Yesterday, I Will

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short story

Once upon a time, I wrote a story for a writing contest. The theme was that every story had to have the same title; how we interpreted it was up to us. So I wrote a story. I sent it in. I never heard anything back. Some time later, I ran into one of the judges and asked him about it. “Oh, that one,” he said. “We couldn’t figure out how to read it. Sorry. Maybe if it came with reading instructions?”

Somewhere in the madness of getting a new car 2 weeks back, I managed to get tick-bit. Last week was a haze of flu-like symptoms, fevers, aching joints, and a headache that let me get pretty much nothing creative done.

So instead of Kudzu, you’ll get that contest story. I trust y’all are clever enough to figure out how to read it.

by Bernie Mojzes

Yesterday, I will be brave.

It was a suicide mission from the start. I knew that. We all knew that. But what other options were there? These are the times that try men’s souls, as they say. I’d met Sergeant Myers’ squad in the city. They were pinned down by warbot fire from two directions. One soldier was pressed into a doorway. The others were trapped behind two cars. I’d been doing what I could against the mechanistic monstrosities, with what little I had at my disposal. Saving the soldiers meant giving up every advantage I’d cobbled together since the invasion started, but I couldn’t just sit back and watch them die. I kamikazed my Hummer right into the cluster of warbots, jumping out at the last minute. The pavement ripped at my clothes and skinned my knees, but it was a small price to pay. I clutched my only other significant asset to my chest as I rolled. It would be needed in a minute. It worked like a dream. The warbots turned and fired at the Hummer, and the gas tank blew just as it plowed through them. Time to pin down the other side. I got to my knees and lifted the rocket launcher to my shoulder. This wouldn’t stop them, but it might hold them off long enough to get the squad to safety. One of the bots exploded. Two others spun crazily, damaged by the blast. The squad hefted their payload and we ran for their ship.

They were pulling out, leaving us behind. Not that there were many of us left. The warbots had seen to that. Alliance ships had come in, guns blazing, blasting the bots to pieces. But it was too little too late. There wasn’t much left to save, and what victories they’d had were sure to be short-lived. I ran as fast as I could and launched myself at the hatch of the nearest ship as it was lifting off. “Don’t leave me!” I begged. “Please don’t leave me behind!” A big guy with a shaved head pointed his blaster at my face, and I almost let go. But the warbots were swarming behind us. “Let go so we can take off,” he said. “Please!” I cried. “I don’t wanna die!” Another soldier pushed the first one aside and extended a massive hand. It engulfed my whole arm, and he pulled me into the ship like a sack of flour. The hatch shut and the shields went up. Something sizzled. It was the sound of the warbot’s weaponry disintegrating against the shields. “Get us out of here,” called the soldier who had pulled me in, “before they bring in the heavy artillery.” My stomach pitched queasily as we lifted and swerved. He turned to me. “You,” he said. “Keep quiet and stay out of the way, or I’ll personally drop you out of this boat.” I nodded and hugged myself. Below us, the bots were destroying everything. A second slower, and I’d have been one more statistic.

Yesterday, I will be cool. And collected.

Sergeant Myers was a brutally effective man. He’d lost half his men, including his commanding officer, retrieving the EMP bomb. Even so, once I’d sprung them from the trap, they maintained excellent discipline, and left a swath of burning and shattered warbots in their wake. When we got to the ship, Myers turned to me. “I know you can fire a gun,” he said, “but can you follow orders?” “Yes, sir,” I said. I even saluted. “Then you’re drafted. Get on and let’s get the hell out of here.” The assault on The Citadel was brutal. In the future, it will certainly be compared with the D-Day invasion, or the Charge of the Light Brigade, or the Battle of Thermopylae. We flung ourselves at The Citadel’s defenses, thousands of light airships, each with a squad of brave soldiers and an EMP bomb. We were Army, and Marines, and Navy, and Air Force. We were American and Russian and Chinese and Israeli and Syrian. For the first time in the history of the world, all of us working and fighting together. And one by one, airbots and anti-aircraft rockets took us out. And then it happened — the one thing nobody had expected. The one thing that nobody had even dreamed possible. The Citadel turned on its defensive grid: the plasma shield that DOD engineers had determined physically impossible a decade ago. I don’t know how many ships disintegrated immediately, or how many weren’t able to change course fast enough to avoid the plasma field. We were lucky. We were inside the thing when it went on. Just a little too close. It ripped our ship open and we dropped like a rock. I don’t know how she did it, but our pilot was able to get a little bit of control back before we hit the ground. If there’s anyone who deserves a medal, it’s Mladshiy Leytenant Tosha Federov. I wish I could thank her personally. But when I regained consciousness, there were only two of us left alive. And Sergeant Myers only lived long enough to explain how the EMP bomb worked, and what needed to be done.

It was chaos. I didn’t understand what was happening. The sergeant barked orders. Everyone scurried to obey. They strapped a large, metal box down to the floor and prepared their weapons. I kept my head down and tried my best to be invisible. And then the shooting started. The ship bucked and spun, and things exploded all around us. On the screens I could see other ships like ours, all weaving to avoid rockets from the ground, and fire from the airbots. Something exploded very near us, and suddenly I was looking right out at the open air. I was covered in something hot and wet. Pieces of one of the soldiers hung from his harness. I didn’t want to know where the rest of him was. We dropped fast. I guess that’s what saved us. A loud electric hum filled the air, and then there were explosions. Hundreds of them. Through it all, we dropped like a rock. Anything that wasn’t tied down flew up in the air, and then was sucked out through the hole in the hull. I was certain we were going to die. But at the last minute the pilot managed to regain some control. I heard the engines roar, and everything became heavier than I could imagine. I couldn’t even swallow, I was so heavy. That’s probably what kept me from throwing up. And then there were trees whipping past us. I watched them through the hole in the side of the ship. A constant stream of curses in Russian and English came from the cockpit. The engines screamed, and the wind was louder than anything I’d ever heard. Then there were buildings whipping past us. The screaming got louder. And then I realized that the Sergeant had his pistol aimed at my face. “Shut up!” he was yelling. “Shut the hell up or I swear to God I’ll shoot you!” The screaming was me. I don’t know if he’d really have shot me. One of the wings touched something, and then we were spinning like a top. And that’s how we hit the ground. It’s a miracle we all lived.

