by Ken Liu
Mathis returned with three privates.
"Tell the platoon lieutenants I want an ammo check," Stiller told one of them. "Fast." The runner sprinted towards the closest platoon. An idea sprang into his mind. To another runner, he said, "Go down to the tanks and tell them to get their asses up here. Go! And don't come back without them."
The ammo report was as bad as he anticipated: an average of twenty rounds for each rifle. His troops didn't have enough ammo to stop a force of five hundred maniacal attackers. Not without air or heavy weapons support.
"Fix bayonets." The lieutenants looked at him as if he was insane. The soldiers hadn't practiced bayonet fighting since boot camp. The officers gave a terse order and the blades flashed in the sunlight. Every bayonet carried the logo of a condom company on both sides of the blade. "Set all rifles on single shot," Stiller yelled. "No automatic fire."
Mathis pointed in the air. The network helicopter swooped down and hovered behind the south side of the hill. Stiller frowned. The position of the chopper made no sense. If the attack echeloned to the north face of the hill, a distinct possibility, the helicopter would be in the line of fire.
A deep growling noise interrupted his thoughts. Thank God! The two tanks, call names Bud-1 and Bud-2, bellied up the top of the slope with his runner on back of the lead tank. Stiller placed a tank on each of his flanks. With armor anchoring his lines, he felt a bit safer.
"Here they come!" a soldier shouted. A burst from an automatic weapon sent bullets whizzing over Stiller's head. The soldiers in the second platoon returned the fire.
"Hold your fire!" their lieutenant yelled. "Wait 'til they get closer. Much closer."
Stiller moved towards the point of attack and sucked in his breath. Only fifty attackers ran up the slope. Where the hell were the other four-hundred-fifty? In answer to his question, gunfire and more shouts came from his rear. Bud-2 fired its cannon and opened up with its turret machine gun.
The fifty attackers flopped to the ground and sniped at his men. Stiller cursed at them. They would pin down a portion of his soldiers; troops needed to repulse the much larger attack. Someone had given the attackers a good strategy. Z-Cubed?
Stiller ran over to Bud-2 where heavy fire from the insolvents churned up the dirt on the edge of the hill. Protected by the bulk of the tank, he saw the main strength of the debtor force charge uphill on the east flank of the hill, an area undefended except for the tank. He had been outflanked! He backed away from the tank and grabbed a runner. "Get the first platoon over here. Fast! You," he beckoned to another runner. "Get the other tank."
Now the position of the helicopter made sense. It hovered out of the line of fire of the attack and could take ground-level film of his men getting overrun.
The fire power of Bud-2 rattled the attackers and slowed them enough for the first platoon to move across the hill and drop into firing positions.
To the panting runner, Stiller said, "Round up as much ammo as you can from the other platoons."
The defaulters slogged forward, firing their automatic pistols and howling, "Debt free! For you and me!"
The crack of weapons rose to a deafening volume then subsided only to rise again.
"I'm hit!" one of his soldiers yelled. The man gripped his forearm while blood flowed through his fingers.
Bud-1 joined the defense and the two tanks ripped holes in the attackers who surged forward but in smaller numbers. Stiller heard more screams followed by cries of "Medic!"
The cannon blasts, the steady fire from both the turret machine guns and the infantry broke the attack. The survivors retreated towards the woods and prison, their chance at economic redemption ended. The bodies of those who no longer needed a jail cell littered the slope. His men had executed a large number of people who wouldn't be guilty of a crime back in his parents' time. He gawked at the red-stained grass, then forced his mind back to business.
He waved to the commander of Bud-1 who stood in the open turret. Stiller pointed to the area in front of the first group of attackers. The tank commander nodded and the tank spun around, sending a shower of sand over the nearby soldiers.
"Get me a casualty report," Stiller told a runner. He saw a number of soldiers writhing on the ground.
Stiller heard a blast from Bud-1's cannon.
"Where you goin', cowards?" a soldier near that tank yelled.
"Come on back and give us a fight," a second called out.
