The Last Man in the World Explains All

by D Krauss

An Unfortunate Choice of Words

  (originally "Last Contact" at https://www.bewilderingstories.com/issue356/last_contact.html)

  The ship landed in a cornfield about four miles outside of Rantoul, Illinois, making quite a racket. And quite a mess. “Durn Air Force,” Hiram Whittaker, in whose field the ship had landed, said as he surveyed the burnt hectare while calculating the loss in ethanol revenue.

  “Air Force left twenty years ago, Pop.” Curry, his eldest, let loose a tobacco stream at a grasshopper frantically trying to escape the seared stubble. “And besides, that don’t look like any Air Force plane I ever see.”

  “Um,” Hiram conceded, fairly sure the Air Force wasn’t constructing jets that resembled 40-foot, all-copper Hershey’s kisses. Why, they’d be laughed out of the country. “Must be Russians. Go get my shotgun.”

  Curry shrugged, walked off and was back twenty minutes later with the double-barrel, and Sheriff Tose. “Hiram,” Tose watched as Hiram broke the shotgun to check the loads, “what you planning?”

  “They’s trespassing, ain’t they?” Hiram leveled the weapon.

  “That they are,” Tose rocked a bit, eyeing the copper kiss, “but they just might shoot back.”

  Hiram considered that and looked around, but there was no cover, so maybe a sensible man would hold his fire. “All right,” Hiram said, lowering the weapon, “what ya gonna do?”

  Tose made a ‘pfht’ sound. “Don’t know till I take a closer look.” He moved forward.

  “Still pretty hot, Sheriff,” Curry spat another stream.

  Tose put out a flat palm and felt the distant heat. “That’s so. Guess I’d better get the fire truck out.” He went back to his car and, a few minutes later, they heard the whistle off towards town and Curry wondered out loud if he should go to the station and get his equipment.

  “They’se comin’ here, ain’t they?” Hiram said, and that made sense so Curry stayed.

  The volunteers arrived and, at Curry’s direction, put out a few embers thrown by the ship’s arrival and then stood in a semi-circle on the edge of the road staring at the kiss.

  “Whatcha wanna do?” Chief Billy Perkins, who was Chief due more to ownership of three elevators than a steeping in fire science, asked Tose.

  Tose put out another testing palm. “How long before that thing cools down?” he asked Billy, who, by his office, should know.

  “Dunno.”

  “Well, then,” Tose answered, “I dunno, either.”

  You can’t, of course, keep such a thing secret, and the State Police substation heard the excited chatter on the fire net and sent out a car. Trooper Billings took one look at the kiss, said “Damn,” and without consulting Tose, made some calls. Much to Tose’s annoyance, a couple of FBI agents showed up.

  “We’ll take it from here,” Agent Culhanney, straight out of central casting, said with some air of importance.

  Tose snake-eyed him. “Take what?”

  Culhanney gave a self-important laugh as his youthful sidekick Robin, er, Agent Paducah, snake-eyed Tose back. “This,” Culhanney’s gesture took in the kiss.

  Tose spat a wad near Robin’s Florsheims. “Trespassing ain’t a Federal matter.”

  “Listen, old man.” Robin made a belligerent step towards Tose that Culhanney expertly deflected because, after all, that was his role. He passed a significant look over the rather substantial crowd that had grown in the mean time, spurred by calls from the firemen and neighbors, and which included a news crew from Urbana currently focused on the G-men since nothing was happening with the kiss, except the occasional pop as it cooled. Culhanney passed the significance of the glance back to his partner who, being young and FBI, missed it.

  Smiling, Culhanney said, “Excuse us,” grabbed Robin’s coat sleeve, and walked him back to the car.

  “Idjits,” Hiram, who still had the shotgun and a baleful eye towards the kiss, summed.

  “Got that right,” Tose agreed.

  That could be, but Culhanny knew a national security incident and an uncooperative Sheriff when he saw them, and he got on his cell. Twenty minutes later, the Urbana news crew lost its satellite feed just as they were going live with a breaking story that, no doubt, would break them out of this burg.

  Everyone else lost cells and radios at the same time, although Culhanney was still talking on his. Five minutes later, two helicopters landed in the field across the road and a platoon of Army Guard smartly took position.

  “Who’s in charge here?” the Lieutenant supposedly in charge, asked.

  “I am,” both Tose and Culhanney said at the same time, prompting an immediate three-way argument between the National Guard, the FBI, and the Sheriff’s office over who really was. The success of an individual claim advanced with the vehemence of the claimant and the shifting support of the highly amused crowd. The news crew frantically tried to raise a signal so their hoped-for national audience could participate, but were unable, suspecting rightly the sudden appearance of authority had a lot to do with that.

  Hiram watched all this for a moment, muttered, “Heat be damned,” and, gripping the shotgun in one hand, strode towards the kiss. The Guardsmen looked at each other, trying to figure out whether to shoot him or not. It didn’t appear their Lieutenant had won the argument yet, thereby assuring them immunity, so they held off. By the time the chiefs noticed Hiram and shouted, “Hey!” he was already knocking on the side of the kiss with the butt of the shotgun yelling, “You’re on my property, dangit! Open up in there!”

  A heretofore unnoticed portal slowly rose next to where Hiram pounded, forcing him back as a very nice set of marble-looking stairs, like those at a museum entrance, unfolded and settled against the ground. Moments later, three beings appeared on the landing, surveyed Hiram, who surveyed them back, and walked in unison down to where he stood.

  They were rather nice-looking: tall, green-tinged, hairless; dead ringers for all the large-eyed, big-headed lipless portraits taken from the almost unanimous description provided by generations of UFO abductees. They wore form-fitting black jumpsuits of a material similar to Gortex, and they were so skinny Hiram was sure most of his .00 buck would pass harmlessly by. He had no inclination to test that, though, because the beings were just so innocuous.

  The three stood above Hiram and looked at him and at the crowd and smiled. No fangs, no terror teeth, just disarming nice-guy smiles that relaxed the Guard and the FBI and elicited “Well, I’ll be,” from Tose. The middle one took a step forward, nodded at the crowd with obvious satisfaction, then raised both hands and launched into a declamation consisting of incomprehensible words, buzzes, and what sounded like numbers to the astonished and mystified onlookers. After about five minutes, he (or she, or it, who knows) stopped speaking, bowed slightly, then the three of them wheeled in unison and marched back up the stairs, the portal closing behind them.

  All hell broke loose. The crowd and the Guardsmen all turned among each other shouting, “Whadde say? Whadde say?” prompting a great deal of shoving and falling down. The news crew was shouting at Culhanney to let their signal go through while Robin wrestled them for the camera. Tose wrestled with Culhanney.

  “Durn fools.” Hiram spat his opinion of these shenanigans and turned a baleful eye back on the kiss. “Land on my crop and spout Russian gibberish at me. Idjits.”

  “Weren’t Russian. Weren’t gibberish,” Curry, who had joined his Dad, said.

  “How you know that?”

  “I understood ‘em.”

  “How’d ya do that?”

  Curry pinched a little more Red Man. “Dunno. Just did.”

  Hiram shook his head, “Must be all that durn rap music you listen to.” He walked over to the road and yelled. “Hey! Stop all that fussin’! Curry understood ‘em.”

  Tose disentangled from Culhanney. “That a fact?”

  “Yep.” Curry scratched a fly off his face.

  The crowd exchanged glances. “Well then?” Billy Perkins prompted.

/>   “Now just wait a second.” Culhanney was incredulous. “You’re not seriously believing this...,” he almost said ‘hayseed’ but quickly realized his situation, “...young man?”

  The crowd’s hostile reaction brought Culhanney and Robin’s hands close to their sidearms. “We sure are,” Tose spoke for the crowd, “we know ’im.” He nodded at Curry.