Yesterday, I will be strong.

The EMP bomb was heavy, but built for mobility. Most of the weight was batteries, massively powerful and designed to discharge completely with devastating results. About the size of a large dog crate, it weighed maybe five hundred pounds, but it had six hydro-pneumatic wheels that kept the thing rolling smoothly and level even when going over uneven surfaces, like debris, or stairs. I wrestled the thing out of its harness and got it out of what was left of the ship. I took only a few steps with it before realizing that the thing was too unwieldy to handle alone. I was in enemy territory, all alone, surrounded by hostile warbots. I was well-armed — I had salvaged two pistols, a half-dozen grenades, and three blasters with explosive rocket-propelled ammo — but none of it would do me a damn bit of good if it wasn’t in my hand when the warbots attacked. It was a longest fifteen minutes of my life. I worked feverishly, scavenging seat harnesses, cable and pieces of metal. All the while listening for the inevitable mechanical whir of impending death. I used a headrest to brace against my hips, and when I was done, I was able to hold a blaster in my hands while pushing the bomb along. If I needed to steer it, I could pull on the cables that I’d attached to the front end, left or right. I could scarcely breathe as I made my way up Hagood Avenue toward the thing that had grown out of Summerall Field. Warbots could be anywhere, behind any abandoned car, inside any building, on any rooftop. They could come at me from any direction. I didn’t dare blink. In retrospect, carrying the gun at that point was pointless. I was in the open, indefensible. One shot and they’d swarm. That’s what they do. They swarm, and they kill everything that breathes. And now that the defense grid had been activated, I was the only person in the world who could do anything about it. The fate of the world was on my shoulders. With slippery palms, I made my way to the Hagood Gate.

Move, move, move! Sergeant Myers slapped us all out of our stupor. My head was still spinning as I stumbled out of the wreckage. I fell to my knees and lost the contents of my stomach. The sergeant kicked me. “Get the hell out of the way!” Two of the soldiers were dragging the big box out of the ship. It hissed when they put it down. The other soldier helped the pilot out of the cockpit. There was blood on her uniform and she gritted her teeth in pain. The sergeant frowned when he saw her. “Leave me,” the pilot said. “There is no time.” I saw that her left hand had been crushed, and her left ankle was bent at an odd angle. A lot of blood was spurting from a gash in her calf. The sergeant’s face was stony. “Taylor, you’re on triage.” The soldier who had first waved a gun at me nodded. Myers turned to me. “You, whatever your name is, you stay with Taylor and Federov, and when she’s able to move, you help her walk. Follow us and provide support. Elkins and Oh, you’re with me.” The three of them took the box and moved down the street at a jog. One of them pushed the box. The other two had their blasters drawn and were scanning for warbots. They headed toward the large building at the end of the road, and soon they vanished from sight. I waited to hear the sound of gunfire, but it never came. Taylor worked quickly. He cut the pilot’s pant leg off, then tied a bandage tightly above her knee, using a metal rod to tighten it until the blood stopped flowing. He put a bandage on the wound, and then apologized to the pilot. Then he straightened her foot. I threw up again. When I was done, Federov’s leg had been splinted, and she was up on her other foot, leaning heavily on Taylor. Her face was ashen. “C’mon, boy,” Taylor said. “Time to earn your keep.”

Yesterday, I will be fast.

There are only two ways into The Citadel. Electric fences and mines ring the former military college, and motion sensors tethered to automated gunnery towers dissuade casual intrusion. And that was before The Citadel declared war on its creators. The defenses are certainly stronger — and more deadly — now. The Hagood Gate stood closed, and lasers dotted my chest and head as I approached. One false move and I was dead. Lacking the force to overwhelm the Gate, I had very few options left. So I followed Sergeant Myers’ final orders. I emptied the Sergeant’s forms of ID from my pack and made sure every piece was in order. I fed Sergeant Myers’ military ID into the machine. Then, when I was prompted, I held his head up and pressed his open eye to the retinal scanner. I held my breath while it processed. The Gate opened. I hardly believed my luck. I’d been so shocked and appalled by Sergeant Myers’ order to take his head with me that I’d almost disobeyed. But I’d made a promise, back when I joined the squad. An oath. I would follow orders. No matter what. And it saved my life. “It’s a different system,” Sergeant Myers had said. “Complexity created a monster determined to destroy us, but that same complexity means that there’s systems that it isn’t fully aware of. I walked through the Hagood Gate as if I belonged there. I put Sergeant Myers’ head back in my pack, just in case, and headed toward The Citadel, rising like a pewter pyramid from the middle of campus. I made it there without incident. It was only once I was inside that things started getting difficult.

The pilot was heavier than she looked. She couldn’t put any weight at all on her left foot, and couldn’t even hold on to my shoulder to support herself. It took a little while to get a rhythm going, but once we did, we got so we could move at a moderate hobble. Taylor went ahead of us, scanning the buildings and bushes and cars. Nothing. Eventually, we reached the Hagood Gate. The Gate was closed, and all three of us stood, targeted, in its yawning maw. Taylor dug in his pocket and produced his military ID. “This had better work,” he muttered, as he fed it into gate. The screen asked for him to set his eye to the sensor. Then it authorized him. He fed it Federov’s ID, and mine, and told the Gate we had temporary visitation permits. It spat out day passes, and opened. We hurried through, before it could change its mind. We were close, now, and we had reason to believe that the rest of the team had made it this far as well. “We’d have found the bomb,” Taylor said. “The casing is nano proof.” We were halfway to The Citadel itself, rising like a pewter pyramid from the middle of campus, when we heard gunfire. It was muffled, as if it was coming from inside, but unmistakeable. “Hurry!” Taylor gestured impatiently. “We’ve got to help them.” Federov did her best, even though each fevered step brought tears to her eyes and a whimper to her lips. But she didn’t complain. “I can’t go any faster, goddamn it,” I said. Taylor turned to look at me. He opened his mouth to say something. And then he was hit. The nanoshot splattered on his hip and spread its pseudopods over him as it began to disassemble him. He didn’t scream. Not yet. Instead, he fired at the things that had killed him. I heard bullets penetrate metal. “Run,” Taylor said, agony etched into his face. “Now!” I let go of the pilot and ran.

Yesterday, I will be smart.

