The flames grew higher, devouring the loose pages and curling the glossy dust jacket of Infernities. An interesting play on words, he thought. Infinity, Alternative, and Eternity all rolled together. Now he could add “Inferno” to make it a quadruple entendre. He wondered how it related to the story.
Didn’t he owe it to himself at least to read his own work, to see what he could have done with his talent? Infernities was tangible proof that in some other reality his author-self had overcome the pressure and the expectations. But how? Didn’t that mean that he, too, could do it?
No. He’d made the right decision. He thought with some satisfaction of the author photo blackening and blistering, cremating his cocksure successful doppelgänger. The man had dared to risk his reputation, his spotless literary legacy, to write this second novel and offer it to an unpredictable reading public. He had dared. Had risked …
With a groan of annoyance and frustration Mitchell snatched the hardcover from the fire, dropped it to the floor, and stamped on it to put out the flames at the edges. He bent and picked up the singed novel that had disrupted his calm life.
As he picked up the blackened book, Mitchell’s lips flickered in a smile. Though he still had no intention of publishing the novel, he would hold onto the book as a goad. Just to keep him honest. To remind himself of what could be.
He had his own ideas for new stories and novels, of course. Every writer did. The ideas had never stopped coming, and he had jotted down notes during lunch hours at his tech-writing job. Some of the outlines were damn good, but he had been too afraid of failure to write the books, believing it better to let readers live with his mysterious seclusion than to risk them shaking their heads in disappointment.
Yet his alternate self had somehow shaken off the fear of failure. Therefore, it could be done. And that sincere, appreciative look he had seen in Jeremy Cardiff’s eyes told Mitchell he still had an audience, no matter how small.…
Some authors were motivated to write strictly for the critics, for the kudos and awards. Others wanted the money and name recognition of sales, with big print runs and splashy publicity. Some wrote only for themselves, giving the finger to anyone else’s expectations. But why had he become a writer?
Now there was a group to whom he owed something: his fans—the readers who understood what he was trying to do and who saw him as a human being with a talent that should not simply be thrown away. Those fans would enjoy whatever he wrote.
Certainly, a few of them went to the crazy fringe, seeing him as a guru with unparalleled insight into their particular problems. But most were just regular people. If he struck the right note, his pool of fans would be large; if he chose a path that was too esoteric, the numbers might dwindle. In either case, the readers still deserved his respect.
Mitchell looked at the charred copy of Infernities he held. He realized now that burning the novel was selfish. There were thousands (or maybe only dozens) of people like Jeremy Cardiff, who would have enjoyed this book if he allowed it to be published.
Setting the burned hardcover down, he opened the bottom file drawer of his desk where he kept the folder of notes and ideas that were just too good to throw away. If he was going to bury this cuckoo’s egg of a book, then he was obligated to give the readers something in exchange.
Mitchell skimmed his outlines. He had forgotten how clever or thought-provoking many of them were. Had he intended to be an Emily Dickinson, locking his notes away in a box for someone else to find after he died? Not long ago, he had been tempted to burn these, too.
Now he would write some of them.
As he flipped through his notes, the ideas reached a critical mass, and Mitchell saw how he could combine concepts and characters. What might have been simple short story ideas now became enough material for a multi-layered novel. It wouldn’t be just like Divergent Lines, but so what? It would still be good, still be worth writing.
He spread the papers out on his desk. He had an old, outdated laptop computer and plenty of time during his lunch hours. Some of the greatest works of literature had been completed a few pages at a time during lunch breaks.…
Mitchell glanced at the fireplace, where the fire had now died to a pile of orange embers. The photocopied novel was now nothing but ash.
On the mantel above, his Hugo and Nebula awards reflected the dull glow. He turned away from them and focused on his desk. Divergent Lines had been an unnecessary ball-and-chain to his creativity, along with all the other excuses he had made up over the past ten years. That was enough procrastination.