  “They said,” Curry was absently folding the chew pouch, “they was happy to be here, thrilled to get such a large welcoming committee” —the Guard and firemen beamed at each other — “think this is a historic moment with wonderful opportunities, yadda yadda...”

  “Wait,” Culhanney held up a hand, “they actually said ‘yadda yadda’?”

  “No, I’m just cuttin’ to it. Then they said they gotta make some adjustments so they’ll be busy doing maintenance...” Curry’s voice trailed and he looked embarrassed, “I didn’t quite catch it. Something they called a Stantatac drive.”

  “What’s that?” the suddenly nervous Lieutenant asked.

  “Some kinda force field,” Curry shrugged. “Well, anyways, they said they’d come back out soon and they’d like to meet with world leaders, if we could get ’em here.” Curry bobbed his head, indicating completion, and fumbled around for his car keys as an excited buzz rolled through the crowd.

  “Oh yeah,” he said suddenly, “almost forgot.” The crowd leaned towards him as he triumphantly produced the keys. “They also said, ‘Praise God.’ Goin’ to town, Pa.” He waved cheerfully to Hiram and trotted off.

  “Well, I’ll be...” Tose’s tone was pleased as he turned, smiling, to Perkins, who was stunned. Regularity of church attendance determined which reaction, smile or stun, settled on each crowd member’s face.

  Excitement or consternation was determined by the same criteria, except for Culhanney and Robin, who both paled for different reasons. “Election year,” Robin mouthed to Culhanney, and they paled even more. Sidling through the now debating crowd, they scampered to their vehicle. Culhanney made a call.

  A few moments later, the Lieutenant’s radio squawked, startling him. He listened, paled even whiter than Culhanney and Robin, and whirled in a circle, screaming “Move! Move! Get away from here now! Get away!”

  The Guard, not sure why but knowing an emergency when they heard one, began pushing the crowd away from the kiss. Tose grabbed Hiram by the collar and dragged him, fussing, across the road.

  Moments later, three gunships hovered over the tree line and let loose a barrage of Hellfire missiles at the kiss. It might have withstood two or three, but not eight, especially with repairs to that Stantatac drive thing underway. The kiss imploded, the various con-and-counter-cussions from that and the Hellfires knocking the crowd over.

  As the smoke cleared and the fiery debris stopped falling, the crowd regained its feet. “Think you can get away with that?” Tose asked Culhanney.

  Culhanney regarded the camera crew’s disc and hard drive he was holding. “Yes,” he said. He and Robin removed a piece of kiss fuselage from their windshield and drove away. The firemen grabbed their equipment and walked around stamping out fires. The Guard, now with nothing to do, helped them.

  Hiram got to his feet, dusted himself off, and surveyed the ruin of his field, making immediate calculations. He spat a contemptuous wad at the molten slag in the middle of the mess. “Knew they was Russians.”

  back to top

  The World Without Souls

  (original in Horror House anthology- Ruthless. https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/8148652-ruthless

  Stupid civilization ended on July 31, 2013 at noon, Geneva time (6 am here, so I was sleeping) when the director of the Large Hadron Collider announced, "We have proven God does not exist." He beamed. The six or seven equally white-coated, bespectacled and (except for the two frowzy women) bearded geeks flanking him on the facility's steps, also beamed.

  And they had. It was quite elegant, really. See, by isolating the Higgs boson and fooling around with it a bit, they discovered nothingness had this odd tendency to fold. Mind blowing, yes, the idea of nothing that can fold, but it does and out of the folds of nothing came something they called the Light quark (as in Let There Be). And from that came all of us. Not from some guy's rib.

  There were some other things they proved, too, like energy's constant, wasn't, and that energy did, indeed, dissipate. So, on August 15, some other guys did this worldwide thing where they took the formulas from the collider (something along the lines of E = -M, where M is the nothingness times itself with a factor a little over 1 divided by some string left over from one of Einstein's old doodles. Hey, look, the math is baffling but the theory simple, okay?) against several thousand near-death patients and, using the new particles and their tracery proved, once and for all, when we die nothing happens. You just go phfft.

  Just like the world did.

  Some stupid church people stood up all offended and tried to say things about God beyond the measure of existence and the soul and its travails, blah blah blah, but come on! Proof is proof. On August 31, 2013, in the middle of one of those harangues by one of those Luddittes, some guy got up, walked over and pumped six bullets into Reverend So and So's head. On television, no less. Quite entertaining. I laughed when I saw the replay, before all the power went out.

  A lot of people thought that day marked the end of civilization. Or maybe it was August 15, but, uh uh, July 31, 2013. When you prove God does not exist, everything else is anti-climax.

  Like the next morning, August 1, when Billie Saint McKinney walked into the Fairfax County Courthouse, shot the two guards on duty, calmly entered the divorce court, shot his wife, his oldest daughter, the judge, and the bailiff. He set the old biddy court reporter on fire just for the fun of it and was heading towards his car when some cop shotgunned him. His last words were, "Wot'djew do that fer?"

  See, Billy got it. Billy knew. He's my hero.

  It took a little into September before everyone else got it, and then, whoa. 9/11 taught us brick and steel and mortar could really burn, and, boy, did it. Wall Street actually reached Dresden firestorm proportions and a lot of the droogs got sucked up and incinerated.

  Good. Less competition.

  Not that I'd go to New York, there's plenty still here in DC, but sometimes people want empires and I don't need the Great Exalted Murray of Brooklyn showing up here and throwing that All Ye who Hear My Words, Tremble! crap around. I mean, I got enough skulls impaled on the lawns around the White House. Yeah, the friggin' White House, cool, huh? But if those Murrays keep showing up, I may have to expand out to the Treasury lawns.

  I am the King of DC, got it?

  Some people don't and, tell ya, I'm getting a little tired of tribes happening by and seeing the skulls and getting all macho and then there I am, in the middle of another damned firefight and then, here I am, running out of pike room. The last time, it was some guy from Leesburg, all decked out in bear skins, believe it or not, and I had him up on the pike and he was groaning and inching his way down and I'm thinking, ya know, I need something else, need to escalate. So, I took his girlfriend (why do these idiots bring their women? Showing off?) out of the basement and strapped her face down in front of him and did her while sawing at her neck with a rusty trowel. Man, that was fun: she bucked and screamed and fought and I loved it. I took her ragged head and stuffed it down the front of Bearskin's pants. He probably didn't appreciate the extra weight, yuk yuk. Some of his minions were hiding out in Lafayette Park, trembling, so I made big movements and yelled a lot, to give them full effect.

  Ya gotta have a legend.

  Achilles knew that. Achilles made sure he'd be sung forever. Oh, not that wimpy Brad Pitt-ass Achilles in that old pussified Troy movie, the real Achilles. I've read The Iliad, probably the only one still alive who has, and that Achilles was not some brooding boy-toy walking around with his lower lip in a pout, no sir. Achilles was a man, a real man, and he eviscerated Trojans and stole their women and stood on piles of
bodies with his sword shining hot and his throat hoarse with war.

  Yeah.

  Five thousand years from now, they'll remember me, too. Because, fuck it, they sure ain't gonna remember much else.

  Like, I had this droog, you know, another stupid Murray, and he's all trussed up and cussing and crying because, well, sharpened point of a stake going up your ass, imagine. And he was kinda young and I got curious and I said, "Who's Lincoln?" And he just stops crying and looks at me, so I ask him again, "Who's Lincoln?" And, you know, he's thinking there's some angle so he says, "I knew him, man, I knew him!" I just laughed, I did, and yanked the pike up straight and he screamed, "I knew him!" for the next twelve hours. Got damned irritating after a while.