The doorway to The Citadel was open. I didn’t hesitate. But I was cautious. I watched for traps, for hidden doors, and for ambush. It wasn’t long in coming. Three warbots blocked the path to the core datacenter. They fired as soon as the EMP bomb came into view. Two of the shots hit the wall. One hit the EMP casing and slid harmlessly off, neutralized by the casing’s antibots. I tossed a grenade around the corner, and when the echoes faded, there was silence. All three warbots had been destroyed. That was when the real fun started. They gathered in front of me. When one blaster emptied, I grabbed another from the makeshift holster I’d built into the harness. I dodged the nanoshot, and returned fire. And one by one they fell. I used the EMP’s casing as cover, and returned fire. And one by one they fell. I pushed my way down one hallway after another. Down one staircase after another. Deeper into the heart of The Citadel. And still the warbots came. And still they fell. I ran out of grenades. I emptied all the blasters. I held them off with a pistol while I reloaded the blasters, and then kept going. And then Sergeant Myers saved my life one last time. Warbots had snuck up behind me. The nanoshot hit me in the back and started to spread its corrosive tendrils. But it hit my pack, the one that I carried because Sergeant Myers ordered me to, and I was able to shrug out of it before the goo reached me. By the time I dispatched my attackers, Sergeant Myers’ head was gone, reduced to its component molecules. After that, there was no more time to play it safe. The warbots were ahead of me, and they were behind me. I had no choice but to run, spraying bullets in front of me, and praying I didn’t miss. And then, suddenly, almost anticlimactically, I was there.

The doorway to The Citadel was open. I didn’t hesitate. Ahead of me was the sound of gunfire. Behind me the warbots were swarming. Taylor had stopped screaming. I could imagine the shapeless lump of his body lying on the pavement as the nanobots took him apart. I’d seen it back home enough times. It was like a super-accelerated cancer. It was like dropping someone in a vat of bleach. Federov was still screaming. Some things you never get used to, no matter how many times you hear them. I followed the sounds of gunfire, down the hall, down an escalator that was pointlessly still running, and further. I came across shattered warbots, smoking ruins of machines that twitched on the floor. Nano-goo was everywhere. There was nano-goo on the walls, and some on the floors. I was very careful not to touch any of it. Still I ran, and I prayed that Myers had been thorough as he pushed his way through the Citadel’s defenses. Then the shooting stopped. I stopped short, waiting. Listening. Nothing. No shots. But also no screams. I risked a shout. “Myers? You there?” “Yeah. Follow the wreckage and you’ll find us. You sound close enough. We’ll wait for you.” I found them in less than five minutes. “Where’s Taylor and Federov?” Myers grabbed me by the shirt and shook me. “Damn it, where are they?” “It’s not my fault,” I said. Myers cursed at me and threw me to the floor. And then the nanoshot hit him, right in the face. In a second, it had wrapped its tendrils around his head. He couldn’t even scream. I grabbed the gun he dropped in front of me and started firing down the hall along with the others. When the warbots were finished, we could look at Myers again. He writhed on the floor soundlessly, until one of the soldiers put a bullet in his head. “You led them here,” she said. “You killed him.”

Yesterday, I will be a hero.

This was it. The core datacenter. The mind of the The Citadel. The heart of the doomsday device that was destroying life on Earth. It was loud. The air thrummed with electricity. With power. The war song of a hundred thousand processors, singing the death of billions. The dream of armageddon, spelled out in lights that blinked across a hundred surfaces, across monitors that drew graphs and charts that no human would ever see: the mapping of the destruction of the world. I pushed the EMP bomb into the datacenter and started to pull the casing off. Another group of warbots struck. Nano-goo slid harmlessly off the casing. I fired back and took out both warbots. After that, it was just a matter of remembering the arming process. It took a couple of tries. It seemed like an eternity had passed since Sergeant Myers whispered the instructions with his dying breath, and I prayed that I remembered all the steps, but finally, it was set up. This was it. Warbots were rolling down the hallway toward me. My gun was empty. I was out of ammo. I got hit in the leg. I’d wanted to say something poetic, something inspired. Something for the history books. Something that future generations could look back on, and remember why our future can only come from cooperation, not conflict. But the nanobots started eating my flesh, and I screamed the first thing that came to mind. “Die, you evil, fucking, bastard! Die!” I pushed the button.

As the ranking officer, Private First Class Tammy Elkins took the lead. She ordered me to push the box, while Oh watched the rear. I wrestled with the box. I didn’t want to. I wanted to crawl into a hole and hide, but Elkins aimed her gun at my head. “You killed Myers,” she said. “The only reason you’re still alive right now is that you might be useful.” There were a few more firefights, all of which we won. None of us got hit. And then we were there. We pushed the box into the datacenter. Elkins and Oh pulled the casing off the bomb and started setting it up. I took the opportunity to slip back out of the datacenter. I’d seen a good hiding place just down the hall, and I took advantage of it. And when the warbots rolled down the hall, I pressed harder into my nook. Elkins and Oh were soldiers. Trained professionals. They would hear the warbots coming. The best I could do was try to keep out of the crossfire. But the datacenter was loud. And when I heard the screaming start, I moved. It wasn’t bravery that got me moving, or anger, or a sense of vengeance. It was fear. I was alone, and the people who were my only chance of living were turning into molten puddles on the floor. I emptied Myers’ gun at the warbots in the datacenter. They smoked and burst and fell over. I could hear more warbots coming down the hall. Coming for me. I ran into the datacenter. Nanoshot whizzed past my head. The bomb was there. Armed. All I had to do was push a button. Nano-goo wrapped around my knee. My pants leg dissolved, and the pain began. I pushed the button.

The thump pushed through my body and left me breathless and tingling.

The lights went out. The sounds of machinery stopped. The nanobots dripped harmlessly down my leg. Deep in the heart of The Citadel, there was, for the first time in my life, true silence, and true darkness.

The Electro-Magnetic Pulse disrupts power. It fries processors. It scrambles circuits. It wipes hard drives, erases backup tapes. It destroys data. It kills computers.

It devours the past.

They say that it doesn’t affect people. But that’s not true.

It changes everything.

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This is the Tale My Father Told

Tags

morana, morrigan, myth, short story

Yesterday I promised a story, even though there’s no Kudzu update to be had. So, here’s one with a bit of an odd narrative structure (and thus a difficult sell…).

