by A. W. Mykel
“Only because our manpower was being greatly strained by the war effort. By the time we had conquered Europe, our strength had been greatly reduced. Our victories had been impressive, but they cost us superiority of the seas, of the skies, and severely reduced our land strength. The magnitude of those victories was overwhelming, even to us. We could not effectively supply our armies. Logistics became a nightmare. We had to utilize slave labor, to keep up the enormous industrial efforts needed to hold our new borders and to free additional manpower to keep up our fighting strength,” Honeycut explained.
“And the death camps?” Justin asked. “How do you justify them?”
“The concentration camps did not become ‘death camps’ until we knew that the war was lost. Then it became essential to reduce the seed-stock of our enemies.”
“The subhumans,” Justin said sarcastically. “The Jews, the Czechs, the Poles, and the Russians—all the non-Aryans.”
Honeycut lowered his eyes from Justin. After a moment’s thought, he looked at him again. “The attempted extermination of the Jews was our single, most devastating mistake. Again, it is hindsight that makes that observation possible. Surely, it was impossible to recognize it then, for Germany and its people had escaped into hatred, a regrettable step, yet one seemingly important at the time. Had the Jews been included in the plan, made a part of the scheme, the advantages would have been enough to mean the difference between victory and defeat. Their racial unity, the historical sameness of the Jews, could have provided legions of loyal Nazis in almost every country in the world. Their claims of being God’s ‘chosen people’ were not that far out of line with Aryan beliefs. Had we used this tack, they would have quickly identified with the movement. The United States may not have even entered the war, or possibly ever done so on our side because of Jewish influence, not to mention other scientific and financial advantages, as well, throughout the rest of the world.”
“You can’t wipe out century after century of hatred,” Justin said. “The Jews have been prejudiced against and hated throughout history. You can’t just tell people who have the hatred for them in their blood to love them, accept them, share their destiny with them.”
“With a careful plan, it could have been done,” Honeycut said. “They are not that different.”
With that, Justin broke into laughter. He shook his head at Honeycut. “Not that different? Are you saying that they’re Aryans?”
“Look at Israel today. A country built by surviving German Jews. Look at their strength, their courage. Is it not like that of our own? We were too swayed by the prejudices and hatreds of the ages to recognize their importance to us,” Honeycut said. “They were Jews, yes, but they were also Germans.”
“Aryans!” Justin roared in laughter.
“Yes, Aryans,” Honeycut said.
“Tell that to the six million you killed. ‘Sorry, boys, we didn’t know it back then. But you were really Aryans, after all.’ Hitler should only hear you now.”
“If he could see Israel today, he might agree,” Honeycut insisted.
“Christ, you really do believe that, don’t you?” Justin said.
“Yes, I do.”
“They’re strong, all right,” Justin began, “but not because of the Aryan blood that runs in them. They want to survive. There will never be a death camp again into which Jews will march like sheep into death chambers. They’ll fight to survive. And they don’t claim the Aryan heritage to conquer the world. They aren’t trying to kill everyone who might disagree with them,” Justin said.
“Oh no?” Honeycut smiled. “You should only know how wrong you are. You should know about the research and development efforts being put forth in such guarded secrecy in that country,” he contradicted.
“They only want to survive in their own land, to prevent another holocaust upon their children. Their future is in their children. They’ve dedicated themselves with blood, sweat, and bone to secure that future. The children of Israel…” He stopped at the familiar sound of the point he was trying to make. “They only want to survive,” he repeated, then fell silent.
“What you say is undeniably true,” Honeycut said. “But they do have plans. Plans that would shake your beliefs, if you knew them,” he said.
“And what do you call what you’re trying to do now? Operation Raptor, what do you call that?” Justin asked.
“We are getting precisely to the point that I am trying to make,” Honeycut said, smiling.
“The Raptor plan is what National Socialism could have been, should have been, if it had been handled properly. The Raptor plan is making a better world for all people to live in, a world so well ordered, so far advanced, that it is beyond the imagination. And it is for the good of all people,” Honeycut said with special emphasis.
“For all people?” Justin repeated bitingly. “For Jews, for blacks, for the retarded and the ones born with defects, and for those lame and disabled?” he asked.
“The Jews are Aryans. We realize that now. I’ve told you that,” Honeycut said.
“Oh, Jesus,” Justin laughed, “this is a real comedy. A sick, fucking comedy. I suppose that the blacks are Aryans, too?” he asked sarcastically.
“No, they are the exception,” Honeycut replied evenly. “The nonwhite races are the exception.”
“The exception. I see. I suppose that the new death camps will be for them,” Justin said.
“There will be no death camps,” Honeycut said. “They will be utilized.”
“Utilized? As slave labor?” Justin asked. “To work your factories, tend your crops, or as servants to make the Aryan life easier? All for the privilege of staying alive. Is that what their role will be in the new order of things?” he asked.
“They are strong,” Honeycut retorted. “By careful breeding techniques, it will eventually be possible to arrive at a class of acceptable Aryan stock. Many black traits are desirable.”
