Caveat Veritatem
a science fiction anthology
by Scott Roche
Copyright © 2012
Scott Roche
All rights reserved by the author.
Cover image created using images by Pink Sherbet Photography and Patrick Hoesly.
Truth is a dangerous thing. A little of it goes a long way and it can come back to bite you. That’s why our society (and most societies I would imagine) encourage the polite, little lie. Thus my title for this anthology “Caveat Veritatem” or “Beware of the Truth”.
Even writers somehow imagine that what we’re doing is lying for a living. Nathan Lowell, a writer I admire quite a bit, said something that made me re-think that. “The stories that mean something, that resonate, are those we can see ourselves in. We recognize a reality in the story that draws us in, makes us identify with the characters, sympathize with their sorrows, and rejoice in their triumphs.” So, here I am with five stories that tell various truths, no matter the consequences for you or for the characters.
“Vicious Cycle” – Wherein a leader is forced to choose between repetition and redemption.
“X Marks the Spot” – Mark uncovers a long buried box that unlocks him. This is one of the prequel stories in my Children of Legend series.
“Truth Is No Stranger to Fiction” – They say there’s some truth at the core of every story, even the most absurd ones. That comes back to haunt a publisher of such tales.
“Tell Me Why” – Can love be outlawed in order to save humanity?
“Hell Hath No Fury” – Don’t mess with Mother Nature or her defenders. Mike learns that lesson the hard way when both attempt to blow him and his experimental craft out of the air.
Discover other titles by Scott Roche here: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/ScottRoche
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Vicious Cycle
The cold chewed at Bogdan's coat. The weather in the little seaside village of Yantarny remained constant even if the rest of the world was going increasingly crazy. The small, rough stone pyramid he stood in front of served as a monument to the thousands who died here, gunned down by Nazis almost a hundred years ago. Some said this was the last act of the Holocaust, one of the many efforts to erase all evidence of the death camps. True or not, the belief was immaterial, especially in light of the fact that almost no one in this village remembered the event. Even in the face of such evidence people turned a blind eye to the uncomfortable facts of history. He tried to cry, but tears wouldn't come. It was almost as if they were afraid they would be swept away or frozen by the wind.
He turned away from the reminder and walked towards the ocean, tasting salt as it crystallized on his face. Maybe it was from tears finally falling. Maybe it was sea spray blown in by the gale. He didn't know. All he did know was, the atrocities of the past had been forgotten, not just here, but increasingly all over the world. It wasn't just the slaughter of the Jews, Gypsies, Africans, and other "undesirables" by the German people that had earned holocaust its capital H. Other horrors began to fade in the increasingly artificial light of this brave new world. What use was remembering such "unfortunate" history, when we were on the cusp of such a bright and glorious future?
A bitter laugh chuffed from his lungs. The new New Russian Democratic Movement, the second of its kind in thirty years, held the success of each five year plan as the party line. He, for one, was sick of hearing how things had changed. Oh, mankind had moved on in many ways, he couldn't deny the fact. The children in this country were almost all fed and warm and healthy. The mega-corps, present here as they were in the West, saw to it. The history they were taught by the soulless machines was every bit as whitewashed as it had been in his grandfather's day, when the Soviet government was in charge. He had no way to be certain, but he guessed even in his great-great-great-grandfather's day when the Czars ruled, it was the same. The ignorance of their past was what truly held people back.
George Santayana said ""Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." Bogdan was inclined to agree. It ensured him, and people like him, the job he had now. He faced the backs of the company of soldiers. Their uniforms were identical to his, black and foreboding. The only difference was the red piping at the edges and the nova-bursts at the points of his jacket's collar. He led these thirty men into battle. They were equal to a hundred soldiers from decades past in terms of their capacity for destruction. Any one of them could defeat a heavy tank from the late twentieth century. Their weapons were trained on the dissidents kneeling in the snow.
Word had come that this cell was responsible for taking down a data cluster in this sector. The outage cost the government and the mega-corps backers hundreds of billions in a matter of hours. He and his men tracked the criminals down, fighting from house to house, neutralizing them. Orders were not to kill them, not right away. No, they were to be made examples.
