Heaven's Devils

Heaven's Devils

(Starcraft II series)

By William C. Dietz

“Any member of the armed services caught removing military assets from a government installation without sanction will be tried as an enemy agent and subject to the death penalty.” (From section 14:76.2 of the Confederate Uniform Code of military Justice).

Fort Howe on the planet Turaxis II

More than a week had passed since Tychus had been released from Military Correctional Facility-R-156 and ordered back to duty. It had been la tough three months, but that was behind him now as a dropship named Fat Girl skimmed over what had been the city of Whitford, and Tychus took the opportunity to eyeball the ruins through an open side door. The slipstream blasted his face and forced him to retreat. But not before he caught a glimpse of devastated buildings, cratered streets, and burned-out vehicles all laid out on a tidy grid.

Withford had been overrun by what the press liked to refer to as “the breakout.” Although Tychus thought it was more like a break-in, since the Kel-Morians had been able to fight their way through Hobber's Gap and lay waste to an area between Burr's Crossing to the south and an outpost called Firebase Zulu up north.

But what they hadn't been able to do was overrun Fort Howe. That was the home of the 3rd Battalion, 4th Marines, also known as “the Thundering Third.” The battalion had not only pushed the KMs out of Whiteford and back toward the mountains, it was currently following the enemy home.

In the meantime Tychus was about to join the 3rd Battalion's holding company at Fort Howe, where, with any luck at all, he would be able to return to work on Operation Early Retirement. A much-neglected aspect of the war effort that Tychus hoped to refocus his attention on.

Heaven's Devils. Photograph by Elena.

The transport began to slow a few minutes later, circled the base below, and lowered itself onto the main landing pad of a starport. The dropship carried eleven other passengers, replacements mostly, who would soon become members of the Thundering Third. They were already pulling their belongings together as the skids touched down and a green light appeared.

When the ramp was extended, Tychus followed a coupe officers and some noncoms onto the pad. Once there, he was struck by the fact that, except for one other ship, the area in front of the starport structure was empty. A sure sign that most of the battalion was elsewhere.

All of his original gear had been lost during the transfer from Prosser's Well to MCF-R-156. So all Tychus had to carry was his duffel bag containing some extra underwear and a Dopp kit. Tychus entered the starport to get directions to the admin building and went back outside to wait for an open-sides jitney.

The five-minute ride served to confirm his initial impression: Fort Howe had been stripped of troops in order to battle the Kel-Morians off the the east. A barracks building had lifted off the ground and was in the process of being repositioned, and the occasional squad could be seed double-timeing from one location to the next. But the facility had an empty feel.

The Longest Voyage

The Longest Voyage

By Poul Anderson

When first we heard of the Sky Ship, we were on an island whose name, as nearly as Montalirian tongues can wrap themselves about so barbarous a noise, was Yarzik. That was almost a year after the Golden Leaper sailed from Lavre Town, and we judged we had come halfway round the world. So befouled was our poor caravel with weeds and shells that all sail could scarce drag her across the sea. What drinking water remained in the butts was turned green and evil, the biscuit was full of worms, and the first signs of scurvy had appeared on certain crewmen.

“Hazard or no,” decreed Captain Rovic, “we must land somewhere.” A gleam I remembered appeared in his eyes. He stroked his red beard and murmured, “Besides, it's long since we asked for the Aureate Cities. Perhaps this time they'll have intelligence of such a place.”

Steering by the ogre planet which climbed daily higher as we bore westward, we crossed such an emptiness that mutinous talk broke out afresh. In my heart I could not blame the crew. Imagine, my lords. Day upon day upon day where we saw naught but blue waters, white foam, high clouds in a tropic sky; heard only the wind, whoosh of waves, creak of timbers, sometimes at night the huge sucking and rushing as a sea monster breached. These were terrible enough to common sailors, unlettered men who still thought the world must be flat. But then to have Tambur hang forever above the bowsprit, and climb, so that all could see we must eventually pass directly beneath that brooding thing... and what upbore it? The crew mumbled in the forecastle. Would an angered God not let fall down on us?

The longest voyage. Photo by Elena.

So a deputation waited on Captain Rovic. Very timid and respectful they were, those rough burly men, as they asked him to turn about. But their comrades massed below, muscled sun-blackened bodies taut in the ragged kilts, with daggers and belaying pins ready to hand. We officers on the quarterdeck had swords and pistols, true. But we numbered a mere six, including that frightened boy who was myself, and aged Froad the astrologue, whose robe and white beard were reverend to see but of small use in a fight.

