X Marks the Spot
by Eric J. Krause
The cursor glided across the screen. He did his best to scan every bit, every pixel. Nothing, so he hit the "Enter" key, bringing up the next screen, the next bit of battlefield, and started the process again. This time he found an "X," and a quick mouse click shifted it to a "0." In the next few minutes, three more popped up, which he likewise eradicated.
"Good work, Private."
Jackson almost swallowed his gum in his haste to turn around and salute the general.
"At ease, Private. I don't want to break you out of your zone. You're doing good work. God's work."
"Thank you, sir." He saluted again, hesitated, and spun back to his screen, hopeful that's what the general wanted. He threw a glance to his right and saw his partner, O'Sullivan, doing everything he could to keep his eyes on his own station.
The general clapped Jackson twice on the shoulder. "Keep it up, Private, and there'll be plenty of promotions in your future."
"Thank you, sir." He found another "X" and obliterated it, hoping the general noticed. A slight chuckle proved he did.
"Carry on, men."
Once the general was gone, O'Sullivan stood and looked over at Jackson. "Dude, you're a stone-cold killer. Five in less than ten minutes." They'd been working side by side for over two weeks, and that was the most he'd ever said.
Jackson shrugged. "Just clicking the mouse."
"To you, maybe. Not to them."
"I'm not following."
O'Sullivan scoffed. "Rookies. They don't show that holo anymore. They just point you to a comp-station and tell you to find and click the "X's." If you only knew."
Jackson looked over his shoulder at the door.
"Don't worry. You hit your quota. You'll get a medal for that short ten minutes of work. It takes me a month to get that many, no matter how many I find." He reached into his pocket and flicked a tiny ball of paper under Jackson's chair. "Don't pick it up now. Wait until your shift is over. Then take it to a secured holo room, punch in the code, and get yourself an education."
O'Sullivan said no more. He went back to his screen. After a few seconds, Jackson did the same. At the end of his shift, he scooped up the discarded paper and headed for a holo. His stomach growled at not hitting the mess, but curiosity won out.
The holo accepted the code, and General Rackers, leader of Earth's Armed Forces, appeared. "Operation Smart Bomb is a go. We've finally found a signal that'll locate the mines, and a way to dispose of them. Our satellites x-ray the ground and send their findings back in a basic code. The enemy disrupts any other possible signal--one so simple must be below their worry. As for the disposal method, it's of a high cost, but it's the only way we've found effective. We'll beam a trooper to the exact spot our code monkeys back at base tell us. It costs one life per mine, but it's better than a whole platoon. Or more. We're working on alternative answers, but so far only a living, breathing human will do. Not even a synthetic robot or laser blasts from a war cruiser will work. For now, this is the best and only solution."
The holo shut off, and Jackson sat staring at the now-empty room, his appetite gone. He'd sent five men--five of his brothers--to their graves today. Not even their graves, considering there'd be nothing left after that explosion. Had it been the enemy, the Spacers, he'd have patted himself on the back. But not fellow humans. Not his brothers in arms.
He staggered towards his bunk room, trying to get his head around it. How could he go back tomorrow? How could he sentence more men to die? He ran the general's words over in his head and had his answer. One man rather than a hundred. Yeah. It wasn't fair, but it was what it was. War. It'd let him sleep at night. Maybe not that night, but soon.
As he neared his bunk room, he saw O'Sullivan ahead in the hall. He almost hailed him, but the other man made a show of ignoring him. Jackson could play that game, too. But as they passed, O'Sullivan whispered something that ruined Jackson's career as a code monkey.
"What if that mine would never have been tripped?"
Showing posts with label war. Show all posts
Showing posts with label war. Show all posts
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
#fridayflash--The Fog
The Fog
by Eric J. Krause
The soldier stood alone in the forest, his sword heavy in his hand, his chain armor clanking from his shakes, no doubt alerting everything in the vicinity of his presence. Where his company had gone was beyond him. They'd marched through a thick patch of fog, and when he reached the other side, he marched alone.
A wolf howled in the distance, and something rustled in the nearby bushes. He wasn't sure which frightened him more. He gripped his sword tighter and took a few tentative steps forward. With his fellow soldiers, his brothers, he was fearless. On his own, he felt lost.
A weight surrounded him, hanging heavy in the air. He turned back to the fog. If he wandered back in, would he find his army? Would he find safety? It didn't matter. As more creaks and crunches sounded from the brush, he pushed back into the thick bank of fog.
