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    Dark Mirrors: Dystopian Tales
    Dark Mirrors: Dystopian Tales
    Dark Mirrors: Dystopian Tales
    Ebook219 pages3 hours

    Dark Mirrors: Dystopian Tales

    By John Walters

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    When it malfunctions, a teacher discovers a microchip implanted within her forehead which was designed to eradicate her free will. She determines to rescue the orphaned children in her care from a similar fate.

    In the aftermath of a conflict in which all adults were killed or driven away by their progeny, children and teens roam the streets of a ruined city. When they near the age of 21 they must play the ultimate game, snuff sport, to prevent themselves from becoming hated adults. A lone grown-up who re-enters the city on a mission of reconciliation is captured and put on trial for his life.

    The people of Earth are losing a war with aliens that they themselves provoked. Every able-bodied person is being called up to fight, even prisoners. A battle-hardened general enters a prison to recruit a woman who refuses to fight, but who may have a most unusual special ability that can turn the tide of the war.

    These and other tales offer terrifying glimpses of Earth's future gone wrong.

    From the author's afterword: "When I postulate dark futures it is not to get you to despair. When I hold up dark mirrors before your eyes it is not so that you will see the worst in yourself and do yourself in. Far from it. Some of our greatest illuminations come from deep dark prose. Dark literature is not meant to overwhelm us. It is meant to purge us, to provide catharsis. It is a cleansing and purifying process. We must be aware of the evil within before we can clean it out."

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJohn Walters
    Release dateMay 29, 2012
    ISBN9781476189383
    Dark Mirrors: Dystopian Tales
    Author

    John Walters

    John Walters recently returned to the United States after thirty-five years abroad. He lives in Seattle, Washington. He attended the 1973 Clarion West science fiction writing workshop and is a member of Science Fiction Writers of America. He writes mainstream fiction, science fiction and fantasy, and memoirs of his wanderings around the world.

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      Book preview

      Dark Mirrors - John Walters

      Dark Mirrors: Dystopian Tales

      By

      John Walters

      Published by Astaria Books at Smashwords

      Copyright 2012 by John Walters

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold reproduced, or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

      This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons places or events - except those in the public domain - is purely coincidental.

      Contents

      1. Dark Mirrors

      2. Life After Walden

      3. Generation Gap

      4. This Won't Hurt A Bit

      5. Brown-Eyed Girl

      6. Tasting the Forbidden Fruit, or, If This is Hell Then Why is Everyone Smiling?

      7. Noah and the Fireflood

      8. The Earthborn

      9. The Perspicacity of Soaring Eagle

      10. Afterward: Future Tense

      11. Acknowledgments

      Dark Mirrors

      Her face and arms bore the yellow marks of old bruises and the purple marks of new ones; her left forefinger and middle finger were in rough splints of cardboard and tape; the half-a-centimeter-thick bright red scar of a recently-healed cut ran from her right temple to the top of her nose near the corner of her left eye. Add to all this her hard, determined expression that suggested she wouldn’t take shit from anyone, and she looked like a fighter, a brawler, a troublemaker.

      But Margaret Keller knew she was anything but that.

      The loose gray prison coveralls made her appear diminutive, like a little girl. She was very thin, abnormally so. Her scalp could be seen through her light brown hair; obviously much of the hair had fallen out. The hard work, scanty food, derision and beatings were obviously telling on her. But she held her head defiantly high; she had obviously kept herself together through it all.

      Margaret, despite herself, was impressed. However, she assumed a calm, cold, professional air as she said, Bethany Williamson? and when the woman nodded, Sit down.

      They were in the mess hall, a small table with obscenities carved into its gray Formica surface between them. Prisoners shuffled to and fro, with wide frightened eyes glancing around as if already in the line of fire. The guards watching them were whispering intently together in a corner. They too would be called up, as soon as the last prisoner had left.

      Do you want my decision now? asked Bethany. I thought I had another day.

      Your decision?

      Bethany smiled ironically. Service or dismemberment: aren’t those the options?

      Momentarily taken aback, Margaret quickly recovered her poise. Those are your choices, yes. Do you need another day to decide?

      Bethany slowly shook her head.

      How long have you been here? Margaret asked.

      Bethany smiled again, though her eyes narrowed and her jaw tightened. I’m sure you in your fancy uniform, all clean and polished and obviously more than well-fed, have access to my file. You don’t need to be asking me any questions like that.

      Don’t you dare get insubordinate with me…

      Or else what? I have been here for a year, three months, and seventeen days, and I have been beaten and abused on almost every one of those days. I was ripped away from my parents, my school, and everything else from my former life. I am about to be cut up and used as spare parts for wounded soldiers. There’s nothing you can threaten me with that can make any difference to me. The hard look remained, but a teardrop formed in the corner of her right eye, though it did not trickle down.

      Margaret forced the twinge of sympathy out of her conscious mind as if it were an enemy, but then adopted a more solicitous tone. All right, all right. It seems we got off on the wrong foot.