 

by Bernie Mojzes

 

The air ruins it.

Otherwise, it’s not so different, here in this pitiful outpost at the furthest rim of the Empire, from the land of my birth. These hills are cold and barren, your mountains in the north even more so, and the winter wind is brutal and deadly. The sheep and goats outnumber the people, and outsmart most of them, too. The people are poor — farmers and herdsmen just trying to get through another year. Even your kings are poor. I never felt this homesick when I was in Rome, or as at home.

Except for the air. Everywhere here, it smells of brine, like the sea that batters these shores. Maybe it is different, further inland.

Put aside your sword, boy. You’ll find no threat in my home. Here, let me pour you some uisge. I wish I could offer you a proper drink, but I haven’t seen a worthwhile plum since I got here.

U Zdravje. Or as you Scoti say, Slainte Mhath.

Eh. Don’t rush me. I’m an old man and I deserve some respect, even if I am just a slave. And I have a few things yet to teach you before your overeager friends take my head.

Come, child, walk with me. Bring the bottle. Bring two.

~

What are you looking at, boy? The fighting’s over. You don’t want to involve yourself in what comes next. Come along, this way. Let me tell you a story while we walk.

This is a tale my father told me, an old, old story of my people. I did not understand at the time, and I am not sure that you are ready to understand. But perhaps now is the right time to tell it to you, and you will understand when you need. How did it go? Ah, yes.

A long time ago, in a kingdom very near here…

Nje. Don’t interrupt. That is how the stories of my people all start. A kingdom very near here. Maybe it is on the other side of the forest. Maybe it is on the other side of the world. But maybe with the Romans, the other side of the world is now very near here. Otherwise, we two would not be talking now, yes?

A long time ago, in a kingdom very near here, there was a great and wise king. When he was young, he was a hero, fighting many demons and dragons and other evil creatures. He was such a great hero that even great Svarog looking down from the sky noticed his deeds.

Svarog is a god of my people. You would recognize him, I think, though you would call him by a different name. But what is a name worth? The Romans say that God gave to Adam the right to name all the creatures in the world. But when has a god given a man anything of value? Not without taking something of greater value in return. Never mind the names, eh, and listen to the tale.

Svarog wished to reward the young hero for his great works, and he granted him one boon. Whatever he wished, his greatest desire: he had just to ask. But the hero had no great desires to fulfill. He had no need for riches, for he was already rich, and he had no desire for a woman to make his wife, for he had already found the girl whom he would marry. So he decided to save his wish for later, when his need might be greater.

In time, the hero became king, and he took the woman as his queen, and had two strong sons and a beautiful daughter. His kingdom was blessed with fertile lands and good weather, and soon it was the greatest and richest kingdom in the world.

Ah, but here we are, already.

~

They call it Hadrian’s Wall. Names again. Named it after Emperor Hadrian, who ordered it built after he met some of you folk. Wise man, some say, but he’d have been wiser if he fled back across the sea. The wall runs from here all the way across your dismal little island to Coria and the Sea in the East. They’re great builders, the Romans. The best, except for maybe the Egyptians. Did I ever tell you about the years my master was deployed to Egypt? Ah, well, then I won’t bore you with it now.

Where was I? Ah, yes. Hadrian’s Wall. It is truly a masterpiece. You people have been throwing yourselves at it for a couple hundred years, and only now have you finally breached it, now that the Empire has lost interest in these Isles. Come here, lad. Have you seen the wall from this side?

Yes, up here. Mind your step, it’s been a while since anyone’s tended the mortar, and there are more than a few stones loose. Up you go.

There. That’s your Caledonia out there, as far as the eye can see, and farther. Land of the Scoti and the painted ones, the Picts. Cold and brutal, and full of crazy, half-naked barbarians and savage, ancient gods.

And all that stands between us and them is this pitiful heap of rocks.

Yes, I said ‘us,’ for you stand here with me staring at the abyss at the edge of the Empire, and together you and I are ‘us,’ no matter the paths we took getting here, or where our paths take us tomorrow. Right now, we are here, together.

Come along, child. I’ve been your teacher these last five years, and just because you’ve killed off the man who sold your father my services doesn’t mean I’m done teaching, or that you’re done learning. Everything before was just preparation. Your real education begins today.

I was maybe your age, maybe a little younger, when my own education began. When the Huns drove us out of our village. We followed the river until we found a new place to build. Then the Huns came again, and drove us out again, right into the arms of a Roman Legion.

Nje. It’s all right. I got to see the world. I’ve seen temples built of marble as white as the purest snow, and of the blackest obsidian. I’ve seen the pyramids that rise like mammoth gods from the desert floor, older than time itself. I’ve studied in the Library in Alexandria. I met Sophia.

Ah, now there’s a story I’ve not yet told you. Her hair was black as night, and fell to her waist. She had a gap between her front two teeth that made her whistle when she spoke. Her name means Wisdom, and I was so young, and so foolish.

Here, sit. My knees are weary, and we’ve got as good a view here as anywhere else.

So tell me, boy. What do you see?

Yes, yes, of course. Luguvalium in flames. Have I taught you these five years so you can be an idiot? Then don’t tell me what any idiot can see. Tell me what you see. You’ll be king soon enough. Show me you’re worthy of it. Most people decide what is important, and then see only that. That’s backwards. See everything, then decide what is important.

Ah, yes. Better. The black rocks, wet from the melting ice. The first sprouts of spring pushing through the earth. Almost time to sow the fields. The bodies. Too many to count? When you’re king, you’ll have no choice. Yes, now is the time to mention the fire. And that building on the left? You are not seeing wrong. Your people and the surviving Britons and Romans are working together to save that building. The seed for this year’s planting is in there. If that building burns, next winter will kill more than this battle has.

And it will burn, unless they can find a way to pull the very sea to their aid.

Pass the bottle, child. There’s a cold wind come down. And you have so much to learn.

Come. This way.

~

If you were king, would you execute the man that set the fire that burned the storehouse?

Yes, I know he was acting on your father’s orders. Will that matter come February? Wouldn’t he then be just one more mouth to feed?

I’m not asking you what your father would do. Your father doesn’t matter.

