Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Heroes and Other Illusions: Stories
    Heroes and Other Illusions: Stories
    Heroes and Other Illusions: Stories
    Ebook261 pages3 hours

    Heroes and Other Illusions: Stories

    By John Walters

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Heroes aren't always as they seem; often they are ordinary people reacting to circumstances beyond their control or pursuing the only option open to them.  In this eclectic collection, reclusive old folks take on powerful cyborg bodies to combat ferocious invading aliens; a man near death uses cutting-edge psychiatric technology to journey into his memories and come to grips with crucial decisions from his past; a dead woman travels halfway around a bizarrely mutating world to keep a promise to an old friend; a young woman in the frozen northlands rescues a centuries-old creature with an amazing tale of survival.  These and other stories upend traditional concepts of courage, honor, love, death, enchantment, and terror and present mind-boggling alternatives.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAstaria Books
    Release dateJul 2, 2017
    ISBN9781386482239
    Heroes and Other Illusions: Stories
    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.

    Read more from John Walters

    Related to Heroes and Other Illusions

    Related ebooks

    Fantasy For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      An Infinite Game

      Oct 10, 2021

      Our executioner combined the qualities of a wag and libertine, parading his sociopathy as an out-sized clown. The bayonet attached to his rifle was exceptionally long, a sawback with a broad, flat blade. The press catch was at the nine o’clock positi

      6 min read

    • Article

      Judges

      Mar 10, 2024

      The doctors assured me the shrapnel in my leg would do no further harm if they “let sleeping dogs lie,” or at least less harm than trying to take it out would cause. “Hey,” I asked them. “What if it decides to cut its way out all on its own?” My grea

      12 min read

    • Article

      Gerald Mcclellan

      Feb 15, 2024

      Gerald Mcclellan
      9 min read

    • Article

      George’s RIFLE

      Apr 16, 2021

      George’s RIFLE
      4 min read

    • Article

      ‘I Just Had To Do Better’

      Mar 18, 2024

      ‘I Just Had To Do Better’
      7 min read

    • Article

      Readers’ Letters

      Nov 19, 2020

      SHARE YOUR VIEWS Email: martin.puddifer@futurenet.com I was pretty disappointed to read Chris Warren’s Judge Height Lest Ye Be Judged article [October issue]. Once again, the ugly subject of ‘extreme’ high-bird shooting was discussed rather flippantl

      6 min read

    • Article

      Playing God

      Apr 10, 2023

      After Jack was abducted by the alien spaceship, and after the round vessel had vanished into the Milky Way, he found himself walking down a tubular corridor with white vibrating walls, escorted by a sinuous blonde who smiled graciously and said her n

      13 min read

    • Article

      Stress Management

      Dec 8, 2022

      Stress Management
      7 min read

    • Article

      Martail Arts Worldview

      Nov 26, 2019

      Martail Arts Worldview
      6 min read

    • Article

      You Talkin’ To Me?

      Apr 25, 2024

      You Talkin’ To Me?
      3 min read

    • Article

      A Star’s Trek

      Dec 1, 2022

      A Star’s Trek
      8 min read

    • Article

      Kid ai

      Jan 31, 2024

      Kid ai
      13 min read

    • Article

      Letter to My Son

      Jul 4, 2015

      Letter to My Son
      30 min read

    • Article

      Robert C. Koehler: Waging War . . . At The Supermarket

      Mar 25, 2021

      When a lost soul attempts to reclaim himself in the American way, it becomes, far too often . . . we all know this . . . another mass murder. In the past week or so, there have been two more of them. “This cannot be our new normal. We should be able

      3 min read

    • Article

      Don’t You Quit

      Nov 2, 2023

      Don’t You Quit
      6 min read

    • Article

      Church In The Maelstrom

      Mar 26, 2019

      Church In The Maelstrom
      11 min read

    • Article

      Kid ai

      Jul 20, 2023

      Kid ai
      13 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Heroes and Other Illusions

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      Heroes and Other Illusions - John Walters

      Heroes

      As tentacled aliens ravaged the European mainland and the eastern seaboard of the United States, a family conference was being held on the west coast at a highly respected law firm.  Those who could walk hobbled in on canes and crutches; able-bodied youngsters pushed others in wheelchairs and gurneys; a few too frail to move attended via video conference links.

