by B. York | May 31, 2006 | Story
The glow of a television never graced two happier faces before that summer day. Aaron was blonde and wide-eyed while next to him, in an almost mirrored image save for the black hair, sat his friend Hamel. Both children were staring at the images of a mad scientist and kid from the 1980’s flying around in a steel contraption through time. One might incorrectly assume there was a science fiction special on. Try the history channel.
With a frustrated look, Hamel turned to his friend and curiously inquired, “I say, do you ever wonder if people have already changed history without us knowing? If, forty years ago, some madman had come and swiped our parents, neither of us would be around. So forty years ago, we could stop existing.”
Aaron raised a brow. “That might be the dumbest idea I have ever heard. People can’t travel in time. If they did, then there would be nuclear wastelands everywhere and bad people would prosper.”
Despite the comment, Hamel just shrugged and turned back to the screen to watch the time-travel shenanigans continue. Both sat in silence until a commercial.
“What if good people had control of the time machine?”
The blonde boy just sighed, “You can’t tell if people are good or bad, dummy. Bad people would eventually get their hands on it anyways.”
Hamel lifted his head up high, his expression unchanged. “No. I believe in a good nation. One with values and a belief that people can be good.”
“Not all people are good. Some people have to do bad things to get to the good.”
Both children shut up for a moment after the movie came back on. The one-liners, the classics shot from the speakers. A voice from the kitchen rang out into the living room interrupting the two and their cinema reverie.
“Aaron Francis Hitler, you have been watching television all day. Get your rear in here and help your father clean the dishes.”
The poor embarrassed youth rolled his eyes and started to get up off the floor, followed by Hamel’s giggles. “Your middle name is funny,” the tall child next to Aaron teased.
Sticking out his tongue, the blonde boy turned to go towards the kitchen, “At least my last name isn’t the same as a car!”
Pouty-faced, the dark-haired boy yelled after Aaron, “At least Lincoln is an American name!”
by B. York | May 28, 2006 | Story
Look at you. Take a good look at yourselves. Five fingers on each hand, five toes on each foot. You’re not victims, you’re not rookies. You’re human and each and every last bloody one of you is going to let the enemy know that.
You hear them outside the hull? Hear them knocking on our doorstep? You saw the red sirens going off in the corridors on your way down here? You can see their fighters gliding past on the scanners, blasting some other cadet off the roster. Some of you might think they are winning. Some of you might have heard that this is a line of defense; that we are expendable in the defense of our home planet.
Well that’s bureaucratic bullshit. I am here to tell you that no matter what the bloody hell you have heard from the suits and the stars, you are not going out there today to defend. No, cadets, I want you to suit up and go win this fucking war.
For too long we have been plagued by their kind. So many men and women have died in service of United Earth that we can barely bury our dead on their home soil. Command wants me to tell you to defend and to stand ground in honor of our species until God takes you all.
A man once said, “War is not about who survives the longest. It is about how many of the enemy you kill.” We did not go to war to defend, cadets. No, we came here in this carrier to show those slimy bastards that we are fire. We are the fire!
I’ve seen that fear in your eyes before. It’s a gift. That’s right, you have a gift in that fear of yours, soldiers; a gift that you must give to the enemy. Take it with you, hold it tight and don’t you dare let it get away. Give it back to them and make them feel what we have felt over the past decade.
Do not doubt and do not waver. Do not wait for mercy that will not come and in turn do not give that which will not be returned to you. Cadets, suit up.
And remember… for honor, for Earth, and for man!
by B. York | May 23, 2006 | Story
No one saw the meteor coming. It was faster than any meteor yet recorded. It didn’t so much as break the speed of light as it did beat its face in, set it on fire and sleep with its girlfriend. No one saw it coming when it smashed into what once was the Pacific Ocean, and a century later, not a single person survived.
They came from the corners of the globe, dressed to kill in their own odd ways. Mankind forgot ancient myths and made up their own legends. Fathers passed it onto sons and mothers would nurse their daughters on what it was to be what they were. It was a chance to start over for the parents after the meteor crashed down, but no one could have guessed it would end like this.
If you could call America a desert at that point, then it was safe to say you’d lost the idea of what humidity really meant. From the east came the heavy shoulder pads, the pronounced foreheads counting every ridge as a badge of honor despite their origin as radiation-induced bone growths. The tribe gathered shrapnel from wreckages and sharpened the pieces into their own homebrewed mix of jagged death.
These deformed figures all stood tall and bulky and they had no question as to why they were here today. Each one carried a weapon, and each one knew how to use it.
The other tribe came from the west. These shadowy figures began as shadows on the horizon, looking far healthier than the mutated easterners. Their humans faces were still intact and they dressed in nothing but free-flowing cloth that became a robe wrapped snugly around their figures. Each of these men and women also had a weapon of destruction latched neatly onto their belts. Though at first glance these weapons seemed like nothing but bludgeoning tools, there was a distinctly scientific look to them that held more back than it presented. Each of these “weapons” had at least one button on it looking as if they had been crafted from gutted scientific laboratories in the west. Silicon Valley might have been to blame.
Within sight of each other, they stood in a single row facing their opponents for control over the aftermath of the apocalypse. This was no longer America to them. For each it held a different, unpronounceable name with no Latin origin to be found.
With deformed sharp teeth and darkened, rigid skin, the easterners raised their oddly shaped metal weapons in unison and cried out, “Heghlu’meH QaQ jajvam!”