Each soldier had a camera integrated into their gun sight and another in their helmet. These recorded, in detail, the shivering men and women in front of them. This event would be broadcast to the Bureau of Information. From there, once it was properly edited, it would be ready for the general populace. Then and only then, citizens would see what fate befell enemies of the state. So, even if he took a stand against the atrocity he was being forced to commit, no one would bear witness. Without an audience would it matter? Of course, even if there were an audience and he rebelled, he would fail. What purpose would the failure serve? These questions ate at his soul.
The leader of this crew of rebels locked eyes with him. Sergei Karamazov was his name. Bogdan knew the name and his dossier by heart, thanks to a computer chip which stored what he willed it to, without fail. Everything Karamazov stood for was the practical antithesis of everything Bogdan stood for, at least officially. Still, something in Bogdan cried out, demanding that Karamazov shouldn't die.
Bogdan gestured at Karamazov. "You. Rise and come here." Butterflies danced in his stomach. He had no idea what he would do next.
The rebel leader paused, unsure what to do. After a cluster of heartbeats, he did what he was told. The soldiers parted for him. Smooth, mirrored face plates showed no emotion as they tracked his passage.
Karamazov came to stand before the captain, at ease, jaw set firmly. The proximity of his death lent him boldness. There would be no begging for his life. He said nothing, merely waiting for Bogdan to speak.
Bogdan pitched his voice low, even though his soldiers would still be able to hear him. "Why did you do this? Have you not learned that standing up against ... what you perceive as tyranny does no good? You will die here on this field as others have before you."
The resolve on Karamazov's face became pity, or something very like it. "We will die. But we will do it on our terms, having done what we think is best."
A thousand martyrs screamed from the abyss. Every one of them died for what they thought was best. How many more would die? How many more men like himself would be responsible for sending them to their graves? Maybe he would break the cycle, maybe not, but he had to at least try. He nodded at the man. "Spoken like a true zealot. We all do what we think is best, don't we?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. All I can say for sure is you and your government haven't been doing anything like your best in some time. We decided to fix what we could. The rest is up to you."
He knew Karamazov's words were little more than rhetoric, but still he winced. He knew just how far his country had fallen, in spite of their current level of prosperity. The Republic stood for a set of ideals once upon a time. Right or wrong, those ideals were better than a country that merely scrabbled for money. The inaction of men just like himself was to blame for the loss. He searched his brain to find a way to let Karamazov go. "Perhaps if you asked for forgiveness, renounced what you did, and told us who you did it for, I could show you leniency?" Another scan of the records showed that nothing he had done demanded penalty of death. Bogdan would pay professionally, if not personally, for any mercy he showed, but it could be worth it. "If not for you, then for your people?"
Of all things, a smile creased the man's face. "You don't have the power." He cocked his head. "Look, Captain, you're not the guilty one here. It's been decided by those above you that we're going to die. It's obvious to me, you don't want the responsibility, and so I hereby absolve you."
The last four words struck Bogdan's heart like a dagger. Anger replaced earlier sadness like a rush of ice water over live coals. There would be no loophole or last minute reprieve. Karamazov had too much pride to bow to the state or to beg for forgiveness. Even the lives of his own people weren't worth it to him. "Absolve me? It is you who should be seeking absolution." He pointed a finger. "You are guilty, not me." If it hadn't been for Karamazov’s pigheadedness, there would be no need for the slaughter about to occur. The thought comforted Bogdan. This man's death would not be on his hands. "Get back with your men."
Karamazov nodded and shrugged, returning to take his place on the snow covered ground. One hand scrubbed the other absentmindedly.
The rebel leader's eyes had a light in them Bogdan did not understand. Under different circumstances, the captain would have said that he was laughing at some inside joke. "Men, form ranks." The soldiers snapped to attention. "Take aim." Rifle butts slammed against shoulders. He waited, drawing out the moment. At the last, he let his eyes shift to the sea. "Fire." The flat pops seemed almost anticlimactic, but he knew rounds would find their targets and bodies now lie twitching.
The small monument caught his eye. He barked an order, and one soldier broke off from the rest. Seconds later, the pyramid was reduced to slag. As Bogdan's personal transport left the ground he could see the remains, flesh and stone, were already covered in white.