      Chet Henderson, at 108, could walk, but barely.  Still, he took pride in making it unaided from his car to a padded imitation-leather armchair in the spacious conference room.

      On the large wall monitor behind the team of three lawyers at the head of the table was an image of the cyborg remote they had named George.  Laying down as if asleep, shut in protective plexiglass, he was a thing of beauty, with light brown hair, skin that appeared tan from summer sun, and lean, clearly defined musculature.

      Chet longed to be George, to feel the vigor of youth, to be able to excel at whatever activity he desired, to have twelve times the strength of a normal man.  He thought of little else, though his first turn was more than eleven months away.  The turns had been chosen by lot, at random, though Chet often wondered why those who had invested more happened to get earlier slots.

      Jacob Henderson, the eldest, 127, wheelchair bound, and the first to have availed himself of George, said with his raspy voice, So what is the meaning of this gathering?  The paperwork has long been completed, and the payments are in order and on time.

      The lawyer in the middle, the senior partner, an octogenarian named Greeley, cleared his throat and said, Our transactions have been impeccable.  There is no question of the legality of the Henderson family's ownership.  The problem is of a slightly different nature.

      Jacob said, We expect no problems, sir.  That's why we have relied on your reputable firm, to smooth out any problems for us.  We have all of us invested heavily of our retirement funds in this endeavor, and we expect full value and satisfaction.

      I understand, Greeley said.  But the problem concerns the government's current state of war.

      Jacob snorted.  What does that have to do with us?  Are you speaking of conscription?  Do you see anyone in this room able-bodied enough for warfare?  I served in the Vietnam War, for Christ's sake.

      Greeley said, They don't want you, sir.  And he slowly turned and gazed at the image on the monitor.

      A collective gasp swept the room.

      George! Jacob shouted.  They can't have him!

      They'll take him.

      We'll fight it.

      You'll lose.  They'll insure him.  They'll offer you government bonds for full value, to hold in case of damage.

      Jacob scowled.  Government bonds aren't fit for toilet paper.

      Nevertheless that is their offer, and it's final.  But there's one more thing.  If you wish, one of you, after appropriate training, can be his operator.  If no one is able or willing, the government will supply an operator.  You must realize, though, that due to the distance involved the operator's brain and parts of the nervous system will be joined to the unit.  That means that if George is destroyed, the operator dies.

      Jacob said, This is absurd.  They have no right.

      Historical precedent would say otherwise.

      We bought George to enhance our quality of life, not to end it.

      That is so.  I understand.  Shall I convey the message that none of you wish to operate the unit?

      Silence ensued as the Hendersons looked from one to the other.

      Greeley sighed, and turned off the pad in front of him.

      I'll go, said Chet.

      After another long silence Jacob's wife Emily, from her gurney, burst out in weak laughter.

      Cousin Edward removed his oxygen mask and exclaimed, You?

      Jacob said, That's ludicrous.  If I may speak frankly, you've always been a wimp.  Bullies pummeled you at school.  You registered as a conscientious objector to avoid the military.  Your wives dominated you.  What the hell do you hope to accomplish?

      All right, said Chet.  You know me.  I'm always reticent to fight.  In this situation that's an advantage.  In danger the first thing I'll do is protect myself.  In doing that, I'll be protecting our investment.  You really think the government will honor those bonds, even if we win?  Think how much George cost us.  Corporations have been formed just to buy one of these things.  You think a government operator will give a damn about that?  Chet paused, having surprised even himself with his boldness.  Fine, then.  You know the risks.  One of you volunteer instead.

      No one spoke.

      Chet said, I didn't think so.  I guess I have less to lose than any of you.

