The Unlikely Defenders

by Scott Haworth

  Like so many days before, Shawn had a lot of free time on his hands. His research only took a few hours a day. The rest of the time he mostly sat in his room and tried not to go stir crazy. A recent upgrade had allowed for fairly consistent internet access. He was able to keep in touch with his friends and colleagues back in Menlo Park, California. The number of those willing to converse with him had declined sharply shortly before he had been banished to South Pole Station. With only a few e-mails to write and very little new to say in each one, playing online poker became the next best way to eat up time. Unfortunately, the internet was down so neither of those were an option. Shawn sighed and started off to aimlessly roam around the facility.

  The facility was built to house several hundred researchers during the summer. It seemed deserted with only twelve brave souls staying for the winter. Well, eleven brave souls and one pariah. Shawn did know of one man who would be around. He walked casually to meteorologist Jerry Carry’s office.

  “So Jerry, how’s the weather?” Shawn asked. It had not been particularly funny the first time he asked it and it was not particularly funny now.

  Jerry had anticipated the question and gave the same answer he always did, “It’s fucking cold. You want to know the forecast for tomorrow? It’s going to be fucking cold again.”

  “Most of these nut jobs consider wintering here to be a badge of honor. You seem less crazy though. Why’d you come down here? Just to avoid all the obvious jokes about your name?” Shawn inquired.

  “For some reason I thought studying South Pole weather patterns would be interesting. I will never complain about the heat back in Miami, I swear to God,” Jerry said. He shivered to emphasize his point. “Although on the same topic why are you here? This clearly isn’t a voluntary assignment for you. The rest of us have a pool going as to what you did to be cast into this shit hole.”

  “Oh yeah? What was your guess?” Shawn asked.

  “I bet that you screwed with some of your research to support a theory. This is your punishment for unethical practices.”

  “Oh, very close. Except instead of my findings I was screwing with my boss’s wife,” Shawn replied with a smirk.

  “No shit?” Jerry asked, perking up at the juicy gossip. He continued after Shawn nodded affirmatively. “And he got you sent to the South Pole? I’ve always seen people threaten to do that in the movies. I never knew anyone it actually happened to.”

  “Yeah, the asshole has a lot of pull. It was transfer down here or start panhandling on a street corner. Any other man would have just murdered me and been done with it, but not him. Such primitive vengeance would not be fitting for a man of science. So instead I get to rot down here.”

  Jerry nodded his head sympathetically. “Revenge of the nerd. The others will be disappointed. No one was even close to that answer.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Shawn joked. He moved to the doorway and then remembered why he had come to see Jerry in the first place. “The internet connection is down again so I’m going to try and get a poker game going tonight. You in?”

  After receiving a nod from Jerry, Shawn went out in search of other scientists to recruit.

  Sean Altmann fired three shots from a prone position at the moving targets. He realized his mistake as soon as he fired the third shot. He adjusted for the next seven shots and actually managed to hit six of the targets. When the exercise ended the two men on either side of him turned to smile mischievously. They had both hit all ten of their targets.

  “Sergeant Altmann!” the commanding officer yelled. “Can you please tell the group what you did wrong again?”

  “I led my targets, sir,” Sean replied sheepishly.

  “You led your targets!” the officer repeated. “And can you please tell the group, yet again, why leading the targets is bad?”

  “Because the energy travels at the speed of light, sir.”

  “That’s correct sergeant. You seem to understand how the directed energy weapons work, yet you continue to ignore the principles that govern them. Would you like a transfer Altmann? Do you want your old M4A1 back?”

  “No, sir!”

  “That’s a good choice Altmann, because in five years no one in the whole goddamn army is going to be using chemically propelled weapons anymore! It’s DEW’s from here on out!”

  After several more choice words the commander eventually dismissed Sean and the rest of the squad. Eager to flee from the scene, Sean took the lead while returning to the barracks of Fort Belvoir. The army had sent him a lot of places throughout his career but none were quite as nice as Virginia. It had it all: good scenery, mild weather and best of all no one was trying to kill him. The occasional chewing out was a small price to pay for such a reward.

  After his tour of duty in Iraq had abruptly ended many years before, the Army had reassigned Sean stateside. They had said a hero of his caliber was more valuable as a morale tool, and he had not hesitated to agree. Since he was not particularly talented at anything else, Sean had opted to stay in the army much longer than was required of him. Although his fame had gradually slipped away he was still treated well by the army. His current assignment was a testament to that fact.

  Sean and the rest of his squad had been hand-chosen to test the next generation of infantry weapons. After several years of development problems the Army was finally testing its personal directed energy weapons. The DEW’s, as they were affectionately called, were something out of science fiction. They fired concentrated bursts of energy at a target and were much more accurate than traditional infantry rifles. They were not without their bugs though, which was the purpose of the testing Sean and his comrades were doing.

  Sean flopped onto his bunk. He pulled his duffle bag out from under it and dug deep until he found a little box. He opened the box and stared at his Medal of Honor.

  After a moment he sighed, closed the box and threw it back into his duffle bag. Lately he had found himself feeling more and more guilty about having the medal. After all, he had done nothing to deserve it.

