by Adam Bennett
After a time I returned to the door and triggered the lights, which must have run on an external power source. I raised my rifle and, giving my best impression of an AD drill instructor, I screamed, “On your fucking feet, maggot! You aren’t here to sleep, you little shit. This is the fucking Armoured Division. You’ll stand at attention when I enter or you won't stand for a fucking week!”
De Longue jumped two metres into the air, fell from his bed tangled in his lavish silk sheets, and even though I knew he had spent not a single day in the service, something deep in his lizard brain kicked in and he attempted to scrabble to his feet amidst his linens, trying desperately to stand at attention.
For a moment at least.
Then his prefrontal cortex took command and he tried to push his sleep clouded mind into focus. “...Wha—”
“Speak when you’re spoken to, maggot!”
“What is the meaning of this?”
I pointed my rifle at his chest. “You killed her, you bastard. I don’t know why, and frankly, I don’t care. But you did it, and I’m here to make you pay. Get on your knees!” I took a menacing step forward and he shrank back tripping on the sheets once more and falling back on his ass with a grunt.
“I said knees!” I clicked the safety from triples to singles—a singularly terrifying sound if you don't know anything about guns—and he got his knees under him, head bowed slightly, which, I have to admit, I quite liked.
Over the bed, a ceremonial Keltani blade hung in a denhewood mount and I circled de Longue to retrieve it, an impetuous plan forming in my mind. I pulled my AD pistol, letting my black market Talisker rifle drop to its sling and I reached up and drew the blade from its scabbard.
“Wha—”
I fired a shot into the bed I was standing on, right near his head, sending a puff of burned white feathers cartwheeling into the air between us. He shut up. I walked over and stood before him once more, much closer this time.
He was shaking.
I holstered my pistol, took a two handed grip, and laid the edge of the razor sharp sword against his shoulder. He squeaked at the unexpected pain as the razor sharp blade cut lightly into his flesh. Keltan was settled by the old-Earth Japanese in 2160 standard. I’m sure you know their blades. The design isn't much different from the classic old-Earth katana. The metals used in traditional katanas couldn't hold a candle to the alloys mined on Keltan, however. The slightly curved blade sliced straight through de Longue’s silk pajamas and blood began to well there.
The sight of it froze me.
I’d killed before. I had easily taken hundreds of lives. But I had never used a blade. And I had never done it under my own volition. I’d never murdered a man. Something about that small pool of blood brought it all crashing down and in an instant my fury was gone. I knew that Sauen wouldn't approve of this. She had been made of love and light, and seeing me take vengeance would have sickened her. Revenge wasn't part of who she had been, and that was somehow more important than this asshole, even if he had ruined our lives and eventually taken hers.
I stared at the growing stain and I knew I couldn't do it. To kill this man would be to taint the memory of Sauen Driscoll in some unforgivable way.
After what seemed a lifetime, I lifted the blade free, turned and left without a word. I never saw de Longue again.
***
Axel stared, disbelief clear on his face. “But... you killed him!”
“Never happened,” said Jackson.
“But he died! He’s dead! He was murdered, killed with his own sword. It must have been you.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. I said that you wouldn't like my tale. I told you you’d be disappointed. ‘Jackson’s Revenge,’” he snorted, “that title never made any sense. I went there for revenge, I went there to kill him, but in that moment I realised that there are no winners in such a contest. Revenge leaves both parties less for their actions.”
“What a pile of dragu dung. You’re lying! I won't pay you if you’re lying about what happened. I came here to find out the truth.”
“And so you have. An unpleasant truth, to be sure, but still the truth all the same.”
“How did de Longue die then? Because that fact isn't in dispute. You broke into his house, took down his security, were seen leaving on externally powered cameras, and when the authorities arrived, the man was dead. You killed him!”
