few minds that can show us what we will need to serve the real soldiers in this cybernetic war. Dazzle them with a paycheck and the VIP status of seeing the bells and whistles, and we can dump them on the streets with tales that will never be believed.”

  * * *

  James sat at his computer desk and began to compose a blog post for Sean.

  Blog Post Eight

  There are so many good books to consider. Every drug addict loves Frank Herbert’s Dune where the entire world of Dune is addicted to the cosmic space-travel drug called “the spice.” That drug gives starship navigators the ability to fold space and travel without moving. There is also the anarchist social manual called the “Dispossessed,” where an entire world lives without rank or caste. Humans living by a deliberate effort at avoiding a class-based social formation.

  This means that after we legalize drugs, we can create a new society without the misfortune of having the top 2% of the world’s population owning 85% of the world’s property. You have me preaching anarchism here so don’t be surprised if I wax poetically for a moment. As I haven’t seen you for 20 years, I have a lot to talk to you about. There are books like The Witches of Karres and Little Fuzzy to consider. Piper wrote Fuzzy at just the same time as the Civil Rights revolution was going on in the USA Confederacy south. Fuzzy was about indigenous civil rights for a native species on a distant planet in a future space-opera adventure. There are all sorts of books written with drugs and social revolutions in them. I have even written a few stories myself. I will blog-post a few of them for you. I have a collection called Unlimited that I self-published. Here is one of them. It’s short, just 500 words or so. It’s no more than a two-page story. I may be a disabled drug addict but my mind is still active.

  And what’s up with the Republicans wanting to drug test all welfare recipients? I guess I fall into that class. I have a career investment into schizophrenia, so I guess I am just the kind of man who drives Republicans crazy. Ironic to think of Republicans crazy and me being sane. With marijuana going legal, the whole sobriety scene is going to change. I keep seeing chemical dependency literature being written on the pretext of the philosophy of “surrender to win.” I think the other team just scored a victory, and the whole sobriety offensive will go through some serious changes.

  That doesn’t mean I devalue your sobriety. It changes things dramatically. I hear you tangled with cocaine, so I can sympathize. I lost a girlfriend to coca and I still feel regrets over that. Patty was her name. Very Irish Catholic, like you. I must confess I treated her poorly, but the greatest problem with her was that her drug habit was something I couldn’t stomach. Ironic for one drug addict to be mad at another drug addict over problems rooted in their mutual chemical dependency.

  In any case, we will meet soon, and how did you ever find me on Facebook? It’s been 20 years since we have seen each other. I feel mixed emotions about my own drug use. I have a friend who quit the pot after noting that when she was stoned, she didn’t feel like interacting with her toddler.

  Here is my best short-short work of science fiction. Tell me if you like it. I put it into my collection called Unlimited. An ode to self-publishing.

  SENSORY PERCEPTION

  by James McGregor

  The geneticat’s pan-sized paw slapped the soldier to the rock face like a toy. Claws tore through his flesh, helmet, and the fabric hood like they were a sirloin steak. Lieutenant Davis had walked into a deadly trap.

  Veracruz leveled his 20-millimeter chain gun at the geneticat, just above the now dead Davis, and squeezed off a burst of machine-cannon at the beast. Flesh exploded and the massive, two-ton, genetically engineered death cat went down without accomplishing its mission as sentinel for the people in the megabeam city.

  Sargent Veracruz stepped forward and gazed down at the pool of blood issuing from both Davis and the cat. The blend of bloods intermingled into one pool, a deep burgundy red. The piece of Davis’s helmet was dangling from half a head. Veracruz picked it up and looked inside. He peeled the strip of mylar tape off the sensor display. Only officers had helmets like these.

  Davis never saw it coming. With his heat sensor display masked, he didn’t see the heat signature of the cat in its den. Funny that way, but Veracruz had held back and let Davis take the lead on this search mission.

  Veracruz checked the safety pin on Davis’s gun, then moved the metal tab to unlock it from its safe, non-firing mode. He fired a shot into the mess of geneticat, then studied the two dead and thought of the romance he was having with Davis’s wife.

  “You never had a clue, did you?” he said.

  He folded the mylar strip on itself and put it in his pocket.

  He looked down at Davis and never noticed the helmet’s disk recorder was functioning. The cat had destroyed the indicator for the recorder, but the disk rolled on.

  “I really like your wife,” Veracruz said and strolled away to report the tragic death.

  Unaware of the operating sound recorder, he never had a clue.

  That, my friend Sean, is what a micro story looks like. The big publishers like Ace Science Fiction or DAW or Doubleday or Baen all are looking for works of major sci-fi. They want blockbuster million-sellers about spaceships and future societies. George Orwell and Aldous Huxley wrote future tales of nightmare futures called “dystopias.” Technically speaking, these dystopias were sci-fi, but they were more of a type of book you could call “social engineering.” I do hope to write something in that vein.