As he marched through the first time, sandwiched in the middle of dozens upon dozens of men, every one of his senses had been overwhelmed. He saw nothing but gray, felt, tasted, and smelled nothing but damp air, and heard nothing but his brothers' footfalls. No, that wasn't quite true. Their footsteps echoed through the fog at first, but after a few paces, he heard only his own boots on the hard packed forest soil, his own mail clattering with every step, his own deep breaths. But nothing of his brothers.
This time, as he waded in alone, the fog didn't feel as thick, as dense, as damp. Arrows stuck in the ground and out of trees. On closer inspection, he found those arrows attached to soldiers. Soldiers from his company.
His breath caught in his throat. How had they all been massacred while he remained untouched? How had he not heard any of it? He wandered among these men who he'd been so close with over these past few months and confirmed none still breathed.
He fought back tears. The mass burial fell on his shoulders. No time for frail emotions. He had too much work to do, and no help in doing it. Everything, though, stopped cold when he reached the final soldier, likely the first to have died.
It was him. An arrow pierced his throat. Blood pooled around his upper body. His eyes were open, and his face registered no pain, only shock.
No, this wasn't real. How could it be? He stood here, as alive as when he woke this morning, alive as the day he was born. He reached down to touch the body, but his hand passed right through it. No, that wasn't right. It passed through his hand.
The air deflated from his lungs. He was the incorporeal one. He looked around in the fog, which had mostly dissipated, and found dozens of other soldiers standing over their own corpses. Their body language proved they were all in various stages of acceptance and denial.
He stared into his own dead eyes, not wanting to, but unable to look away. The late morning sun burned most of the fog away. Only a few tendrils lay behind, hugging the ground. When those, too, succumbed to the burning sunlight, he and the rest of the soldiers standing guard over their mortality blinked away, off to visit whatever realm greeted the dead.
by Eric J. Krause
The soldier stood alone in the forest, his sword heavy in his hand, his chain armor clanking from his shakes, no doubt alerting everything in the vicinity of his presence. Where his company had gone was beyond him. They'd marched through a thick patch of fog, and when he reached the other side, he marched alone.
A wolf howled in the distance, and something rustled in the nearby bushes. He wasn't sure which frightened him more. He gripped his sword tighter and took a few tentative steps forward. With his fellow soldiers, his brothers, he was fearless. On his own, he felt lost.
A weight surrounded him, hanging heavy in the air. He turned back to the fog. If he wandered back in, would he find his army? Would he find safety? It didn't matter. As more creaks and crunches sounded from the brush, he pushed back into the thick bank of fog.
As he marched through the first time, sandwiched in the middle of dozens upon dozens of men, every one of his senses had been overwhelmed. He saw nothing but gray, felt, tasted, and smelled nothing but damp air, and heard nothing but his brothers' footfalls. No, that wasn't quite true. Their footsteps echoed through the fog at first, but after a few paces, he heard only his own boots on the hard packed forest soil, his own mail clattering with every step, his own deep breaths. But nothing of his brothers.
This time, as he waded in alone, the fog didn't feel as thick, as dense, as damp. Arrows stuck in the ground and out of trees. On closer inspection, he found those arrows attached to soldiers. Soldiers from his company.
His breath caught in his throat. How had they all been massacred while he remained untouched? How had he not heard any of it? He wandered among these men who he'd been so close with over these past few months and confirmed none still breathed.
He fought back tears. The mass burial fell on his shoulders. No time for frail emotions. He had too much work to do, and no help in doing it. Everything, though, stopped cold when he reached the final soldier, likely the first to have died.
It was him. An arrow pierced his throat. Blood pooled around his upper body. His eyes were open, and his face registered no pain, only shock.
No, this wasn't real. How could it be? He stood here, as alive as when he woke this morning, alive as the day he was born. He reached down to touch the body, but his hand passed right through it. No, that wasn't right. It passed through his hand.
The air deflated from his lungs. He was the incorporeal one. He looked around in the fog, which had mostly dissipated, and found dozens of other soldiers standing over their own corpses. Their body language proved they were all in various stages of acceptance and denial.
He stared into his own dead eyes, not wanting to, but unable to look away. The late morning sun burned most of the fog away. Only a few tendrils lay behind, hugging the ground. When those, too, succumbed to the burning sunlight, he and the rest of the soldiers standing guard over their mortality blinked away, off to visit whatever realm greeted the dead.
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