by Rob Buckman
"Sounds good. I can't think of anything at the moment other than technical material on modern equipment, like this holograph unit and the like, and a continuing food supply."
"I arrange to have that sent over as well,” He paused, “I would like you to turn Director Skinner over to my security people.”
“No problem there, when my people find out what he’s been doing with their bodies, the best place for him to be would be as far from here as possible.”
* * * * * *
“In a nutshell, that is what they want, or should I say demand, Randolph.” President Westwood sat back, feeling as if he’d just unloaded a great burden.
“Putting them on that Island is not a bad idea, there at least we could keep an eye on them. There is also the added benefit of isolating them from our people as we have done to others…” He didn’t need to elaborate.
“Yes, there is that to consider.” Westwood stroked his chin, looking thoughtful.
“We could also employ the same method as our predecessors, should these deviants prove a nuisance.” Randolph added as an afterthought. Westwood looked at him a moment, wondering if it was an afterthought, or whether he’d been thinking along those lines from the start. A mouse of disapproval crossed his face.
“I’ve read about the so called plague that broke out in Japan, England, Iceland, and a few other places, and I for one will not soil my immortal soul by employing them again.” He snapped.
“Calmly my friend, I only suggest this as a ‘final solution’ should these… people prove to be a danger.”
“And what gauge do you use to measure that?” He asked, one eyebrow lifted in question. “If, as they say, they can stop these aliens from taking our children, is that the way we should thank them?”
“I’m just saying, that you might not have an option, if at some time in the future they start to spread this… affliction, or disease they have.”
“My only concern right now is stopping these adductions any way possible. If that means giving these people what they want to accomplish that end…” He broke off, seeing Randolph nodding.
“I agree old friend. They should be used to that end, and who knows, the aliens might just do the job for us, or at least reduce their number to something we can manage in a more agreeable fashion.” That thought didn’t sit well with Westwood for some reason. He genuinely Like this General Scott. Sacrificing him and his men on the altar of expediency had its limits.
“And what about their children?”
“Yes, that does pose a bit of a thorny problem. We’ll just have to string them along… What?”
“There will be no stinging along as you put it. That was one item that was non-negotiable.” Randolph waved his hand in the air.
“Come, come Charles, you and I both know that everything is negotiable.” His smiles was anything but friendly.
“So you are in on it as well, Randolph?”
“Me! Good heavens no. I just knew about it from a third party is all.”
“Randolph. Those people now have weapons, and as crude as they may be, I doubt you want to see five hundred to a thousand of those people storming through the streets of this city looking for their children.” Randolph paled slightly.
“And what if they aren’t in this city?”
“Then I wonder how many people with arms, legs and possibly head missing will it take before someone gives up their location, and who is holding them.”
“But… but… all the papers were signed by a religious judge to certify that the sale were perfectly legal.” Westwood laughed hearing that.
“I don’t think a bit of paper with a judge’s squiggly signature is going to stop the axe from falling on some poor soul’s arm or leg, do you?”
“No, I don’t suppose it would. I’ll see what I can do about returning the children.” There was a look of horror in Randolph’s eyes as it finally dawned on him just how violent these strange people were. It also brought up the question of what sort of world they’d come from, and challenged his comfortable assumption about their history.
“You do that Randolph, and do it as quickly as you can.” As an incentive, he put the scene of Scott in Skinners office, smashing his fist into the ceramic tile wall.
* * * * * *
The President was as good as his word, as later that day a group of heavyset men arrived with the material Scott requested and picked up Skinner. By now, those awake had been outside to see this strange New World they lived in, coming back looking stunned. The building twice as high as those they remembered, the street wider, and filled with an assortment of traffic, all floating on some sort of antigravity field. The one comment they all made was that there were no women on the street, only men. The first time a female trooper went outside male passerby’s immediately grabbed her, much to their sorrow. The trooper promptly bounced the unfortunate individual off the nearest wall, pavement, or person. After that, the word got out and the men crossed to the other side of the street when they walked passed any of the entrances. As a precaution, Brock thought of posting a guard outside the door when they went out, then decided against it, none of the female members of his command would appreciate it, and it would reflect on their ability to handle themselves. He be damned if he'd turn the clock back five hundred years for these people, but Brock did circulate a quiet word for them to go out in no less than three's from now on. Everyone pitched in to unload the hover truck, carting the crates and boxes into the building, even the female troopers. Much to the annoyance of the truckers. They eyed the women in the black form fitting jump suits, muttering between themselves. A few looked the other way as they walked by as if embarrassed, then took a hasty look over their shoulders once they’d passed. One of the truckers, a big brute, made the mistake of trying to corner Janet Blake in a supply room, and grope her.