  Orwell’s books 1984 and Animal Farm were lessons in totalitarian socialism. Huxley’s Brave New World was more of a text on where a future society could end up. Huxley’s text was inclusive of drug use and called his drug of choice by the name of “soma,” like the Hindu word for cannabis.

  Currently the marijuana advocates here in Minnesota are trying to get the state to allow for the treatment of pain with cannabis. I feel that would be a good move. The biggest problem is that the whole recovery/rehab scene has been designed to oppose all drug use and force drug users to surrender their drug addictions to the will of the state. So far that has worked but now, with legal marijuana, the whole thing has been thrown into chaos.

  I remember my first taste of forced attendance at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting and watching a tearful woman break down and tell of her personal agony over being tempted to use drugs. She was a single mother of two with a pregnancy on the way. Clad in a gray sweatshirt hoodie, she evoked pathos as she tried to speak on her own
personal agony.

  It means we have been picking sides in a social war on drugs. Casualties mount.

  I look forward to speaking with you in person. I have used marijuana but I avoid the white powders. Sadly, my affection for cheap drugs has obliterated my memory and punished my brain so far into madness that I have to take psych medications just to keep a grip on some part of reality.

  My experience is what is called “dual diagnosis,” which means the twin addictions of recreational drugs and mental illness. I have gone to the meetings but I find myself to be a social user. My life is a mix of the sobriety scene and psychiatric drugs.

  We have a small public radio station just across the street, and once in a while I catch a DJ talking about people I know. When I am paranoid on drugs, I often feel that the radio is in a direct conversation with me. My conscious mind knows that is a paranoid delusion, but I keep on smoking pot. When I start to think that the weather report on a big classic rock station is a secret message made just for me, it’s time to take some psych meds. I think of that tearful single mother at the NA meeting, and I wonder if I am going to end up like that.

  All is well, Sean. I am at a crossroads in my life. Perhaps you can offer me some guidance.

  * * *

  James read through what he had written and hit the “publish” button with his cursor. The message text and the micro story he had pasted into the blog went up to the electronic destination in seconds.

  He set the marijuana cleaning Frisbee aside and began rummaging through the books on his computer desk and found the book called Waiting. It was a guide to the twelve steps of NA for the religiously disinclined to belief in God.

  * * *

  “That’s all of them, Doctor. We have one hundred thirty-three applicants for twenty-four program participant slots. Of that group, only seventeen are veterans. We didn’t ask them about security clearances, but you have almost two dozen to choose from.” The nurse looked at the gray-haired, rotund doctor and said, “We can ask them more questions after we set them up for their physical exams.”

  “Yes, that will do quite nicely, Jen. We may get some candidates for the full program. Anything else?”

  “One of the candidates was a Marine Corps truck driver assigned to a combined forces communications facility in Kuwait just after Desert Storm in ’92. He cross-trained as an admin clerk, and I think he had a security clearance to do that. All of the communications personnel needed security clearances to handle the traffic in computer data and information. He could be your best bet.”

  The doctor leaned back from his desk, revealing his round form fully. “ And who is this fellow? Do you think he is anyone we can use?”

  “His forms identify him as James McGregor. Formerly Corporal McGregor. He got the admin job because he could type.”

  “He has dexterity. That is good. Perhaps we can use him after all. Run him through the usual protocols, and it may work out that he can serve his country once again. Bring him in this week if he clears the tests. We can look him up in the Defense lists of people with clearances. It shouldn’t take more than five minutes if he is still in the computer database.”

  * * *

  James got the call from the doctor’s office and got scheduled for the first overnight test of the new drug. He also got the news from his mother that his father had appendix cancer. The clinic had removed the appendix immediately, but there was still fear that there would be the need for follow-up chemotherapy. He had his father in mind when he accepted the Syntheris test so quickly. If he could save a life with a drug test, then maybe somebody else could save a life with his father in mind.

  His mind was filled with the memories of mutual frustration that came from the way that his father and the classic son had gone out of their way to sabotage each other. Now all that discord fell by the wayside as James faced the possible mortality of his father. Time was running out.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ecstasy, also known as XTC or E, affects serotonin, a brain chemical that regulates mood, emotion, sleep, appetite, memory, and sexual behavior. The drug typically induces feelings of euphoria, increased energy, and sexual arousal, and makes people feel a need to be touched or hugged.

  However, in high doses, the illegal drug known scientifically as methylene dioxy methamphetamine, or MDMA, can cause a sharp increase in body temperature, leading to muscle breakdown, kidney and heart failure, and death…

  …The researchers found that, compared with the brains of women who had never taken Ecstasy, the brains of heavy Ecstasy female users had weaker concentrations of serotonin transporters, the sites on brain cell surfaces that mop up serotonin from the space between cells after it has finished acting on other cells.

