IGMS Issue 40

by IGMS

  Avi nodded and Grandpa looked around until he found a sharp rock. He picked it up and looked expectantly at Dad.

  Dad brought the exoskeleton down to its knees and lowered its head, bringing it within Avi's reach. With Grandpa's hand guiding his, Avi scratched the word Emet above the visor. The letters were barely visible as the edge of the rock could penetrate no deeper than the paint, but it was good enough.

  "There," said Grandpa. "This is our Golem, now."

  Avi smiled.

  Dad spent another few minutes getting used to the suit. He ran around the clearing in huge leaps. He took hold of a tree branch as thick as my arm. The mechanical hand crushed the wood with ease.

  Dad smiled from inside the suit. "I'm getting the hang of this. It's really quite intuitive."

  "Awesome!" I said. "We should go back to the cabin and kick those mean people out."

  "No," Mom said quickly. "They were just scared, like us. They could have done a lot worse."

  We resumed our walk, with Dad driving the exoskeleton and Avi grinning as he rode high on its metal shoulder.

  We were more than half way toward home when we heard gunfire.

  It was only a short burst, and then it stopped. The adults argued, but decided we should push forward. We climbed another hill. Dad, who was in the front, stopped suddenly, raising a giant metal finger to the exoskeleton's face.

  Downhill, four Oligarchy soldiers had their guns trained on a small group of civilians. I recognized Martha, one of the other girls invited to Karen's birthday party that was supposed to take place on the day of the invasion. Her parents were there too, along with a few others from our settlement.

  One of Martha's older cousins lay dead a few steps away, a pool of blood forming under his head.

  An oligo soldier was in the face of one of the adults, shouting at him, saying something we couldn't hear from our vantage point. He waved his gun meaningfully toward Martha and the other kids.

  Dad pointed back in the direction from where we came. "Let's go," he said. "Quickly."

  "We can't just leave them, Dad," I whispered. "They're going to kill them."

  I could see Dad's face through the glass plate of the suit. He was pale, his eyes wide, his forehead covered in sweat. I'd never seen him so afraid before.

  "You can take them, Dad," said Avi. "Protect everyone, like the Golem."

  "No," said Dad, his voice little more than a croak. "No," he repeated more firmly. "I can't risk everyone's safety. Family comes first."

  Grandpa laid his hand on my shoulder and squeezed lightly. "David is right," he said. "He needs to protect all of you. I'll try to draw them away. Wait here and get the others, if it works."

  Before anyone could protest, Grandpa ran to the side, the rifle slapping against his back.

  "He's insane," said Dad. "We should go now, while we still can."

  Mom fixed him with a withering look, the kind usually reserved for Avi and me when we misbehaved. "We're waiting for Zvi to do whatever it is he's going to do," she said, steel in her voice.

  Minutes passed agonizingly slow. We watched the soldiers beat up one of our neighbors, but they hadn't shot anyone else, not yet. They were asking about something, but the prisoners didn't know or wouldn't say.

  Suddenly gunfire erupted from the opposite direction. The bullets landed nowhere near the soldiers. As far as I know, Grandpa had never fired a gun before. But it sure got their attention. They ducked behind some bushes, then three of them carefully advanced in the direction from which the shots came. The fourth soldier stayed behind and laid down cover fire.

  Grandpa fired off another shot and retreated deeper into the trees, the three soldiers in hot pursuit. In a few minutes, all four of them had disappeared into the forest.

  While the remaining invader's attention was focused on the direction his comrades ran in, one of the prisoners crept toward him. The soldier was alert. He spun around before his would-be assailant had the chance to close the distance between them and trained his gun on the settler. He fired, hitting the man in the shoulder. The man screamed. The soldier stepped toward him, aiming his weapon for a killing shot.

  "Stay," Dad growled at us. He leaped over the top of the hill, the exoskeleton propelling him forward with superhuman speed.

  The soldier turned toward the new threat, his eyes going wide at the war machine bearing down on him. He fired off several shots but his bullets couldn't penetrate the suit's plated chest. Dad ran into him at full speed, tackling the man with all the force of a speeding car. The enemy soldier went down in a bloody mess of broken bones.