  'Knew him.' What a moron. I know Lincoln. A legend, took no shit off those southern crackers, kicked their fuckin' asses. Every morning, I get up from his bed and salute. And I salute Roosevelt, too, because that crip was a tough fucker, kicked Hitler's ass, who, himself, was no slouch.

  They'll be saluting me long after everyone's forgot Lincoln and Roosevelt.

  "Brad the Impaler," I'm already hearing it. Hilarious. Still some wags out there and if I catch whoever started that, why, hmm, you know, I just might make him my court jester. Until he pisses me off, then up he goes.

  I have this little game I like to play, where I put two guys on the poles real close together so they're scrambling and clawing at each other, trying to ease the pressure but all they end up doing is sliding down that much faster. It's a hoot. The minions sit around and bet on who's going to poke through first and I do my part, "Whichever of you lasts longer, gets off the pole!" I yell. Lie, of course, but they'll start going at each other like there's no tomorrow. Which, in their case, is true.

  No tomorrow. There is no tomorrow. There is only now.

  You know, some people, some, still push it. There was this group out of Maryland, wore all white sheets and crap and walked around moaning and proclaiming the need to restore order and law and all that junk. I got curious, so I went out to hear them. The guy in charge, some Jesus lookin' freak, came right up to me 'cause I'm pretty disarming. I am. I don't look like anything, which is the trap. I'm small and kinda soft lookin' and I got this real pleasant smile. Girls in bars used to like it. They don't so much anymore.

  Anyways, Jesus walks up lookin' all towards Heaven (ain't there no mo, bud) goin' "My brother, my brother!" and the minions are behind me nudging each other 'cause they know what's going to happen. And I just stand there smiling, looking interested. "These evil times! Join with me, my brother, and bring back the world, its leeks and garlic." And I kinda nod and I put on the soft voice and I ask, "Why?"

  And he blinks and has this beatific smile, "Because, brother, it is the way, it is the way of happiness."

  "Happiness?" I almost laugh. "Whose happiness?"

  "Of us all," and he sweeps his hand so grandly back at the sheep.

  "And what," I say sweeping the hypodermic from my jacket, "is the point of that?" I jammed it in his arm and plunged. Gasoline. Not good for anything else these days and I saw in the Holocaust museum how Mengele used to inject the Jews with it to see what it would do. I like that museum.

  Well, Jesus danced and screamed and made a lot of noise and I just stood there watching while the minions mowed down the sheep. Stupid sheep didn't even have weapons, just love overflowing from their hearts, going to win me over with weeping and joy and hands raised in brotherhood.

  Haven't they been paying attention?

  We kept a few of the sheep for a while, the women, that is. Women are getting a little scarce in these parts. Gettin' to the point you have to go on a full blown expedition to locate a couple, so I amused myself with the windfall. Had one bound on her knees before me with her teeth knocked out and, well, you know what that was for. The minions had a couple and were playing Guess the Sodomite when one of the sheep started screaming, "You animals, you pigs!" and the boys started laughing and playing harder and I said, "Hold on, Myrmidons." I use that word when I want their attention. They have no idea what it means but they stop when I say it because I mean business. The first time I used it, one of 'em said. "I ain't no merman!" and got all righteous with me so I staked him. No problems since.

  "Keep working this," I said to No Teeth. "Bring her here," I said to the minions and they did. Cute, mixed race, light skinned and exotic, all petulant and offended. Oh boy. I kept my face straight and the minions gathered to listen. "What'd you say?" I asked her.

  "You're pigs!" she spat it, just like a 12-year-old girl on the playground at the boys who yelled "Show us your tits!" Ah, memories. "He was a saint!" By this, I guessed she meant Jesus of the Gasoline Blood. "He was going to save us all!"

  "Save us from what?" I had to ask.

  "From all of you," and she was soooo contemptuous. A couple of the minions guffawed but I put on the interested look. See, I've found with these girls that if you play along, they'll think you're some kind of hero or something and get all hopeful and dewy-eyed. Makes the inevitable dismemberment that much more fun. "What do you mean?"

  "This!" and she pointed at No Teeth, who wasn't stupid and was working it rather enthusiastically (I might have to keep her a while). "You rapists. You shit on everything!"

  I tapped No Teeth on the head, "Stop now, darling," and she backed off and assumed a properly subservient position. I leaned forward, looking at Exotic, looking receptive, "Go on."

  "It's like you spit on the freedom we earned," she was making a 12-year-old's gestures, convinced her scorn had some kind of power. Hee hee. "We got out from under the churches and the governments and all the old chains, man. We had a chance, a real one. Nothing in the way, nothing but freedom and love. You guys," more wild hand waving, "destroyed it."

  The minions busted out at that point and I waved them down, making Exotic think she was reaching me, "You mean, Saint was going to lead us to Utopia?"

  "Yes!" Eyes popping out and a real attitude.

  "How?"

  And here she got the dewy eyes and all righteous. "With love."

  At that point I lost it, busted out along with the minions, did a bit of knee slapping, even a little eye wiping. "Okay, okay, I thought that's where you were going." I settled back, the dead smile splitting my face, the one that tells the recipient I'm not the little nice guy I look like. She stepped back, wary, an "oh shit" look on her face. You're right, oh shit.

  "Let me see," I said, throwing up a palm, "if I can explain. Consider this a what, a teachable moment?" I looked around the minions and they all nodded enthusiastically. They loved teachable moments.

  "See, what your saint was intending was exactly what we're all free from. Now, how was this going to happen, this Utopia, this quotes 'love' unquote?" I made the requisite finger movements.

  "Uh, well," she was looking around for an escape path. None. "He would teach us how to love."

  "Ah, I see," I nodded, "so let me ask you, what could he say that hasn't already been said by the Pope or Billy Graham," look of puzzlement there, "or Jesus Himself? Don't answer, don't answer," and I waved down her bubbling words, "I'll save you the trouble. Here's what," I paused dramatically. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  "In fact," and here I raised a teaching finger, "wouldn't have been too long you’d become the Catholic church, you know, ceremonies and punishments and heresies and things like that, to keep everyone in line. I mean, how many of there were you, a thousand, two thousand?" She nodded slightly. "Sheesh," I shook my head sadly. "You probably had fifty or so guys right there who wanted to knock him off and proclaim some new kind of doctrine that was the One Truth and then someone would knock him off and then you'd all be fighting each other. Really, I did you a service. Because," another teaching finger, "you can't have more than ten or twelve in a tribe." I swept a hand at the minions. "More than that, someone gets ambitious. Right fellas?" And they all nodded enthusiastically and slapped hands and one of them, Karl, shouted "Amen, brother!" What a card.
>
  "See, they're a bunch of happy fellows," she turned to look, genuine fright on her face at all the dead eyes staring back at her, "because they can indulge their true natures. Nothing in the way. Especially," air quotes again, "love." I looked at her and she blanched and her knees started to shake. Oh yes, baby. "You believe in evolution, right?"

  "Yes."

  "So," I bore down on her, "why are you so fucking inconsistent?"

  She furrowed her brow. Arrogant bitch; still gotta assert herself, even when she’s about to get chopped up. "Don't look at me like that!" I roared her back a step or two. "You're fucking inconsistent. All those millions of years, whose genes got passed along, huh, bitch? Whose?" Her knees could no longer support her and she went down. I smiled. "I'll tell you whose. The rapists, the murderers, the ones who stole the eggs out of nests and put in their own and ate," here I clicked my teeth, "the loving and the sweet. Umm umm umm."

  I sat back, steepling my hands. She was panting hard, her eyes wide with terror, but still wanting to say something! You believe that? So I cut her off, "I know, I know, Michelangelo, Titian, the Declaration of Independence, yeah, yeah, yeah. Back before. Back when we thought there was Something Beyoooond," I waggled my fingers and used the spooky voice, which really cracked up the minions, "all that was cool. But," now was the point of the lesson, "there ain't Something Beyond. All there is, is you. And if you're not spending every moment you got here doing everything you feel like doing, building your legend, then you're wasting it." I raised both of my arms Heaven… er, skyward, "Praise Billy."

