I looked at it for a while, watched the gel ink dry. I signed it, “Me.”
I snuck out the back door while the rest of the house still slept, tiptoeing through the yard. I ran when I got to the trees.
I wait. I lie on clean sheets and a plastic mask covers my mouth and nose. The lights dim to a soft red glow, and Doctor Camille rests one cool gloved hand on my forehead. She starts to count down from ten.
I close my eyes. I don’t know who I’ll be when I open them.
I’m scared.
The American
* * *
by Bruce Worden
As a young girl, I was terrified of thunderstorms. I experienced them as living, malevolent creatures—wild, unstoppable things that shook the house, wrought havoc on my family’s farm, flooded the town, and generally behaved in the manner of demons. Even as recently as a few months ago, a thunderstorm still had the power to raise within me feelings of visceral dread. But now, in my twenty-first year, as I watch the storm clouds rolling in from the north, I do not feel the slightest pang of trepidation.
“Petra!” I hear my mother calling from the house. “Petra, are you upstairs?”
“I’m here,” I reply. “In the garden.” I expect she will come out to me, and we will have the talk I have been anticipating.
A mathematics instructor once told me that to make a hard thing seem easy, you must move on to the next harder thing. I think the same applies to fear: facing your old demons becomes easier when you are exposed to something much more terrifying. The storm clouds are huge, black, and roiling, but they seem almost comforting now as I plunge unstoppably into a much deeper darkness. The storm only threatens to kill me; my fear now is what will happen if I continue to live.
It started simply enough.
“I saw an American today.”
It was Danijel who said it. We had gathered for the evening meal, and during a break in father’s complaints about the local government, potato prices, the national government, fuel prices, the European government, and the host of other issues that conspired to make the Polish farmer’s life miserable, Danijel just blurted it out.
Danijel was still at the age where fantasy and reality can blend together, so no one took the statement seriously. Mother—seemingly more out of habit than actual curiosity—said, “Did you? That must have been very exciting.” She ladled stew into grandfather’s bowl and handed him the bread.
Danijel nodded. “It was scary. At first I thought it was a big deer, a stag, that wandered away from the park, but then I saw the markings, like in Michal’s book.”
Our brother perked up at the mention of his book, “What markings?”
“Painted on his shoulder. An arrowhead patch with a sword and lightning.”
Michal left the table and ran upstairs. A few moments later he returned, paging through one of his many books on military history. He showed a page to Danijel, “Like this?”
“That’s it! That’s what I saw.”
Michal held up the book for the rest of us to see. It showed a picture of an insignia: a blue arrowhead-shaped patch with a vertical yellow sword and three yellow lightning bolts across it. Michal seemed a little stunned. “Army special forces,” he said. “American.”
“Nonsense,” my father said. “There hasn’t been an American in these parts for thirty years.”
“I saw him!” Danijel said. “He was more than two meters tall, and as wide as a bull. His battle armor was black and shiny, like polished rock.”
Michal looked at us, clearly taking the story seriously. “I had heard they switched their exoskeletons from gray to reflective black a couple of years ago. It’s supposed to deflect energy weapons better.”
That made no sense to me. “Energy weapons?” I said. “Who in the world has energy weapons except the Americans? And who would be stupid enough to shoot at an American soldier in the first place?”
“It never has to happen, Petra. They will upgrade even if they just think it possibly could happen someday.”
He was probably right. The Americans had undoubtedly fought simulated wars with the rest of us that we could not even comprehend, let alone actually wage. But that had not stopped them from spending untold trillions on weapons to counter the threat we theoretically could pose were we somehow to find ourselves in a position to pose it, and suicidal enough to think it was a good idea.
“I bet he left footprints,” Danijel said. “We should go see them tomorrow.”
My mother reacted. “Do not even think it! You are not to go near that place again without permission.”
“Where was he?” Michal asked before Danijel could lodge a protest with my mother.
“I was walking across the fields to Edward’s farm. I saw him over by the river.”
“And you were close enough to see the patch?”
“Yes, maybe fifty meters.”
“That’s close,” said Michal, shaking his head.
“It was hazy, so I could only see him sometimes.”
“That close, it is a wonder you saw anything at all. You must have been at the edge of his ECF.” He looked at the rest of us. “Electromagnetic camouflage field,” he explained. “Some people say they can bend light, but it is more likely that they just bend your mind.”
“I don’t think he saw me.”
“Oh, he saw you,” said Michal, confident. “He saw you from before you ever came into range of his suit’s sensors. Their airborne and space platforms have watched your entire life. Their systems tied you into their global tracking grid and he knew who you were, your great-grandmother’s maiden name, and what you had for lunch before you came within two kilometers of him.”
“That’s enough,” my father said. “It makes no sense for him to be here, but it makes no difference, either. If a soldier passes through, he passes through.”
“Was that it?” Michal asked Danijel. “Was he just passing through?”