  The settlers scrambled to their feet. Dad waved them toward us and they ran, helping the wounded man along. He covered the rear.

  If any of the remaining Oligarchy soldiers returned, summoned by the sound of their comrade's rifle, they thought better of showing themselves.

  The entire group reached the hill's summit, joining the rest of us.

  "What about Grandpa?" I cried.

  Dad paused and looked back toward the thick forest. "There is no time," he said. "The oligos probably called for reinforcements. We have to get everyone as far from here as possible."

  "Come on, we know the way to the Unie camp," said Martha's dad. "That's the information those bastards tried to beat out of us. Their satellites haven't been able to penetrate the anti-surveillance shields our side set up, so they're forced to search the old-fashioned way."

  Dad nodded and everyone began to move.

  "I'm not leaving without Grandpa." I screamed and pounded on the exoskeleton's metal chest with my fists.

  Mom pulled me off him, enveloping me in a hug. "We need to get away, Rivkah," she told me. "Zvi is risking his life to save everyone. We have to make sure his actions aren't in vain."

  The settlers guided us much deeper into the forest. I cried the entire way.

  We stayed at the Union camp. Soldiers came and went, carrying out a guerilla war against the invading forces. The civilians stayed put and did whatever they could to pitch in at the camp.

  Major Lau, who lived four houses down from us at the settlement and was in charge of the partisan camp, came to see me after a week. He walked into the tent they assigned to our family and sat down on the edge of the bunk.

  "Hey kiddo," he spoke gently. "Can we talk for a minute?"

  I nodded. Dad was away helping to repair and maintain whatever electronics they had in camp. Mom was with the younger kids.

  "I hear you still aren't talking to your old man," said Major Lau.

  "He's a coward," I said. "Because of him, Grandpa is missing. He's out in the woods, all by himself, because Dad was too scared to confront the soldiers, even wearing that suit."

  Lau sighed. "That's part of what I wanted to talk to you about. One of our search parties found Zvi's body. I figured you would rather hear about it from me."

  I clenched my first and tried very hard not to cry. Tears streamed down my face anyway.

  "He was an old man, trying to outrun three trained soldiers," said Lau. "You're a big girl. You knew that he took an enormous risk, doing what he did. If not for him, Martha's entire family would probably be dead, and your family wouldn't have found its way to the camp. Who knows what dangers you would have faced."

  "It's not fair. Everyone is praising my father for saving all those people. But it was Grandpa! Dad just stood there until the last second, paralyzed by fear."

  Major Lau moved closer to me, his arm resting gently on my shoulder. "That's the other thing I came to talk to you about. Everyone around here has been helping the war effort in whatever way they can. Your dad brought us the exoskeleton and has been helping to maintain it, your mom has been helping to cook meals and to keep the camp organized . . . Everyone is sacrificing and everyone is pitching in. Can I count on you to help, too?"

  I looked up at Lau, his face a blur through the tears. "What do you need me to do?"

  "The Union reinforcements landed on Sev this morning," said Lau. "They're
kicking some oligo butt and everyone should be able to go home very soon. I'll make the official announcement later today."

  I nodded. I liked the prospect of finally going back home, but this wasn't going to bring Grandpa back.

  "Everyone will welcome the chance to go home, but with so many dead, and so much property damage, the morale is low." Lau turned me toward him and raised my chin with his index finger until I was looking straight at his face. "We need heroes, Rivkah. Living, breathing heroes for the Union media to show off to the galaxy. The story of your dad fixing the exoskeleton and rescuing a bunch of prisoners is a much better narrative."

  I clenched my teeth. "What about Grandpa? Are you going to say that both of them were heroes?"

  "The Union propaganda people don't want to dilute the message," said Lau. "David is going to be the hero of this story. He doesn't want this, either, but he knows his duty. Will you do your part for the war effort? Will you go along with this?"

  I sat there and stared into space for a long time. Lau was very patient; he gave me all the time I needed to think things through.