Rovic stood mute for a long while after the spokesman had voiced this demand. The stillness grew, until the empty shriek of wind in our shrouds, the empty glitter of ocean out to the world's rim. Became all there was. Most splendid our master looked, for he had donned scarlet hose and bell-tipped shoon when he knew the deputation was coming: as well as helmet and corselet polished to mirror brightness. The plumes blew around that blinding steel head and the diamonds on his fingers flashed against the rubies in his sword hilt. Yet when at last he spoke, it was not as a knight of the Queen's court, but in the broad Anday of his fisher boyhood.

The Darfsteller

The Darfsteller

By Walter B. Miller, Jr.

Great Actors Immortalized – that was one of Smithfield's little slogans. But they had discontinued on Mela Stone, the depot clerk had said. Overstocked.

The promise of relative immortality had been quite a bait. Actors unions had resisted autodrama, for obviously the pit players and the lesser-knowns would not be in demand. By making dozens – even hundreds – of copies of the same leading star, top talent could be had for every role, and the same actor-mannequin could be playing simultaneously in dozens of shows all over the country. The unions had resisted – but only a few were wanted by Smithfield anyhow, and the lure was great. The promise of fantastic royalties was enticing enough, but in addition – immortality for the actor, through duplication of mannequins. Authors,, artists, playwrights had always been able to outlive the centuries, but actors were remembered only by professionals, and their names briefly recorded in the annals of the stage. Shakespeare would live another thousand years, but who remembered Dick Burbage who trouped in the day of the bard's premiers? Flesh and bone, heart and brain, there were the trouper's media, and his art could not outlive them.

Thorny knew the yearnings after lastingness, and he could no longer hate the ones who had gone over. As for himself, the autodrama industry had made him a tentative offer, and he had resisted – partly because he was reasonably certain that the offer would have been withdrawn during testing procedures. Some actors were not “cybergenic” - could not be adequately sculptured into electronic-robotic analogues. There were the portrayers, whose art was inward, whose roles had to be lived rather than played. No polygraphic analogue could duplicate their talents, and Thornier knew he was one of them. It had been easy for him to resist.

An actor, the darfsteller. Photo by Elena.

At the corner of Eighth Street, he remembered the spare tape and the replacement pickup for the Maestro. But if he turned back now, he'd hold up the run-through, and Jade would be furious. Mentally he kicked himself, and drove on to the delivery entrance of the theater. There he left the crated mannequin with the stage crew, and headed back for the depot without seeing the producer.

“Hey, bud,” said the clerk, “your boss was on the phone. Sounded pretty unhappy.”

“Who... D'Uccia?”

“No... well, yeah, D'Uccia, too. He wasn't unhappy, just having fits. I meant Miss Ferne”.

“Oh... where's your phone?”

“Over there. The lady was near hysterical.”

Thorny swallowed hard and headed for the booth. Jade Ferne was a good friend, and if his absent-mindedness had goofed up her production -

“I've got the pickup and the tape ready to go,” the clerk called after him. “She told me about it on the phone. Boy, you're sure on the ball today, ain't ya – the greasy eight ball.”

Thorny reddened and dialed nervously.

“Than God!” she groaned. “Thorny, we did the run-through with Andreyev a waling zombie. The Maestro chewed up our duplicate Peltier tape, and we're running without an actor-analogue in the starring role. Baby, I could murder you!”

The Last Oracle

James Rollins

The Last Oracle

September 7, 2:17 a.m., Washington D.C.

Painter hurried down the hall. He didn't meed any more trouble, but he got it.

The entire command bunker was in lockdown mode after the attack. As he had suspected, after the fiery death of Mapplethorpe, the few remaining combatants ghosted away into the night. Painter was determined to find each and every one of them, along with every root and branch that supplied Mapplethorpe with the resources and intelligence to pull off this attack.

In the meantime, Painter had to regain order here.

He had a skeleton team pulled back inside. The injured had been transported to local hospitals. The dead remained where they were. He didn't want anything disturbed until he could bring in his own forensic team. It was a a grim tour of duty here this evening. Though Painter had employed the air scrubbers and ventilation to clear the accelerant, it did nothing to erase the odor of charred flesh.