  "Praise him!" the minions replied and they grabbed Exotic and threw her, screaming, to the ground. Karl decided to go for a little extra shtup while I was going over the options and I let him finish up. "Well?" Sandy asked, big goofy West Virginia gap-toothed grin on his face.

  "Let's play…" and I stroked my chin as if pondering Life's Mystery, "…Assyrian."

  "Assyrian!" they all cheered and dragged Exotic off, kicking and shrieking, and pounded the stakes and leather-bound her to them, spread eagled. Shame, really, she was nice. The minions played rockpaperscissors and Sandy won. He pulled out his Bowie, tested its edge, and started at the right wrist. That's the rule. The one who can carve off the longest piece of skin without breaking it or causing too much bleeding or killing her, wins. Takes a while, if done right, and my guys were good at it. Sandy might even win, the slow careful way he was proceeding down the forearm.

  I looked at No Teeth. "You wanna get back to it, or do you wanna play Assyrian, too?" She scooted right up and resumed, much more enthusiastic. Nothing focuses the mind like the prospect…ha ha. God, she's good. I think I will keep her. Have kids.

  They're so delicious.

  I sat back and looked at the stars. Even they won't last. The exotic's screams rose to them, a pleasure in God's nostrils? No. Another line in my Legend.

  Praise Billy.

 

  back to top

  Reparations

   

  While Ted Spellman was at work, someone broke into his house and made off with his flatscreen TV, his surround sound, his wife's jewelry (which included several Tsarist Russian pieces), a laptop, all the computer games, some of his nicer jackets, and, for good measure, his Boston terrier, Smugly. Or the little coward ran off, who knew? Perturbed, especially because tonight was Game One of the Stanley Cup, Ted called the police.  

  The officer arrived and took note of the kicked-in door and rifled belongings. "Unauthorized property transference," Officer Grady, according to his name tag, said as he wrote notes. 

  "Pardon?" Ted had never heard of this. 

  Officer Grady looked at him suspiciously, "Did you give the perpetrators permission to kick down your door and remove your property?" 

  Perfectly astonishing question, that, and Ted was perfectly astonished. "Well, no!" 

  The officer nodded, "Then, like I said, unauthorized removal." 

  "You mean 'burglary,' right?" 

  "We don't use that term anymore, sir," Officer Grady said. 

  "Huh?" more astonishment, "since when?"

  "Since everything changed," the officer peeled off a paper, "here's your summons." 

  "What?" the astonishment quickly turned to consternation, "for what?" 

  "You certainly ask a lot of questions. It's your show-cause order." Officer Grady must have noted the birth of another question, because he irritably waved Ted down. "Sir, you have to show the court that your excessive affluence did not induce the perpetrators to conduct an unauthorized removal. If you're successful, then the perpetrators will reimburse you for the damaged door." 

  "Is this some kind of joke?" 

  "We never joke about the law, sir." 

  "You mean," Ted gathered himself, "somebody breaks into my house and steals my property, and I have to prove I didn't cause it?" 

  "I'd be careful with that 'my' pronoun, sir. Your ownership is debatable." 

  It had to be Candid Camera. Ted looked around for Allen Funt, but it was just Grady and him. "I don't understand." 

  The officer sighed, "Some people never get the memo." He turned for his car, "Just show up at court, sir." 

  "But, what about my stuff?" 

  Grady's hand went to his pistol. Ted backed up, hands raised, remembering the issue of 'my.' The officer watched him for a moment, then left. 

  Ted stared after the car. Un-freaking believable. Obviously, he had just met the department's most lunatic cop. Well, deal with that after the insurance. 

  He called them and went through about ten menus, choosing English as the option each time, entered his account number five times, and finally got to Claims. "Your account number, please," the chirpy rep asked. Ted gave it, and then told what happened. 

  "Did you call the police?" she chirped. 

  "Yes, I did, but the officer was some kind of nut job, so I'll have to call them again." 

  "Did you get a summons number and court appearance?" 

  Ted blinked. "What?" 

  "It should be printed on your pink copy, sir. Can you read it to me?" 

  "You mean, this is legit?" 

  "It is, sir. Can you read it?"  

  Ted did. "Thank you, sir," chirpy said, "in the event you are shown non-culpable, we will reimburse the difference between what the liberators..." 

  "Wait," Ted cut in, "liberators? The ones who broke in?" 

  "Yes, sir. As I was saying, if it wasn't proper confiscation, then we will reimburse you the difference between what they offer and the actual repair costs, minus your deductible, of course. Now as for the liberated items," there was a click of keys and then chirpy said, "Sir, I see you have several antique pieces of jewelry?" 

  Finally, something approaching reality, and Ted breathed a little easier, "Yes, my wife inherited them." 

  "It appears, sir, those are proscribed items." 

  Back to unreality. "Proscribed? What are you talking about? They weren't stolen or anything." 

  "Yes, sir, they were stolen from the proletariat, which had to sell its excess labor just to enrich an exploitive capitalist class that did not properly compensate the added value." 

  "Uh, what?" 

  "Because you have such items, we now consider everything else you listed as proscribed, therefore we will not cover any of it." 

  "But!" Ted spluttered, "You have so far!" 

  "Well, sir, things have changed. I'm required to tell you we're also doubling your rates because of the risk you now present for personal injury lawsuits caused by your enticement to unauthorized property transfer. Have a nice day," and she hung up. 

  Ted stared at the phone, checked the number to make sure he had called the right company, which he had, and called back. No one answered. 

  "What the HELL is going on?" Ted asked the front porch, and then dialed his wife's cell phone. She was off visiting her mother, thank God, for more reasons than her missing the burglars, er, liberators. 

>   "Marjorie!" he said, when she answered, "you're not going to believe..." 

  "Ted, I can't talk to you," she interrupted. 

  "This is more important than shopping, Marge, so let me tell you..." 

  "No, Ted," her voice was ice, stopping him, "I can't talk to you at all. About anything. Ever. If you call again, I'll have you arrested." 

  "But..." 

  "Things have changed, Ted. Goodbye," and she hung up. 

  "Why, you..." Ted let off a string of rather scorching curses and repeatedly stabbed re-dial, but each time, his call was rejected. When he finally stopped seeing red, he stopped dialing. 

  "Screw you, Margie," he said to the porch, wheeled and marched to his car. All right, the world had gone completely insane over the last twenty minutes, his wife apparently wants a bloody and far overdue divorce, but, by God, he was watching the game tonight. 

  Ted drove to WalMart and picked out a TV and some speakers, nothing too fancy (now that the insurance company had crapped out), a bag of pigskins and a six-pack. "Mess with me," he muttered as he waited for the cashier. 

  "That'll be $8652.72," the cashier toned. "Do you want to put that on your card?" 

  Ted looked behind him to see what other customer she meant. "Sir?" the cashier's ten-pounds-of-mascara lids helped narrow her look and her beaded dreds clicked irritably. 

  "You mean me?" Ted pointed at himself. The increased gum popping was assent. "Eight thou..." Ted couldn't finish it, "for that POS?" Ted indicated the lesser-branded TV. 

  "No," in her we've-got-a-live-one voice, "the TV, sound system and food are $572. The rest is damage tax." 

  "Damage tax?" 

  Beadhead rolled her eyes and smacked her gum up the aisle, apparently some secret cashier language akin to the Xhosa. A bowling ball disguised as a shorthaired human wearing a smock and a nametag reading "Harry, Asst Manager" rolled up. "Is there some problem?" 

  "Yeah," Ted said, "Eight thousand dollars for a five hundred dollar TV?" 