X Marks the Spot
I always wondered what digging a grave would be like. I'd read a classic comic in the library, something by Shakespeare, and the grave digger there struck a chord with me. Maybe, I thought to myself, maybe I'd grow up to be one, one day. Surely there would always be a need for grave diggers. Job security and the thought of a job free of contact with people for the most part, living ones anyway, made the job seem ideal. I thought of this as an aptitude test. If I could make a big enough hole at twelve, then when I was grown it shouldn't be an issue.
The afternoon was cool, and the woods offered a generous amount of shade. It had rained a few days before, so the ground was soft and yielded even to the poor excuse for a shovel I had. I was in decent shape for a non-jock, muscles built by hours of climbing and running. Still, after a half hour of really focused digging the hole was pitifully small and blisters had already formed and popped.
"Just a little bit longer." Not quite ready to give up, I decided I just needed a break. A few more shovels full and I'd take advantage of a nearby stream. A long drink and clean, cool hands were incentive enough to continue for a bit longer.
A dull thunk came from the dirt, as the point of the shovel penetrated only an inch further. Not exactly a metallic sound, but it didn't come from wood either. Excited and forgetting my thirst and the pain in my hands, I first scratched at it with the side of the rusted metal shovel and then fell to my knees and scrabbled in the hole with bare hands. Fingernails were only slightly better at coaxing out the shape of whatever it was I had found. It wasn't a root, as the thought in the back of my head suggested. It was too regular in size and cut off from everything around it. It wasn't a rock either. The whole thing seemed unnaturally smooth.
Finally, with grooves worn along each side, I used the shovel's nose as a pry bar. The fatigued metal threatened to break, but the object cried "Uncle" first. Finding some sort of hard plastic container buried out here surprised me.
"At least it's smaller than a bread box." It was stained by long contact with the dirt. Originally, it might have been beige or white, maybe even gray, there was no of telling. I took the treasure chest, as I immediately began thinking of it, out of the hole and moved to the stream.
Handfuls of brutally cold water sluiced over the top of it and gradually washed most of the dirt away. As it came clean, I began to think about what I might have found. It looked like I was more pirate than grave digger. With thoughts of pirates and their gold, I began to hope for money or something, anything, of value. Mom and I were poor, and something like this could change our lives.
Eventually no more dirt could be removed. It was as clean as it was going to get without soap and water. Each side of the chest was utterly smooth, without even so much as a hairline crack. It looked for all the world like a solid lump of plastic. As I turned it in my hands, I realized how light it was. There was no gold here, probably not anything of value, just a plastic trinket.
Disappointment flared up in the middle of my chest. In anger, I grabbed a rock the size of a doubled fist and smashed at the box. A ringing thud suggested it was far from solid. I shook it hard and heard no rattle. I smacked it with the rock again and again, hoping it would give. Though it wasn't solid through and through, it was strong.
"Stupid thing." I smacked it once again, this time with a sense of futility. A dull light pulsed at its heart. A sound, barely at the edge of the range of my hearing, beat in time to the light. My frustration turned to fascination.
I ran my hands over it again, this time in reverence. Because of the light, I expected warmth, but it was no warmer than the rapidly cooling air around it. Realizing the day light around me was dimming, it occurred to me I had been in the woods a lot longer than I had intended. I tucked the box under one arm and began to jog home, leaving the shovel and hole behind. Branches slapped at my face, as though they were trying to hold me back. The path, familiar as the one from recliner to bed suddenly filled with potholes and rocks ready to trip me up.
I slowed my pace. It was hard. I wanted to get home and see what this box that wasn't a box really was. It wouldn't help if I ended up breaking my leg, and the further I went, the darker it got. After what felt like far too long, I broke through the tree line and saw the trailer park across the ditch lined road. I picked my way across, unwilling to put my discovery down even for a moment. The brown and white trailer we called home sat at the back of the lot, a single wide with a few rust spots.
I unlocked the door, with the key that hung around my neck from its black shoelace. The silence was filled with a tension my pre-adolescent brain couldn't make heads or tails of. My stomach rumbled, shattering the tension and making me chuckle. The sound was more nervous than funny. I sat the box in mom's battered recliner and walked to the fridge. A PB&J and a glass of milk would be my best, really my only, option. Mom wouldn't be home from the diner until after my bed time, so I had time to scarf down the poor excuse for a dinner. Once that was done, I could look at my new toy some more, without fear of being interrupted.