  Chapter Two

  None of the crew were at their stations inside the monitoring center of the Anarcmy. The ship was unoriginally named for its commander, who was also not in his normal position. Instead the Kessiams were all crowded around a small television that had been wheeled into the heart of the ship.

  “Now I’ve seen everything!” Anarcmy exclaimed. “Intelligent primates! I wouldn’t have believed it unless I’d seen it with my own two eyes.”

  “Have you figured out what the purpose of this broadcast is?” asked one of the astounded crew members.

  “We have not had much time to study it, but we believe it’s some form of entertainment program. It might be something quite similar to what we had back on Mortair,” began Bolshak. “You can tell by the rapid camera movements and the limited amount of space being shown. It appears to be filmed on some sort of set.”

  “And what about when they pause in their speech? A strange vocalization is heard, but it does not appear to be coming from anyone on screen,” inquired the same crew member.

  “We have theorized that the vocalization is coming from a group of the primates who are observing the program but not participating in it. However, we still have no idea what the purpose of the vocalization is. Also, this main program does not continue uninterrupted. It has short gaps that are filled with several smaller programs. The imagery and characters of these mini-programs seem totally unrelated to the main program. There are thousands of these on every day. We will be able to learn more through further study,” Bolshak concluded. Like the other members of the crew he was still staring transfixed at the images from New Mortair.

  There was a momentary pause in the conversation as the Kessiams watched the program silently. After a while another crewman spoke up. “They have so much fur! And look at that individual,” he said while motioning at the screen. “It has large, semi-exposed lumps on the top of its abdomen. What could that mean?”

  �
�I believe that is a female. It has mammary glands to nurse its young, just like the primates back on Mortair,” responded Bolshak.

  “This is a fascinating biological study,” started Anarcmy. “But what about their level of advancement?”

  “A brief review of some of the imagery is not encouraging. They have jet aircraft for sure, which is no small feat given the high gravity on their planet. For a short time we thought they had interstellar spacecraft, but given the poor production quality of the images we have determined that they were produced by a computer program,” answered Bolshak.

  Murtane stormed into the monitoring center before Bolshak could continue with his lengthy briefing. “Anarcmy!” Murtane shouted. “The space around New Mortair is littered with artificial satellites!”

  “The primates are space-faring?” Anarcmy gasped.

  “They have the technology although we haven’t detected any large vessels. I have a serious concern though. If they advanced in a way similar to us, they may very well be able to detect our fleet. They might have already detected us for that matter!” Murtane concluded. He twitched noticeably at the unpleasant thought.

  “How close are we to New Mortair?” Anarcmy asked the helmsman.

  The helmsman and the rest of the center’s crew hurried to return to their stations.

  “We are now within the orbit of the planet’s only moon. Even at the current slow speed we’ll be at New Mortair very shortly,” the helmsman responded.

  “Anarcmy! Some of our ships are beginning to launch their pods!” another crewman yelled.

  “Excrement!” yelled Anarcmy angrily. Although it was in a different language, the vulgarity meant the exact same thing that it did in English. Unlike humans the Kessiams preferred to use advanced vocabulary for their curse words. “How many?”

  “250 ships so far and many others are starting to join them. Other ships are requesting instructions. How should I respond?”

  Anarcmy was not surprised, but he could not help but be angry. It was more surprising that any of the ships had even bothered to ask for instructions. It was unrealistic to expect Kessiam society to change overnight, especially when it came to an idea like a command structure. Individualism was too firmly rooted in Kessiam biology. He turned to Bolshak and tilted his head backwards, which was a mannerism that indicated inquisitiveness.

  “I need more time to study the primates,” Bolshak pleaded. “We know nothing about them. We don’t know what they’re capable of!”

  Anarcmy’s antennae went rigid as his mind raced. “We can’t afford to delay if they already know we’re here. Losing the element of surprise would be disastrous. Have you completed the population density report?”

  “Yes,” Bolshak reluctantly responded. “It’s crude but it should give you a rough idea.”

  “Very well. Order the rest of the fleet to disperse their pods in accordance with the most densely populated areas of New Mortair,” Anarcmy ordered.

  “What’s the total population of the primates?” the helmsman asked.

  “I have good news for that question,” Bolshak responded. “There’s only about seven billion of them.”

  “That’s it?” questioned the helmsman.

  “I’m telling you, Family Feud is racist!”

  Jennifer Vaughn smiled and closed her eyes. She pushed her chair back and propped her feet up on the desk. Sitting behind the desk was a metaphor for something most police officers greatly feared. However, Jennifer had gone out of her way to get this particular seat.

  “Okay I’ll bite. How is Family Feud racist?” Jennifer asked.

  John McLeary was also comfortable sitting behind a desk at 1 Police Plaza in New York. Unlike Jennifer who was barely thirty, John had spent more than his fair share of time out on the streets. Since he was now fifty-eight years old, he had no qualms about waiting for his pension to come while pushing papers. “Every time I watch it. Every single time, it’s a black family versus a white family. It’s like they’re trying to start a race war.”