      Is there a right foot? I don’t think so. I’m a condemned woman. Bethany stood up.

      Please sit down.

      No.

      They stared at each other for a long time, as if in mental combat. Finally Margaret nodded at a guard, who led Bethany away.

      * * *

      For her next interview with Bethany Margaret went down to her cell.

      The section guard was a short stocky woman with a clean-shaven head, thick lower lip, and a pasty complexion. That’s murderer’s row. It’s been almost cleaned out, the guard said. There’re just a few prisoners left. Some are unaccounted for, though. They’re trying to hide to avoid service. It could be dangerous if they find you. I can come with you if you want.

      I’ll be all right. To emphasize the point Margaret pulled out her pistol, checked that it was loaded, and put it away again. By the way, what is she doing down there with murderers?

      The guard shrugged. They don’t like her kind much. Maybe the warden thought it would break her. Anyway, there are maps on the guard post walls in case you get lost. There’re a lot of corridors.

      Margaret descended a flight of stairs and turned left into a wide but low-ceilinged hallway. The cells on either side were vacant; her footsteps echoed loudly in the empty spaces. Since the facility was being shut down regular cleaning had stopped. Humidity beaded on the graffiti-covered walls and then trickled down in rivulets to form puddles on the muddy floor. Black specks of mold had begun to grow in the corners of the ceiling. Cockroaches were everywhere; Margaret saw an occasional rat as well. The air smelled musty from the damp, rotting mattresses.

      After having navigated the maze of corridors for a quarter of an hour Margaret became convinced she was lost, and was just about to try to find her way back when she spotted Bethany alone in her cell, sitting on the edge of the lower bunk reading a book.

      Once again a burst of sympathy erupted from somewhere within; once again Margaret stifled it and sent it back where it came from. She reminded herself that she despised Bethany and everything she stood for, and she resented the circumstance that forced her into this hellhole to deal with her. She had turned her back on her people; she deserved the dismemberment. At least then she could be of some use.

      But even as she thought these things, Margaret wondered whether these were her own thoughts or others had implanted them in her. Things had taken such a crazy turn that she didn’t know what to believe anymore. But whenever she became confused she thought of her husband and son, both early casualties of the war. Her husband she remembered as he had looked the day he left for the last time: balding with gray hair at the temples, but sharp and strong and determined in his uniform. Her son, however, she could never picture as an adult. She saw him as a toddler, running into her arms with a big smile to be scooped up and hugged, or grade school age either in bed with one of his myriad childhood illnesses, or pale and thin playing basketball at a nearby park with his friends. Though he had never been very healthy, when the conflict began he had wanted to enlist right away; he was rejected at first though, and was only allowed to join up after several defeats had been suffered and the medical checkup consisted of feeling you to see if you were still warm. He had been thrilled to be a part of it all, but he hadn’t lasted a week once he was out on the field.

      A part of her desperately wanted to consider it Bethany’s fault that they were dead, but another part of her knew that it was not true, that what she had done had made no difference one way or the other.

      Margaret remembered Bethany’s photograph from her file: long thick straight shining hair, round almost chubby face, big smile, large light brown eyes full of trust and confidence. She had looked like a completely different person. She had been a seventeen-year-old university student majoring in pharmacology when the draft law had been amended to make the minimum age fifteen instead of eighteen and to include women as well as men. She had right away filed for conscientious objector status, on secular moral grounds rather than theological. In her statement she had quoted Jesus, Buddha, Gandhi, Thoreau, and others, but by then it hadn’t mattered what personal convictions she’d held: conscientious objection had been officially abolished. The choices had been military service or prison.

      Bethany heard Margaret’s footsteps and looked up. Without enthusiasm she said, Well, look who’s here. What brings you to my humble home?

      Margaret stood on the other side of the bars. We’re alone. We can talk.

      Bethany threw the book on the bed. Twenty-year-old almanac. Not much in the prison library. I have nothing to say to you.

      Margaret wanted to shout, to order her, to force her somehow to listen, but she knew it wouldn’t work. Just give me a few minutes, please.

      I suppose I can spare a few minutes. Don’t threaten me.

      I won’t. Margaret slipped the key-card into the slot and went inside; when she swung the door behind her she left it open a few centimeters.

      Aren’t you afraid I’m going to try to run?

      No. Margaret sat down on the lone stool. The strong smell of the mattress combined with the stench of the filthy open toilet in the corner almost made her gag, but she managed to control the impulse. Have you heard much recent news, Bethany?

      She chuckled humorlessly. Just rumors. I’m denied newspapers, magazines, and TV. Does the war go on?

      Margaret nodded.

      And how goes it for our side?

      Please don’t be sarcastic with me. If you know nothing else you know it goes poorly. Otherwise why would we be conscripting prisoners into military service?

      Or butchering them if they refuse.

      That’s just supposed to be a threat to scare you into fighting.

      It’s real enough to me, isn’t it? And I’m still not fighting.

      Why are you so stubborn?

      Why should I explain myself again? What’s the point?