My bedroom wasn't much bigger than my bed, offering only a few feet on the left side as a sort of walkway between it and my closet. A small bookshelf secured to the far wall touched the top of my foot board. It held a few academic awards, some library and school books, and a model airplane. The bed itself was made to my Dad's strict specifications, Snoopy sheets tight as a drum, a habit that clung on years after he and Mom split up. I sat the box in the middle of the bed and looked at it in the stark illumination offered by the single bare bulb. The box still glowed, though more dimly than it had before.
I turned off the overhead light and looked into the core, trying to crack with my eyes what a rock hadn't been able to touch. As I stood there looking, time spooled away. It only felt like minutes had passed. Tired legs and my alarm clock testified forty-five minutes had gone by. For almost an hour I stood there looking like an idiot into this mysterious object. I sat on the bed, getting as near to it as I could without touching it. After a few minutes of scrutiny I began to think it looked cleaner than it had before. Maybe carrying it had rubbed more dirt off onto my shirt.
"Show me something."
I don't know why I said it or what I expected. The air flickered an inch above its surface, tiny figures moving in three dimensions where before there was nothing. The pulsing sound became words or something like words. I couldn't quite make them out. The picture zoomed in on one of the figures. He, if it was a male, looked more like a lizard than a person. It was more in the way he moved than anything else. There were no scales, though his skin looked like sun on an oil slick. His face pushed out like a muzzle.
"Holy crap!" The strongest epithet I was allowed escaped my lips without me realizing it. My first thought was this was like some sort of television, but it was beyond anything I had even heard of. The picture sharpened more as the face on my alarm clock dimmed. The light still on in the hallway dimmed too, almost to the point of going out. Gradually the noise grew louder and more regular and the picture more solid. I could even make out the thing’s teeth as it talked. They were rounded like cartoon headstones.
The words changed, beginning to sound more like a real language. I realized it was Spanish. I didn't speak any, not really, but it was just like the Spanish language channel on the radio I sometimes listened to. The block continued to pulse, and I felt the rhythm deep in the center of my head. A few more seconds and the words changed again, to English this time.
"Repeating... People of Earth. We send you this message to let you know you are in grave danger. Your planet is in danger of attack by forces more powerful than you can imagine. Take this box to your leaders and they will use the technology in this information delivery unit to begin building a defense. We estimate the hostilities will begin on the third day of the tenth month of your common calendar in the year 2001. This advance knowledge should give you four of your decades to prepare for the siege. We wish we could send forces to aid you but the energy costs are too high and we hope with the time and tools we offer you will be sufficiently defended."
It went on and on, repeating this message; presumably in every language we speak on Earth. The whole thing faded from my consciousness as I moved my stare from the box to the calendar. It was October first of 2010. The invasion apparently hadn't come. Or if it had, it was successfully prevented or quietly successful.
"Maybe there was more than one box?" I picked it up and peered into it. "Looks like you guys did your j..." My words broke off as a brilliant light filled my vision.
~~~~~
I woke up the next morning to the sound of classical music coming from my radio and the smell of bacon frying. I was still in the clothes I wore the night before, and my head buzzed and hurt and was flooded with thoughts. An incredible effort enabled me to filter out the noise and pain.
I knew a few things with absolute certainty. Many boxes had been found and were in good hands. I could feel their distant presence in a way I couldn't describe. The immediate threat had been dealt with. Other dangers were inevitable though. Beings like those in the first wave still had their eyes on us. There were also other people who found boxes and would be using their gifts for evil. Until we could meet up with those who had come to our aid, we were on our own.
"Honey, breakfast is ready." My mother's voice carried over the noise.
"Coming, Mom."
I peered at what I had had immaturely thought of as a treasure chest only yesterday. I didn’t know then how right I was. With a wave of my hand I made it float to the bookshelf. Another wave and pictures of the ones who helped us materialized out of thin air. I silently thanked them and came to my feet. With a clenched fist I erased the images and banished my days of boredom forever.
