oncoming DC invaders, scream like a madman and blast away
one enemy after another? Maybe he would use the weapon as a
club if he ran out of ammunition. He would bare his teeth. He
would claw at them with his hands. The women would treat Rex
as a hero, a savior. Then he would hop aboard the Flying
Dutchman and streak off into space, using the ship’s weapons to
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destroy more of the DC attackers. He would make them pay
dearly.…
Rex wiped away the faint sweat that had broken out on his
forehead, shaking his head at the strange ideas. The implant
struggled to banish the thoughts as fast as they came into his
head. None of it felt like something he could do, something he
should do. Rex was a newt, with his specific role to play—just
like every Worthy. Ardet would have been gravely disappointed
to learn his son had even entertained such fantasies. It was not at
all what the great leader had designed newts to do. They served
another purpose.
Rex emptied his container of strawberries, then went to pick
soybeans. Even after the women had rushed off, he and four newt
companions stood together chatting. Their conversation didn’t
touch on the approaching Democratic Progressives. Rex was
confident that everything would work out for the best.
*
The family huddled together in the living quarters for their
final hours. Rex held a squirming Max as he stood at the window,
but even his uncle’s attentions could not calm the boy against the
palpable storm of panic. Rex felt the boy’s misery and held him
close, but they could not help each other.
Intellectually, he knew their dire straits, though the implant
worked overtime to keep him quiet and anchored. Now he
needed it more than ever. With a glance at the pale, wide-eyed
faces of his mother, of Ann and Jen, Rex wondered if they envied
him his calm.
With Max clinging to him, he pondered what it might have
been like if he’d had a child of his own. If things had been
different, would he have felt the longing to reproduce, the
endless ticking of a biological clock?
Rex kissed the toddler’s cheek, then looked toward the
upswept rings, where he could see the glimmers of inbound DC
ships. Some families were using telescopes to watch the
defensive measures Commander Heron was struggling to
implement. Rex saw all he needed to see with his own eyes.
Each weapons launch, each explosion, was a tiny spark. The
Earth forces had come with more than a hundred fully armed
military vessels, more than enough to overwhelm any resistance
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Edited by Bryan Thomas Schmidt
the Worthies could mount. Even so, Heron had taken the Flying
Dutchman into battle; the other intact men had a few ships, little
more than tiny cargo shuttles loaded with explosives. They faced
off against the DPs in a brave but hopeless last stand. Fifteen
newts had been recruited to man some of the defensive posts, but
the Worthies did not have enough weapons for them. Rex
wondered if his neutered comrades were experiencing any fear
in their extreme circumstances. Was this what Ardet would have
wanted them to do?
As they approached, the DC ships issued numerous
warnings—they sounded like pleas—for the Worthies to stand
down. From listening to the battle chatter, it seemed to Rex that
the enemy fired only after Commander Heron had launched his
weapons. Once the battle began, however, the DPs quickly
obliterated the resistance.
The Earth ships were visible now as distinct blips closing in
on the isolated colony. There seemed to be as many hospital
ships as armed military vessels. Decoys? With their superior
forces, why would the DPs expect so many casualties? And if
they meant to slaughter the Worthies, why bother with medical
aid? “We do not intend to harm you,” said a strangely accented
but gentle-sounding voice over the dissemination channel. A
female voice, in command. That startling fact alone
demonstrated to Rex how different these invaders were.
“They’re lying,” Ann growled. Now she tried to take Max,
but the boy clung to his uncle. Rex soothed him, and Ann
withdrew to her terrified pacing.
As the DPs passed the outer supply depot, it exploded,
booby-trapped with proximity bombs. Flying shrapnel tore open
one of the Earth battleships. Rex knew that the depot had been
manned by two newts assigned there by Commander Heron.
Tears streaked Jen’s lovely face. “That one was for Ian,” she
whispered, her voice cold and bitter.
Mother sat grimly in her favorite chair. “At least the damned
Capitalists won’t be able to take our supplies.”
“Cease your resistance!” The female commander’s voice
sounded sterner now. “We cannot allow you to threaten peaceful
ships. After you are disarmed, you will be given an opportunity
to explain yourselves and air any grievances in world courts. But
we must protect ourselves.”
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“Then stay away!” Jen shouted. Her once-luxuriant dark
brown hair was stringy; her eyes grew red as she kept crying.
Rex was sure his brother would still have found her beautiful.
When the ships surrounded the habitation complex, there
were no more flashes, no more desperate attempts to block them.
The crackling accented voice continued, “Please stand down. We
do not wish to hurt anyone else. We will not harm you. You have
our word.”