  "And sound system. And beer and whatever," Beadhead added. Ted glowered at her. 

  Harry examined the tape. "Everything is properly tabulated, sir, including the damage tax." 

  "I never heard of a damage tax." 

  Harry clucked annoyance, "You haven't been paying attention. The damage tax covers the historical necessity of equalizing imbalanced outcomes." 

  Ted blinked, "But, why me? I never..." 

  Harry stopped him with a raised hand, "Individual culpability is not at issue, sir, just cumulative effects." 

  Ted could almost feel the steam pouring out of his ears, "If you think I'm going to pay $8000 just to watch the Stanley Cup..." 

  "The playoffs?" Harry blinked at him, "Oh, you don't need the TV, then. They were cancelled." 

  "Cancelled." 

  "Yes, sir. Hockey has been deemed a 'limited interest' activity, too exclusive, so the franchise has been removed." 

  "Since when?" Ted asked and then raised a hand to silence Bowling Ball and Beadhead. "Don't tell me, I already know. 'Since everything changed,'" Ted put air quotes around it. They beamed at him and nodded. 

  Ted shook his head and reached for the TV, "I'll just take this back, then." 

  Beadhead slapped his wrist, "Uh, uh. It's here, you're paying for it." 

  "You can't be serious," Ted said as he reached again. 

  "Actually," Bowling Ball interposed his insurmountable figure, "she is. Under the Sincere Intent clause, we consider your presentation of merchandise an act of contrition only verifiable by a completed transaction. Grab him, boys." 

  Ted whirled but it was too late. A couple of store gorillas had snuck up behind and, at Harry's word, pinned Ted to the conveyor. "Hey!" he yelped as one wrestled out his wallet and ran his Amex through the reader. They let him up and Beadhead handed him the receipt. 

  "I didn't sign it," Ted was smug. 

  "No need," Harry was smugger. "Someone will sign it for you." 

  "Can I have my wallet back?" Ted held out a palm to the gorillas. They looked at him. Beadhead and Bowling Alley looked at him, too. After a moment, Ted left, walletless. 

  His car was not where he left it, but there was a pink notice on the ground thanking him for his voluntary participation in "Wheels for Justice" and noting his continued responsibility for insurance and periodic maintenance. Ted walked home, arriving just after dark. It started to rain. 

  Officer Grady was standing on his porch. "What now?" Ted asked. 

  "You're going to have to leave the property, sir." 

  "Because...?" 

  "...of the Violated Persons Recovery Act." 

  "Going to need an explanation for that one, officer." 

  Grady frowned. "Gender specific victims are granted full custody of previously chatteled wares as compensation for patrimonical oppression." 

  "'Patrimonical oppression,' wow, that's a good one." 

  "Sir," Officer Grady warned as his hand rested on the pistol. 

  "All right, all right," Ted raised his hands and backed out of the gate. The rain increased and it was completely dark except for the feeble streetlight. Ted sat down on the curb. After a minute, he was soaked. After another minute, he took out his cell phone and dialed information, not caring if that induced a $1000 fine for Winners Writing History, or whatever. He was transferred to another number. 

  "Hello?" he said when someone answered, "League of Armed Patriots? Say, are you taking new members?"

  back to top

  Inherit the Earth

  (original in EZine Silverthought, May 2011. https://www.silverthought.com/krauss01.html)

  Curtis skirted the yurt, eying it warily. It was set back from the road and surrounded by a defensive wall and Curtis could see a wellhead, watering troughs, and hints of outlying buildings. Goat herders, some outpost of a main camp that was, no doubt, further down the Luray Valley. It was noon so the men were out somewhere along the rocky paths but there’d be kids and women and all of them were armed and loud and would not take kindly to his appearance—white guy, slung rifle, clean shaven and wearing a ball cap, therefore infidel, therefore enemy. Jihad was an old fashioned concept, but, out here in the mountains, some of the clans kept old ways and the opportunity to strike in the name of Allah was a rare gift. Curtis just might be somebody’s Christmas.

  He chuckled at that. Christmas, the word alone would guarantee a beheading, that is, if anyone even knew what it meant anymore. He was pretty sure he was one or two of the last people on earth who did. He could march right up to the wall and shout “Merry Christmas!” at the top of his voice and they’d just stare at him. Then shoot him, but not for offending Allah.

  No, just for being Curtis.

  Right on cue, a couple of kids, robes flying, ran jabbering up to the wall, pointing and looking frantically back at the yurt. After all this time, Curtis could pick up only a phrase or two, no head for languages, but he was, obviously, the subject of discussion. Two or three full-burka’d women came out on the platform, rifles ready, jabbering back at the kids and it turned into a jabber fest. Curtis kept to the opposite shoulder, his head down, staying away from his own rifle and it dawned pretty quickly on the women he was no threat. They silenced the kids and it now became a stare fest. Yes, take an eyeful at the broken, gray haired, trudging white man, the last one you’ll ever see. Something to discuss around the goat pull tonight.

  If they’d known him, they’d just shoot. Family honors avenged, dead relatives put to rest. Curtis doubted very much any family he’d decimated years ago in the Hindu Kush had made it over here, but they’d be happy to claim a flimsy kinship if shooting him settled a wandering ghost. But he looked so harmless. Now.

  Not then. Curtis, Lieutenant, trim and deadly in a flight suit, standing on the deck of the USS Ronald Reagan, eying the ancient F-18 with some jaundice. “You sure it’ll fly?”

  The Master Chief spat tobacco (tobacco!) over the side of the carrier, an am
azing feat given the distance and wind, then eyed Junior Pilot Curtis with equal jaundicity. “It’ll fly. It’s virgin.”

  “Virgin?”

  “All original parts. Never been rebuilt. Last of its kind. Don’t break it.”

  “You do know I’m going on a bombing run.”

  The Master chewed some deeper cud. “You break it, your next run’s in a Sopwith Camel.”

  Curtis laughed and mounted and fired it up and, oh, so sweet, the speed and maneuverability and perfection of target acquisition and aim, even with unreliable satellites, and he made unnecessary passes over the burning village just to feel the beauty of it, marvel at it. Man, the old days, when an F18 was so common it was cannon fodder and the real pilots, in Granpap’s time, flew 16s and 14s and the Air Force had those wondrous 15s. How many nights he'd yearned to pull one out of a museum and do this! And, here he was. Dream fulfilled.

  “You’re going into fighters,” his instructor at Pensacola had said and Curtis had thrilled. “Spads?” he’d asked. The instructor...Clemmons, yeah, that's the name, had smiled. “No. Jets.” and Curtis almost fainted dead away. Jets! He knew he had the Right Stuff, that rare element of reflex and decision and control that qualified for the fast, maneuverable, heavily armed, propeller driven A1 Spads, the top tier of war craft, which meant he’d be off Houston on border patrol and see plenty of action, but jets! That was like selection for astronaut training, back when there’d been astronauts.

  But it also meant the Third Afghan War.

  The First had been the routing of the Taliban after 9/11, justified, and the Second was due to the nuclear exchange between Taliban-run Islamabad and western ally New Delhi so, also justified, and the Third, well, just because and it was an excellent way to get yourself killed, flying clunky, cannibalized death trap F4’s or, in Curtis’ rare case, treasured F18’s (also cannibalized but with greater care) and it was a worrisome trade-off. “Let’s have a kid,” he’d said, that last night to Becky, as she slipped her fine, white, tight body out of the bed and into her own flight suit (C-130’s, poor girl) because a sense of his own mortality had come upon him. She’d snorted “Get real,” and left and was brought down the next day by a drug lord’s Red Eye, not enough of her to scrape together for a decent burial.