“I don't know how he died, but it wasn't by my hand. The man must have had enemies. One of them took advantage of the chaos and killed him after I left. Or a disgruntled guard did the job after he woke up from the concussion grenades. I’m sure that working for the man was as distasteful as watching him sleep. Maybe the man faked his own death, deciding that the opportunity was too good to pass up. I don’t know.
“In any case, I walked away. The end of my story is that he was alive when I left. I don't know anything more than that. I had an epiphany that night. There is an old saying and I never truly understood it until I stood there blade in hand; if you seek revenge, first dig two graves.”
Axel stood, knocking his chair over. “What a joke! I can’t take this back to the newspaper!”
“Newspaper?”
“I’m a journalman. I told my editor I could find out the true story of Jackson’s Revenge from the one person alive to tell it. I told him it would only cost 20 platinum rounds. That's cheap for a story of this magnitude. All I needed to do was flash my money around like I was some pompous rich bastard and promise more to come. I bribed an AD clerk for your heavily redacted file and traced you across a dozen worlds. And all for this shit!” He picked up an empty tankard from the table and threw it across the room in a rage, shattering it against the bar. “I can’t sell this shit! What a goddamned joke! He’s going to make me pay him back, you know?”
“So you lied to me? Does this mean I don't get my ten thousand platinums?” Jackson asked with feigned innocence.
This sent Axel into an apoplectic rage. Choking on his words he shot Jackson a final dirty look and stormed out, turning over one of the tables in his way, fumbled with the locked door, and slammed it behind him as he exited the bar onto the bright, dusty street.
Jackson sat back and took the final draught of his beer and shook his head ruefully. It’d been many years since he had a drink and now he'd sunk back into the bottle as easily as the first time he killed a man.
After a short wait, the bartender reappeared at the bottom of the stairs and started righting the chairs the young journalman had scattered during his hasty exit. He closed and locked the door and turned to face Jackson as he stared into the dregs of his beer.
“Why'd you lie to the kid? When we came here you said it was to make a new start. I've got this shitty job, but all you do all day is stare at the moisture on my taps and fight the urge to drink. I see you lost that battle,” he said, gesturing at the empty glasses.
“Sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose, Serrath. I may have fallen off the wagon, but I count today as a victory.”
Serrath shook his head and sat across from Jackson, taking the young journalman's vacated seat. “It's been forty years since we assaulted that fortress. It's been a long damn time since I helped you kill those guards and break into that asshole's mansion, and you’ve never told me what happened inside.”
“And I probably never will. I appreciate the help you gave me. And I think I've shown my appreciation over the years. But the truth of that night still haunts me.” Jackson grimaced. “No matter what I said to that stupid kid, I know exactly how many men’s lives I've taken and the number haunts me every night.” He held the empty tankard aloft. “This makes it worse but even in sobriety there is no ending the procession of the dead that visits me every time I lay my head down to rest.”
It had been many years since they’d assaulted de Longue's manor and yet he could still see the faces of all the men he and Serrath had killed as they fought their way inside. Sixteen slumped figures, prostrate in the mud, nine liv
es added to the tally that haunted his dreams. He'd promised himself his killing days were done, but his training dictated that he never leave a potential threat to come back to bite him. Nine more to keep him awake at night, and finally, a tenth.
“You saved my life in that trench on Gint. When you walked into that bar on Farre Reach with that look in your eye, I knew I had a chance to pay you back. Then we spent forty years skipping from rimworld to rimworld. I figured you’d open up when you were ready, after all, I have nothing but time. But, if you can't trust me with the truth after all of that, then I suppose I know where I stand and there's no point me hanging around. Thanks for the laughs.” Serrath stood and made his way to the door, careful to avoid the broken glass scattered in front of the long bar.
As his hand lighted on the latchkey, Jackson spoke, “There's no need for melodrama. Pour me another drink and I'll tell you. I suppose you've earned the right to know.”