When the runner returned, she reported, "Sir, fifteen wounded. No KIA."
Stiller tried his phone. "Now! Mortgage rates guaranteed to be lower than any other lending company-" He closed his eyes and held the phone against his shoulder until the spiel ended, then called for medical helicopters. Two arrived within minutes, one emblazoned MERCK and the other WYETH.
Stiller heard more approaching helicopters.
A pair of them set down outside the village. One had WWBC on the side and the other COCA-COLA. To Stiller's surprise, the division commander, General Westly, jumped out of the red Coke bird followed by Colonel Maitland, his battalion commander. Both wore starched and pressed Class A uniforms in contrast to his rumpled, sweat-stained fatigues.
Z-Cubed and a few go-fers climbed out of the WWBC helicopter. Z-Cubed wore an iridescent blue-green djellabah and yellow combat boots. Six-foot tall and weighing close to two-hundred-and-fifty pounds, the man's weight was concentrated in a huge paunch that stretched the material of the gown. A rubber band held his black hair in a pony tail but his untrimmed beard flowed in all directions. When Z-Cubed moved, the sunshine changed his djellabah into shimmering patterns of light that dazzled the eye. It was like looking into a bank of strobe lights. He kicked a rock, said something to a go-fer and backhanded the man in the chest.
Stiller came to attention, saluted the officers and watched for an opportunity to resign his commission.
The officers returned his salute.
"This man," Z-Cubed wagged a fat finger in Stiller's face, "screwed up the whole production. Shoot him or hang him or whatever you do with traitors."
Stiller made a fist and shifted his weight. Before he could throw a punch, General Westly gripped Z-Cubed's elbow. "That's how our officers respond when you fuck with them." Westly's voice came out like a snarl. "You changed the script without telling him and he changed his tactics." He turned to Stiller and held out his hand. "You turned a potentially bloody defeat into a victory. Well done, Captain."
"My boss loved the new script." Z-Cubed pounded a fist into an open palm. "The public is tired of watching people get slaughtered by air strikes. Viewers want to see some dead-beats get to the top and win."
"Captain Stiller," Colonel Maitland said. "Everyone in your command can now wear a combat badge."
The Pentagon hadn't been in a battle since the Terrorist Wars ended and almost everyone with combat experience had retired. The Pentagon's press releases justified these battles as a way to fill this experience gap. Stiller knew this was the 'good' reason given out to the media while the 'real' reason was making money.
"What am I supposed to tell him?" Z-Cubed said, hands on hips. "I couldn't shoot the script because an officer can't get his men killed properly?"
Stiller cleared his throat to get the general's attention.
"You may not like it," General Westly replied, "but Captain Stiller is a hero."
"He is?" Z-Cubed gave the general a wary look.
"Sir, I want to res… I am?" Stiller didn't feel like a hero. He felt like someone who had been used by unscrupulous people.
"He is. You are."
Z-Cubed tapped his foot while he stared at Stiller. He made a frame out of his two thumbs and forefingers and sighted Stiller through it. "My God! The man'll photograph like a movie star. Look at that jaw line. The strong nose. The blue eyes."
Stiller's mouth dropped open.
"I can see it now, General." Z-Cubed grinned. "The show will feature this man as the heroic officer. We'll interview him before and after each film cl
ip. He'll give us a voice-over of what's happening on those clips. Stiller'll be a national hero for his sterling defense against the low-life scum who dared to attack his unit."
Stiller gawked at Z-Cubed.
Z-Cubed stroked his beard. "Hmm… Our unspoken sub-text will be the superb training and adaptability of American officers." Z-Cubed hugged himself. "This show will break all market share records. We can raise our advertising rates."
"I have an opening up at Division," General Westly said.
Stiller broke his opened-mouthed stare at Z-Cubed and turned to the general.
"I need someone to re-organize the training. Someone who can teach the rifle company officers to think under fire. I love the way you compensated for the lack of air strikes and mortars by using the tanks. I want you to teach these people how to think like that. By the way," Westly paused to give Stiller a smile, "the position is to be filled by a major, so I'll have to promote you."