      *     *     *

      The drill sergeant was like a cliché:  ramrod straight, tall, lean, rippling with muscle, military hair cut.  He stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled.  All right, you sons of bitches, line up!

      All the cyborg-remote recruits, fifty-two of them, male and female, slowly formed a rough line.

      What kind of bullshit formation is that?  The drill sergeant stepped closer.  You might think you're stronger than I am, but you know what?  I'm a remote too.  Only difference is, I'm government issue.  I'm trained for combat, including hand to hand.  Any of you shits try to pull something on me I'm going to set you straight.  Your pain receptors are set to maximum; that's to protect you because pain lets you know you're injured.  But it can also let you know you've crossed me.  Don't.  You understand?

      A collective Yes, sir.

      Good.  By the time you can hold your own against me you won't want to.  You'll realize my job is to teach you to stay alive and inflict lethal damage on the enemy.  Now let's get started.

      Chet had not told all at the meeting.  The moment he had heard that George was being drafted for combat something had surged within him.  After a long lifetime of cowardice all he could look forward to was slow gradual deterioration most of the time in anticipation of a few weeks out of the year as George, satiating himself with hedonistic pleasure:  extreme sports, good food, good sex.  Instead, he wanted to taste what an extreme life was really all about.  It didn't matter that he might die in battle; he'd die anyway eventually.  The main point was, what a way to go!

      In keeping with his inner change Chet had modified George.  He had shaved his head; he had grown a dark thick Fu Manchu mustache; he had festooned his skin with tattoos:  identical black and red dragons writhing up his arms, skulls and crossbones on the backs of his hands, a huge snarling tiger on his chest, and a rattlesnake, usually at rest, on a certain place that was seldom seen.

      Basic strength and endurance training was not necessary; those attributes were programmed into each of the remotes.  The drill sergeant took them through various martial arts, then fencing with blades as short as knives and as long as sabers and samurai swords, then training in all sorts of projectile-firing weapons from pistols to howitzers.  Specialists taught them how to read terrains and battlefields, how to pilot planes and helicopters, how to skydive, how to make amphibious landings.  They uploaded fluency in a dozen languages and detailed maps of the eastern United States and western Europe.

      Through it all, Chet became aware of one thing:  despite the new body, he was still the same person.  He had begun his training all gung-ho, but as the real battle approached, and he learned more about the ruthless tactics of the enemy, he realized that he still feared death, and that he did not want it to come on a faraway battlefield, ripped apart and in agony; he wanted to drift away peacefully in his bed, if not surrounded by loved ones then at least attended by hired help.

      But there was nothing to do about it now.  He had committed himself, and trepidation or no, he had to see it through.

      *     *     *

      When he first met Margaret the name attracted him; it was the name of his first wife.  At 97, she seemed young to him.  Her remote's name was Cindy.  I bought in on an equal payment plan, she said.  And I'll be paying for a long time, let me tell you.  There are 26 of us, so we each get her two weeks a year - the weeks are scattered one at a time, though, so we don't have to wait so long.

      Are all the shareholders women?

      Hell, no - though about two thirds are.

      Some of my female relatives get off on inhabiting George but some, no matter how emaciated and senile, even though they bought in won't touch him.

      So you did it on a family plan, huh?

      It has its advantages and disadvantages.

      I can imagine.

      Did you have a hard time coming up with a volunteer for the war?

      Are you kidding?  Hell, no.  Almost everyone wanted to do it.  We had to draw straws, figuratively speaking.

      I guess the closer you get to death the less you care.

      Maybe.  But some of our shareholders are in their twenties and thirties.  Look, can I make a suggestion?

      Sure, why not?

      I like you, but the way you've accessorized yourself, with the baldness, the moustache, and the tattoos is retro and a real turn-off.  If you normalize a bit I wouldn't mind a date.

      I thought it made me look manly and scary.

      Actually quite the opposite.  My first impulse was to laugh out loud, but I'm inherently a very polite person.