***
Standing in the lavish bedroom, Keltani blade pressed to that asshole's neck and I'm suddenly frozen by the sight of de Longue's blood staining his silken pajamas. I let the blade drop slowly to my side, and without another word, I make my way to the door. Sauen wouldn't have condoned this.
“She told me about you, you know.”
I froze, hand on the doorknob at the cold tone of de Longue's words.
“She described her teen sweetheart in great detail. She never got over you. How could she? You're all she made you out to be, and more. Strong, brave, handsome, and chivalrous too. She never let me forget that I was chosen second. And now you come into my house, you drag me from my bed, set up to execute me, and decide to spare my life? She had you down to a tee. It's a shame she was blinded to the real truth of you.”
I turned slowly to face him, but said nothing.
“You're alive. Alive and kicking. So why didn't you return like you promised? You weren't reconscripted. We stopped adding second terms well before your ten years was done. Could it be that you never really loved her?”
I tightened my grip on the Keltani sword and took a step towards the prostrate politician.
“No, no, of course, you were held up, delayed in some unforeseen and yet very justifiable mix up. You would have returned but you were busy. It's understandable.”
De Longue smiled viciously. “You're the reason she's dead, you know?” I stiffened. “Oh, I don't mean 'If you'd only come back, she'd never have married the mean old man.’ No, I mean you're literally the reason. I came home after a week on the road campaigning and she had the temerity to tell me that you would never have left her all alone waiting. I don't think she saw the irony in that. I mean, you did leave her all alone. For fourteen fucking years!”
De Longue stood and took a step towards me, jackal's grin growing with every moment. “So I killed her. I'd had enough of her contradiction and spite. I walked in here, took up that very sword, and walked back into the dining room and stabbed her through the heart.”
I looked down at the weapon clutched in my hand with revulsion. The blade was slightly stained with de Longue's blood. I tossed the sword aside and drew my pistol. I aimed it at de Longue's sick smile, my finger heavy on the trigger.
But still, I couldn't do it. It wasn't her way. I lowered the weapon and turned to leave.
De Longue laughed as I opened the bedroom door. “Still you cling to your honour? You really are the man she spoke of. I'm glad I took her from you before you could return and steal her away. I'm just sorry that I didn't kill him myself. Instead, he died in a forced labour camp. Honestly, I didn't realise you were alive, so he didn't matter to me one way or the other. I sold him for a half moon platinum, and washed my hands of the whole business. It turns out forced labour isn't good for thirteen year olds... He was dead inside the month.”
A red rage filled my vision. In ten years of soldiering I'd never felt anything like it. My hand dropped away from the door handle and I turned to face him, still not speaking. I reholstered the pistol and in two long strides, took the tall, thin man by the throat. That terrible grin was quickly replaced with gasps for air as my hands—built strong during ten years of military service, and further reinforced with four years of cutting and hauling Denhe trees—choked off de Longue’s airways. His feet scrabbled against the rich wooden flooring, scuffing and scarring the polish.
I dragged him across the room to where the Keltani sword lay and shoved him to his knees. Picking up the priceless weapon, I raised it high above my head and, without a moment's hesitation, brought it swiftly back down into the back of de Longue's neck. There was barely any resistance as the ultra sharp blade took the man's head from his shoulders and sent it rolling around the lavishly appointed room, spraying blood, eyes still blinking in shock.
I kicked the headless corpse to the side, the geyser of hot blood covering every surface for metres. Then in a fit of pique, I propped the sword against the wall and drove my foot through the flat of the blade, shattering it into three jagged pieces, destroying the weapon that had taken Sauen’s life.
***
“Somehow, almost none of the copious blood landed on me. I walked from the room, rejoined you outside, and we set forth for Denhe within the hour.”
Jackson smiled. “But Denhe was a hollow reminder of all I’d lost. You know the rest. For forty years we've hopped from backwater to dustbowl always a moment away from our next departure.”