  After eradicating the Taliban hellhole, Curtis had cruised back at supersonic speed, his heart singing, the burning village a screensaver, to find the Reagan heavily engaged with a Chinese fleet that had snuck up the coast (radar so unreliable anymore) and he swooped in and dropped ordnance on Beijing's destroyers and battleships, surprising the bejesus out of Chinese admirals who were pretty sure all those sleek, fast used-to-be-good American jets were rare enough they constituted no more threat. Right Stuff, Mao, Right Stuff...

  There were bells and bleats from across the road and Curtis saw a rather large herd of goats crest a ridge overlooking the encampment. Two young men and an old one, all dressed in robes and carrying long sticks with their rifles slung, ran among the goats, moving them rather casually along the path before they spotted their wives and children lined up and gazing at the slowly trudging Curtis. They froze, then the jabber fest began again, louder as they called across the stone walls to each other and the young men ran up opposite Curtis and yelled “You go! You go!” and Curtis held his hands up placatingly and said, "I am," but they remained fierce. The old man cocked his weathered, leather-creased face and made a sharp command, the young ones shutting up but still looking combative. “Christian?” the old man asked Curtis.

  “Once.”

  The old man nodded. “Would you stay for meal?”

  Curtis stopped, considered. “Lochay?”

  The old man smiled. “Yes, lochay,” and he clapped his hands and repeated the word to the astonished young men who glared at Curtis but what could they do, sanctuary had been invoked and Curtis followed the old man to the yurt and slipped out of his backpack and rifle and allowed the women to wash his feet and dress him in a decent robe. So tired, so hungry, and he didn’t mind being on display tonight, the subject of much Pashtun discussion as he ate that delicious goat stew and the old man held court and gained much prestige for hosting the last of the enemy. The last.

  Curtis had disembarked at San Diego, a shiny new Navy Cross on his chest and thirty days leave granted for that rare thing, an American hero, and he flew commercial to San Francisco. Maybe three or four people on the plane, and absolutely no one in the concourse. Eerie, and Curtis had looked about him nervously as he walked deserted hallways down to baggage, the only persons around a large tribe of obviously related people getting off a flight from Ethiopia and gathering at the check-in to sing and pray their happy deliverance to the New Lands, he supposed. Curtis had ignored their happy smiles and singing and waves at him and collected his bag and walked his empty way to the Hertz counter. Row on row of dusty cars and the one clerk on duty was genuinely surprised when he showed up, surprised and quit pleased.

  “It is good, it is good!” he bobbed his bearded, sub-Saharan African face as he led Curtis up and down the rows while offering incentives and discounts and upgrades. “How long since you’ve had any customers?” Curtis asked. “It has been moons, my young aviator friend, moons, and we are so pleased you have come that I am very happy to offer you this!” A flourished hand and there, a Cadillac CLS. Curtis gasped. “How old is this thing?”

  “Ah, my young heroic friend, it is not old, it is classic, and I will give it to you at a weekly rate normally reserved for those trashy cars,” and he waved a disdaining hand over the TaTas (wonder if the clerk knew how funny that was in English?) that filled the majority of the spaces. “It has been converted for propane, but,” and he gave a conspiratorial wink, “there is a switch under the dash for gasoline and I actually can give you a tankful for a small price,” another wink, “so you can feel the true power of this beauty.”

  Curtis had driven it off the lot and down the streets of empty San Francisco, row after row of boarded stores and townhouses, some sagging on their foundations, all of them depressing. Even more so, the squatters pouring out of a complex as he passed, mobs of brown and black and robed children racing behind him, shouting some desert ululation as their elders lined stoops and laughed and pointed. Then another ghost street, far more ghost streets than there were Moroccan mobs.

  He drove the hills above Tiburon and, as usual, there was Granpap on the porch of his cabin, the eternal pipe in his mouth. How he still found a decent supply of tobacco, Curtis had no idea. Must be friends with the Chief. “Nice NC,” Granpap gestured at Curtis’ uniform.

  “This old thing?” and he sat down and refused a pipe but accepted a glass of moonshine. “Good Gawd,” he choked the death juice down, to Granpap’s chuckle. They watched the sunset then the moon. “Didn’t expect the Chinese to show up,” Curtis finally offered an explanation.

  “Umm,” Granpap tapped a cinder, “they shoulda all been engaged in the north, right? Not bothering with you pissant ‘Muricans and your silly arguments with Islam. Why, they shoulda just left y'all alone, what with fighting the Uighers and all.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Curtis waved down the inevitable lecture on strategy and preparation and how things were so much better in Granpap's day. Which they were.

  “So, what now?” Granpap asked.

  “They want me to go on a recruiting tour.”

  Granpap busted a gut on that one. “Recruit who? The Africans? The Bedouins roaming the Valley there?” he pointed down the mountain. “Maybe all the Afghans that are taking over the East Coast.”

  “There’s still some Americans left.”

  Granpap snorted. “White people who still believe in God and Country, that you mean?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Good luck with that. Good luck finding any white people, period. Might go look in the Appalachians. The hillbillies are still having kids.”

  Birth rates. It all came down to birth rates and Curtis didn’t feel like another boring diatribe
on his Duty to Population. “You could have had more yourself, old man.”

  “Yeah, if I’d been a cheatin’ man. But Granmomma had all those girl problems. Lucky she had your Dad, at that.”

  “Well, then Dad should have.”

  Granpap chuckled. “Not the zeitgeist. All that big family, Dad-in-charge and meek little wifey stuff died about the same time God did.”

  During the weeks Mom had been reorganizing European companies while Dad was deployed to Iraq, Granpap came over with DVDs of old, old shows like Ozzy and Harriet and Father Knows Best and it had been like science fiction. “Why did it change?”

  A moon-tinted shrug. “People got rich, got selfish. Lots of cash and cars and fun and investment in the present. Kids? An afterthought. Poor people, though, they invest in the future, so they push out kids. Lots of kids, hoping one or two of ‘em will reach Paradise or Nirvana or whatever those people believe in.”

  “And now they’re coming here.”

  “Why not?” Granpap smacked the pipe and sparks flew upward. “Lots of open space. Always was, but now,” he laughed. “There’s open space everywhere. Japan’s pretty much empty, the Uighers moving on that after they finish off the Chinese, who’re regretting that ‘one-child’ policy now, I'll bet. The Chechens have got half the steppes and’ll have the other half before too long. England is an Islamic country now and, pretty soon, we will be, too.” He looked at Curtis. “Your services will no longer be required.”

  Curtis was sent to DC to be a poster boy and make recruitment videos that were never mailed. He lived on an empty street in Rosslyn, the Syrian landlord so ecstatic to have a paying customer in an empty building that he sprang for the utilities. Which were sporadic. “No one wants to live in the cities anymore,” the Syrian fumed, “They all want farms to raise goats. Goats! Have you heard of anything so backward?”

  Curtis rented a plane to fly back and tend to Granpap in his final weeks, the airlines now so packed with immigrants you could barely get a seat. Or would want to. “A slow Apocalypse. Like the Celts, the Romans,” Granpap had wheezed from his oxygen tent, “the Aryans, too. Not that the Aryans were anything like those idiot Nazis said, but they’re gone.” And so was Granpap.

  Curtis stayed. His Navy paychecks had stopped coming weeks before, and he'd been the only one showing up for work so he doubted he’d be missed. The cabin was self-sufficient and he lived there for years, until the Saudi lawyer and two of his enforcers came, traditional garb mixed with jeans and guns. “A Turkish family has successfully bid ownership,” the Saudi was almost apologetic.

  “I inherited this place,” Curtis said. “I thought you people were big on inheritance.”

  “The law is now different.” More apology.

  “That’s not American. Not at all.”