“Come ‘ere bitch! Let's find out how good a slut you are.” He laughed as she tried to dodge around him.
“You don’t want to do this, meathead!” She snapped, her fists curling in readiness should she need to get a little rough.
“Why not, you look like a good slit tailed whore to me, bitch!” That was the one thing he shouldn’t have said. Janet snarled and stopped trying to dodge, and in less than thirty seconds, it was all over, the man lay unconscious on the floor, bleeding, his arm broken in two places, a surprised look on his face. Brock took one look, sniffed and spat on the ground beside the man.
"Well, I guess he won’t be doing that anymore.” He commented, and ordered two of the truckers to carry him out. Their reaction was completely strange. They looked at the body, then Janet, then Brock.
"What the hell! Aren’t you going to punish her for attacking him." They asked in outrage. By now, a crowd had gathered around the fallen man, mostly Marines with the deliverymen scattered between them.
"Yes, I suppose you're right.” Brock muttered, rubbing his jaw. A few of the truckers started grinning in anticipation.
"Corporal Blake, front and center.” Brock yelled. Janet Blake pushed through the crowd and stood at attention in front of him, her face blank, still seething with anger.
"Captain Brock, Corporal Blake reporting as ordered.” She said crisply.
"Corporal Blake, I'm very disappointed in you, very." He moved closer as he spoke, thrusting his face up close to her’s.
"Sorry, Captain." The truckers stood grinning, anticipating what was to come.
"Sorry don't cut it, not at all Marine! You know better than this, not only did you take twice as long to put this asshole down, but the mother fucker is still alive, why!” He yelled, nose to nose with Janet.
"I'm ashamed of you Corporal. You are a disgrace to the Marine Corps uniform." He glared at her, the muscles on each side of his jaw working. “The Corps spent a whole lot of time and money training you, and this is what they get for it?” The truckers looked on, bewildered by what was going on, and at a complete loss to understand why these other strange men were suppressing their laughter.
"Sorry, Captain, I really am. I have no excuse, sir." She answered, straightening her shoulders. She kept her eye focused on a point just above and to the side of Brock’s right ear.
“Too right you don’t Marine, just thank yourself lucky the General’s not here.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” She shouted, thankful the General wasn’t here.
"All right then, I accept your apology, but don't let this happen again,” he growled. “If one of these dip-shit asshole touches you, I expect you to disable or kill him in ten second or less, is that clear Corporal?" He thundered.
"Sir, yes, Sir!” She snapped back.
"Dismissed!"
"Thank you, sir.” She took two paces back, turn, and fell out.
"Is that satisfactory gentlemen?” Brock asked, turning to the truck drivers, a grim smile on his face.
"Is that it?” One asked, a dumbfounded look on his face. "You yell at her and tell her to, to... kill anyone who touches her?" He almost whispered the word kill, as if it was a dirty word.
"If she doesn’t, I will, asshole, now get the fuck out of my face!" His voice shook the dust off the beams, and they did get out of his face in a hurry. Brock looked around at the other Marines. “Don’t you lot have something better to do than stand around gawking!” He yelled. “This isn’t a fucking side show! Get back to work.” They did, amidst a lot of laughter and high five’s. After that, none of the people who came to the building went anywhere near the female troopers. Scott heard about the incident from Brock first, then the President.
"I have been getting numerous complaint about the conduct of your people. It seems that one of your... females struck and injured one of the delivery people and your man Brock refused to punish her." Scott wasn’t sure which outraged the president more, the fact that one of the female troopers had hit a man, or that Brock refused to punish her the way the President thought she should be punished.
"That's incorrect, sir. The Captain punished her, severely I might add.”
“But... but all he did was yell at her, or so I have been told.” He spluttered.
“That is correct, Mr. President.” Scott managed to keep the expression on his face neutral.
“And you consider that punishment?” He looked at Scott, baffled surprise written all over his face.
“Yes, Mr. President. Unlike your society, women in ours are equal and have the same rights as the men. I have no more right to beat a female member than I do a male member."
“The same rights?” Westwood blinked.
“Yes, Mr. President, the same right. The Marine Corps hasn’t used corporal punishment for a long time, long before females were permitted to enter.”
“So what is their function in your, um, society?”
“In general society, they have the same opportunity as men, and perform many of the same functions. In the Marine Corps they have the same responsibility as the men, they are Marines.”
