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    Invasive Procedures: Stories
    Invasive Procedures: Stories
    Invasive Procedures: Stories
    Ebook290 pages4 hours

    Invasive Procedures: Stories

    By John Walters

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    About this ebook

    A dying detective's final assignment, to solve the mystery of a series of kidnappings of infants from maternity wards of hospitals, becomes complicated when he discovers that aliens are abducting the babies to use as vehicles for their non-corporeal colonists.

    An elderly warrior faces ignominious torture and death as a sacrificial scapegoat offering to prevent total warfare.

    Invisible aliens infiltrate human society as innocuous researchers, students, and tourists, but when humans become aware of them and react violently, the aliens strike back.

    While seeking solace among the station riffraff before a violent alien invasion, a lonely technician on a remote moon outpost learns of a wild plan to save the populace by driving them to the edge of sanity and beyond.

    These and other exciting, surreal, enigmatic, gut-wrenching, breathtaking, uplifting, tear-inducing tales offer you strange journeys into mysterious and wondrous places that you've never before imagined.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAstaria Books
    Release dateAug 2, 2018
    ISBN9781386426059
    Invasive Procedures: 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.

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      Book preview

      Invasive Procedures - John Walters

      Contents

      1.   The Beatification of Lady Poverty

      2.   High Time in Low Town

      3.   Invasive Procedures

      4.   He/She/They

      5.   Manifest Destiny

      6.   The Siege of Bright Hope

      7.   A Voice in the Wilderness

      8.   The Rip Van Winkle Effect

      9.   The Scapegoat

      10. What Really Happened to Martin Eden

      11. Camp College

      12. Afterword

      13. End Notes

      The Beatification of Lady Poverty

      I had been surveilling her from about half a block away, waiting for an incident. When it happened, she was traversing a shadowed, filthy alley in a part of town where even I, with all my training, felt insecure.

      Dressed in a long-sleeve lilac-colored gown, barefoot despite the chill of early autumn, she hummed an ethereal melody as she walked, seemingly oblivious to the environment around her. She smiled at everyone she passed, although in return she received grimaces or surely shakes of the head.

      The sky was an uncanny deep blue, and the trees spaced along the street had shocking crimson and orange leaves.

      When she stepped within the dark alley entrance, I had to restrain myself from rushing forward and shouting a warning.

      That would have been ludicrous. After all, I had been hoping for an opportunity like this. Still, it was hard to believe the rumors I had heard.

      I reached the corner and peered around; she was already a few dozen paces inside. Her gown blended with the shadows and shone when it hit narrow bands of sunlight. She broke into a sweet song about wind, grass, a rushing stream, and freedom.

      And that's when they came forth out of doorways and from behind dumpsters, about six or seven of them, like a pack of wolves surrounding a doe. They carried sticks, pipes, chains, and knives. They were tall, broad-shouldered, and silent.

      The woman ended her song. The last clear note hung in the air like an animated hummingbird until it dissipated and disappeared. Her back was to me so I couldn't see her expression. She didn't appear to be frightened, though; she stood still, not trembling, not attempting to flee.

      Sweetheart, said one of the men, you picked the wrong turf to trespass on.

      Excuse me, she said in a calm voice. I want to pass.

      They all laughed without mirth. It was the laugh of the predator, the laugh of the sadist.

      Again I wanted to intervene; again I held myself back.

      When they rushed her, she held up her hands, elbows bent, palms out.

      Her assailants staggered backwards. One slammed against a brick wall and slowly collapsed into a heap, his head trailing a dark smear of blood. One fell into a basement stairwell with a sickening thud. One screamed as his arms broke and twisted into odd angles. One somehow smashed his own face with the club he carried. Each of them, in diverse ways, was violently and painfully incapacitated.

      As soon as her path was unblocked, the woman continued walking, glancing neither to right nor left at her bleeding, groaning would-be attackers.

      I caught up with her at the far end of the alley. Excuse me, I called. Excuse me. Can I speak with you?

      She turned with a disconcerting smile, as if oblivious to the carnage she had left behind. She had dark hair, light brown skin, and hazel eyes with flecks of green.

      I said, I don't want to hurt you. I want to talk. Can I buy you a coffee, or something to eat?

      Yes, thank you, she said. I'd like a cup of tea. And maybe a croissant.

      *     *     *

      We sat facing each other at a window-side table. I drank black coffee. She took small bites of her pastry between sips of green tea. As she ate, it appeared as if she was thinking about nothing else, as if the food and drink fully occupied her senses and awareness.

