We Are the World

by submission | Nov 12, 2007 | Story

Author : Grady Hendrix

Gaunt women in ankle-length gomesi bent over the stagnant pool and filled plastic buckets.

“There’s not much of anything in Rorongi. No electricity. No running water,” Walter Bennett said earnestly. “No hope.”

Emaciated children, feet swollen from protein deprivation, clung to their mothers’ skirts as they walked back to the village, buckets full of heavy, black water on their heads. Walter Bennett looked directly into the camera.

“With no other source of fresh water, they come here every day. An entire village dependent on this tiny pond for life.” He began to stroll along the bank.

“Water for washing, cooking and drinking all drawn from the same source. Disease is prevalent. Malaria is a – oh for Christ’s sake!”

He bumped into another spokesman, also with his suit jacket slung over his shoulder, also with his shirtsleeves rolled up, also speaking compassionately about the plight of Rorongi village.

“Look, mate,” the other man said. “We were here first.”

“I don’t care. I’m Walter Bennett.”

“I don’t care if you’re Bill Clinton, we booked the pond.”

Three of the emaciated women came over.

“What going on?” one said. “You need be finish by three o’clock cause Intergalactic Geographic come do b-roll for ‘Feed The Earth’ Telethon.”

“Screw this,” Walter said, ripping off his radio mic. “I’m a professional. I don’t have time for this rubbish.”

The director hurried over.

“We’ll sort this, man. Gimme ten, okay? You wanna go to your trailer? Have lunch?”

“Talk to my agent,” Walter said, storming off to his helicopter.

“Remind me never to work with these wankers again, Henry,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” said his pilot, taking off and heading South.

Below them the famine-wracked poverty zone gave way to the enormous, green suburbs of Capetown. Swimming pools, heliports, private casinos, backyard polo fields – the result of an endless stream of intergalactic poverty relief money. Most of the planet looked like this, except for the poverty reserves.

Walter videoconferenced the network president. An expensive call, but Walter was an expensive man.

“What’s the rumpus?” J.R. Moses asked. “Egos? Experience? Money? Is it a money thing?”

“I’m tired of doing this,” Walter said.

“And so you snapped. Happens to the best of us. Take a half day then go back tomorrow ready to care.”

“I don’t want to go back tomorrow,” Walter exploded. “I want to, I want to go out there and tell all those bloody aliens what’s going on. I want to bring one of them down here and show them what we’ve done with their money. I want to bust this whole thing wide open.”

He had J.R. for a moment, then:

“Jeezis, don’t scare me like that you crazy so-and-so. For a second there – “

“I’m an actor, J.R.”

“And a damn good one. Put your afternoon on our dime, whatever you want. Then go back tomorrow and work! The lifestyle to which we’ve grown accustomed depends on you.”

Walter turned to Henry.

“Set a course for the MGM Grand, Soweto.”

“Yes, sir,” said Henry. And they flew on into the glittering African sky.

Remember

by Stephen R. Smith | Nov 11, 2007 | Story

Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer

Martin stood at the edge of the field, struck numb by the expanse of white crosses peppered with red, stretching out to where the earth touched the sky.

“Overwhelming, isn’t it?” The voice dry, sandpaper rough.

Martin turned to the old man nestled in a wheelchair, an old green blanket on his lap, liver spotted face wrinkled and pale, too-big ears tucked up under a knit touque.

“It is. I’d read about this place, about how many men were buried here, but you can’t grasp the scale, can’t get this feeling from a book.”

“Men, women, many of them just children. They didn’t just give their lives, they gave up everything they’d ever have. Generations of heroes are buried here, the sons and daughters these men and women never had, never raised,” he waved towards the field. “You’re here because many of them died, and because someone made it home.”

Martin puzzled at the old man in his faded uniform jacket liberally decorated with ribbons and stars. He was unmistakeably proud, even sitting in the centuries-old wheel chair.

“My grandfather used to tell us stories about his grandfather Fred, stories his dad had told him when he was growing up,” Martin started. “Fred served in both World Wars, lived to tell the tale.”

“Many didn’t,” the old man shook his head. “I was part of a Ranger unit, we stormed the bunkers at Pointe du Hoc, lost a lot of good soldiers there, a lot of good friends.”

The comment caught Martin off guard. “Pointe du Hoc? That was nineteen forty four. How…? You’d have to be…”

“Old,” the man interupted, chuckling, “a relic, an artifact of a much, much earlier time. I remember being holed up in the dug-ins we’d inherited from the waves that came before us, curled up in foxholes just trying to stay alive one night at a time. I remember taking cover in the cellars of burned out homes while Jerry rained a hell storm of mortars down on us. It’s a wonder any of us came home.”