He looked at the charred but still readable hardcover of Infernities. First, before he started on any new book or short story, he had to write a letter.
“Dear Mr. Cardiff, let me make you a bargain.” He proposed that if he had not produced any new novels or short stories in the next five years, then Jeremy had his blessing to publish Infernities, if only to reward the fans who had waited so long. He packaged the letter with the scorched book and mailed it to his “number one fan.” Simply knowing the novel existed would be all the inspiration he really needed.
On the way back from the mailbox, he smiled to himself, convinced it would never be necessary for the other Mitchell Coren’s book to be published here. He would take that risk for himself.
Richard Matheson is a seminal, brilliant, and highly influential writer who deserves to be a household name along with Ray Bradbury or Isaac Asimov, although he isn’t as well known. You are familiar with his work, though, as the writer of the stories behind countless incredible films, such as I Am Legend, Somewhere in Time, Duel, The Incredible Shrinking Man, What Dreams May Come, A Stir of Echoes, Real Steel, The Legend of Hell House, and many others. When a specialty press asked if I would write a story for a Matheson tribute anthology of stories about the human effects of war, as a companion to Matheson’s novel Beardless Warriors, I couldn’t say no.
I had wanted to write this story for more than a year, but never had the impetus to do so. The idea kept nagging at me, and it seemed to fit perfectly with the anthology. After I turned in the story, I received this letter from Matheson’s son, Richard Christian Matheson—an extremely talented novelist and screenwriter in his own right—saying he loved the story, “Its dread about war's futility (even far tomorrows, sadly, immunizing none) resonates with quiet melancholy and it absolutely belongs in the anthology.” I knew I had hit the mark.
Combat Experience
THEY BROUGHT him back to consciousness, even though he had hoped, prayed, begged never to wake up again. He groaned, but he had no voice … not yet. The breathing tubes, pulse monitors, electrodes, and blood-pumping machines provided a flood of chemical and electrical stimulants that kept his biological house of cards functioning—all so that his brain remained capable of planning strategy.
Alliance Command would not let him die until the war was over, and the war would never be over.
“General Schaeffer,” said a voice that remained disembodied because he hadn’t yet been able to open his leaden eyes. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but the Human Alliance needs you again. The Agrec are on the move. Alien ships have been spotted on the outskirts of Sector 7.”
Schaeffer’s thoughts became sharper, and he felt more alert—primarily because they had added more drugs that worked like a cattle prod on his mind. He opened his eyes.
It was the same as always. Each time he woke up he found himself in a hospital bed that was a nest of life-support systems, IV feeds, and tubes pumping him full of nutrients and pharmaceuticals. Most of his senses had faded long ago, but the smell remained as strong as ever. The place reeked of antiseptics, age, and death—his own death, much delayed.
But Alliance Command used heroic measures to keep General Liam Schaeffer alive because they considered him a hero. Apparently, their only one.
“We need your tactical advice, sir.” Schaeffer’s vision focused on a young, distraught-looking lieutenant next to a more stoic colonel. At least the colonel had the goo
d sense to look ashamed to tap into Shaeffer’s expertise again. The lieutenant said, “No one knows the Agrec the way you do.”
Nurses increased the tempo of the beat on the medical monitors. Colors changed in the chemical fluids that traveled through tubes into his failing body. Schaeffer was no more than a skeleton with a parchment membrane of skin, a handful of still-functioning organs, as well as a large number of artificial ones.
“Let me be,” he croaked. “Already … done enough.”
The colonel spoke in a hard voice. “You have to do your duty for humanity, General. You have more combat experience than any other commander.” His name plate said ARLO; the nervous young lieutenant was DARVI.
A virtual screen appeared before Schaeffer’s face. The medical displays were replaced with tactical projections, star charts, and symbols indicating the enemy Agrec ships. Lieutenant Darvi said, “If we had any other choice, sir, we would take it, but we need your assistance. If you can’t provide us with tactical insight, then countless young soldiers will die—and when they fall, then so will millions of innocent colonists …”
Schaeffer let the breathing pumps charge up his lungs before he gasped, “That’s what you said the last five times.”