      Thank you, she said. I was hungry.

      You're welcome. After a pause I added, Can you tell me what happened back there in the alley?

      Yes. She closed her eyes to savor a gulp of tea; for a moment I thought she wouldn't say more, but then she looked at me and continued: My guardian spirits recognized a threat from those men, and they defended me.

      Your guardian spirits?

      Yes.

      Who are these spirits?

      I don't know. All I know is that they are constantly with me, and they will let nothing harm me.

      How did you find them?

      They came to me in a time of need. May I have some more tea?

      Of course. I called the waiter over and asked him to refill our cups. When he had finished and left, I said, What happened?

      It started at school, she said. I was absentminded; I got behind in my studies. I had to repeat some grades. By my senior year in high school I was two years older than anyone else in my class. Also, my father is white and my mother is black, and that was another strike against me. I was bullied mercilessly, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I was so ashamed, and I couldn't bring myself to talk to anyone: not my parents, or my teachers - and I had no real friends. I decided that my only escape was to kill myself.

      She related her story matter-of-factly, without a trace of the negativity that usually accompanies such confessions.

      But I couldn't figure out how to do it. I was afraid to cut myself, or drink something poisonous, or jump from a high place. Finally I decided to walk off into the woods near our home - to walk away and never come back. It was summer, so it wasn't cold. I wore sneakers, jeans, a tee-shirt, and a light jacket. At dusk I took a bus to the beginning of a path that led off into the national forest. I didn't know what I expected to happen; I had no clear plan. I followed the trail through the trees until the sun had set and I could hardly see my way. Although I was terrified, I never had a thought of turning back. Then, a short distance ahead in a clearing, I saw lights.

      What kind of lights?

      Beautiful dancing lights. They were almost like fireflies, only larger and multicolored. They surrounded some sort of object that looked like a cottage set in the meadow. I was both frightened and fascinated. I approached slowly, but at some point I became overwhelmed and fell to my knees. And that's when they spoke to me.

      The lights?

      No. The spirits.

      Are you certain that you saw and heard these things? You might have imagined them.

      Does it matter? Whether I saw them with the eyes in my head or with my heart, the result is the same. You witnessed what happened in the alley.

      Yes.

      What do you think drives people to succeed? Lust. Not just for sex, but for money, power, fame, material objects...whatever. Something gives them great strength to pursue these things. I was ready to surrender my life, and that's what opened me up to the epiphany.

      Epiphany?

      Yes. My guardian spirits spoke to me for the first time. They said that if I gave up all desire for anything else, they could use the power inherent in my desires to protect me.

      How is that possible?

      I don't know. But I believed them. I had already forsaken my home, my family, even my life. As a symbolic gesture I stripped the clothes I was wearing off my body. When my mind and heart were completely clear I felt the change. I knew that what they had told me was true.

      I had already heard an approximation of this story from someone else who had interviewed her. It was ludicrous, that's what it was. And yet somehow she had that power.

      I can see that you're skeptical, she said. In the face of your training and everything you've been brought up to believe, I can't blame you. The problem is that neither you nor anyone else indoctrinated in the same system of thought can test it out. Your motivation would be wrong. It wouldn't work. To receive guardian spirits you have to give up everything else. Everything.

      So there are more of these guardian spirits?

      Many more. However, they await those who will meet their conditions. They will not compromise.

      I had been present at some of the sessions in which experts in neurology, psychology, and military science had discussed this young woman's power and how it could be utilized. Numerous hypotheses to account for the phenomenon had been discussed; some of the wilder possibilities involved possession by demons or aliens. At one point, a team had been dispatched to bring her in for testing. That team disappeared and was never heard from again.

      I provided an alternative approach.

      Charlene...

      Please don't call me that.

      But isn't that your name: Charlene Walcott?

      Not anymore. I abandoned my name along with everything else.

      All right. My name is Derek Henderson, and I work for the government, specifically the Defense Department. I approached you to ask for your help.

      Her eyebrows and lips curled into a frown, although her clear eyes did not covey perplexity. How could I possibly help you?

      Are you aware that there's a war going on?

      I remember learning of it before my guardian spirits found me. But don't waste your time. I cannot fight in your war.

      I understand that. You may be able to do something else to assist us.

      I don't think so.

      Charlene... I'm sorry; it's hard not to call you by your former name... The war has continued for months. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers have died. Millions of women, children, and old people have been displaced. It is at a stalemate. Neither side is winning. We want to put an end to it.