And on top of resecuring the facility here, he was fielding nonstop calls from every branch of the intelligence agency: both about what had happened here and about the aborted terrorist act at Chernobyl. Painter stonewalled about most of it. He didn't have time for debriefings or to play the political game of who had the bigger dick. The only brief call he took was from a grateful president. Painter used that gratitude to buy him the latitude to put off everyone else.

Another attack threatened.

That was the top priority.

The Last Oracle. Photo by Elena.

And as the latest problem was tied to that matter, he gave it his full and immediate attention. Reaching the medical level, he crossed to one of the private rooms. He entered and found Kat and Lisa flanking a bed.

Sasha lay atop it as Lisa repositioned an EEG lead to the child's temple.

She's sick again? Painter asked.

Something new, Lisa answered. She's not febrile like before.

Kat stood with her arms crossed. Lines of worry etched her forehead. “I was reading to her, trying to get her to sleep after everything that had happened. She was listening. Then suddenly she sat up, turned to ans empty corner of the room, called out the name Pyotr, then went limp and collapsed.”

“Pyotr? Are you sure?”

She nodded. “Yuri mentioned Sasha had a twin brother named Pyotr. It must have been a hallucination.”

While they talked, Lisa had retreated to a bank of equipment and began powering them up. Sasha was wired to both an EKG and EEG, monitoring cardiac and neurological activity.

“Is her device active?” Painter asked, nodding to Sasha's TMS unit.

“No,” Lisa answered. “Malcolm checked. He's already come and gone. Off to make some calls. But something's sure active. Her EEG readings are showing massive spiking over the lateral convexity of the temporal lobe. Specifically on the right side, where her implant is located. It's almost as if she's having a temporal lobe seizure. Contrarily her heart rate is low and her blood pressure dropped to her extremities. It's as if all her body's resources are servicing the one organ.”

“Her brain,” Painter said.

“Exactly. Everything else is in shutdown mode.”

Flowers for Algernon

Flowers for Algernon

By Daniel Keyes

July 7. I don't know where the week went. Today's Sunday I know because I can see through my window people going to church. I think I stayed in bed all week but I remember Mrs. Flynn bringing food to me a few times. I keep saying over and over I've got to do something but then I forget or maybe its just easier not to do what I say I'm going to do.

I think of my mother and father a lot these days. I found a picture of them with me taken at a beach. My father has a big ball under his arm and my mother is holding me by the hand. I don't remember them the way they are in the picture. All I remember is my father drunk most of the time and arguing with mom about money.

He never shaved much and he used to scratch my face when he hugged me. My Mother said he died but Coisin Miltie said he heard his dad say that my father ran away with another woman. When I asked my mother she slapped me and said my father was dead. I don't think I ever found out the truth but I don't care much. (He said he was going to take me to see  cows on a farm once but he never did. He never kept his promises...)

July 10. My landlady Mrs. Flynn is very worried about me. She says the way I lay around all day and don't do anything I remind her of her son before she threw him out of the house. She said she doesn't like loafers. If I sick it's one thing, but if I'm a loafer that's another thing and she won't have it. I told her I think I'm sick.

Flowers for Algernon. Photo by Elena.

I try to read a little bit every day, mostly stories, but sometimes I have to read the same thing over and over again because I don't know what it means. And it's hard to write. I know I should look up all the words in the dictionary but its so hard and I'm so tired all the time.

Then I got the idea that I would only use the easy words instead of the long hard ones. That saves time. I put flower on Algernon's grave about once a week. Mrs Flynn thinks I'm cray to put flowers on a mouses grave but I told her that Algernon was special.

July 14. It's Sunday again. I don't have anything to do to keep me busy now because my television set it broke and I don't have any money to get it fixed. (I think I lost this months check from the lab. I don't remember).

I get awful headaches and aspirin doesn't help me much. Mrs Flynn knows I'm really sick and she feels very sorry for me. She's a wonderful woman whenever someone is sick.

July 22. Mrs Flynn called a stranger doctor to see me. She was afraid I was going to die. I told doctor I wasn't too sick and I only forget sometimes. He asked me did I have any friends or relatives and I said no I don't have any. I told him I had a friend called Algernon once but he was a mouse and we used to run races together. He looked at me kind of funny like he thought I was crazy. He smiled when I told him I used to be genius. He talked to me like I was a baby and he winked at Mrs. Flynn. I got mad and chased him out because he was making fun of me the way they all used to.

Algernon. Illustration by Elena.