  Finally, I nodded.

  The few months that followed were a blur. They dragged Dad and the rest of us all over Sev. He was ordered to give speeches and cut red ribbons on reconstruction projects. They said that he had helped keep up the morale of the citizenry.

  As I grew older, I learned to forgive his moment of weakness on that hill. But I had a much tougher time letting go of the fact that I was forced to stand next to him and smile when all I wanted to do was to grieve, to sit Shiva for Grandpa, to wrap myself in the comforting blanket of our traditions. I understood them better now; they weren't merely an annoyance that kept me away from Saturday birthday parties.

  But I had to be strong, for my family and my adopted home world, whatever day of the week it happened to be.

  Forty years later, the exoskeleton with Emet scratched on its forehead is still here. It occupies a place of honor in our town's war memorial and museum. They asked Dad to speak at the opening ceremony, but he declined, which spurred yet another round of media stories about the humble war hero. Dad never set foot in that museum for as long as he lived.

  Sarah, Avi, and I never talked about the events of that day. Not with Dad or Mom, and not among ourselves. It is only now that I choose to record a true account of our experiences during the war, after both of our parents have passed on, so that our own children and grandchildren can know the truth.

  Dad had nothing to be ashamed of. Who's to say that his doubt and fear ultimately made his actions any less heroic? In either case, Dad never saw himself as a hero. I think part of the reason he accepted the role, accepted being shown off as a model civilian, was some sort of personal penance. He hated the spotlight, but he did his duty.

  I just think Grandpa Zvi deserves to have his story told, too, at long last.

  Grandpa's body was buried by the search party somewhere in the forest. For years, the truth of his death had been denied by politics and circumstances. Even I eventually came to doubt it. I wanted to believe that it was a mistake; that he had somehow outrun the soldiers and was alive, somewhere.

  My parents were more pragmatic. They lit a candle and spoke the Kaddish every year on the anniversary of that day.

  Eventually, I accepted the Emet, the truth of it, and took over the annual recitation of the Kaddish after my parents passed away.

  A yahrzeit memorial candle burns for twenty four hours. On the day of my grandfather's death, I light one and place it at the feet of the exoskeleton. On that day I like to dream of Grandpa's spirit, watching over the generations of our family as the unsung protector of Deneb Seven.

  Aubrey Comes to Yellow High

  by James van Pelt

  Artwork by Dean Spencer

  * * *

  Yellow High's halls smelled like dusty streets in a Texas sun, like mesquite and sand and cactus, and sometimes like a thunderstorm just below the horizon; and when the double doors at the ends of the main hall opened, a wind came off the plains, swirling a dust devil, catching paper scraps and hissing grit across the lockers. Only Aubrey noticed. She clutched books to her chest as she walked from third period English to fourth period Student Senate, thinking about her campaign for junior class president and how much she wanted to win. Winning this election seemed like the only way to make a difference, and more than anything else, she wanted to do something that mattered. Other students streamed in both directions, racing the tardy bell.

  She spotted Sheriff Jane Tremble leaning on the wall next to the drinking fountain, hat pushed back on her head, left hand grazing a six shooter's smooth handle. The sheriff wore two gun belts, heavy with bullets, the guns resting on her hips. Lines marked her face, like worn leather, and she perpetually squinted as she surveyed passing kids.

  The sheriff caught Aubrey's eye, and touched a finger to her hat's wide brim.

  Around the corner, down the hall, Wyoming Jim and Dry Gulch stepped into view. Wyoming sported an angry, red scar that started above the left ear, traversed across his face to the corner of his mouth, before ending at his chin. A revolver stuck from his belt at an easy angle.

  Dry Gulch didn't look much older than twenty, but he had an old man's hitch in his walk. A shotgun hung from his hand like a club.

  They stopped when they spotted the sheriff.

  "You should'a git when we told you, Sheriff," bellowed Wyoming.

  No student reacted. A couple junior girls in lacrosse shirts, carrying their long sticks, walked around the two gunmen, not interrupting their animated conversation.