      Her eyes had become shiny with tears, like the glint of rain on leaves in a forest. I'm sorry for these people. But there's nothing I can do.

      All we are asking is that you take a walk.

      A walk?

      Yes. If you approach the enemy, they will be unable to harm you. Their weapons will be turned back upon themselves. We hope that the futility of their efforts will provoke a ceasefire.

      You simply want me to walk towards your opponents.

      Yes. That's all.

      And you think that will save the innocent victims of this madness?

      We don't know. We hope so.

      The former Charlene Walcott closed her eyes and meditated for a time.

      *     *     *

      On the troop transport aircraft to Europe, surrounded by the heavily armed, combat-ready Special Forces unit assigned as her escort, Charlene was in an ebullient mood, humming and singing. From time to time she would get up and dance in the aisle, her long-sleeve gold, blue, and emerald dress spinning and shimmering. She had refused to don a full uniform. She had also refused boots, but I managed to persuade her to don thin-soled dark green walking shoes as protection against sharp objects on the battlefield.

      It was comical to watch the battle-hardened warriors attempt to maintain grim, bad-ass expressions when faced with her cavorting.

      Although she was not a strict vegetarian, she generally eschewed meat dishes in favor of salads, yogurt, fruit, nuts, and tofu. I had made sure that the crew stocked some of her favorite foods so she would be well nourished before her mission.

      When we landed just before dawn behind the lines, a chill wind blew over the battered plain. Before she exited the aircraft, in plain view of the Special Forces men, with complete lack of self-consciousness she stripped naked and put on a warm fleece to wear under her dress.

      The dark star-specked sky became azure, and the scattered clouds glowed with amber hues.

      We waited for full daylight. This was to be a public demonstration. We had debated whether or not we should invite the press, but eventually decided against it. If our plan failed, the negative publicity could be devastating. Instead, we placed a number of military photographers and videographers in key positions. This way, we had the controlled option of censoring footage of a disaster or releasing footage of a victory.

      I accompanied Charlene past command posts, weaponry, and troop placements.

      She said, It's a beautiful day, isn't it?

      Yes, I said, and you look lovely.

      She smiled. Thank you. I feel wonderful.

      Good. On your walk, I want you to wear this.

      It was the combat jacket of a private first class.

      No, I'm sorry. I told you before: I can't.

      It's important. Your mission will fail if you don't. If they simply accept you as a refugee without challenging you, nothing will have been accomplished and the battle will continue. We have to draw them out. Think of the hundreds of thousands, perhaps even millions of lives you might save.

      She closed her eyes and meditated for a moment.

      All right, she said. I accept it as a gift. After all, it is of no significance to me.

      Thank you, I said.

      She slipped it on.

      I said, I can't come any farther. Do you see that cleft between those two hills in the distance? Head straight for that point. Keep it as your landmark. Try not to get diverted by anything you see along the way.

      I'll try. She kissed me on the cheek, turned, and fearlessly sauntered off onto the battlefield as if she were strolling through her local park.

      I tracked her with binoculars as long as I could, and then I switched to a computer with a satellite link-up.

      She walked a kilometer, a kilometer and a half, a kilometer and three quarters. By this time she was over halfway across the battlefield. The enemy was doubtlessly aware of her.

      She had almost reached the two kilometer mark when they opened fire from cover with automatic rifles.

      She stopped and raised her arms, elbows bent, palms out, as she had in the alley. For a time the fusillade continued, but she remained unharmed.

      After a moment of silence and stillness, she resumed her perambulation. Then there was the pop and whistle of mortar fire. She paused, and the projectiles reversed direction and flew back to their points of origin, where they exploded with loud cracks.

      Shortly after she started walking again, the enemy let loose a barrage powerful enough to fell a full battalion. Charlene disappeared in the roiling dust and smoke.

      When the smoke cleared, the battlefield was empty.

      Had they obliterated our pacifistic ace in the hole, or had she made it all the way across, where she would presumably continue to wreak havoc every time a soldier attempted to harm or capture her?

      We had always considered her deployment an extreme long shot, and we had not been able to come up with a viable extraction plan in case she was successful. She was a one-shot weapon, and she had been fired. Now all we could do was wait and assess her effectiveness.

      The enemy remained dormant for the rest of the day and night. Shortly before dawn, they began to disperse.

      A trap? We couldn't be certain. As the opposing troops took to the roads and scattered northward and eastward, we waited, biding our time.

      In the early afternoon, the order was given to advance. Our troops traversed the plain cautiously, alert for mines or snipers.