  The Saudi blinked at him. “What do you mean, that’s not American? Laws are American, especially when they change. And they’ll change, again. Don’t you see what’s happening?” the Saudi waved his hand over the place. “You ‘Americans’ forgot your purpose. The Turk and his family waiting for you to leave, they’re just discovering theirs. Right now, they cling to the old ways. Their children, though, are reading your history and admiring your patriots and their children, well, they’ll be Americans. Real ones. It’s an idea, you know, not a skin color. Or a religion. Please leave.”

  Curtis took a backpack and started walking. The streets and towns were empty, the countryside was not. He would stay for months in a city, for months not seeing anyone except curious Egyptians or Somalis or whoever poking through the rubble, gasping in surprise whenever he appeared, sometimes running up to stare or, for the few crazies still left, to swing a sword. Those guys were usually suppressed by their companions who would gabber and gesture Curtis away and he would move on because the crazies would come looking for him, some tribal memory of duty to Allah as spark. In the countryside he invoked lochay and would be feted, a novelty, other tribes coming from miles around to look at him. He told stories of the war through the increasingly rare interpreters, earning his keep, earning enmity, too, although lochay kept him safe, after a fashion.

  He told the same stories to the old man and his family that night, the young men muttering and eying Curtis with bad intent but the kids settled in giggling, like they were hearing ancient tales of far away times and deeds and races long gone. The Iliad.

  “You could stay,” the old man saw Curtis to the gate in the morning.

  “No thanks,” Curtis accepted some dried meat and fruit and moved onto the road. “So where are you going?” the old man called.

  “There’s supposed to be some of my people left around Morgantown, at least that’s what I keep hearing.”

  “Your people?” the old man started. “But we are your people now.”

  Curtis stopped, considered that, then shook his head. “Not yet. But you will be.”

  He headed north.

  back to top

  An Inappropriate Response

  (original in The Battered Suitcase, March 2009. https://vagabondagepress.com/90301/V1I10SS1.html

  The Denebians landed on the Mall between the Vietnam and Korean War Memorials at about 8:15 on a Monday morning, which is how they escaped major notice. The Stantatac drive allows for almost instantaneous movement between two points, and the Denebians were parked before you knew it. DC drivers, notoriously intent on cutting off their fellows and proudly blasé about their monuments, didn't look over. There weren't a lot of tourists about, either, and those who were thought the copper-looking two-story box just another museum. When the three Denebian crewmen emerged, a couple from New Jersey tried to enter, but were politely rebuffed. The couple was sufficiently inured to oddballs that the crewmen, dressed in what appeared to be aluminum foil and carrying something like Ipods, did not elicit much comment.

  Nor did they from the DC drivers as the Denebians made their leisurely way across the Mall to Constitution Avenue, pointing out the sights to each other with short fingered, slightly emerald hands and doing something akin to taking pictures with the Ipod-looking things. "Tourists," the intent drivers snorted and tried to frighten them with exceedingly

  dangerous maneuvers. But when you've spent the last week playing Dodge Comet in the Oort Cloud, you don't scare easily.

  Eventually, the Denebians found themselves in the lobby of the State Department building, the guards assuming they were just one more act in the daily circus parade that constituted official legations. A very efficient desk clerk thought exactly the same

  thing and was quite disturbed that such an obviously important tribal delegation had shown up unannounced and unappointed. "Take us to your leader," one of the Denebians responded to her query, causing the other two to chuckle. The desk clerk knew the leaders were off solving some other tribal concern, so she called around until she located an Assistant Assistant Undersecretary for Policy.

  His name was Thurston Henry Cadwallader, III, "Third" to his few friends, "Thud" to everyone else, and he had ambitions and grievances to match the exalted name, which had been inherited from proven forebears to his unproven self. Some of those forebears had quietly despaired of the proven manifesting in Thud, an attitude of which he was acutely aware. The phone call from the desk clerk, then, caused his flagging hopes to soar.

  "Deneb?" he said. "Never heard of it."

  "They said it was pretty far," the clerk assured.

  "Obviously," Third put on his best Harvard-legacy voice, letting the clerk know her place. "Well, don't leave them standing, show them in. And call Protocol."

  The Denebians took three chairs across from Third, waving off his apologies for slothful underlings who had the temerity to leave such important representatives waiting. "Are you the leader?" the one who spoke before asked.

  "No, no, well, at least not yet," and he chuckled. So did the Denebians, still unsure of the nuances of Terran humor, it being a rather unique thing in the Galaxy. Third saw it as appreciation. "So," he said, sensing a c
areer-making opportunity, "what can I do for you gentlemen?"

  The Denebians let that pass, knowing that Terrans were unfamiliar with the quadra-sex roles most common to the rest of the Galaxy. "We were in the neighborhood, decided to drop by."

  Third furrowed his brow and wondered what quaint tribal ritual was involved here because no indigenous peoples came to the State Department simply to pass the time. They came to negotiate things like trade agreements or border disputes, all the while maintaining self-imposed dignities and playing out face-saving moves before availing of Uncle Sam's largesse. The trick was recognizing the play and indulging it to a fruitful conclusion. Hazardous situation, this, because Third hadn't the foggiest of Denebian protocols and just might well botch things, as seemed to be his wont.

  Fortunately, just as Third began to sweat, the Protocol Officer, Charles Widden, knocked and entered. Widden's particular value was his ability to quickly size a situation, and, while Third was relieved, Widden was alarmed because he knew immediately these were not ordinary visitors. He considered, then discarded, a call to Security. Seeing that the obviously other-world delegation had penetrated this far, Security would be pointless.

  "Hello," Widden said in as neutral a way possible, "and welcome," and then said nothing more nor offered a hand or bowed, coolly letting the Denebians take point. Third thought this was customary and tried to appear sage.

  "Well, thank you," the Denebian said with some relief, recognizing Widden's professionalism, and offered the short-fingered hand because he (or she or a combination either way) knew this as a comforting Terran gesture. Widden took it with no trepidation, figuring an advanced race was well aware of contagions and would have taken precautions,

  unless plague was their intent, in which case there was little to save him. Third furrowed his brow, expecting something a little more exotic.

  "You are from... " Widden deferred again to the Denebians, conveying none of his consternation nor the numerous calculations he was making about necessary notifications and the complete revamping of standard State responses.

  "Deneb," Third answered for them, mostly because he did not want Widden gaining an upper hand in these negotiations. "Which, I'm a little embarrassed to say," he continued, spreading placating, folksy hands, "I've forgotten is the capitol of which desert

  kingdom?" Dangerous, that, to admit geographic ignorance in an organization proud of its global knowledge, but Third needed to know right away if oil or mineral rights were at stake here. Perhaps both?

  Widden lifted a half-astonished eyebrow, realizing Thud had not caught on to the situation. What did you expect? It was Thud, after all. The Denebians chuckled, truly appreciating this humor because mistaken identity was a universal. "It's a star," the Denebian spokesman said.

  "No doubt," Third smiled because the indigenous were given to hyperbole, "but what are your main exports? Cotton, rice?" Perhaps he could gain a clue from that.

  The Denebians looked at each other and passed what would be considered a shrug between themselves. "Stantatac drives, I guess," the Denebian said.

  Third was puzzled but Widden, who had only attended GW but had been a good student with wide ranging interests, was intrigued. "Isn't Deneb a white supergiant?"

  "Indeed," the Denebian nodded vigorously, "the giantest." Which was only slight exaggeration, Deneb having been certified by the District Council as one of the five or six largest white stars in the galaxy, despite the objections of the Arcturans, who had no dog in that fight but were just contrary.

  "But," Widden was now suspicious, the limits of Earth science leading him to the inevitable error, "how can that be? I mean, how could you survive the radiation and gravity? And you're humanoid," his gesture took in their form which, given his quite sophisticated understanding of current, but incorrect, Terran planetary theory, was impossible near such a harsh star. The Denebians should be radically different, worms, perhaps, or crystals.