Stiller's mind threatened to shut down from the over-load, but before it did he postponed his resignation. After all, he had a family to support. It would be selfish to resign without talking it over with his wife.
"Not a bad day, Stiller," Colonel Maitland said. "You put up a great fight, you'll be on national TV and you get a promotion."
"And you knocked off those undesirables," Z-Cubed said, "in a most bloody and colorful fashion too. It'll be a TV classic in no time. The residuals alone will be worth a mountain of cash. You win the prize, Stiller. All ten million dollars."
Stiller blinked and tried to sort things out. His wife would love it that Wal-Mart sponsored the division staff and provided more lucrative discounts than the other store. His rifle company would split up the prize money. With his portion, he'd buy shares in Pentagon Inc., the subsidiary that owned all military advertising space and dealt with the corporations that wanted to rent some of it.
His resignation faded into oblivion. Maybe, the Pentagon knew what it was doing.
© 2007 by Hank Quense
First published in Darker Matter - Issue 5, edited by Ben Coppin, 2007.
Reprinted by permission of the author.
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Hank Quense writes humorous and satirical Sci-Fi and fantasy stories. He also writes about fiction writing and self-publishing .He and his wife, Pat, usually vacation in another galaxy or parallel universe. They also time travel occasionally when Hank is searching for new story ideas. Hank has 14 books and 50 short stories currently published along with a few dozen articles.
The Sculptor’s Son
Jason Gorbel
Elijah's hands worked the cool clay until the little girl's eyes reflected innocence, and her lips formed a smile. The figure, half his height, mimicked a child of seven or eight. Sculpting had shaken off the dread brewing since the call an hour ago.
A light knocking on the front door caused his stomach to sink. There was no need to go to the window. He knew Rabbi Gorlitz's knock. Like his voice on the phone, it was unassuming for such an important man. Elijah wiped his hands on his smock and took it off before going downstairs. After a pause to pray for strength, he opened the door.
The Rabbi appeared somber but composed, unlike Elijah's son, Jacob. The narrow-eyed boy stood on the porch next to him with arms folded and lips pursed. Whose blood stained Jacob's shirt this time?
"You know the story," the Rabbi said, tugging the brim of his black fedora.
Jacob twisted and pulled on his blond side curls. His yarmulke was missing. "David started with me. He said something about mom. He—"
Elijah's jaw muscles grew taught. "I heard. It doesn't excuse your behavior. Go to your room."
"No," Jacob sneered.
The Rabbi raised an eyebrow. He didn't need to say anything; the boy was making the man's point for him.
"Go!" Elijah threw his finger at the stairs.
Jacob cursed, shouldering Elijah as he passed him before stomping up the steps. Elijah avoided the Rabbi's eyes and sighed. He stepped back and gestured for him to enter. The Rabbi touched the mezuzah in the doorway and kissed his fingers before stepping inside, a pointed reminder that Jacob hadn't.
After hanging up the Rabbi's coat, Elijah pulled out the chair at the head of the dining room table. He waited for his guest before taking a seat. The ceiling vibrated with Jacob's rock music, but at least he wasn't eavesdropping. "I know what you're going to say."
The Rabbi stroked his gray beard. "Do you?"
"But according to the teacher, the other boy did say something about Jacob's mother."
"Jacob has no mother."
Elijah took a deep breath. "But he remembers a mother. Adolescence is a difficult time for any—"
"Jacob put another boy in the hospital."
"Who? David? Is he okay?"
"He will be."
Elijah bowed his head. "I'm sorry." He felt the Rabbi's cool gray eyes bore into him.
"Today, four men could barely hold Jacob down. This episode also lasted much longer than the last."
"I'll talk to him. I'll punish him."
The Rabbi folded his arms. "You've tried both many times."
"We may need him, you know," Elijah retorted, hoping an even tone masked his desperation. "Hate crimes in the city are on the rise."
The Rabbi snorted. "This is not the sixteenth century. We have laws and police to protect us."
"I bet my grandfather thought that too before Hitler."