      Sorry. Sorry. This was not how Margaret wanted things to go. Let me give you a brief summary of what’s been happening out there.

      Bethany cautiously nodded. All right.

      Around the time of your incarceration, after the fiasco with the tactical nukes, more ships landed and we planned another major offensive.

      Now that the depleted ranks were swelled with female cannon fodder.

      Margaret ignored the comment and continued. We had been developing a new type of weapon, a hand-held laser. We thought it would turn the tide. But as soon as we attacked, they retaliated with lasers that were more powerful than ours. It was another route. We lost a lot of troops. A lot.

      I’m sorry for them.

      Are you? You’re certainly safer inside than out there.

      That’s not why I’m here.

      Margaret sighed. "All right. Well, we had still never actually seen them, they still used those robotic dolls that were obviously imitations of us, but the assumption was that somewhere in those ships there must be something of flesh and blood – or some kind of biological life, anyway, and so somebody proposed that we try to hit them with bacteriological warfare – try to burn them out from the inside. We tried it. We threw everything we could think of at them. Only it didn’t work. And when we were done, they unleashed a plague that destroyed about half the world’s remaining population."

      So everything you hit them with, they send back at you, only more so.

      That’s the way it’s been so far. As a matter of fact, a group of mathematicians put all the data into a computer, and as close as they can figure it whatever we do to them, they do exactly double back to us.

      "Did they ever initiate an attack?"

      At first we were convinced that they had started it all, back when they were just circling the Earth and the missiles began to fly. But upon further analysis we think maybe our automatic orbiting defense system may have fired the first shot.

      So they have only been countering your moves.

      It seems so. I got up close to one of their ships once. It was many-sided, like a cut diamond or something, and it was dark. But the strangest thing was how reflective it was. I could see myself and everything else around as if in a huge mirror. And that’s like what they seem to be doing in the war: they reflect and magnify everything we do.

      You should have done nothing.

      It’s too late for that now.

      Too late for you. Not for me.

      You still have no compassion for your fellow humans? Remember, these are not people we’re fighting, but something else, something – alien.

      What’s the difference? Obviously they’re intelligent. And anyway, is it doing any good to fight them?

      Look, I know how you feel. You’re right: I’ve read your file, I’ve read transcripts of interviews, I’ve traced your family history as far back as I could.

      Bethany smiled, still without warmth. Why would you be so interested in one little Conscientious Objector? No one has cared until now. I’ve been thrown in with these crazy-ass wackos and forgotten.

      Margaret raised her hands in a gesture of futility. We’re bolstering armies with prisoners, old folks, pre-teens, the insane – anyone we can grab. But we know it won’t do any good. Face-to-face, or I guess I should say face to no-face, we know we’re no match for them. So we’ve been brainstorming, trying to come up with something unusual, unconventional, something wild and unexpected we could try. And that’s when we thought of you.

      Me? For the first time since Margaret had met her an unguarded emotion crossed Bethany’s face: surprise.

      Well, not just you. People like you.

      I was led to believe I was unique. An anomaly, an abnormality.

      No. There are quite a few others, both men and women.

      And they are all willing, like me, to be dismembered rather than fight?

      Yes.

      If that doesn’t beat everything. You isolated us from each other to break down our wills, to make us think that we were all alone. Unity would only strengthen our convictions, right?

      That’s right. Only now… Only now…

      Comprehension lit up Bethany’s face. "You want to send us to them. You’re hoping they’ll mirror the way we feel. If they do they’ll stop fighting. They might even pack up and go home."

      Margaret nodded. We want to surrender, to plead for mercy, but there’s no one to surrender to. We figure if we send you to them, they might pick up our intentions.

      For a moment Bethany was incredulous, then she started to cry. "You bastards! You bastards! After all I’ve been through – after all we’ve been through – you ask us to walk right out to the enemy and try to save the world!"

      I’m sorry, Margaret said. I…

      Wiping her tear-stained face, with a chuckle that sounded like a sob, Bethany said, This must have killed you. This must have just killed an old military warhorse like you to come here and tell me this.

      In her confusion of emotions Margaret was finding it hard to keep her composure. It… It’s a last resort.

      Meaning that if you had your way you’d blow them to hell first, right?

      We’ve been trying to defend our country, our world.

      But it hasn’t worked. Bethany grabbed some toilet paper and wiped her eyes, blew her nose. Have you talked to the others? What do they say?

      "What do you say?"

      "I say why should I? You say either I do this or I’ll be torn to pieces. Forget it. You’re not worth saving. Let them have this messed-up world. Maybe they’ll do better with it than we have."

      It’s not like that.

      What do you mean?

      I mean the dismemberment. It was just a threat. We never intended to do it.

      What?

      We had to know who was sincere and who was just a coward.

      Bethany shook her head in disbelief. You still don’t understand, do you? Maybe you never will.

      I’m trying to.

      And if you’re not going to cut us up if we refuse to help, what are you going to do with us?

      Nothing.

      Nothing?

      "We realized for this to have any chance to work it must be sincere – completely voluntary. As of

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