      So Chet quickly lost the tattoos and mustache and grew back a little hair on top.

      When cyborg remotes had sex with normals it was ultimately dissatisfying, as normals so quickly became satiated and exhausted.  Chet and Margaret, though, found out that they could keep going for hours and hours and hours.  So they did.

      *     *     *

      During the last part of their training the cyborg remote unit, which had finally settled on the nickname Frankenstein's Spawn, was given detailed instruction in the appearance and tactics of the enemy.  The aliens resembled hermit crabs with circular shells ranging from seven to twelve feet in diameter.  It had not yet been determined whether the shells were artificial or organic.  They changed color according to environment.  They could roll along at speeds of up to sixty miles an hour, and were highly maneuverable.  When they stopped they would extend tentacles and then either shoot poison projectiles, accurate to a hundred yards, which on impact would explode into an acid spray, or, at close range, rip their victims apart.  The units watched video footage of both types of attack:  groups of civilians and soldiers screaming as their skin melted, and individuals being torn limb from limb, blood and entrails flying everywhere.

      What the military experts couldn't figure out was why the aliens were attacking.

      The drill sergeant said, We have body armor to protect you from the acid spray, but unfortunately it slows you down.  The only way to get these things is to move fast.  When they emerge is the only time they are vulnerable, and they only emerge when they have a sure kill.

      Maybe they're not after us at all, Margaret said.  Maybe their motivation is completely self-serving.

      That's right, said the drill sergeant.  Like predators looking for prey.

      Margaret said, We don't know that.  We surmise, based on our own mindset.  They're aliens.  How do we know what they're thinking when they react?  And in each of the civilian deaths the aliens weren't the aggressors; they reacted to what they perceived as threat.

      The drill sergeant said, When you're being attacked by a lion or a shark you don't bother with motivation.  You strike back to save your life.  This is our world, not theirs.  Whatever they have in mind they are a threat to us.

      *     *     *

      As the helicopter carrying a dozen of Frankenstein's Spawn flew into the war zone past vehicle-choked roads and hordes of fleeing refugees, Chet wondered what he was doing and why he had volunteered.  He was absolutely certain that he wasn't cut out for this and that he had made a mistake.  He was 108 years old, for Christ's sake.  You couldn't cut out a lifetime of slow dying by changing bodies.  If he could just be back in his own house in peace he'd even be willing to forsake his share of the time with George.

      But it was too late - too late.

      Besides, Margaret sat next to him, ready to jump on command, and he didn't want to appear cowardly to her.  They had had sex several times since their first exuberant session, and it had been as intense and prolonged as before, but the last few times they had begun to talk together afterwards.  Margaret had told him of her marriages, her children, her disappointments and frustrations and thrills and victories throughout her long life, and Chet had begun to enjoy the conversations even more than the sex.  After all, with a cyborg body sex could be obtained easily; however, a good friend was just as difficult to find as ever.

      Are you afraid? Margaret whispered.

      At first, in a show of bravado, Chet said No, - but then he paused, and said, Yes.

      Me too.  I decided, old as I am, that I'm still not ready to die.

      George said, I thought I was, but I'm not.

      What would you do if the unit gets damaged?  It might take a long time to replace it.  Too long for us, maybe.  Would you still want to live?

      Would you?

      Margaret chuckled.  Classic evasion technique:  answer a question with a question.

      I like you.

      Margaret shook her head.  No, you like Cindy.  She's the one that's young and vigorous.

      I enjoy that, sure, but I like who's inside her.

      I can disillusion you of that quickly enough.  Look at this.  She uploaded a picture to the screen on her wrist.  This is what I look like when I'm not surrounded by Cindy.  Her white hair was thin and frizzy; her face looked as if it had begun to melt and then froze into folds and wrinkles.  She appeared as if she'd crumple like paper if he touched her.

      Chet shook his head.  I can't show you what I look like.  It'd scare you worse than Frankenstein's Monster.

      Come on.  I showed you mine, now you have to show me yours.  That's real soul-sharing.