For forty years that night had haunted Jackson, the stories of his revenge following him across star systems and decades. He'd lost a good woman, an unknown son, and had failed to live up to Sauen's expectations of him. He'd been found by people chasing the story over the years, and Axel the journalman wouldn't be the last.
“So why all the secrecy? And how did you get away with it? I know we were careful, but you must have left evidence of your crime,” Scarrath said.
“Did you know that the Hundred Worlds Draft spelled death for a billion men? Just on the Union side? Another hundred million or more volunteered like we did.”
Scarrath nodded slowly. “I'd heard something like that, yes.”
“Eleven hundred million men.” Jackson shook his head slowly. “Do you know how many completed a full term of ten years in combat?”
Scarrath said nothing.
“The sad answer is that it's fewer than a hundred. A fair bit fewer. Now there are soldiers such as yourself who only came of age in the later years, and survived a few years before their terms were cancelled—and that's certainly no mean feat—but of the billion or so men whose contracts began ten years or more before the end of the war, only seventy two walked away whole.” Jackson drained the last of his drink. “Seventy two from more than a billion. The AD has a very soft spot for us in their cold black heart . Why do you think the service jacket that little pissant was carrying was so heavily redacted? They absolutely know it was me, and they chose to sweep it under the rug.”
Scarrath sat quiet at this revelation. After a time he said, “And why the secrecy on your part?”
Jackson didn't answer for a long time. He stared across the empty bar, taking in the denhewood counted and the scattering of broken glass. Eventually he sighed and said, “I should have walked away. I should have let the natural justice of the universe deal with that murderous fuck, rather than staining my hands with hate. Instead I took another life out of some sick sense of justice or revenge, not to mention asking you to stain your own hands for my misguided cause.”
“You did the right thing. Don't convince yourself you didn't. He was a parasite and you removed him before he could hurt anyone else.”
Jackson shook his head with a wan smile. “I've had forty years of reflection, and I'm convinced you're wrong. I should have walked away. And I'll spend the rest of my life telling anyone who asks that that was exactly what I did. If I manage to stop someone from repeating my mistake, maybe that will be enough to forgive what I've done. Maybe…”
Jackson’s Revenge was first published in WORLD WAR FOUR: A
Scifi Anthology along with 20 other fantastic stories. You can find it on Amazon in ebook or paperback.
The Séance of Madame Moreau
Jonathan Inbody
It was a cold night in late October. I had been invited to a meeting of spiritualists by my friend Elise DeMaurier, and I was running late. I had a reputation as a professional sceptic; I once proved that a series of hauntings were in fact the malicious acts of a vindictive landlord, and once the papers caught onto the story, debunkery was all anyone ever called me for. I was a private eye, maybe even a halfway decent one, but I stayed away from the rough stuff. I had been denied military service in The Great War as a 4F. I guess asthmatics weren’t their preferred recruits.
I held my coat’s collar tight to my neck and turned my face away from the cold wind as I walked down the street. The early winter had driven most people from the streets, and I heard my boots crunch on hastily-laid salt with every step. I was bound for the Museum of Natural History, where a séance was being held by a woman I was sure was a fraud. They called her Madame Moreau, surely a nod to the trashy book by Wells, and from my understanding she lived up to the title. She was a smarter scam artist than most of the spiritualists. While they embraced superstition and religiosity, she promoted herself as the practitioner of a new kind of science. She treated ‘spiritualism’ as a slur, and called her sessions ‘séances’ only as a matter of familiarity.
While she used the trappings of her spiritualist roots, the contents of her sessions were entirely different. She didn’t deny Darwin’s theory on the origin of species, as many of her contemporaries did, and instead embraced the new scientific frontier with hokery to match. Instead of a ouija board, she used a rather more complicated board she called an Hereditary Communicator, and instead of tarot or automatic writing she used what she called a Genetic Divining Rod. In place of the traditional zodiac symbology, her Primordial Zodiac utilised prehistoric animals as its identity totems.