by Nick Webb
She’s lying down in her pod, looking up at the ceiling. All around us the soldiers are talking to each other, bantering with jokes, other stories. But on her right, the pod is empty, as on my left. She must have noticed that, one of those little things that push you to go further with your secrets than you intend to.
“After that zook touched me, I didn’t break his wrist. I froze. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t want to make the situation any worse than it was. I didn’t want to die.”
I say nothing. Her eyes are still on the ceiling, as if that metal stretched far away into infinity. Her hands are clasped, as if she’s praying, or in a confessional.
“He ripped my suit open and when he pushed my legs apart I screamed. And the truck stopped, and the others came. They were shouting, and at first I thought they were going to stop him. Then they started watching.”
She is silent for a moment, maybe waiting for a sign from me that I’m listening, maybe for me to say something about forgiveness, or about penance. I don’t know what to say, so I nod again, and maybe the movement is enough.
“They all did it. Raped me.”
I watch her for a moment, but she’s closed her eyes now, and presses the button on the inside of her pod. The lid slips down on her. For a while you can see her breath fogging up the glass porthole, then disappear as the hyper-fluid fills the tank.
* * *
Dulce et decorum est.
Sweet and glorious it is...
We’ve repeated that lie to each other for thousands of years. You’d think we would have learned better by now.
Yet here we are—on this godforsaken ship, circling the moon of a godforsaken world, seven hundred and some odd million miles from home, three years’ of travel in hyper-sleep to where our families and children weep for us, and everything we cling to—everything we tell ourselves is real, every story we tell each other—is either half of a truth, or a lie.
* * *
When Sharkey’s pod is filled, I settle back in my own. The memory material form-fits to me, cushioning my human arms and half-human legs in a familiar embrace. I press my own button, and the casket lid closes on me with a hum.
Anya, I whisper to myself, and I repeat her name, because she’s who I want to think about, she’s who I want to see in my three-year-long dreams. But sometimes, the past won’t let go of you. When I close my eyes, it isn’t Sharkey that I see.
It’s her.
I can still see her very clearly, the zook hiding in the confessional in that church in Echoriath. I’m pretty sure it was a confessional. I remember my grandmother taking me when I was eleven, because unlike my mother she hadn’t stopped believing in a God.
At the rear of La Iglesia de San Juan Bautista, where Nana went on Sundays, there was a small, enclosed booth with a central chamber, where—in place of God—the priest sat, with two smaller booths on either side. You sat kneeling in the dark, until the priest opened up a small, latticed window to your small booth, which was a sign to start fumbling through your sins.
At the rear of the church in Echoriath there was also a confessional booth. I was the first one there, and I kicked open the middle door. Empty, as was the small booth on the right. I kicked open the one on the left, and there she was, hands clasped and kneeling, whispering through the lattice window to no one.
“You!” I said, and I motioned her outside with the rifle, but she ignored me, still whispering to no one. “You!” I said again, and she looked at me, and crossed herself.
She came out, arms and legs bruised and in a rag that must have once been a dress. She was the smallest thing. Her lips were ashen, her eyes were teary, and her face was smeared with soot. Her auburn hair was askew, strewn with caked mud. The smallest thing. So frail, almost inconsequential.
She raised her hands. There, on the palm of the little girl’s left hand was branded a single letter: ‘R’.
I stood there, about as close to her as Sharkey was from me, three feet away from the face I see so clearly now, imploring, understanding but not understanding why.
Then Sarge’s voice: “What the frag are you waiting for?”
I looked back, and there was Sarge and half my patrol on the altar platform, weapons ready, watching me. I raised my plasma rifle, touched it to her heart, and I fired.
* * *
The Miyazaki is turning.
You can feel the slow rotation of the ship as it turns, and the thrum of the ion thrusters readying their push against Titan’s gravity.
But the secrets we keep, the lies of war honorable and glorious, they hew a gravity well deeper than for the planet and all of Saturn’s sixty-two moons, an abyss from which there is no escape.
I close my eyes, and prepare for dreaming.
Q&A with Samuel Peralta
What does the Latin poem at the start of the story mean?
The verse from Horace translates as: “How sweet and honorable it is to die for one’s country: / Death pursues the man who flees, / spares not the hamstrings or cowardly backs / Of battle-shy youths.” Centuries later, the phrase “Dulce et decorum est / Pro patria mori” was used in a well-known poem by Wilfred Owen, what he called ‘the old Lie’. That humankind still haven’t learned this, now or in the time frame of my story, is part of the theme of “War Stories”.
One of the many things I love about your writing is the way you tackle universal themes. This story is no exception. It’s set in some mythical future and yet it could have taken place during the Roman Empire or today in Iraq. How do you manage to write stories that seem timeless?
I very often consciously choose those themes that are vital and important today - and those are themes that turn out to be universal - such as the inequality of different races or genders in today’s society. Speculative fiction then enables me to use its particular vocabulary to say things about those themes and issues - using the inequality of robots and humans, for example, as a metaphor for today’s inequalities - in ways that can turn out to be very powerful.