      The drill sergeant's voice saved Chet.  All right, we're near the drop zone.  Everyone check your equipment.  A ship's just landed; the creatures are rolling out as we speak.  There should be a few dozen of them.  Remember, go for the kill.

      To the west the sun, low on the horizon, cast blood-red light over the suburban shopping sprawl they were flying over, making the landscape a mottle of hellish crimson and dark shadow.

      There! the drill sergeant shouted. 

      The ship was oblong and reflected the sun's glare.  Out of a portal on the side rolled shapes that appeared to be wheels without vehicles.

      They haven't picked up speed yet.  Jump!  Jump!

      Chet felt Margaret's hand squeeze his, briefly, before he lined up with the others.  The cyborg in front of him leapt out of the chopper, and then Chet did.

      Terror seized him as he rushed through the air; he barely managed to remember to whip his glide-wings out in time.  He wanted to execute a banking turn and head far away.  Instead, when he got his equilibrium he aimed for the first wheel he noticed.  It was a big one:  about ten feet across.  It had just started to move.  As Chet's feet touched the ground he jettisoned his wings, rolled once, pulled out a grenade, and threw it.  The blast toppled the wheel.  Even as it fell, writhing tentacles, red-orange in the sun's fading glare, erupted from the middle.  The appendages had no suction cups as an octopus or squid's did; they were more like long plant leaves with serrated edges.  Chet could see no eyes, but somehow it targeted him and shot pellets one after the other.  He ran towards the alien, twisting and zigzagging and dodging.  As he did he readied three more grenades.  When his distance ensured accuracy he tossed them one after the other, and then ran as fast as he could for the cover of a parking garage.

      After detonation he returned to find a steaming mess of something like flesh bubbling in the wheel-like shell.  He threw another grenade in anyway for good measure.

      Glancing about for another target, he spotted Margaret's Cindy-cyborg up close to another wheel.  But something was wrong.  Her wings were still attached and she was trying to disengage them.  At the same time tentacles zoomed out of the shell faster than Chet would have thought possible.  One grabbed Cindy's right arm and ripped it off.

      Blood sprayed.

      Cindy screamed.

      Another tentacle severed her right leg at the knee.  She fell to the ground helpless.

      As Chet ran he pulled the handle of his extension sword from his belt and pressed the activation button.  A yard of razor-sharp titanium zipped out.  He leapt between Margaret and the tentacles and slashed wildly.  The ends of several tentacles were sliced clean off, but acid sprayed out of the wounds, catching Chet on the face and arms.

      It was his turn to scream.  In his long life he had endured broken bones, insect stings, migraine headaches, appendicitis, shingles, and other various operations and diseases.  None of those pains came close to what he felt now as the acid worked its way into his skin.

      His mind wanted to lose itself somewhere in inanity and never come back; his body wanted to fall to the ground and writhe.

      Instead, despite his own dissolving flesh, despite the agony which wanted to take predominance over anything he had been, was, or would be, he picked up what was left of Margaret/Cindy's bloody mess of a body and ran.

      By the time he reached the parking garage she had all but passed out and was mumbling incoherently.  He applied a hemostatic agent to arrest the blood flow from her stumps.

      Then Chet noticed a shuffling sound which seemed to come from the next level down.  Leaving Margaret hidden behind a car and switching on his night vision, he crept down the concrete ramp.

      The largest alien wheel Chet had ever seen rested on the concrete, but the alien had left.  It was using its tentacles to maneuver its bulbous mass towards a large van.  The creature was so large Chet wondered how it had ever fit into the wheel; then he realized that it fit no longer, and it was trying to locate another protective device to inhabit.  The hermit crab analogy came back to him.  The shell did not grow, but the creature within did.  Smaller habitations continually had to be abandoned for larger.

      Prevent this process and the creatures were doomed.  Perhaps they could be sealed within the wheels.  Perhaps they could be kept from entering alternatives.  Maybe smart guys higher up had already thought of these

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1