“I don’t think so. He seemed like he was looking for something. He walked along the far side of the river, then he left the river and went across to the forest, by the preserve.”
“Wait,” said Michal. “There are hills along there, and a line of trees. How did you see. . . ?” Michal’s eyes went dark with the realization. “Are you crazy? You followed him.”
My mother slammed down her hand. “Danijel! You followed him? Do you know what happens. . . ?” She took a breath to calm herself. “You have been told since you could first walk that if you see such a thing—”
“I did! I did! I stayed right where I was for an hour after he was gone. Then I continued with what I was doing. Just like you are supposed to.”
“I thought you were going to Edward’s,” said Michal.
Danijel hesitated, caught in the lie, then recovered. “I was, but sometimes when I go that way I go out to Grudki Hill to play in the ruins. I saw him at the forest, from the hill. But I go there sometimes. They know that, right Michal?”
“They do,” said Michal. “But they also knew you could see him from both places. If they thought you were following him . . . Pfft! You’d be gone. We would be looking for you and all we would ever find is a scorched spot on the ground.”
Danijel was crying now. “But they know I play there. And they know we’re not bad people. We’re not a threat to them.”
“They keep it that way by not taking chances.”
“So he is here,” said father. “That is none of our business. You boys mind your chores and stay away. When he sees there is nothing here to interest him, he will move on.”
But he did not move on. And in the days following Danijel’s experience, others reported sighting the soldier in the area north of town. There were no incidents, no confrontations, no mysterious disappearances. Still, the town was abuzz with rumor and speculation. And a great deal of worry.
It was early summer then, and I had been home from the university for about two weeks. I had not made plans, or given a great deal of thought to how I would spend m
y summer break. There were chores, of course. I generally helped my mother with the house and the garden, but that still left me quite a bit of free time.
A week or so after Danijel’s sighting of the American, I was in my bedroom reading a book. Danijel came home shouting—first for Michal, then for mother, then for anyone. But Michal had gone to town with mother, and my grandfather and father had gone to Zastawa to inspect a trenching machine a man there was selling.
“I’m up here,” I shouted to Danijel, “in my room.” I immediately heard the sound of his little feet running up the stairs.
Danijel came in breathlessly. “Petra, come quick. There is a bird.” And then he was on his way back down the stairs.
I had no idea why that was so important, but his manner demanded some response. I followed him out of the house, past the cluster of outbuildings, through the gate to our small orchard, across the orchard and along the edge of the pasture, then off the path into the line of brush and trees that separates the back fields—all the while Danijel admonishing me to hurry. Finally, despite the obviousness and commotion of our approach, Danijel crouched behind a low bush and pointed. “Look there,” he said in a pointless and excessively loud whisper.
The bird-that-was-not-a-bird sat quietly on the branch of a large oak tree. The tree itself was quite beautiful, spreading its ample branches to shade the small grassy hillock from which it grew. I had, on occasion, spent an afternoon sitting under that tree, reading a book.
Danijel tugged at my dress. “Do you see it?” he asked. “Michal says they are always in pairs. But I can’t find the other one.”
I did not doubt the truth of Michal’s information, but the Americans must have had millions of their little flying sensors deployed around the world, and it had to happen that such things would find themselves alone once in a while.
Danijel continued breathlessly. “This means they are watching us, doesn’t it? Do you think he will come here? The soldier. Is he angry with me? Will he kill me?”
“He won’t come here,” I reassured him. “This is just an ordinary bird. It’s probably just malfunctioning.”
“But why would he come here, to our farm?”
“If his navigation system is broken, he might have flown off course, losing his mate. He landed here until they can collect him for repair, that’s all.”
But no one came to collect him, and the bird did not leave his perch. He sat there, unmoving, day after day, seemingly content to watch an empty field.
When the men from the government came, they arrived in a small motorcade. The three shiny black sedans from the pre-Transition era rolled into town and, when inquiries had been made, found their way to our farm. Of the dozen men who arrived, six stayed with the cars and six went as far as the front gate; only four came to the door, and only three came inside. Their names, their positions, and their ministries were never revealed to me—I was not invited to participate in the conversations—but I took to calling them the Accountant, the Lawyer, and the Politician.
Mother invited the government men in, and served them coffee while Danijel ran out to retrieve father. The Lawyer and the Accountant quietly sipped their coffee while mother chatted with the Politician about the year’s expected harvest. When Danijel returned—alone—he reported that father was too busy to spend the day talking to anyone, and suggested that the men return when there was not “real work to be done.” This seemed to provoke a sense of outrage from the Lawyer and the Accountant, who blustered for a few moments while looking to the Politician for guidance. The Politician suggested that they return to town to freshen up and take their evening meal, and asked my mother when would be a good time to return. Mother assured him that my father would be here and happy to talk with them that night following our dinner. The Politician thanked her, and he and his companions filed out of our home, collecting their entourage as they went, and drove back to town.