Ah, here we are. Here’s where your men first overran the Romans. This man here, his name was Telerius. He had two wives and five children. One of them is old enough to fight, barely. Your age. He is also my student, but on the Roman side of the wall. I don’t know what’s become of him. As for the others, what will you tell them, when you are king, and winter comes? ‘We must feed our warrior who burned the seed, so you will have to starve?’ How about this man here? Don’t look away. What was his name? Faolan, yes? Your friend Tynan’s father, if this feeble, old mind does not mislead. And Faolan’s family? What happens to them now?

Do you have any idea how dependent you people have become on Roman grain?

Why do I keep asking you these questions? What did I tell you about observing everything? Didn’t you see the blood? Didn’t you see your father press his hand to his gut, and favor his right side? Could you not see Her shadow on him?

Come, boy. Tomorrow you will be king, but today you are still my student. Let us leave this spot. There’s too much blood here for my tastes. Leave this place to Her.

~

A great victory? Haven’t I taught you to count?

Once upon a time, the Emperor stationed a full Legion in Britain. Six thousand men. What was left guarding this post? Just over half a Century? Perhaps eighty percent of those slain. I counted forty dead Roman soldiers, and maybe a dozen held prisoner. How many Scoti died today?

There are many tales of such ‘victories.’

~

My story? Ah yes, my story. I almost forgot. Where was I? Hmm. Boy, dragons, king, rich. Yes, I remember.

The king ruled wisely and well for many years, and his kingdom prospered. The neighboring kingdoms, which were not so lucky, nor ruled so wisely, grew jealous. And one day, when it was least expected, they waged war.

The battle was long and bloody, but at the end the king won the day and drove the attackers away. But the king’s rejoicing was short-lived. Soon, the battalion commanded by his eldest son joined him. Their banners were lowered, and they carried the king’s son on a stretcher. He had been mortally wounded, and none could save him.

As the king grieved for his eldest son, the battalion commanded by the king’s second son returned. Their banners also were lowered, and they carried the king’s second son on a stretcher. He too had been mortally wounded, and none could save him.

The king brought his dying sons back to his castle so that the queen and his daughter could make their farewells, but as they approached, they saw smoke on the horizon. The enemy had sent a company of men to flank them and assault the castle directly. The guards had been killed, and the castle set to the torch.

The queen ran to the king as he approached. “They have killed our daughter,” she cried.

Some victory, eh?

So what happens now? You’ve taken Luguvalium, and you’ve lost half your men doing it. What happens when the Romans send a larger force to retake it?

Or what happens if they don’t? And you’re the king left here, looking back over the wall into Her realm? Remember. Anyone sitting on this side of the wall is one of ‘us,’ part of the Empire. It matters little where you came from or what your intentions were.

No, this was a war that you could never have won. The Empire is never defeated. The Empire never goes away. The Empire is eternal. Oh, Rome will abandon these isles soon enough; that much is clear even to the Romans. But you’ve lived under their shadow for hundreds of years now. The idea of the King of Kings is here, and that idea will live forever.

Empire is not like a nation. Remember this, boy. It is not a tribe, or a tribe of tribes, or a country of countries. It is a tapeworm that feeds on our minds. You’ll never be free of it. And every segment you cut out just grows to infect another victim.

Perhaps it will be the Scoti. Perhaps you yourself will unite your tribes and lead them to victory over the painted ones and the Southlands, and perhaps even across the sea. The thought has crossed your mind already, I see. Or maybe the Britons will rise up to fill that role as the Romans abdicate, and one day a great British Empire will dominate the world.

You laugh. The Roman’s slaves, become rulers of the world? But who better than a slave to learn his master’s ways?

Leave it to them, child. There’s more honor in being a slave than a slaver.

~

Help me down here, boy. Its time for you to meet someone. Yes, yes. Someone on ‘your’ side of the wall. I’m old, but I still have my wits about me.

Who? Heh. An old friend. A very old friend indeed.

Of course it’s not safe.

You know, the wall does look more imposing from this side. Mind you don’t step on poor Eadan there. Or Osgar.

You’re surprised that I know their names? For five years I have been visiting your people, and you think I’d not notice who is there? Slaves and kings have one thing in common — neither is ever really free. Neither has the luxury of not paying attention. An oblivious slave is a dead slave. The same is doubly true for kings.

Tell me, who was the first to fall? Ah. The horse boy. Corc. Pity. I liked him. He was always very kind to a feeble old man. Show me, child. Show me where he fell.

~

It is time to finish this tale, I think. Where had I left it? The daughter. Yes, the daughter had been stabbed and burned, and was dying. I told you this already, yes?

The king’s daughter lay in the rubble of the castle’s gate, in the shadow of the great arch. This was as far as the queen could drag her, away from the flames that consumed the castle. She was not yet dead, but there was no saving her.

“Look!” the people cried, and they pointed to a figure who crouched, perched atop the ruined archway, watching the king’s daughter. Waiting for her to die.

~

Yes, child, you are right. We are near. I can feel Her. There. Feeding.

Look at Her. Is She not terrible? Is She not beautiful?

In the land of my birth we called her Morana. You have another name for Her, I think, but it is not so very different, is it?

Tell me, child, do you pity poor Corc? Or do you envy him the honor? By tonight, tomorrow at the latest, you will wear your father’s crown. And your father? Will you give him to Her? Or will you try to save him, to give his soul to the Roman God? Will you stay here and rule, and stretch your kingdom across this island? Will you embrace Empire? Will you take up the cause of that which builds beyond reason and decays from within? Or will you go back to your sheep and your mountains, to your petty regional squabbles? Which darkness will you embrace?

My tale is not yet done. I had wanted to finish before we found Her. Please forgive an old man’s wandering wits. But I must finish. Listen.

The king stood over his dying daughter, and drew all his authority to him. “Morana, this is my kingdom, and my word is law. I forbid this.”

The Demon Goddess laughed. “You are a leaf,” she told him, “already beginning to brown, a withered flower, already gone to seed. They are mine, and in the end, so are you.”

The king heard her words and knew they were true. But his daughter lay at his feet, gasping her last breath, and his two sons lay nearby, the last of their blood draining from their wounds. He turned his eyes to the sun, and he cried out. “Svarog, you have promised me one request! I call on you to grant it now! Drive the Demon Goddess from my kingdom, and banish her from it forever!”