Truth Is No Stranger to Fiction
Mr. Ricardo entered the disgusting little greasy spoon and immediately felt the need to send himself to the dry cleaner. A man of his caliber rarely had to handle assignments like this. This called for a deft hand though and it couldn’t be trusted to his underlings. He spotted his lunch appointment and glided to the table. The young man he was here to meet wore jeans and a denim shirt. He was the hub of the diner's sparse lunch crowd, everyone choosing tables near him.
"Good afternoon Mr. King." Ricardo said. "May I join you?" His accent was slight, one most people labeled as ‘north-eastern’, but it was more a product of attending the best schools than of geography.
“Course you can son, that's why I called you. Have a seat.” King resumed eating the rest of his sandwich
Ricardo could see the bread had been fried crisply, no doubt in lard, and wrinkled his nose. In spite of his apparent eating habits King had the body of an athlete. He pulled out the chair and almost sat without looking. Thankfully he saw the faint sheen of grease on the hard plastic first. He pulled a few napkins from the aluminum dispenser and wiped at the seat. It was fruitless. He sat and made a note to send the dry-cleaning bill to King. "May I ask, why you did call me here?"
King wiped his face and nodded, swallowing the last bite of his sandwich. "Yeah. Some information has recently come into my hands, which may be of interest to you. I know it was interestin' to me."
"What may that be?" Ricardo raised an eyebrow.
"Wait just a minute.” King held out a hand. “Not everyone’s arrived.” His sharp blue eyes flicked over Ricardo’s shoulder. “Ah, here's our next visitor now. Have a seat Mr. Grey."
Ricardo's head swiveled to follow his host’s eyes. A wizened man in a long trench coat, wrap around shades, and a baseball cap, all of which were at least two sizes too large, took his place at the table. Ricardo knew the cap hid a bald head and the shades masked eyes sensitive to the dimmest light. He also now knew this meeting was trouble. "Good afternoon Mr. Grey. I can't tell you how pleased I am to see you."
A gnarled hand with impossibly long fingers brought something not unlike a vocoder up to Grey's throat. He pressed a button and rasped out one word. “Liar.” It hung there in the stale, greasy air.
"OK folks, it's closin' time. Everybody out!" The new voice rumbled from the front of the diner.
Ricardo turned again to see the voice’s owner. The massive man dressed in overalls and a dirty apron moved to start hustling people out. They left faster when they discovered he wasn't picky about whether or not you had paid.
"Thanks Tiny," said the soft-spoken Mr. King. He slid his now empty plate away.
"I figured our meetin' was about ta start." Tiny locked the door behind the last patron. He then walked to the tables, popping his knuckles as he lumbered.
King nodded his head. "And right you are son. We’re only missing Mr. Boyd."
Tiny nodded. "He's already here chief. I let him in this morning. He's hangin' `round out back. Yo, Boyd."
The doors to the kitchen swung open revealing a figure in a poncho with the hood up.
"You always did like your entrances." Ricardo said.
"Years in the circus." The words were silken but had a husky quality, which prevented them from being pleasant.
All of the parties gathered around the table, only Tiny electing to stand. No seat in the place looked up to the task of holding him.
Ricardo glanced around the table. "Well, Mr. King here tells me he has information that might be of interest to me. The fact you are all gathered here tells me one thing.” A fact made him nervous, the light sheen of perspiration giving it away. “But I will leave it to your spokesman to elaborate."
"And I will son, I will. You see `bout a year ago I ran into Boyd at a club gig I was doin' in Reno. We got to talkin’ over drinks. I never refused a fan no matter how homely, and we discovered we had your little periodical in common.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “It seems he was searchin’ for your victims, and I was first on his list. I was easy enough to find. We managed to locate Tiny at a bar in Saskatchewan and we picked up Grey in Arizona."
Grey continued the story. "We then all compared notes, Ricardo. It appears you have been giving us all the shaft." The vocoder made the harsh words even harsher.
Ricardo reacted with practiced surprise. "Victims? Shaft? My paper has been kind to you all. Mr. King, who provided you with liposuction and detox? Not to mention plastic surgery and personal trainers."
King slammed his fist on the table. "You promised me a comeback. I'm doin' gigs in truck stops. As it is I’m goin’ to have to rebuild my career by myself and I’m not gettin’ any younger."