  The sheriff pushed away from the wall. Aubrey stepped to the side, knowing what was coming next.

  "You boys are breaking the law, and I've got'a duty here." Her voice cut through student conversation, a controlled contralto. Resonate, resolute, confident.

  Wyoming drew first, yanking a weapon from his belt, firing before he'd fully raised it. The ricochet wanged against the brick next to Aubrey's head. She flinched down and tried to make herself small. Wyoming shot again and again, shattering the Pepsi machine, taking out a glass door in the trophy case.

  The sheriff, unhurriedly, pulled a gun, aimed, and put a shot into Wyoming's chest. He flew backward, while his revolver spun away on the slick tile. Before she could shoot again, Dry Gulch brought the shotgun up and fired both barrels. The sheriff's hat jumped from her head, and she staggered, her shirt a tattered, red mess.

  She collapsed, the gun loose in her hand.

  Now, smoke filled the hall. Two students were down. The Pepsi machine fizzled while a liquid gurgled from the bottom.

  Three baseball players passed, heading toward Wyoming's corpse. Aubrey lost Dry Gulch. A player said, "It's too hot to take infield. Do you think coach will just put us in the batting cages this afternoon?"

  The tardy bell rang. Aubrey looked down at the sheriff's still form and shook her head. A student who'd fallen during the gun fire rose to her knees. Aubrey bent to help. There were no marks on the girl. The bullet had entered, exited, and the wound healed in a few seconds. Spilled blood evaporated, faded, leaving no stain. Even the torn blouse knitted itself whole. "I must have slipped," she said.

  Aubrey handed the girl her books. "That's okay. As long as you're not hurt."

  Mr. Courtright handed out the intent to run forms. "We need diverse candidates if we want productive discussion about school issues." He wore a grey sweater vest over a long-sleeve flannel shirt, but he never seemed to sweat. Aubrey thought he had expressive eyebrows that communicated an entire range of messages. When he passed her the form, he flashed a we're-both-in-on-the-joke look. She'd checked his picture in the yearbook from his first year at Yellow High, twenty-five years ago. He had the same expression then, though his hairline hadn't receded yet.

  Aubrey filled in the form. Next to "Office You Will Be Seeking" she wrote "junior class president," but she didn't know what to write in the space labeled "platform."

  What did she hop
e to do if she won?

  Courtright said, "You need to shape a vision of how you see the school. I'm going to give you some exercises that will help you write your speeches. We'll start with a metaphor to guide your message. Do you see school as a bucket to be filled? Is school a tug of war? Is it an ocean and the students are fish? Take a few minutes to finish this sentence, 'School is a . . .'"

  The other students bent over their papers, some already writing. Aubrey despaired. She wanted to be involved. She wanted to make the school a better place, but she didn't know why, and she certainly didn't know how. The population overwhelmed her. A million kids, it seemed, with a million different concerns!

  "Barclay," said Mr. Courtland. "What's your metaphor?"

  Barclay, an athletic sophomore who Aubrey knew also planned on running for junior president, leaned back in his chair. "The school's a flock of crows. They're attracted to shiny things, and they'll follow whatever glitters." He smiled at the class, practically a jewel himself.

  Courtland nodded in acknowledgment. "That's a way to look at it. Billy, what's your metaphor?"

  Billy, who wore black silk shirts and black pants, and sometimes black eyeliner, didn't glance from his paper, but kept writing instead. He'd been the junior class secretary and had announced a week ago he would run for senior vice president. "The school's a cesspool. We need to clean it up. Or it's a graveyard. The dead need raising."

  "The goth point of view, neatly articulated. And Emmet, how about you?"

  Emmet, who never spoke in class unless called on, but served committees well, glanced toward the classroom door and the hallway beyond. "It's a circus, a big parade. There's elephants out there, and performing seals, and clowns. I smell greasepaint all the time."

  Aubrey studied the boy. He oozed sincerity. She almost believed him. She wondered if she listened closely would she hear the calliope he heard? Would she taste popcorn and cotton candy?