Svarog looked into the eyes of his old friend, and he said, “You do not want this thing. Choose something else.”

But the king’s reason had left him. “This is what I choose,” he said. “Give me my due, Lord Svarog, or be made a liar and cheat.”

Svarog blinked his great eye, and for a moment the world was black, and when it was once again light, Morana had gone.

From then on, it was always summer. Nothing died. The crops grew and grew, producing harvest after harvest, until the Earth itself grew weary. No wound would slay a man. No disease, however terrible, would kill him.

One day, the king gathered his wife to him, and his two sons and his daughter, and all of his subjects who were not too ill to walk. And he raised his eyes to the sun, and he cried, “Great Svarog, please, I was wrong. Lift the ban.”

“Do you know what you are asking for?” Svarog asked.

The king kissed his children, doomed by his foolishness to be forever dying, but never dead. “Yes,” the king said.

And Svarog blinked his eye.

This is the tale my father told me, and this is the tale that I have been given to tell you.

Go to Her now, child. Introduce yourself. Do not be afraid. She is not here for you, yet.

Soon it will be your time to make choices. Best to know Her before then. Best to know her well.

Bingo

Tags

bingo, short story

by Bernie Mojzes

There was a farmer.

He had this dog that tended to drink to excess. They named him Binge-O.

It was all good fun at the start. You know, social drinking, at parties and such. People noticed that Binge-O liked beer and started feeding him drinks. After a while he’d start nosing around, finishing off the dregs of lost or abandoned drinks. It was all downhill from there.

For a long time Binge-O was the life of the party. He’d help around the farm during the day, and in the evenings he’d trot down into town and hang out at the bar, where people kept him well supplied with drinks and beer-nuts all night. Sometimes he’d stagger home ‘round three in the morning. Sometimes we’d find him sleeping it off under a car or tractor, or in someone’s sheep pen.

He had a thing for sheep.

But then, he was a sheepdog, after all.

He started drinking at home. None of us really knew the extent of it, back then. He was good at hiding things. He’d stashed bottles of vodka all over the farm, buried like bones. He turned mean. He was still well-liked in town, and a lot of fun to drink with, but after a certain point something inside him would shift, something would turn ugly, and he’d get angry. People knew to keep away from him when he got like that. He’d snarl and they’d back off.

Time came when Binge-O wasn’t welcome at the bar anymore. He’d bitten a patron the night before, and when he trotted up just before nightfall they wouldn’t let him in. He barked and scratched at the door. He tried to slip in when he thought nobody was looking. He whined. It was sad, but old Tony said, “I ain’t having that damned mutt chewin’ on my customers.” He swatted at Binge-O with a broom.

I don’t think any of us realized how far gone he was. I don’t know if anyone could have helped him, in the long run, but maybe if we’d tried, things wouldn’t have ended the way they did.

They found him the next morning in the hen house. He’d killed them all, snapping their necks and mangling their bodies, before taking his own life. He lay on his side, shotgun still held between all four legs, covered in blood and feathers.

The town is still in shock.

And none of us can look his puppies in the eye. We were all complicit in this thing.

We’re all guilty.

The Path That Few Have Trod

Tags

short story, Sweeney Todd

We’re taking a between-chapter break in the Kudzu story this week. Instead, I’d like to share a different tale. An earlier version of this story appeared in 2010 in Trail of Indiscretion magazine.

by Bernie Mojzes

My name is Sweeney Todd. Horatio Sweeney Todd, my birth certificate reads; my parents, aficionados of ancient musical productions, thought the name choice funny. They called it Intellectual Humor.

I call it Irony.

For the Sweeney Todd of legend and I have very little in common. I have never been to prison. Nor have I been to Australia. I am not haunted by the apparent death of my wife (I’ve never even had a wife, nor much use for one), nor am I consumed with a need for revenge. Really, I’m quite jovial, if a bit arrogant. I do, perhaps, eat a bit too enthusiastically, and some have said that I exercise far too rarely. However, I have no patience for such things, and wear my prodigious belly with pride. Also, I do not pull teeth. Messy business, that, and best left to others.

Apart from the name, I have only one thing in common with the Sweeney Todd of legend: I am a barber.

Until last week, of course. Hence the Irony.

I should like it to be known that none of this was my idea. I feel that it is important to stress this point. It was Jennifer Cappaccio (who no doubt is at this very moment crafting a similar exposition) that began the process of making the suggestion, late on a Wednesday night, well into our third bottle of wine, a 2012 De Loach Pinot Noir, if I remember correctly.

“He’s going to provoke a war,” she told me.

He was Harvey Smith, as anyone who is bothering to read this sordid little tale already knows.

Harvey is an astounding man. Quiet and unassuming, but with an infectious grin and a persistent good humor, he has won the admiration and even friendship of both his political allies and enemies, of the American people as a whole, and even of a-political elitists — such as myself — who typically look down with contempt at those who seek their fortunes in the political arena. Unlike those with the audacity to call themselves his colleagues, he is an artistic master of the soft science of politics, and a master scientist of the art of politics. With a few statements here, a few demonstrations of intent there, Harvey Smith could manipulate the politicians into manipulating the masses into approving just about anything he wanted. It was quite elegant, really, a beautifully choreographed ballet danced upon the political landscape.

All this, and he’s just a heck of a nice guy, too.

Regardless, politics bores me. Talk to me rather of an exquisite wine, or of the fabulous new chef at Bistro Bis, or, well, just about anything else. Politics is a sure-fire cure for insomnia. Subtle as a brick, nay, as a cinder block, these political hackeries and devices. I have no patience for such clumsiness, and yet even I begrudgingly concede Harvey’s talents.

This does not mean I have any interest in discussing them.

For example, America was shocked last year when President Teller abruptly fired his closest advisor — this being the aforementioned Harvey Smith — on a trumped up ethics charge. Shocked!

Yawn.

I only mention this because it bears directly upon this tale: barely a week before his ignoble sacking, a Time Magazine poll showed that Americans would have voted Harvey into office that very evening if there had been a handy election. President Teller’s unwarranted jealousy came as a surprise to everyone, even Harvey, who, when interviewed about the results of the poll, said, “I’m not the sort of person who would do well as President. I’ll leave that to the people who want it, and just stick to doing what I do best.”