“But what about the ones who are already black and not the product of your supervised breeding? What happens to them? What about the yellow ones and the red ones?” Justin asked.
“There will be a solution.”
“A solution? A final solution?” Justin asked.
“A solution,” Honeycut repeated.
“And the retarded and those with other defects, the lame and disabled?” Justin asked.
“They are useless,” Honeycut said coldly. “There will be no such defects in the future. We can control everything,” he said.
“And your mistakes will just quietly disappear, right?”
Honeycut didn’t answer, his eyes saying it for him.
“It’ll never work,” Justin said. “The world will never stand still for it.”
“The world will never recognize the change,” Honeycut said. “We have the patience now—and the necessary means to make it all possible. In another sixty years, the change will be complete. There is no chance of failure, no alternative.”
“And there will be no freedom,” Justin said.
“There never has been any real freedom. Everyone is controlled in one way or another, given just enough freedoms to keep them happy. True freedom, total freedom, is too threatening, too frightening. People would never accept it, if they knew what it was really like. Everyone follows. It is human nature to follow,” Honeycut said.
“There are leaders,” Justin countered. “Every nation, every group of people has them.”
“Only those able to direct others more effectively,” Honeycut returned. “But they also follow. They follow laws, or higher authority—God, if you will. The whole concept of religion involves creating a supreme being to follow. Man must follow.”
“You, too, Colorosa? As the new Führer, you will have to lead. Who will you follow?” Justin asked.
“All the future will be guided by the plan. All of man will follow it,” Honeycut responded.
“To a better day?” Justin asked with burning sarcasm. “To the Dawn of Man, the New Order?”
“Can you imagine the possibilities?” Honeycut asked, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “Children born possessing the potential intelligence of SENTINEL. Educated beyond our most advanced levels of today by the time that they are ten years old. All contributing to the perfect order, over life spans extended to a hundred and fifty years, or more. It’s all possible. We can make it happen right now!” Honeycut said, filled with a childlike enthusiasm.
“All puppets,” Justin returned flatly. “Directed by strings that you pull through SENTINEL, strings that all future Führers will pull. All programmed puppets, with no minds or wills of their own, with a whole universe to try to enslave and conquer, in fulfilling their Aryan destiny of conquest, their heritage to kill.”
“When it becomes necessary—yes, they will conquer. And they will spread the perfect order and happiness wherever they go, to new worlds and new galaxies,” Honeycut said.
“Your perfect order—it’s a pipe dream,” Justin said.
“No, it’s an inevitable reality. The New Order has already been born. It is in motion, growing and maturing at a carefully planned rate. The implanting has already begun. There are already thousands. Soon there will be hundreds of thousands, then millions. Your great-grandchildren will make up the New Order,” Honeycut said.
“It will interest you to know that your son will be a great nuclear physicist, someday,” Honeycut said, a strange knowing satisfaction in his eyes.
“My…my son? Michael?” Justin asked, in sudden, angry disbelief.
“Yes, Michael. Haven’t you noticed his early exceptional abilities in mathematics and science?” Honeycut asked.
Justin stared hard at Honeycut, rage building within him.
“No, you haven’t, have you?” Honeycut said. “That’s because you’ve never talked to him. You only took him places on your days together, doing things to fill the time. You don’t even know your own son. He was one of our first.”
Justin was filled with a consummate rage. They had dared to…to…Michael his son. “You’re sick,” Justin spat out hatefully.
Honeycut had a slight smile across his face.
Elizabeth felt the growing satisfaction of seeing Justin’s hurt while he couldn’t touch them. She luxuriated in it, enjoying the final satisfaction.
“The Third Reich was to be the thousand-year Reich,” Honeycut said, smiling confidently. “The Fourth Reich will last forever.”
“You’re sick, you son-of-a-bitch. Do you know that? Sick! Both of you. You’re as marginal as they come,” Justin said, a feeling of blinding hate and confused helplessness behind his burning glare.
“Now, Justin, where is the journal?” Honeycut asked evenly, his face serious and stern again.
“Up your ass, where your head is. Open your eyes and look for it,” he spat out.
“Where is it?” Honeycut repeated.
“Where it will do the most good to shatter this pipe dream of yours, you Nazi bastard.”
Elizabeth’s eyes jumped to Honeycut with a sudden urgency. “Did you hear that?”
Honeycut raised a hand to silence her.
“Nothing you can do can stop it now,” Honeycut said.
“Don’t bet on that,” Justin returned hotly.
Elizabeth’s mind began racing, trying to think of the worst possible things Justin could have done with the information. Pilgrim obviously felt that he could still hurt them—or maybe it was just his helplessness, his inability to really do anything combined with his hurt from learning about his son.
“For the last time, before we resort to unpleasant means, where is the journal?” Honeycut asked again.
“Kiss my ass,” Justin said, looking away, his final answer made plain.
Honeycut pushed one of the buttons on the console. The control-center doors opened, and the two security guards entered.
“Take him back to his quarters,” Honeycut ordered coldly.
Justin rose, using the cane. He turned to the security men, quickly assessing them.