The dour colonel didn’t flinch. “And that’s what we’ll say the next five times until the Agrec invasion swarm is defeated.”
Schaeffer felt a sad hopelessness press down at him with a weight greater than the medical machinery. The war with the Agrec had already lasted nearly a century, and he had been there at the beginning.
Defeated, Schaeffer managed to say, “Let me see the projections and tell me what’s different this time.”
HE HAD BEEN ONLY EIGHTEEN, wet behind the ears, a mere colony outpost soldier when the Agrec first struck Farvin, the planet where he was stationed. Farvin was a hardscrabble place in its first decades of terraforming. Humans could breathe the air, and terrestrial crops could grow, if given considerable fertilizer and nurturing. The colonists lived in prefab huts, knowing it would be many hard decades before anyone could call the world comfortable. Only fifty outpost soldiers were assigned to watch over the five thousand settlers.
Up until then, the Human Alliance had needed nothing more than a token military presence against unlikely raiders. Farvin was a bleak colony planet with nothing anyone would want to take by force. Thus, they were entirely unprepared when the first alien expeditionary vessel arrived.
Young Liam Schaeffer had stared at the modular warship, a cluster of geometrical pods arranged around heavy engines. None of the Farvin colonists or soldiers had seen any vessel like it. Schaeffer and his comrades were intimidated and confused as the vessel landed on the outskirts of the settlement.
As they gathered around to stare at the sapphire-hulled ship, the vessel opened up and disgorged hundreds of bald, blue-skinned humanoids wearing slick uniforms. The Agrec moved as perfectly regimented soldiers, clustered into discrete groups that advanced with an impossible precision.
The Farvin colony leader came forward, hands upraised to welcome the strange visitors in a quavering voice. The Agrec gunned her down first, then opened fire with incandescent projectile weapons. The aliens didn’t speak, merely wore stony expressions on their mannequin-like faces. Streams of deadly fireworks killed the panicked colonists and leveled the prefab huts as if they were clearing a forest.
Screaming orders to one another, Schaeffer and his companions fired their sidearms, while others raced to the armory to commandeer the colony’s few larger weapons. Fifty soldiers would never be enough.
Young Schaeffer, untried Schaeffer, terrified Schaeffer was certain he would die that day as he watched the massacre. The fifty defenders tried to mount a futile defense, and the local commander howled, “Open fire! Open fire!”
The Agrec marched forward as if in a parade, grouped in units of exactly fifty-three alien soldiers. Even one of those combat swarms would have been a match for the Farvin defenders—and the aliens had a dozen of them. The colony soldiers learned quickly enough that their projectiles could not penetrate the slick armored jumpsuits.
The bald aliens had unprotected heads, however.
Scoring a head shot was much more difficult in the frenzy of combat, but Schaeffer took aim, steadied his trembling hands, and fired five times before he hit one of the aliens. The bullet burst the Agrec’s skull, and the alien toppled to the ground. The other fifty-two members of the combat swarm paid no attention to the loss, but kept marching forward in lockstep, opening fire, killing colonists, killing soldiers, destroying structures. The invaders acted as if they were no more than a janitorial crew cleaning up an inconvenient settlement.
“Hit their heads!” Schaeffer shouted. More than twenty of the outpost soldiers had already been killed, and hundreds of colonists were dead. The Agrec kept flowing out from their ship. His battlefield focus narrowed around him, and his aim grew more precise as he kept shooting. But it was futile.
Tears streamed down his face, and he screamed in defiance with each shot. One more alien down, then another.
In the middle of each combat swarm, though, he noticed that one of the nearly identical alien soldiers looked slightly different. The Agrec’s uniform was the same, the expression and physical build the same, but a rectangular patch on its face was a darker blue. Schaeffer took aim and killed the marked alien. The bullet splashed through its head, and the Agrec fighter collapsed.