Eight months later Teller’s presidency was in ruins and, tail between his legs, Teller was begging Harvey Smith back from Tennessee to try to salvage what could be salvaged. I say all this in demonstration of the theory that one can, in fact, learn whilst asleep and/or extremely drunk, which is invariably my state when Jennifer begins these dialogues, in which I am forced to act as Interlocutor to her Socrates.

“He’s a politician,” I responded, waving my arm magnanimously. “They all start wars. That’s what they do.” Jennifer started to say something, but I spoke over her. “Find some pathetic strip of land and save it from some pathetic little dictator that we were perfectly fine with last month. That’s the way it works. It’s a rather effective and time-proven solution, I believe. There’s even a phrase about it. Something about wagging one’s dog.”

“Not start. Provoke.”

“Attack? Us? What pathetic little country would dare attack us? And if they did, would we even notice?” I refilled her glass and mine, then lifted it in toast. “To the Duchy of Grand Fenwick.”

She just stared at her wine. “No,” she said softly. “Not Grand Fenwick. China.”

“That’s absurd,” I declared. “You must have misheard.”

But I knew she hadn’t. Jennifer Cappaccio is the proprietor of the fine eatery that sits adjacent to my humble shop. She also caters gala events, and whenever politicians are involved, she makes it a point to put on a uniform and get out there to serve the guests herself. She’s not above getting her hands dirty when the situation calls for it. “People talk when they feel no one is around,” she says, “and catering staff don’t exist.”

The lovely Ms. Cappaccio shook her head. “This presidency is so damaged that there’s no way to salvage it. It’s so damaged that the whole party is losing. They already lost the House. In the next election, they’ll lose the White House and the Senate both. It’s accepted wisdom that we don’t come out too well in a war with China. So the plan is to goad China into an attack, to manipulate things to time the attack after the next election, and leave the opposition to fail in the face of the Chinese assault. Then, when all looks lost, they retake the government overwhelmingly with a promise of a successful resolution to the conflict.”

Please note that I am paraphrasing with wild abandon in the name of brevity, and because three bottles of exquisite wine do little to promote conversations of a succinct or scintillating nature.

“What is the point of promises that have no hope of fulfillment?” I asked.

“Ah, see, that’s the thing. They believe they can win.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. “How do they propose to achieve this magnificent feat?”

“Nukes.” She drained her glass. I believe I blinked at her, then waved off her attempt to continue.

“Absurd,” I declared. “Absolute hogwash. I love you dearly, but you have gone completely off your rocker. No, I’ll not listen to another word.” And with that, I kissed her hand and bid her adieu.

~

The elections went as Jennifer predicted.

The following day, President Teller, in a televised speech, gave the first of his insults to the Chinese people. It was clever and subtle, designed to be highly insulting to Chinese culture, but appear innocuous to those who scarcely had enough culture to know how to spell the word. I recognized Harvey’s hand in it immediately, but chose to ignore it.

The next insult came three days later, and when the Chinese demanded an apology, President Teller instead ordered some manner of boat or ship to the area, ostensibly to provide support for people trying to do research on the Giant Sea Ferret, or some sort of creature that surely belongs more properly on a coat or lining my mittens. Whatever the excuse, it apparently irritated the Chinese government, who claimed that this put both Hong Kong and Shanghai within short-range missile range.

That evening, Jennifer invited me to dinner.

~

I fear I would be a terrible bore if I spent this time speaking merely of politics and intrigue. Instead, I should like to speak of something infinitely more interesting: art, and economics.

We are a dying breed, we hair stylists and barbers, we artisans of the blade. Who needs a barber when a coating of Fizz-Z will keep your face smooth all day? Who needs an artist’s sure hand when Do-Bots have become a household appliance? Simply enter your favorite celebrity’s image, and the Do-Bot emulates their hair on your head, with mathematical precision. Regardless of the consequences.

I fear and loathe award ceremonies.

Last year, over seventy percent of women in this country wore Nita LaCour’s hair the day after the Golden Globes. I was, of course, honored. Honored and appalled.

But I digress.

We artists have no use-value in society at large, and thus our services have become invaluable. We are a luxury. A means by which the rich and powerful express their wealth and power, and through that expression, reinforce their position.

My clients seek me out not because they need a haircut and a shave.

They seek me out because they need my haircut and shave.

 This is a responsibility I take with utmost seriousness, and bring to each client the very best I can offer, with the finest tools available. Unlike much of my competition, I do not use computer-enhanced razors or other hair-styling tools. My tools are simple: a comb, a sharp pair of scissors, a well-honed straight-razor, and a steady hand.

These tools have never failed me.

~

“I’m bringing the wine tonight,” I informed Jennifer.

The wine was, first, an exquisite Montello e Colli Asolani Rosso, followed by a rather delightful Clos du Chêne Vert. I also brought a bottle of Château de Jacques and a Chianti that I can’t remember, but we didn’t drink those. Jennifer’s contribution was a number of hors d’oeuvres, most spectacularly a dish of Kobe beef, sparingly seared, then thinly sliced and wrapped around a bit of asparagus.

I waited until we’d successfully consumed the Rosso and the food before I got down to business. It is never good to allow business to interfere with the consumption of great food.

“So,” I said, “how do they plan on winning a war with China?”

“Harvey is friends with the president of a company that has developed a prototype anti-missile device. The plan — which is already underway — is to deploy them in secret. Not by the government, but by friends of Harvey’s. The government wouldn’t even know.”

“If the government doesn’t know, how are they to use them?”

“That’s the point — they wouldn’t, not until Teller is reinstalled as president. Then the command would go out to all the devices to neutralize the enemy’s nuclear arsenal.”

“I see.” I refilled her glass. Mine sat, half-full. I refilled it as well, then reached for the next bottle, the fantastic Clos du Chêne Vert, which I opened and set aside to breathe.

“So,” she continued, “as soon as the Chinese nukes were useless, we’d launch ours. Of course, the devices would be easily captured and reverse engineered. So our attack would have to be devastating. It would need to leave no opportunity for reprisal.”

“So they’re talking about destroying all of China?”

Jennifer nodded. “Two billion dead, in East Asia alone. But that’s not all of it.” Her glass was empty again. I filled it for her, and she tasted it. “Very nice,” she approved. “Since this is a trick that can only be used once, they plan on hitting all the nuclear powers at the same time. Russia, Pakistan, India, Iran, North Korea. I’m not sure whether they’re planning on including France and Britain. There was some debate. Teller has never been fond of the French.”