When father returned late that afternoon, mother was making a cake to serve that evening, and she continued to do so even as father railed against the very idea of allowing the men into our home. According to him, mother’s cake would be better utilized feeding the pigs, and rather than talk to these men, his time would be better spent sharpening a stick with which he could poke out his own eye.
The government men returned after supper and were seated with father and grandfather while mother busied herself serving cake and coffee and cleaning up. I was asked to take my brothers upstairs. The fact that I was an adult, and that Michal was perfectly capable of keeping Danijel corralled, did not give me cause for offense. I know I have trouble keeping my opinions to myself, and mother certainly did not need me complicating the situation. Her maneuvering to keep my father’s temper in check strained subtlety as it was.
Despite my mother’s presence, however, the yelling began almost immediately. While I could hear only the murmur of the Politician’s voice, my father’s words reached us clearly. Apparently the government wanted our land. Not all of it, just some of our land. But it was the most important part of our farm and we could not survive without it. (Though from what I later learned, they wanted just a strip near the river that was part of a muddy pasture we rented to a neighbor.)
Father ranted for quite a while about how bureaucrats do not understand how a farm works and that you could not just take pieces away without disrupting the entire operation.
The negotiation took an ugly turn when my father accused the men of selling out our country to their “American masters.” Voices were raised on both sides then. Father continued his accusations, and the Accountant charged that their offer was more than generous. The Lawyer argued that they had the right to make these decisions and did not need his acquiescence. The Politician then spoke quietly, and the Lawyer and the Accountant backed off. My mother called my father into the kitchen to help her, and when he returned he was quieter for a time. But only for a time, and soon his voice was raised again, this time about how maybe if the people in the government would actually listen to someone who does real work once in a while then things might not be such a mess.
The meeting ended when my father offered to bring the children downstairs so that the government men could shoot the whole family without having to trouble themselves with climbing the stairs.
After the government men left, father went out to the machine shed to work on the tractor, and mother tidied up. Grandfather, who had been present for the entire meeting but had not said a word, went to bed.
It came to be known that the government men had visited several other farmers in the area, and were trying to secure an unremarkable tract of land running from the edge of the forest to the bank of the river about six kilometers away. The ostensible purpose for the acquisition was to develop a potential geothermal resource. Not a single person in town believed this, of course. It was obvious to everyone that the Americans wanted the land for some mysterious and probably nefarious purpose. It was also generally understood that if the Americans wanted the land, they would get it. Still, it was important to make things difficult for the government men as punishment for their collaboration, however mandatory that collaboration might have been.
Since my first year at the university I had worked on a research project that had been ongoing for some twenty years. My department maintained a network of stations around the country that acquired weather and atmospheric data. This data was used in studies by faculty and students, and had proven to be a steady source of publishable papers. During the summer months my job was to periodically visit a few of the stations in our part of the country, maintaining the equipment, downloading the data, and transmitting it back to the university. I enjoyed having a reason to take long walks and the occasional short trip, and the job paid a small stipend that kept me in reading material during the summer.
I set out one morning to visit the nearest of the stations, one just to the north of town at the boundary between the agricultural land and the national park. It was not a long walk; the dew was
still thick on the grass and the sun was low behind me as I approached the station. The task was simple: everything was physically intact, so I set about testing the battery and the solar panel.
As I busied myself, the light wind, which had accompanied me the entire morning, abruptly stopped. The air around me was suddenly warmer and damper, and had become unnaturally quiet. The air seemed to glow from within, as if the sunlight were reflecting off the water molecules in the air. Not only was the sound of the wind gone, but it had taken with it the sound of the insects, birds, and distant farm machinery. I felt as if I had fallen into a surreal, glowing void, where my own breathing was the loudest sound.
And then I sensed a presence behind me.
I stood slowly, and turned into the harsh glare of the low-hanging sun. Slowly, cautiously, I raised my hand to shield my eyes from the glare. The scene before me shifted and wavered like a mirage. The image was never complete but when my dazzled eyes and confused brain assembled it, I realized that I was in the presence a huge stag, standing attentively, watching me. A deer is not an uncommon sight in the fields that border the forest, but one this large was unheard of: his shoulder was easily as high as my own, and his rack was a dozen points at least. He was a beautiful creature, perfect in proportion and color. He stood, relaxed in his pose and breathing, and blinked his eyes once, casually.
“What are you doing?” the stag asked.
“I am checking this equipment,” I said, indicating the little sensor station.
“What does it do?” he asked, though he must have known. Or perhaps he knew only that is was no threat to him.
“It records weather and atmospheric data,” I replied. “I am a meteorologist. A student.”
“Why did you come? You knew I was nearby.” It seemed more a question of curiosity than of disapproval.
“I—It is only weather data,” I said. “I didn’t think you would mind.” This last statement was rather accurately phrased. When I had planned to go to that site I did not think he would mind because I did not think about him at all.
InterGalactic Medicine Show Awards Anthology, Vol. I Page 8