To his astonishment, every one of the remaining members in its combat swarm also collapsed like puppets with severed strings. With one shot he had incapacitated the entire group!
At first, he couldn’t find words, then he raised his voice to his surviving comrades. “Find the one with the mark on its face—in the center of the group. That’s your target.”
With concentrated fire, the remaining soldiers made their last stand. The Agrec pressed forward, slaughtering human soldiers and colonists, but Schaeffer remained focused and cool, firing and firing. He took out another one of their “commanders,” which neutralized another group of fifty-three aliens.
The invaders moved like automatons, showing no reaction to their losses, even when two combat swarms had been felled. Schaeffer’s comrades chose their targets and began taking out other swarm commanders—but the aliens kept fighting, wiping out much of Farvin.
When all but three of their combat swarms had fallen, the Agrec finally acknowledged their peril and retreated to their main ship, leaving their dead behind. After they boarded, the modular ship sealed itself and roared upward into the smoke-smeared skies of Farvin.
More than five hundred dead alien bodies lay on the battlefield. The colony was destroyed. Fewer than a hundred settlers survived, and all of the fifty outpost soldiers were killed—except for Schaeffer.
Amidst the shocked moans and the crackle of burning buildings, Schaeffer collapsed onto the raw ground. He sat stunned, shell-shocked, but convinced he had to return to Earth and report what he had learned.
The invaders would surely attack again.
ALLIANCE COMMAND SCIENTISTS discovered that the Agrec were a distributed hive mind, like a mosaic of components. Each combat swarm consisted of a group of exactly fifty-three units guided by one commander sub-brain. They theorized there were higher and higher orders of over-commanders back at their home world.
Human researchers dissected, probed, and studied the bodies left behind on Farvin, but the key realizations and the vital tactical knowledge came from young Schaeffer’s reports. He was treated as a reluctant hero, given a battlefield promotion, and debriefed incessantly about the actions of the Agrecs.
He had time to repeat his story fourteen times before the aliens struck another human outpost. Unfortunately, his discovery about targeting the combat swarm subcommander was not distributed in time, and the world of Benesar IV was lost with no survivors.
All across the Human Alliance, Alliance Command geared up for a full-scale interstellar war, and Schaeffer was given a small command of his own.
His superiors dispatched him with a group of eager soldiers who were pleased to be fighting alongside the hero of Farvin. Not long afterward, when Agrec forces struck a third human colony, Schaeffer was there, yelling at his men to target the lone alien with the discolored face.
Mowing down combat swarms, one after another, they turned the tide of the battle, and as Schaeffer’s fighters charged forward, they were exuberant, victorious—until the Agrecs brought out a new sort of annihilation-wave weapon that sent shock ripples across the human soldiers. Brave troop leader Schaeffer and his men were scattered like leaves in the wind. Ninety percent of the soldiers under his command were killed outright, five percent were blinded, and the rest suffered major injuries.…
Later, as Schaeffer recovered in a Human Alliance military hospital, the doctors told him he was among the lucky ones. Crowded around his hospital bedside, intense advisers debriefed him, wanting to know what he had seen of the new annihilation-wave weapon. They counted on him, extracting intelligence that they could share with their defense scientists.
Schaeffer painted a vivid picture of the new Agrec weapon, and his descriptions yielded details that none of the other survivors had been able to provide. The Alliance Command weapons developers insisted that Schaeffer’s singular insights were key to developing fresh shields.
During the eight months that Schaeffer recovered in the planetary infirmary, military think tanks worked frantically. By the time the med specialists declared him fit for duty and dispatched him to the front again, all Human Alliance soldiers carried special shielding to face the Agrec annihilation-wave weapon. Upper command promoted Schaeffer again, giving him responsibility for an even larger group of faithful and wide-eyed young soldiers who believed he was good luck incarnate: a miracle survivor of two devastating Agrec attacks.
Selected Stories: Volume 1 Page 3