Jen moaned from the other side of the room. “They’re going
to kill us all! They’ll drag us back to Earth and make us their
slaves.” Ardet had painted that picture many times, convinced
his followers what monsters the DPs were. Rex couldn’t let
himself believe that his father might have distorted the truth,
exaggerated the threat.
Little Max continued to squirm, and Rex set him down. “It’s
already over.”
Ann glared at him. “Don’t you even care? Don’t you realize
what they’ll do to us?”
Reaching an impossible decision, Mother disappeared into
the sleeping quarters, then returned holding a heavy pulse rifle.
Both Ann and Jen saw the weapon and cringed. Even Rex could
barely cope with his surprise.
Ardet Hollings had wanted a peaceful society. He had
reconfigured the human structure to guarantee there would be no
conflict, only order and productivity. By using his followers as
human building materials, by creating the unshakeable and
diligent newts to be the backbone of a strong and satisfying life,
he had intended to make such weapons unnecessary. The pulse
rifle had no purpose other than to shed blood.
“Mother, we can’t do that! It is forbidden,” Ann said, though
her voice held a rough hunger. Rex cou
ld see the raw conflict in
her mind.
“The men are our defenders,” Jen said.
“All our men are dead,” Mother said. “We have no choice.
We have to defend ourselves.” She lifted the weapon, and it was
obvious she already knew how to use it. Rex wondered where
she had gotten the practice, why she had ever considered it
necessary. “Unless Rex will do it.”
She held the pulse rifle forward, and Rex found that he was
unable to move. “I can’t. I’m a newt. Our father made it so—”
“Do you believe in Ardet’s teachings? Do you truly trust his
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Edited by Bryan Thomas Schmidt
words?”
He shied away from the weapon, shaking his head. “The
implant, the operation—our father forced me not to be a man.
How can you demand it of me now?”
“Because times demand it.” Mother’s eyes were sharp and
hard. “You know what you have to do.” She placed the rifle in
his hands. It felt heavy and cold. He stared at the firing controls.
The DC ships clustered around the colony domes and locked
themselves down. Rex’s family members all jumped upon
hearing a loud thump as the invaders forced open the access
airlocks. “They’re coming!” Ann said.
Rex stood with the rifle like a dead weight in his arms. Yes,
he did believe what Ardet had told them. He had listened to all
the speeches, enough to memorize most of them. He knew what
the Worthies stood for. He accepted everything Ardet had
claimed, though the actions of the DC invaders were not what he
had expected.
The implant helped him to consider his thoughts, to see them
objectively, without the disturbing backwaters and eddies of
unruly emotions. He had no testosterone-induced distractions, no
aggression, no wild mating drive. In this impossible situation,
only the newts among the Worthies could remain solid and true
to Ardet’s principles.
Yes, he believed. He knew what his father would have
wanted of him. Ardet had made it plain in his teachings, in his
speeches, and in his actions. How else could Rex accept what
had been done to him?
Mother looked at her only remaining son, her face full of
emptiness. Jen and Ann stared at him, perhaps seeing echoes of
his brothers.
The female DC spokesman broadcast another message. “You
will not be harmed. You will be taken care of. If some of you
wish to come back to Earth, we will arrange safe passage.”
“Don’t believe them,” Jen cried. “They’re barbarians.”
Heavy footsteps came down the halls. Rex stood like a rock
in a fast-moving stream, feeling the weight of great events all
around him. He was a Worthy, a vital component of Ardet’s
vision. He had his role, he was a newt. He believed in what they
stood for.
The pulse rifle in his hands was armed. The DPs were coming
closer.
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He set the weapon aside. Behind him, someone moaned in
fear or disappointment. Mother, perhaps?
If he truly believed in his father’s plan, then he had to accept
what he was—and what he was supposed to do.
Newts were made to be teachers, listeners, faithful workers,
a stable class without violent tendencies. If Ardet had wanted his
son and all those like him to be heroes, he would never have cut
them off at the … knees. Rex didn’t need the implant to tell him
that this was for the best.
As the DC consolidation parties moved toward the family
habitat, Rex faced them. He experienced no despair or panic,
neither elation nor fear. Just an unending sense of calm …
Kevin J. Anderson is the author of more than 125 books, 54 of
which have appeared on national or international bestseller
lists; he has over 23 million copies in print in thirty languages.
He has won or been nominated for the Nebula Award, Hugo
Award, Bram Stoker Award, Shamus Award, the SFX Reader’s
Choice Award, and New York Times Notable Book. He and his
wife Rebecca Moesta are the publishers of WordFire Press.