Robed and without emotion, without fear, the westerners slowly removed the small metal cylinders from their belts. The man in the center stared at the angry mob before him and spoke in a soft, elegant tone: “There must be balance.” Behind him, the other members of the tribe pressed the buttons on their devices and thin rods of light burst from the cylinders, ready and waiting to be used.
The words had been said and on this day the ultimate showdown began.
by B. York | May 20, 2006 | Story
“I’m leaving.” Viktor said as he pulled the duffel back over his shoulder and made for the door. He’d had enough of the quarantine, and he had a hankering for Luna stew that needed some satiation.
“You can’t do that, Vik! They’ve got every spaceport in the continent under lockdown. Something big is going on, and I need you here!” Cynthia reached out to tug Viktor’s arm, which only earned her a blue-eyed glare from her partner.
He grumbled and turned around. “You think I don’t know about the population issue? They want to keep people here because it’ll mean more consumers on Earth.”
“It’s not that” she sighed and glanced up to him, pleading with her eyes, “People are dying and no one is being born. They’re blaming it on people leaving but they won’t tell us why. Haven’t you noticed the lack of children, Vik? Haven’t you seen that they are closing the borders and keeping us in because they physically… spiritually need us?”
Viktor stared at her for a good long while before he dropped the bag and clasped his hands over both her shoulders, “Cynthia… what you’re talking about is madness. You need some sleep. It’ll be good for the baby.” His hand dropped down to gently rub against her stomach.
Her head lowered she turned her gaze to the side because she could not look at him, “I’m not pregnant, Vik.”
“What… what did you just say? Did you lie to me!? How the fuck could you-” Rage began to rise in his eyes.
“Viktor, wait! I didn’t lie. I was pregnant and then… it was gone.” She looked up to him, her eyes slick with tears.
The man’s expression soon turned to sorrow as he let go of her shoulders. Walking over to the couch, he slumped into it and stared out over the blue skies and the cityscape they had always dreamed of seeing from their home window.
“When did you miscarry?” he asked.
“I…I didn’t. When I went in for the second trimester ultrasound, there was nothing there. The doctor said it was like I had never been pregnant at all.”
Shutting his eyes, he dreamed of never dying of always being there for Cynthia. He hoped that she would forgive him and yet he ignored her very presence. Finally he spoke up just as he re-opened his eyes, “I’m… sorry. Maybe you’re right about the environment here. Mars and the orbital stations are showing increased birth rates. It has to be a government thing… we’ll fix it honey. We’ll fix it.”
Viktor turned his eyes away, letting the impossibility weigh down the air like a lie. Both knew the futility of the theories but, no one knew the truth.
Somewhere on Mars, a woman sat in a pristine doctor’s office, staring at her positive results and wondering how it was possible.
by B. York | May 18, 2006 | Story
“Who can blame them for what they do?” Sergeant Dobbs sipped his coffee as he leaned back in the patrol car, musing to Lieutenant Carson. Through the windshield, the morning throngs of people left their homes and crowded the streets on their way to work and life as they knew it.
“I can blame them, Roger. It’s the same thing as blaming a drunk driver for killing someone on the road. It just ain’t right, and it’s not excusable.”
It was then that their mark came into view. He must have been wandering the streets for at least a few nights with a sawed-off shotgun and a roll of cash. The kid had the usual glazed look in his eyes, and the twitch of a gamer in his stride. The epidemic was easy to follow. That wasn’t the issue; the issue was how randomly it occurred.
“There he is,” Dobbs said. He sat up and poured his coffee out the window as he moved to open the door.
Carson knew that making a scene would be a mistake. “Shit, Roger. Wait a sec.”
Too late. The kid saw the cops and raised his gun, blasting a slug right into the hood of the cruiser before taking off. The blast left Dobbs diving for cover and Carson revving up the engine as he grabbed for the radio.
“We got another one headed east on Union, requesting back-up. This ones been in the game a while.” He threw the car into gear and the cruiser jerked into traffic just in time to see the kid yank a driver from the door of a hybrid Honda. It definitely wasn’t his first car-jacking either.
Sergeant Dobbs pulled his Beretta from the holster and cursed, but the Lieutenant grabbed his hand before the gun could be leveled.
“Roger, we can’t kill the kid. He’s gotta do his time in rehab just like the others.” Despite his anger, Dobbs complied and let the gun return to its holder. Besides, up ahead, the lights and sirens indicated the barricade had already been set up. The trap was sprung.
Moments later their car came to a screeching halt as they nearly T-boned the kids’ jacked ride as it met with the barricade. Six cops weren’t going to point their weapons and wait. The ring began to tighten.
“Out of the car, now! Get the fuck out of the car!” The boy seemed more perplexed than he was nervous. He looked around and tried to rev the engine, hoping to break away from the two cars that had wedged him in. Eventually, the cops pulled him out and gave him a taste of asphalt before cuffing him.
Sergeant Dobbs glared at the kid as the boy struggled, kicking and screaming as they dragged him off. Carson came up behind Dobbs and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “It’s all nice until they fire at you, eh?”
“Yeah, it is.” Dobbs was still watching the boy as his pale frame was shoved into the police car and his shrill voice was screaming about the tragedy.
“I have a saved game! I want to go back to the save point! Fuck! You can’t stop me from resetting!” The slammed door muffled the final words, but Dobbs thought he caught something about an upgrade.
Lieutenant Carson just sighed. “Back in my day, the console and the LCD were all you needed. Poor bastards.”