You have an interesting resume. Can you tell us a bit about what you do along with writing SF?
I’m still not a full-time writer. My day job is with a specialized engineering company that, among other things, provides complex high-tech tools for the nuclear industry, such as robots to do things in places where humans cannot go. I’ve been active in start-ups, in areas including software for handheld devices, advanced III-V opto-electronic semiconductors, and most recently in a gesture and image sensing. I’ve also helped produce and support over 100 short films, one of which recently received a Golden Globe nomination for Best Foreign Film.
Are you working on any new tales? And how can readers best find you online?
I have several stories coming up in many anthologies, a collection of my own stories later, and hopefully a novella. I’m continuing to produce my own anthology series, The Future Chronicles, which is up to fourteen volumes now. I’m most often on Facebook if you want to chat, but you’ll get to know me best by my stories... There’s always some of me in my characters.
The Mergans
by Ann Christy
One
THE HAND WASHED the Voice’s legs, smoothing away the dust from her knees and the bottoms of her feet. The Voice watched her work, trying to remain detached, as if it were not her body being tended with such care. Done with her legs, the Hand looked up, ready to wash the rest of the Voice’s body in preparation for her first robing.
The Hand paused when she saw the Voice’s face and the tears that marked her cheeks. Her alarm was real and immediate. Tears were for infants, unacceptable from anyone else. Dropping the wet cloth to the floor, she wiped away the tears with work-roughened fingertips, making sure to get every spot of lingering moisture.
When more filled the Voice’s eyes, she gripped the Voice’s head and shook her a little. It wasn’t rough or angry, only fearful and concerned, but it worked to make the Voice look at her. The Hand pulled away and signed the words,
Be brave.
These two signs didn’t help the Voice at all. How could this Hand know what she was about to go through? How could she understand?
Something of her thoughts must have been written on her face, because the Hand sunk back into her kneeling position in front of the bench and put a hand to the Voice’s knee in comfort. When she leaned back her head, as if searching the ceiling far above for some answer, the Voice saw the tiny, pale line across this Hand’s throat. She’d seen it many times, but tonight the old scar had greater significance than ever before.
The Voice leaned over as much as she could without unbalancing herself and whispered into the Hand’s ear, “I’m afraid I’ll do poorly. I cannot be a Hand if I fail. A Voice does not need hands and a Hand has no need of a voice.”
The Hand’s body stiffened when she spoke, and the Voice saw her eyes dart about as if looking for anyone who might have heard her speak. This was not allowed. Her voice belonged to her master and was for his use alone. Just as the hands of all Hands belonged to their master, all words from a Voice did too. The Voice relayed his words to others, but had none of her own.
At least, the Voices weren’t supposed to have any words of their own.
The Hand pulled away and put a wrinkled hand to the Voice’s mouth to stop her words. After another quick look around, she signed, Your songs are beautiful. Your face is beautiful. They will accept you and you’ll keep your voice. You will sing and read them stories from the Sky-God’s books forever.
The Voice straightened back up on the bench, a more difficult task than it should be. The Hand picked up the fallen cloth and resumed her washing of the Voice’s body, pausing only when she reached the stumps where her arms once were. Her face hardened as she washed those, her eyes losing some focus as if she didn’t want to fully see the damage that had been done to this Voice after her songs won her a place as such. The Voice didn’t mind that so much. She couldn’t even remember what having arms had been like since they’d been taken when she was three years old.
The Hand brushed the Voice’s cheek and she smiled at her. The smile the Voice returned was weak, but it was there and would have to suffice. Her sadness would color her songs. It might make them beautiful or it might make them rough. It was best not to risk it this night.
Yet the Hand also knew the young Voice was right. A Voice did not need hands and a Hand did not need a voice. The deed had been done to the Voice already and if she did not debut her songs well tonight, she would be on the burning pyre tomorrow. Before sunset, she would be spread amongst the fields to help the crops grow.
All women had uses, even dead ones.
The Hand brought the robes and the Voice stood while she was draped with the exacting precision demanded by the evening. This was her first night wearing the robes of the Claimed. Her first week in the bleeding rooms was over and she was now a woman. She could be displayed as such and her songs heard by more than just her master.
As the crimson silk fell over her, the Voice watched the Hand and waited for her moment. When the Hand leaned close to tie the many elaborate closures on the robe, she put her lips to the Hand’s ear and whispered the forbidden words, “I will be brave for you, Grandmother.”
Two
Tango listened to the briefing, then nudged Delta in the next seat. “Let’s just call it Douchebag Planet Number 40 or something.”
Delta stifled a laugh and grinned widely. The grin didn’t look good. It stretched the wide, white scar across a pair of lips already marred by a myriad of other such scars, making it shine under the briefing room lights. Lips and chins were often the victims inside the battle suits when a battle was in full swing. It was the only part of them that had significant freedom of movement inside their shells.
“Douchebag Planet, aye!” came her hissed response. Neither of them actually understood the origins of the reference, but it was a popular one and the word considered the ultimate insult.