“By the prophet! Are you saying that they will fight as well?” The idea that woman could fight, or even strike a man was appalling.
“Of course, Mr. President.” Scott smiled grimly. “They are as good, if not better than the men in some cases.”
“And they are permitted to strike a fellow soldier, anyone?”
“Yes, sir. They are. The same...” He stopped and thought for a moment. “I was going to say the same as a man striking another man in your society, but that is not true, is it.”
“No. Violence of any sort is frowned upon. Striking another person carried heavy penalties, not the least, counseling.”
“But, a man is permitted to beat a woman, any woman, or rape her?” Scott asked mildly.
“Yes, of course. There are a few restrictions, such as a man beating another man’s wife without his permission. If she has offended him in some way, the man can ask for permission to beat her, or ask to be present when her husband beats her.” Now it was Scott turn to blink.
“Why on Earth would the husband permit him to witness the beating?”
“To ensure that she is sufficiently punished for her offense, of course, according to Shari'ah law.”
“And rape?”
“As to rape, I’m not sure I understand. If a female walks around in the street without a male escort, a family member I might add, and most certainly if she went out without her hijāb and chador, she would be considered a, um...” The President coughed into his hand, “a whore, and in that case, there is no rape.” Scott wiped his hand down over his face and over his chin, blinking several times, not believing what he’d just heard.
“I feel that anyone coming into this building while we are here should be forewarned as to what they can expect if they touch one of my female troopers, Mr. President.”
“Yes, I have already passed the word down to State Security. They will have men stationed at each end of the street to direct passerby’s away from the building. Any deliverymen will also be warned.”
"I'd like to ask a personal question if I may, Mr. President."
"Personal? Well, yes, I suppose you can ask."
"Is there any other religions on the Earth besides Islam?"
"Beside… I'm not sure I understand the question. Maybe we have stepped into another one of your… word holes, I believe you called it, but no I don't know of any other."
“And what of Christianity, Judaism, Buddhism?” The President looked blank, and shook his head.
"I'm not a theologian with knowledge about the subset of Islam, but there might be."
"Subsets of Islam." Scott muttered. Talk about future shock, this was more like historical shock, and it was going to get worse.
"I take it that wasn't the answer you expected."
"No, sir, it wasn't."
"From your expression and remarks, I take it these other… um… names you mentioned were religious cults in your time?"
"Cults! When I left, so to speak, the Christian calendar stood at 2025, the Jewish calendar stood at 5785, the Buddhist calendar stood at 2569, while Islam stood at 1446." President Westwood blinked as the significance of the dates fell into place.
"And which of these do you belong to, General Scott?"
"Two, my father was Christian and my mother was Jewish."
"And the rest of your… people?"
"Mixed between the first three and a couple more thrown in for good luck."
"So none of your people believes in Allah, blessed be his name, or that of his messenger, the prophet Mohammed?" Scott shook his head, keeping his words and thoughts to himself.
“There maybe one or two who once followed the teaching of the prophet, but a man, or woman’s religions is no one’s business but their own.” In one way he wanted to say that because of Islam and what was done in the name of Allah was the reason they were all here. That wouldn't be to his best advantage, or that of his people, so he kept silent. Either way, the President knew there was something dark behind Scott's silence.
“In many ways, I shall be glad when you are on your Island. I don't know if our society can tolerate your presence here for long.” He was definitely unhappy, wondering if he'd struck a devil’s bargain.
"I feel the same way Mr. President, the sooner we move, the better for all of us." Was Scott grim reply.
"I'll try to speed thing up, goodbye." With that, he leaned forward to disconnect. Scott shook his head, keeping a strained smile on his face until the President was gone. Later, Brock went looking for Scott, finding him in the glassed off roof garden, looking out over the city. From, his expression, Brock guessed he was thinking deeply about something.
“Can I interrupt, General?” The last time he’d seen that expression was in the Western desert, outside the burning city of Tehran.
“Sure, Gunny, just thinking is all.”
“Something deep by the look of it.” Scott chuckled dryly.
“You could say that. I was just wondering what I have got us into.”
“Nothing you can’t handle, sir.”
“How come, sir?”
“Since we woke up, I’ve been winging it, and it worries me.” Scott shook his head. “Ever since the mad gnome woke me up I’ve been stumbling from one disaster to another. How the hell do you erase 40,000 years of human history?”
“Yeah, that takes some doing. From what I gather, they put it all down to this great flood that destroyed all the records.”
“You and I know that’s bullshit. There were too many archives around the world for that to happen. Someone systematically erased all the records, and all traces of our pre-history and substituted this hogwash.”