  “Uh huh,” Jennifer skeptically responded.

  “Hey, you’re black. You of all people should be concerned about this. People tune in to this game show and they have to cheer for someone. Who do you think they’re going to cheer for? The family that looks most like them, that’s who.”

  “Well I think it’s a progressive show,” Jennifer responded just for the sake of argument. “They could just as easily only have one white family versus another white family.”

  “Well by that logic why don’t they have a black family versus another black family?”

  “Ah, touché,” Jennifer replied in resignation.

  “Damn right. Of course Family Feud isn’t nearly as bad as Wheel of Fortune. Wheel…” John cut himself off as he noticed the display on Jennifer’s computer screen. “Looks like you’ve got a hit.”

  Jennifer turned away from her friend and sat up straight in her chair. She reviewed the information for a moment before nodding in agreement. “Michael Hasiren. Busted three times in as many years for grand theft auto. Yeah, he looks good for it.”

  “I’ll call detective Bronson. I’ve got nothing else to do. Why don’t you go take your lunch?” John offered.

  Jennifer agreed as it was already an hour later than she normally ate. She had planned on finishing up the fingerprint match before eating, but had not anticipated it taking so long. She stretched as she got out of her chair and then proceeded to walk towards the elevator.

  When the elevator’s doors opened she had to move back to avoid the people exiting. Jennifer felt her holster brush against the wall. She moved her hand down to adjust it as she entered the elevator. Touching the gun sparked the unpleasant memories from a year earlier. It had not been the same gun then, but that did not seem to matter to her subconscious. She had murdered a child. There was no getting over that fact no matter how many times she was honored for her actions.

  Abhaya Singh was completely unaware of the military exercises underway roughly 200 miles to the east of her present location. She was unaware of most things outside of her home in Chennai, India. Her house was spacious and beautifully decorated. It was even prettier than the home she had built with her husband in Mumbai. The new house had been given far more attention than her old house. She could afford to spend more time on it as she had not left her home in over four years.

  Abhaya stared out the window overlooking her backyard. On nice days she would stare at the backyard for hours. She focused her attention on a particular bird. The bird was nothing special. It was no different than a hundred others that roamed the area around her house. She enjoyed following it though, and she felt a connection with the animal after watching it for a while. She found the simple bird to be more entertaining than her other distractions. She could only watch so much television or listen to so much radio. After a few minutes the bird suddenly flew out of her yard. Abhaya felt saddened by its departure.

  Suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of depression, Abhaya flopped down on her couch and turned on the television. It was hard to find enough things to do to fill up an entire day inside the house. She had long ago abandoned any attempts to leave. Even a short trip to her yard was out of the question. Her mother said the condition was called agoraphobia. She had tried to convince Abhaya to seek psychological treatment for the disorder. Abhaya had repeatedly refused. She knew that psychological treatment was not going to help. It could not bring her husband back from the dead.

  The news report on the television caught Abhaya’s attention. “… last holdouts of Muslim extremists refuse to surrender their arms to the Palestinian military. Israel has warned that any further delays could jeopardize…”

  Abhaya’s face turned into a scowl as her mood quickly shifted from depression to blinding hatred. It had been a long time since her husband’s murder in Mumbai. The passage of time had not alleviated her anger. The killers were vicious, cold-hearted animals who deserved to be put down.

  “Fucking Muslims,�
� Abhaya muttered to herself. She closed her eyes and soon drifted off to sleep.

  “Fucking Jews,” Fadi Haddad muttered to himself. He was watching a similar news report at a safe house in Ramallah, Palestine.

  “The Zionist-loving pigs in the government are the real problem,” argued one of Fadi’s subordinates. “The fools think that the fight is over.”

  “The fight will never be over as long as Jews hold any territory that belongs to us,” Fadi responded.

  He had said the same thing hundreds of times, but it was not meaningless rhetoric. For Fadi it was absolute truth. It was what he had been taught as a child, it was what he had fought for as a teenager and it was what he was still willing to die for in his thirties. Because of the events of the last year, he was literally becoming the last of a dying breed.

  It had taken only a few months for the major terrorist groups to disband after the formation of a Palestinian state. Most had done so voluntarily. Those that did not were decimated by both the Israeli military and an effective new Palestinian central authority. The hardliner Palestinians had been betrayed by their moderate comrades. With the realization of an independent Palestine the prevailing ideology shifted rapidly. Peace with Israel was now essential for Palestinian prosperity. Those who disagreed, like Fadi, had become society’s outcasts almost overnight.

  “The Jews threaten reprisals that will kill innocent Palestinians, and the collaborators work to appease them,” Fadi’s subordinate agreed. “We should strike them immediately for this insult.”

  Fadi rolled his eyes. While his subordinate was loyal to the cause he often lacked the ability to see the situation logically. Fadi would have loved to launch a symbolic strike against the Israelis. However, such an action was nearly impossible given the current situation. Funding had dried up, new recruits were scarce and most of the veterans of the struggle were dead or in prison. It was hard enough just avoiding capture. Launching an attack was out of the question.