A sharp glance from the Division command section up front hushed them and brought both soldiers’ attention where it should be. There was nothing new here, nothing to be worried about. This would be just another planet that didn’t pass muster. It didn’t matter what name they chose for themselves or which Seed ship brought them to the planet. It didn’t matter what they envisioned themselves to be, what they had deluded themselves into thinking was the right way to live. Their so-called faith and beliefs were of no importance.
What mattered is that they were douchebags and for that, they had to die. Or, as the Peace Force liked to call it, reorganized.
The Division Commander—called DC rather than any standard designator—eyed the crowded room, which held the leading elements of each Brigade, Battalion, and Company in their Division. Tango was the current Second in Third Company, while Delta was currently running in third for the Fourth Company of their Battalion. Not too high up in the command structure so that life was entirely without fun, but not so low that they didn’t have opportunities to make their own fun. It was a nice balance and they were both very happy with their spots in the hierarchy.
The DC’s next words put a hush on the room. “This will be a no-two-stones operation.”
Tango and Delta looked at each other in surprise. There’d been no such operation since before either of them had come out of the crèche. It wasn’t unprecedented, but it was rare. This planet must have gone very far off the beaten track to deserve a complete obliteration of their entire infrastructure, customs, and culture.
No-two-stones simply meant that no two stones in a building would be left together, an ancient reference that hardly worked when most planets were covered by buildings made of metal and glass. Still, the sentiment held. No-two-stones was bad news for the planet’s current ruling parties.
“And the inhabitants?” asked the First for the battalion Tango and Delta both belonged to.
“That’s where this operation gets a little sticky, so thank you for asking, Battalion Commander Xray-Mike-Four. We’ve got another year of ship time until we reach the system, which means you’ll all be going back to sleep. That will give us about twenty-five additional years of planet time to evaluate them and figure out the details. Our current operational plan is being loaded into the learning modules. You’ve all seen the rather unique planetary conditions we’ll be working under during your pre-planning sleep sessions. Extensive deserts and wind make this one an interesting environmental outlier. But there’s also the social structure to consider, which is nothing like we’ve seen before. Our social engineers are still working on that part of it.”
More than a few surreptitious looks were passed between particular friends or leaders. If it required even more study after the decision to intervene was made, then it had to be a seriously messed up system. But would it be messed up in the oh, that’s interesting sort of way or the I’ve really got to kill everyone I see kind of way?
The battalion commander wasn’t yet done it seemed, and asked, “And there are still no reports of significant military presence on the surface?”
The DC coughed a little at that question, which meant the answer wasn’t truly known or wasn’t going to be to the liking of the soldiers. Tango listened more carefully and tried not to be distracted by the close proximity of Delta.
“That’s a difficult question. There are plenty of standard old-Earth style anti-air platforms, but they don’t appear manned. Also, there are some indicators of underground activity, though we can’t see through the bedrock to figure out exactly what that activity might be. It’s possible that there won’t be much fight here—”
The DC paused as low groans broke out from the assembled crowd. No one wanted to go to battle only to find no one to fight. “But—and I repeat, but—we should be ready for pop-up activity. It’s entirely possible that they relocated all military structures underground to protect assets from the periodic activity in their asteroid belt. The planet is bombarded on a fairly regular basis, which would make un
derground assets a logical choice.”
The groans faded at those words, but no one was very excited after that. Pop-up activity was nothing if not intense, but underground facilities would be boring. Orbital bombardment would get to have all the fun if that were the case.
As the briefing ended, Tango grabbed Delta by the arm and tugged, swerving them out of the flow of traffic toward a ladder access. Tango shouted a little to be heard over the noise a hundred pairs of boots created while clomping across metal. “Come. I’ve got a surprise!”
Delta’s eyebrows rose at that. She liked surprises and especially liked Tango’s surprises. Usually, it was something fun like a new combat move or an early look at some new weaponry.
They banged up the stairs for four levels, alone in the stairwell because no one used them. Most of the sailors and soldiers on this ship had probably never used stairs in their lives. Why would they? The chutes were faster and the ship was big. More than sixty thousand people lived and worked on this ship and it didn’t seem crowded except when waiting for a chute. Tango had discovered the joy of the ladder-well echoes and never gotten over it. They were also a nice way to avoid waiting for the crowd after a battle briefing or during shift changes.
They left the stairwell at the level primarily reserved for suits and suit creation. Delta grinned again, thinking this might be a peek at some new weaponry for their suits. That would be good. Each planet they visited offered new opportunities to adjust their current weaponry to a new environment, a new defensive system, a new set of challenges. There was always something new being added.
Tango’s face wore a mischievous look when they stopped in front of one of the Build Bay doors. It slid open and Delta followed along, passing racks of suits being refurbished or built. It was a constant process. A soldier was their suit. It was weapon, medical unit, habitation, transportation. It was all things to the person inside, and the soldier’s suit must be up to date and in perfect working order at all times.