“I don’t understand, how…?”

“Friends, wealthy sponsors, all help keep me alive, help to keep me around. I’m full of pumps and pipes, transplanted bits and pieces. The medical technology’s a little beyond my understanding, but it keeps me going, lets me stay on here, to keep watch.”

“What’s with the wheelchair then? Why fix everything else but stay confined to that chair?”

“A bullet took my legs in Hürtgenwald in forty five, right through my spine. A soldier I never knew carried me for an hour on his shoulders through heavy fire to find friendlies. He saved my life, and then went back for more.” He paused, and turning, met Martin’s gaze with his steely blue eyes, surprisingly clear and focused. “I just lost my legs, these men gave up everything. I can’t forget that, and if they fixed me, if I could walk away and leave this place, maybe I would. I can’t take that chance.”

“Why wouldn’t you want to leave? You could travel the world.”

“There’s still fighting to be done. Whenever someone speaks of this place as a piece of ‘real estate’, the men and women lying here need a voice. That’s why I stay. I speak for them, I can still remember.”

Martin turned back to the field, for a second time struck by the enormity of it all.

The old man spoke quietly. “If I left this place, how could I be sure the world would remember? Who would fight for them if I were gone? Would you?”

The Latest Model

by submission | Nov 10, 2007 | Story

Author : Jennifer Parsons

To any who watch television, the researcher’s setup should be plenty familiar, especially so to an old R&D man like myself. Two rooms, divided by a big sheet of glass; on one side sits a table loaded with datatablets and a control panel of various buttons and switches. On the other side of the glass is a car, yellow markers placed strategically all over its surface, a dummy belted into the front seat. There are straight lines painted on the floor and walls along with more yellow markers.

The only difference between this room and any other crash test facility is the two deer wandering in front of the car, looking scared and confused.

“What’s with the fauna?” I ask.

The guy in the lab coat smiles at my question. It’s a greasy smile. I don’t like it.

“They’re part of my demonstration.” He tells me as he tweaks a few more knobs.

After checking the status of a readout screen, he presses a button and speaks into the air.

“We’re ready, go ahead.”

Technicians in another room somewhere flip a switch and I watch helplessly as the car jolts forward, gaining momentum. The mother and fawn freeze in the headlights and a second later blood and bone fly everywhere along with crash debris.

My stomach churns and I turn away from the wreck in disgust.

“What the hell was that about?”

The researcher is checking his readout again, still smiling as if he knows something I don’t.

“You dragged me down here so you could prove how efficiently the Electro IV kills off wildlife?”

“Sir,” he fixes me with a steady, serious gaze. “I would never waste your time on something as trivial as that.”

The grin creeps back across his face as he points at the glass. “If you’ll please return your attention to the wreck?”

My curiosity is piqued. Bracing myself, I turned back to the glass.

Two bloody carcasses lie a few feet from where the deer once stood.

“Watch carefully, please.” The researcher says, his voice full of anticipation.

He pushes a button on the remote in his hand and the carcasses pull in on themselves, forming two ovoid shapes on the floor. A moment later a hard shell forms around the outside of each, their bright, red blood darkening to a rich black.

After another moment, the shells crack open and a pair of feet emerged from each husk followed by a head, then a torso and soon two beautiful deer stood side by side, glancing around the room nervously.

I turn to the researcher, a grin of sly knowledge now creeping across my own face.

“Impressive nano application you’ve got there.” He chuckles under his breath and I continue. “You know, there are some stretches of Route 287 where something like that could cause a lot of accidents.”

The researcher nods. “Disaster does keep the economy flowing these days.”

I return his nod. “Insurance rates would go up, hospitals beds would fill, car dealerships would have their hands full.”

“Not to mention the increased need for mortuary services.” He fiddles with a knob and waits for me to ask the question already forming on my lips.

“I think my employers would be most interested in any other models you might have to offer. What else have you got?”

He presses a button, opening a hatch in the wall. An adorable, spotted puppy trots out, wandering up to the deer. He starts sniffing their feet.

Secret Agent World

by submission | Nov 9, 2007 | Story

Author : Grady Hendrix

John’s antenna went up, his senses clicked into hyperdrive, adrenaline slammed through his veins: grilled chicken breast!

“Really?” he said.

“I picked it up at Fairway. You want to eat while we watch ‘So You Think You Can Dance?’”

TV during dinner? Eating off trays? It meant a blind drop. Charts, diagrams, lists of coded gestures unfolded in his mind. His mnemonic devices were always old, heavy paper with brittle edges and the solid feel of starched linen. In his mind, the light was always the warm organic glow of candlelight.

“Sure. I don’t know why we’re watching, though. After Hok got voted off that show is dead to me.”