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239
In this tale set in an urban fantasy retelling of Peter Pan, a
Salvation Army store worker discovers a doll in a donation box
that she just can’t let go …but what if it’s alive? Urban fantasy
meets horror in K.D. McEntire’s fascinating Lightbringer series,
with …
B A B Y D O L L
( A L i g h t b r i n g e r T a l e )
By K.D. McEntire
The screen door screeched shut behind me. Across the street, my
neighbor Manny’s old tom slunk beneath the snarl of dead
bushes bracketing his front porch and the branches rattled like
bones, catching at his fur. The tom hissed, exposing yellow,
blunted teeth. He was old. I didn’t take it personally.
Carmen’s Camry ground into life as I rushed down the front
steps. No sooner had I slammed the passenger door than Aunt
Carlie strode onto the porch, robe flapping around her knees,
screaming fit to wake the dead.
“YOU GET BACK IN THIS—”
Carmen didn’t let Carlie finish, she peeled out, and in
minutes, we were out of the sad wreck of our neighborhood,
heading south toward San Jose. Her engine rattled oddly when
we hit the highway.
Decision Points
I glanced at the dash out of habit—Carmen’s gas gauge has
been busted for months, pointing to full even when the car is
coasting.
“We’re early. Wanna stop?” I dug in my pocket for a couple
ones, almost all I had left until payday but payday was today, so
it was kind of kismet. I waved the bills under her nose and
Carmen laughed, thanking me, and jamming the dollars into her
cup holder.
We stopped at the Mom’n’Pop close to work. I was thirsty
but figured on snagging a dented Dew at work. I’d run through
my savings going up to the City, so soda was a couple bucks I
couldn’t afford.
“Hey,” Carmen said, poking her head through my window.
“You feel up to blowing off the Army today? We can snag a
Redbox and head back to my place. Pop popcorn and veg.”
Carmen’s fingers brushed against my elbow. She had a zit on
her jaw beneath her ear, small now, but I knew it’d be a
whitehead by the end of the day. Her diet was terrible.
I hesitated. I’d had the nightmare again last night and
Thursdays were always slow; bailing on our shift at the Salvation
Army was super tempting but, then again, that meant I’d have to
spend the whole afternoon with Carmen.
This wasn’t normally a problem. Carmen and I have been
best friends forever, but since Juan and I split up two months
back Carmen’s been touching me more—a poke on the shoulder,
fingers skimming my elbow—and inviting me out more than
usual. One-on-one stuff.
If I’d asked her straight out, she’d have la
ughed in my face
and called me a lez, but it wouldn’t be personal. Carmen’s closet-
case had always just been this aspect of her that didn’t bug me
until now. Now, though—now I’m stuck. Carmen’s smart, she
probably knows what I did and is trying to make up for it—to
make me feel better, or take care of me—but I don’t need her
help.
I’m not ashamed.
I’m just tired.
If I went with her we could talk, maybe air out stuff. Maybe
if I weren’t still bare over the whole mess, I’d consider it,
consider her, but not now. I need her friendship and Carmen has
to know that, to understand it, before she gets resentful and
weird.
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Edited by Bryan Thomas Schmidt
I swallowed, about to agree on faking sick, but then I
remembered that I’d called out three times last month when I’d
had to go up to the City. If I bailed again, I’d get fired for sure.
A sane person would’ve told bosslady Jackie about my
medical thing, but she was kind of a prig and a gossip. I did not
want everyone at the Salvation Army to know I’d been up to San
Francisco for a hoovering. I needed this gig to start fresh, get out
of this town. Be the badass I know is hiding somewhere inside
me. “Nah,” I said flippantly, inhaling the diesel-stench and
prodding a piece of peeling rubber peeking out from the
doorframe. “Jackie’ll hold our checks if we try to pick them up
and buzz off.”
“Point,” Carmen sighed.
We were ten minutes early to work.
I promised myself that I’d talk to Carmen soon, maybe during
our shift, if we could find a corner to clean together, but luck
wasn’t with me.
It never is.
Slow doesn’t even cover how dead it was. Jackie runs a tight
ship; most of the night there was jack-all for us to do except keep
the browsers from shoplifting.
Carmen’d been assigned the register and wasn’t allowed to
leave the front, so it was a long, lonely night. I organized the
clearance bins.
Just when I thought my head would explode from boredom,
Jackie dumped a box in my arms. “Come on,” she said, bustling
past the jeans without looking to see if I was following, “your
Decision Point (ARC) Page 33