His mind raced frantically through desperate alternatives, sorting, weighing probabilities.
He limped toward the door, one guard in front of him, the other following closely. His hand went into his pocket and grabbed one of the halves of the useless security card that he had broken earlier. He came up even with the sliding doors.
With a quick, forceful movement, he pushed the lead guard through the doors, sending him sprawling into the hallway.
Before the second guard could react, he threw a vicious kick backward, catching him in the solar plexus. The guard grunted and crashed down painfully to the control-center floor.
In the next instant, Justin rammed the broken security card into the slot next to the doors. They closed immediately in response to the unauthorized object, automatically locking.
Before the second guard could recover, the cane whipped savagely through the air, cracking violently against the side of his head. In a breath of an instant, Justin was on him, going for the gun.
Elizabeth’s whole body became paralyzed from the sudden, fearful realization of what was happening. The threat was again alive.
Honeycut reached desperately for the Mauser and clip on the console. He fumbled frantically to get the clip back in.
“Hold it right there!” Justin’s voice commanded.
Honeycut froze, knowing there was no bluff in the man.
“Put it down, and move away from it,” Justin ordered. “Over there, by him,” he said, pointing to the dazed security guard, who was holding his bleeding head.
Honeycut and Elizabeth quickly complied.
Justin looked to the sliding doors. There were frantic pounding sounds against them from the outside. Soon there would be many security personnel.
Justin moved without any trace of a limp to the command console and picked up the Mauser.
He gave the clip a quick check and snapped it in. Then he put the security guard’s .45 under his belt.
Elizabeth was near death from fear. Her eyes were like baseballs. She gave Honeycut a telling stare. She didn’t have to say it. The eyes did it for her. This is your fault. All your fault. If you had listened to me…
“You,” Justin said, pointing to her. “Get up here.”
She slowly stepped up on the elevated surface between the command control and internal security control consoles as directed. Her legs were weak and shaking. Her face trembled, wet with sudden perspiration. Her worst possible fears were filling her now. Before her was the power she had dreamed of. Pilgrim. The gun. His organ. But this time the power meant death, not pleasure.
“Over there,” Justin said, pointing to the internal security console.
Elizabeth looked helplessly at Honeycut.
“He can’t help you now,” Justin said. “Move it!” he hissed.
Elizabeth went weakly to the console. “Activate the intruder control system for that entire hallway out there,” Justin ordered evenly.
She looked at him, not moving.
CRACK! The Mauser barked.
The security guard kicked backward violently, from the impact of the bullet against his chest. The body was knocked raglike to the floor, writhed for one moment, then lay still.
Elizabeth screamed and jumped nearly a foot off the ground, from the sudden shocking sound of the gun and the realization of what Justin had just done.
“Do it!” Justin commanded, raising the Mauser to her face. It was right in front of her face as in the dream.
The terror poured from Elizabeth’s eyes.
She reached out and pushed one of the many red buttons in the forest of switches on the console.
The button lit up.
Justin watched carefully. They were all set to manual. Just a push of the button was all that was need
ed to set them off.
The poundings stopped as muffled screams and cries took their place. In only seconds there was complete silence, deafening stillness.
The control center was now secure. No one could approach it and live.
“The key, take it out,” Justin ordered.
Elizabeth shook uncontrollably. Big round eyes looked at the gun so close to her face.
“Move, or I’ll blow your fucking head off,” Justin said menacingly, pointing to the switch.
Elizabeth pulled on the chain around her neck, producing the shiny, flat key. She began walking shakily toward the command-control console. Her eyes looked to Honeycut for help, but Honeycut’s controlled stare was on Justin.
Elizabeth lifted away the hinged glass cover. She hesitated.
“In!” Justin shouted threateningly.
Elizabeth’s hand shook badly. She managed to put the key into the slot and twisted it to the right. All that was left was to throw the switch.
“Back away,” Justin said, gun still up to her head. “Over here,” he said, pointing to a spot on the floor in front of the global display panel behind the internal security console.
Elizabeth did as instructed, trembling with every step. She moved to the spot between the console and the global panel and turned to face Justin. The nightmare fears were becoming reality. The gun was in her face, and the brain began…yes…yes. Oh, Justin…yes. Please…please. Justin.
CRACK!
Elizabeth’s head kicked back, a stream of blood spouting from the hole in the side of her head, like water from a hose, as she fell, twisting slowly backward. The stream of blood splattered across the global display panel like red paint. A leg twitched. The spurts of blood grew weaker, then stopped. She was beyond all fear of Pilgrim now.
Honeycut stared in shocked disbelief. All that intelligence and creative genius ended—suddenly, violently—because of his errors in judgment.
His face went white.
“That,” Justin began, pointing to the global display panel, streaked and dripping with blood over the colored land masses and oceans, “that is the promise of your New Order. That’s the legacy you offer the world, not the bullshit you handed me. With your kind, there will always be death camps and inferior races to wipe out. The lines will be filled with the blacks, the crippled, and the mentally ill. And the Jews. Always the Jews, and anyone else not fitting your self-established parameters of perfection.