The Rabbi wagged his finger. "Moshe, a Kohain, used the Name when the SS came to his village." Elijah's eyes widened. Papa never told him. "The bodies soon piled up, Germans and Jews alike. Your grandfather, like the rabbis who came before him, was forced to use the Name once more. He made your father vow never to speak it."
"I know, but I found Papa's writings."
The Rabbi got up and took his coat. "A shame you didn't find his wisdom. Shalom."
"You know I can't father children," Elijah pleaded. "That's why Sarah left me."
"Whoever brings up an orphan in their home fulfils—"
"Adoption isn't the same. It can never be the same. I gave life to Jacob. He is truly my son. I can save his neshama!"
The Rabbi paused at the door and, without turning, replied, "He has no soul to save. He cannot return your love. Sooner or later he will kill."
Elijah clasped his hands together in prayer. "Jacob's my son...my only son! What if I can school him at home?" he asked, his hope sparked.
"If you are to suffer his wrath," the Rabbi said with a somber shake of his head, "who will be left to use the Name? Only a full-blooded Kohain can." The front door closed softly behind him.
Ascending the stairs, Elijah felt as though a starless night had fallen. He came to his son's door and stood frozen a moment before finally able to knock. The throbbing beat stopped.
"Go away!" Jacob raged. "I'm not apologizing."
"I've come to apologize to you," Elijah's voice shook. "You're right. The teachers and the Rabbi have no business telling you you can't stick up for yourself."
The door opened. Jacob's brow furrowed. "No...no they don't."
Elijah took into the room. An untidy NFL bedspread, the rock posters...It was so easy to forget the truth. When his gaze fell on the open laptop, the background a picture of him and the boy together, Elijah's heart stopped. His eyes met Jacob's. "You hurt David badly you know?"
The boy shrugged. "I'm stronger than he is. I'm the strongest in the school."
"That's why you can't do that."
"Tell the teacher to get kids to stop bothering me, and I won't have to."
"It's only words, Jacob. You can stick up for yourself without throwing a punch!"
Jacob looked at the floor. "I try not to. Really. Every time. But I get so angry, I want to. I...I need to." He raised his eyes. "You forgive me, right?"
"Of course I do." Elijah opened his arms and as they embraced, he whispered the Name into the boy's ear.
Tears fell on the body of cool clay in Elijah's arms. "I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry."
He staggered to his workroom and steadied himself against the wall. Sunlight stretching from beneath the window blinds touched the face of his fresh sculpture. Elijah traced one of her curls with his finger and sighed. Everyone would require a plausible explanation. Maybe the recently orphaned daughter of a close friend who'd been living in Israel. Yes, that would work. She'd have Jacob's room because he went to stay with relatives upstate. Getting away from the city was what the wild boy needed, Elijah would say. He wiped the moisture from his eyes.
He crouched before the clay girl and leaned forward. At first his voice failed him, but the need to fill a void outweighed any fear of the consequences. Elijah spoke the Name into her ear.
© 2014 by Jason Gorbel
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Jason Gorbel is an aspiring writer of speculative fiction, adoptive father of two, special education teacher working with emotionally disturbed adolescents in New York City, and fine-art photographer. He finds inspiration in his experiences as a parent and teacher, his Jewish background, and love of history. A young adult science fiction novel that combines all these elements is in the works.
Smew of Skray
Rebecca Brown
Long-fingered grips and narrow, jag-joint wrists. Heg coiled around her brother. Coiled in close until he breathed the flavor of her thoughts.
Unlovely. Unbelonging. Out! Out! Out!
He stroked her smooth. Not yet. Not 'til he's older. Time…
She bristled bitter somewhere underneath. Too long already.
Still, he soothed her. Just a little longer. Soon.
Consent.
Forgiveness.
She broke away, not wanting him to share the way she felt. How, as the pass of moments drew across her skin, each moment that they kept Smew here stung like a splinter in her spine.
They pressed together, sampling scents and tastes of one another. Delight in sharing. Joy in mind-in-hand.