  If the chemical is not mopped up, further brain signals can’t get through.

  MDMA gets into the brain through the serotonin transporter. A missing transporter means a dead cell.

  December 7, 2015, 8:30 a.m. The moment had come. James arose, dressed, and headed to the East Bank. It was overcast, no visible sun behind the clouds. He plodded along automatically and came to the Moos Medical Center. Its impressive modern architecture loomed before him. He went inside and reported to Room 213. They had him wait there, and a wheelchair with an attendant showed up. James let the process begin by getting in the chair and allowing the attendant to push him to an elevator and over to the University Hospital, one city block away, and into a room with a bed, curtained windows, and a large glass window, mirrored on the inside. James took one look at the mirrored glass and felt a twitch of paranoia. Skilled at defeating this emotion, he put it out of the clear forefront of his mind.

  “What’s up, Doc?” he said as Dr. Witherspoon and Colonel Devers materialized, looking into the room.

  Witherspoon spoke. “We’ll need you to change into a hospital gown, and the nurse will help put the electrodes on. You will be monitored by EEG.”

  “Electroencephalograph? Damn. This must be interesting to you guys,” James said.

  Witherspoon pulled a clipboard out and reeled back two pages, looking intently at the data on the uncovered page. “You’re James McGregor and you’re here for the Syntheris trial. Now, Mr. McGregor, we’ve planned on giving you a sedative with this to calm you generally, and inhibit any adverse reaction to the Syntheris. You’re not allergic to Rohypnol, are you?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “That’s good,” continued Witherspoon. “We will be monitoring your brain activity in the next room. If you have any problems, we’ll be right with you monitoring the EEG. This should go off without a hitch. Get into the gown and into bed, and we’ll tell you when we’re ready.”

  James stripped down and donned the gown, slipped into the bed, and waited. A nurse in blue surgical scrubs soon appeared. She peeled backing off of four adhesive electrodes and stuck them onto his temples and forehead.

  “That’s it,” she said. “I’ll go and get your medication. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  She left him there to contemplate his surroundings, and the wires attached to his head. He gazed out the window at the houses across the street. It was early December, snow flurries. He watched as flakes sped past his window.

  The nurse returned with a small paper cup of pills and a larger cup of water. “Nothing really happens for the first hour,” she said. “Swallow these and wash them down with the water.”

  James took both cups and shot the pills to the back of his throat. One gulp of the water and they would be gone. He swallowed them all, put the extra water down on the bedside cupboard, and leaned back into the pillow. This is nice, he thought.

  He stared out the window at the houses and snow. Overcast, he thought. Soon his body felt rubbery and heavy. It felt as if he were sinking into the mattress. He watched the snow streak by the window, lines trailing the flakes. His eyes felt irritated. He closed them for a moment. He looked at the clock. 9:30, it read. From that point on, he could remember nothing clearly. There was that doctor and that
other man talking and smiling. Video games. Xbox and PlayStation. Something, a game maybe. He tried to speak, but the words that came to his mind weren’t the ones he was saying. He found himself dreaming of an old girlfriend, Cathleen. Her smiling face in fall sun. His dream felt like an assertion. Like someone was dreaming for him, and this dream of an old girlfriend was his own dream. The new dream had won the fight. He felt his dream leave and the stupor of waking take over. He looked around the dark room. He looked outside. It was dark. He looked at the clock. 4:20, it said. 4:20 in the morning. Christ, those pills packed a punch. A whole day gone, he thought. Still, it’s better to sleep till morning, and he rolled onto his right side and went back to sleep. He was dreaming of video games and Cathleen.

  They woke him at 6:30 and he was alert and conscious immediately. Doctor Witherspoon walked into the room, clipboard in hand, and said, “That’s all there is to it, Mr. McGregor.”

  “Thanks, Doc, I feel all right. Will I be able to walk around? I mean is that sedative out of my system?”

  “It should be by now. Get dressed. How were your dreams?”

  “I kept seeing video games. Feel like I’ve been playing an air combat simulator all night.”

  “Interesting, I’ll make a note of that.” The doctor wrote a note on his clipboard.

  James rose, nude, and walked to the closet where his clothes were and began to dress.

  “We’ll have a wheelchair here for you in a few minutes,” the doctor said.

  “That’s cool,” James said.

  Dressed, he sat in a chair and waited for his ride. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his cigarettes. He couldn’t get the video games out of his head. Something about them bothered him. Something different than a dream. A dreamlike experience that he just couldn’t remember.

  The attendant arrived with the wheelchair. A young, smallish blonde woman. Young, in her early twenties, he thought.

  “Mr. McGregor?” she queried in the doorway of the room.