  The Denebians chuckled indulgently. Oh these pre-trans cultures and their quaint beliefs. "All intelligent life takes this form," the spokesman made a gracious pass of a hand. "More efficacious."

  "Really?" Widden was nonplussed, "Even under such conditions? How can you withstand it?"

  The Denebians smiled. "Dark matter, of course."

  "Really?" and here Widden was excited. To be the first human to know the riddle of dark matter! He swallowed. "And what exactly is that?"

  The three Denebians smiled, joyous, not patronizing, lifted their eyes to the ceiling and said together, "The grace of God."

  And this is the point where everything went wrong. While Widden experienced shock at the implications of the Denebian response, Thud did not. His reaction was a bit different. He had become increasingly bewildered ever since the mention of a white supergiant, which he'd presumed was an important Denebian deity. The subsequent conversation had been quite

  baffling. His glances toward Widden had become more daggerish as he concluded the somewhat lesser officer was invoking a set of arcane protocols designed to cut Third out of the process. He saw his primacy in this delicate matter disappearing, along with the inevitable accolades and the easing of the patrimony's despair.

  That was his mood when the Denebians simultaneously spoke, and he could not help himself. After all, he came out of blue blood and Ivy League-everything and, while he could never be described as scholarly, he had imbued the zeitgeist. If you wanted invitation to the better houses (and parties), certain combining attitudes of postmodernist deconstructive

  condescension were necessary.

  So, Thud snorted.

  The Denebians started and their jaws dropped fairly akin to the way Bugs Bunny's used to, although not half as far. That was rather startling to Widden and Thud, the latter getting the uneasy feeling things weren't as they seemed. The Denebians fixed their disconcerting looks directly on him. "You don't believe in God?"

  Salvage this! Thud's bloodline screamed, as did Widden's rather aghast expression, and sweat popped onto his forehead. Desperately, he raced through the templates and patterns of his prep school life and quickly cobbled together a standard harmless response for Confrontation With Unsophisticated Churchmen: "I respect your beliefs but I, personally, don't hold

  them."

  The Denebians paled to a deep emerald, which Widden and Thud misinterpreted as an angry flush. The crew exchanged gestures any Terran would consider expressions of rage but were really alarm and terror. That is why Widden and Thud remained frozen, holding their breaths while the Denebians stood, looking all the world like they intended to phaser or light

  sword the two of them when they, instead, sought safety. The Denebians made a hasty exit, trouping out in a line that, under other circumstances, would be comical. Widden recovered quickly after the door slammed shut, saying to Thud at the end of his released breath, "You idiot."

  Denebians are pretty fast when they intend to be and, by the time Widden had stopped yelling at Thud in a manner egregiously insulting to the patrimony and called Security, they were already across Constitution Avenue. When sirens approached, they made greater haste, weaving through the curious Japanese tour group gawking at the box, entered, strapped in, and transported to a stationary orbit exactly 300 miles straight up, an event partially captured by Hideki Noh

  on his Konica but which, because of subsequent events, held no benefit.

  "My God! Atheists!" the first crewmen said, the same way Terrans would blurt 'Neanderthals!' It was an understandable mistake, the Council being unaware of Terran religious complexity. Indeed, most knowledge of Earth came only from broadcasts of Burns and Allen, Hitler's speeches, and I Love Lucy, those somehow hooking onto the wake of a trans-star freighter passage and popping out for review. Most Council planets considered Terrans a combination of hyper-crazy madmen and women with great senses of humor, which, come to think of it, was not far off.

  The second Denebian was still trembling so added nothing and the third was downright incred
ulous. "How," he said, throwing a still deep-emerald hand towards the Earth below, "can

  a race so obviously primitive and barbaric have reached the point of space travel?" They all three noted the International Space Station and the numerous satellites and then looked at each other.

  Denebians don't really need to speak; they do so because they find it interesting. Most of their communication is angling of various body parts, quite rapid, so, a few seconds later, when the third crewman grimly reached for the Stantatac drive, they had all agreed this was a matter for the Council, that a decision would take some time (not because of distance, of

  course, but due to the universal nature of bureaucracies, especially regarding such a weighty matter. Worse, the Arcturans had the Chair) and the threat must be contained in the interim.

  When Thud had previously asked about exports, the Denebians weren't sure how to answer. All Council cultures manipulated molecules, which meant autonomy and no great concern over natural resources. So everyone had Stantatac drives, although that was somewhat of a misnomer. They were more like shields, able to repulse objects, and were generally used for games like Dodge Comet, or for diffusing a dispute when it got to the point of missiles being thrown between angry worlds.

  But each culture lent a unique twist to their molecular manipulation, giving products different aspects and that meant a brisk trade between systems, with accompanying profit and loss and the occasional dispute leading to the toss of a missile. Denebian Stantatac drives were one such product because, unlike everyone else's, they could be thrown, engulfing an area about two or three parsecs away from the generator, which was great for practical jokes, such as keeping someone from opening their front door or a mating couple from each other. Pretty funny stuff, although it could be taken too far and result in a couple of missile exchanges between a Denebian practical joker and his (hers, whatever) target, especially if that was a sour faced Arcturan.

  In this case, though, the throwing of a shield was not a joke but a Godsend, and the Denebians noted the symmetry between the problem of the Terran deviation and their presence in the area. Suppose no one had ventured by in, oh say, ten thousand years? Godless Terrans overrunning the planetary systems! The horror of that left them speechless (and

  gestureless) and the crewman threw the shield around the Earth with something akin to heroic determination. "There," he said, "That'll hold 'em." And it would. He'd been careful to shape the shield so it encompassed the current orbits of Terran satellites, but not allow anything beyond that. The cancer was contained. They all praised God and headed home to report.

  It took about eight months. The Arcturans wanted to bring the three Denebians up on charges for unauthorized contact with a primitive species, but use of nuclear power was the dividing line between primitive and modern, so that didn't wash. They then went after them for the Stantatac drive throw, but most other Council members (and everyone in every culture

  was a full fledged member) considered them heroes for it. "Imagine," just about everyone (except the Arcturans) said at one time or another, "such godless barbarians loose in the Galaxy!" "With nukes!" someone else would say and there'd be a collective shudder. By the time all that was sorted out and an expedition of Acolytes carrying the Thousand Books of God assembled to go, some thought too much time had gone by and the Terrans may have figured out a way through the drive and they were all in big trouble.

  So there was much trepidation when the ships popped into 300-mile orbits surrounding the planet. That quickly became consternation. "You're sure this is the place?" the Chief Acolyte frowned at the Denebians.

  "Yeah! This is it!" the first crewman goggled at the ice world floating in front of them. "It wasn't like that when we left it."

  It took a bit to figure it out, and the Denebians felt really bad. Seemed the settings of the Stantatac drive were normal for Deneb, with its raging power, but a little too dense for Sol. The shield had not only prevented anyone from leaving, but also the little star's rays from entering.

  Ice age, almost overnight, so to speak. Nothing, and no one, left alive.

  The Arcturans were all for execution of the three Denebians for accidental genocide, but there wasn't a lot of support. Considering the nature of the dead Terrans, it might not have been the mistake it seemed.

  Could have been the grace of God.

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  About the Author

  D. Krauss was born in Germany, adopted by a military family, and so became a US citizen in a roundabout way. He lived in Oklahoma and Alabama, somehow ending up in New Jersey. Every single Bruce Springsteen song is about him. He joined the USAF, staying twenty years longer than intended. He has been a: cotton picker, sod buster, painter of roads, surgical orderly, weatherman (yes, a weatherman), librarian, special agent, counterterrorist analyst, bus driver, and layabout. D’s been married over 40 years (yep, same woman) and has a wildman bass guitarist for a son. Contact him through his website: https://www.dustyskull.com and blog: https://dustyskull.com/blog. Or, follow on Twitter @dokrauss

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