“That is… inelegant.”

I looked at the bottle of wine, whose grapes are grown exclusively in Loire Valley of western France. I wondered whether the wine would taste the same if it glowed. I highly doubted it.

“So what do we do?” I asked.

Jennifer’s face darkened. “I don’t know what you’re planning on doing, but I’m going to host a dinner honoring Mr. Harvey Smith. I’ve already begun lining up guests and speakers. I’m hoping that you’d be willing to help make the Guest of Honor presentable for the occasion.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“A haircut,” she said, with a bitter smile. “And a shave.”

~

I cannot praise Jennifer Cappaccio’s efforts more highly. She spared no expense. Every course was exquisite, and she served only the very best wines from her cellar. “Tonight,” she told me, “will be nothing but the very best. No point in saving it for later, after all.” I thought she seemed a bit pale.

There were speeches, of course, even in the absence of the Guest of Honor, who had left a message that he was running late, but would be joining us in time for the main course. Speeches and entertainment. A string quartet played Shubert during the meal, and between courses a bluegrass band flown in from Tennessee fingerpicked their way through some of the more abominable music I’ve had to sit through since I last had a Gilbert and Sullivan show inflicted on me.

There was a fish course, served with a respectable white wine of a vintage that I must admit, to my shame, I do not remember. I really am not a fan of white wines, you see. President Teller himself gave a speech, praising the man that not so long ago he’d banished from the kingdom. The President spoke in grandiose terms, and the reporters dutifully recorded it all, cameras flashing. I believe that the speech was broadcast live.

Busboys cleared our dishes and the emptied glasses of white wine, set out new wine glasses. The wine waiter brought out carafes of a deep red wine, poured a bit for our Hostess, who tasted and approved, and then the wine was poured for all.

Our esteemed Hostess raised her glass as the main course was served.

“To Harvey Smith,” she said, “who has served our country well. It is our hope that we may serve him with the respect he deserves.”

The Guest of Honor was well received. My complements to the chef.

The Triple-Pierced Ear: A Cautionary Tale

Tags

good and evil, pitchfork, short story

On this Kudzu-free day, I’d like to give you a little bonus story. One with entirely no kudzu, just a little tale about the unending and inexplicable battle between Good and Evil.

When the devil first appeared on my right shoulder, he whispered suggestions into my ear that were, well, almost entirely unconscionable.

I tried to give him the old brush-off, but he was too nimble, dodging my hand and clinging to me with a good fistful of hair. He leaned on his pitchfork and leered at my girlfriend and her best friend, who were sipping pomegranate martinis and giggling to each other at the bar. It’s not that I hadn’t fantasized about the two of them in my bed, but I worried about the aftermath, that it might strain their friendship.

That first night, I told the devil to piss off. I was good. I treated Laura with affection and respect, and at the end of the night she and her best friend went home with another man to realize their unspoken fantasy.

The second time the devil perched on my shoulder, I told him I’d take his suggestions under advisement.

That’s when the angel showed up. She sat on my left shoulder, all glowy and beautiful with her translucent robes fluttering around her bare feet. Her toenails glittered a deep purply-red: the color’s called Sangria Sparkle, I later learned. She glared at the devil.

And really, I don’t know what I expected. Conflicting advice? An epic battle for my soul? Literature and cartoons are full of examples. Instead…

“Anyone ever tell you you’re beautiful when you’re angry?” asked the devil.

“Goshdarnit, Sam.” The angel leapt to her feet and gestured with her harp, which rang faintly under the sounds of Van Morrison’s Moondance blasting inexorably from the jukebox speakers. She frowned at the harp, then popped her halo off and impatiently stuffed the harp through the hoop. The harp vanished.

“I said I was sorry,” she said. “I was drunk. And he was… well, he was Gabriel. I mean, how do you say no to Gabriel? I mean, have you seen him? I know you’re hurt, but I never said we were exclusive. And it sure as heck doesn’t give you the right to ruin this poor schmuck’s life.”

She jammed the halo back on her head. It slid down over her eyes, and she pushed it back into place.

“Yeah,” I said to the devil, but I kept my eyes on the angel. I liked the way her robes draped. Aesthetically speaking, that is.

The devil nudged me with his pitchfork. “Hey, man, I’m just looking out for you. Give you a chance to learn from my mistakes.” He glared at the angel.

“Whatever.” She shrugged.

“You gotta be mercenary, my friend,” said the devil. “Otherwise people will tramp all over you, and your feelings be damned. Even the best people in the world, this one and the next. Ain’t that right, Deirdre?” He waved his pitchfork at the angel for emphasis. “Nothing like having an angel stomp all over your soul. They’ll hurt you and humiliate you without a second thought. But hell, after last night you already know that.”

I looked at the angel and thought long and hard about what the devil had said. She cocked her head in annoyance and crossed her arms under her breasts. She really was beautiful when she was angry. I wondered what she looked like when she wasn’t.

And really, wasn’t this what the devil had suggested? Figuring out what I wanted, and going for it?

“Hey, Deirdre,” I said. “Can I buy you a drink?”

A wicked grin slowly played across her face. She grew heavy and stepped off my shoulder to stand next to me at the bar. Her wings fluttered as she grew until her feet touched the ground. She took a moment to flash an impassioned finger at someone who called out across the room, “Nice wings!”

“Screw you!” she screamed across the room. Then she turned her attention to me, winking at the enraged devil as her lips brushed my neck. “Yeah. I’d think I’d like that.”

I’m lucky it was a small pitchfork.

Of course, Sam was right. Angels are willful and capricious things, and when they fly off where you can’t follow, if they look back at all it isn’t to see if you’re okay.

So here I sit, pacing myself with the martinis. Laura and her girlfriend were here earlier. We get along okay, I guess, all things considered. But I don’t really think about her all that much. I play with the three niobium hoops in my right ear, turning them in the holes the devil left me, and I remember Dierdre’s lingering kiss, the one she gave me as she sat in my lap, right before she grinned happily and showed me the engagement ring that Sam, that poor devil, had just given her.

Was it worth the pain? Absolutely not. And I wouldn’t trade those brief months for the world.

Talk to me after another martini, and I might give you a different answer.