Mira heard his Hok reference: her ready message acknowledged, he was primed.

They continued to chitchat while he got plates: the red ones. On top of the Signal Language they both knew, there was their own private code. The chicken was skinless, a low fat meal, this meant she’d had personal contact to receive this mission.

“Do you want wine?”

“But use the old glasses.”

The old glasses, meaning the target would be revealed later. They talked to each other in gestures, and it was as clear as speaking. He thought it was as clear as speaking. But they’d never exactly worked out the meanings together because there had never been a time when they weren’t being watched. Watchfulness was eternal because machines never slept. The TV was always pumping your image back to the buried engines, the bugs had always been in the walls, their doorman had always been reporting on them, they had always been reporting on their doorman. So they had worked out their secret language through trial and error and for one vertiginous moment he thought: what if I’ve got it all wrong. What if the old glasses mean something completely different?

“Do you think Lacey’s got a big ass?”

“I think Lacey tries too hard,” he said, as they ate off the coffee table.

Mira paid close attention to the order of the contestants and which one was assigned which call-in number. At the third commercial break she said, “Did you return Netflix?”

He put his tray down.

“I’ll do it now.”

“You don’t have to. I just wanted to watch something tomorrow night and I think ‘Dirty Pretty Things’ is next in our queue.”

He grabbed the Netflix envelopes and an umbrella.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

He waved to the doorman and walked to the mailbox. Listening devices, video cameras, pressure plates in the sidewalk, they surrounded him, here in the heart of the city, in the heart of the enemy. He dropped the envelopes in the mailbox and on his way home, he opened the umbrella. It was broken. He left it, upside down, jammed in a trash can on the corner, sending a secret signal out into the city, waiting to be seen by someone he had never met, another soldier in the invisible army. He never looked back. You had to take this war on faith.

Press Conference at March Field

by submission | Nov 6, 2007 | Story

Author : Viktor Kuprin

March Air Force Base, California.

“These are the rules,” instructed Major Diehl, the public affairs officer. “Report your observations. Tell them what you saw, but if they ask for your personal opinions about little green men, the press conference is over. Understood?”

The security policemen nodded in understanding.

“Take your seats. I’ll call you up front when it’s time,” said the Major. “How many guests, Bob?”

The old Lieutenant Colonel peeked through the conference room’s double doors. “Forty, at least,” he said.

The reporters quickly filled the room, colliding with each other and the creaky government-issue metal chairs.

Diehl stepped to the lectern. “Good morning, everyone. First, I’d like to present Airman McAlhaney and Sergeant Brandum from our Security Police Squadron. Both were on duty last night. Both witnessed the incident. Go ahead, Airman McAlhaney.”

The nervous young man stood. “At 0245 I was on guard duty at the Alert Facility, walking patrol.”

The LA Times reporter waved his hand. “That’s where a group of B-52s and in-flight refuelers are kept ready for takeoff, right?”

“That’s correct, sir. At that time I saw two very unusual aircraft approaching the flightline at a high rate of speed, on an east-to-west track. They looked like black triangles and, uh, they were glowing blue.”

A lady reporter from Riverside’s Press-Enterprise newspaper called out, “What did you do?”

McAlhaney looked questioningly towards Major Diehl, who nodded to show approval.

“I reported it to my supervisor, m’am, by radio,” McAlhaney continued. “He confirmed my report. He saw them. Then the base went on full security alert.”

The Orange County Register reporter held up his hand. “Major, did your air-traffic controllers track these UFOs?”

“Yes. They were tracked visually,” Diehl answered. “I have no information about any radar contacts.”

The reporters began grumbling incredulously.

“Thank you, Airman McAlhaney,” said Diehl. “If you please, Sargeant Brandum will give his statement.”

Brandum took a deep breath and began. “I was in the weapons storage area when the alert sounded. By the time I got outside, the, uh, objects were directly overhead. Both had blue contrails …”

A young man from an alternative newspaper shouted, “Do you think alien invaders are preparing to attack your base?!”

Major Diehl flew out of his seat. “I think we need to stop here. Thank you for coming, ladies and gentleman.” The reporters yelled and complained as they were ushered from the room.

As the two security policemen walked toward the exit, Airman McAlhaney wondered, “Think we’re the first base they’ve buzzed?”

Behind them a voice said, “No. I’ve seen them before.”

It was Bob, the near-retirement Lieutenant Colonel. “In North Dakota, Germany, even Greenland. And they always, always fly over the nuclear weapons storage areas.”

Both men stared at the old officer. “Sir, what do you think it means?” asked Sargeant Brandum.

Colonel Bob smiled. “Well, if you thought the kids might be playing with matches, wouldn’t you check on them now and then?”