      I was just behind the first wave; I still had hopes that Charlene had survived, and I wanted to lure her back for debriefing.

      We made it all the way across to the perimeter of the enemy's former headquarters before we spotted any of their soldiers. No more than a dozen men advanced upon us from scattered positions, making no attempt at organizing in formation.

      Our advance troops raised their weapons and ordered them to halt.

      The order was ignored. The men kept shambling forward.

      There was something very odd about all this.

      Abruptly I realized what was happening. I broke into a run, and screamed, Don't shoot! Don't shoot! Cease fire!

      I was too late.

      An instant after the bullets left the rifles, they reversed direction and plunged back into the bodies of the shooters. The entire front line of soldiers dropped to the ground dead and dying.

      I turned around, raised my arms, and shouted, Cease fire! Stand down!

      By this time, the first enemy soldier had reached me. He was unarmed, and he was smiling. Despite the overlay of filth and beard stubble, his face shone with the same joyous, innocent expression Charlene always displayed.

      Somehow they had turned our own weapon against us.

      Even then I had the premonition that what Charlene was spreading would have far greater consequences than a mere cessation of hostilities.

      *     *     *

      We had no choice but to withdraw our troops. As a weapon, Charlene had turned out to be a two-edged sword. Her initial incursion caused heavy casualties among the enemy, yes, but she had somehow infected a number of them with the malaise of her invulnerability.

      It took me time to piece together the story of what had happened from eyewitnesses.

      The enemy had not consciously caused the reversal of fortune on the battlefield. Their officers and most of the soldiers had fled, as we had hoped. However, some of the soldiers who had survived the onslaught of their own weapons approached Charlene and pleaded with her to teach them the secret of her fearlessness and power. They came from simple religious backgrounds in which the forsaking of the things of the world was commonplace, and they readily accepted the notion of abandoning all else to be worthy of the protection of guardian spirits. They believed what she said. They acquired her power.

      And then she turned them back on us.

      It was a brilliant move.

      Soon afterwards, the war ended in confusion and irresolution.

      Charlene wandered off on a pilgrimage through the European mainland. Populaces starved for freedom from fear flocked to her. Armies, police forces, and organized criminals became impotent before the gentle onslaught of Charlene and her acolytes. Stock markets crashed; currencies devalued into nothingness. People abandoned their homes in droves and set out upon the open road.

      By this time, others like Charlene had become manifest in North America, South America, Asia, and Australia. Their stories were similar to hers. While in a state of despair, they had been approached by ghosts, or aliens, or spirits, and offered an alternative.

      Analysts from military and intelligence agencies met in secret in Washington, D.C., to deal with the phenomenon. Suggestions of possible origins included genetic manipulation, pharmacological experimentation, alien invasion, and incursions from parallel universes. No proof existed for any of these hypotheses. Most of the proposed solutions involved weapons of some sort, from viruses to nuclear bombs. However, no weapon, no matter how powerful, appeared to be able to harm them. Additionally, they had infiltrated themselves throughout the populations of the world, and massive attacks on them would result in millions of collateral deaths.

      The conference broke apart in confusion, as did the military forces and intelligence agencies that had sponsored it.

      Is it an invasion? Are we voluntarily laying down our weapons and rendering ourselves powerless due to the machinations of a vastly superior intelligence from beyond? I know not. What I know is that I am lonely and confused and afraid. An aircraft is leaving shortly before midnight to return some of the representatives of our allies to their respective countries. I will be on it. I will seek out blessed Lady Poverty, the erstwhile Charlene Walcott, and beg her to teach me how to surrender myself totally, that I might find peace. After that, I will report to no one.

      High Time in Low Town

      The day before the aliens invade Eric Hempman scans the star-laden skies one more time before he goes below. What's the point, though? Nobody will see them coming with the naked eye. Instruments will detect them, but a warning of imminent attack is futile; the outpost has far too few weapons to even slow down, let alone stop, the enemy. They'll come, and they'll wreak havoc. They may take prisoners or they may not; they may deign to permit survivors or they may not. If they do allow anyone to live, it will be as mangled abominations of what they once were.

      Eric sighs, turns, and descends metal steps several levels deep into moonrock. His melancholy causes him to wax philosophical: what does one do with the last hours of one's life?

      Find a woman, of course.

      But how?

      He hasn't exactly had much of a social life for the past decade or so. Not only that, but to call him merely ugly would be a kindness. Oh, he started out once on Old Earth young and spry and all self-contained with his original body parts, but various accidents and ill fortunes pared him down and necessitated replacements. Sometimes doctors found close fits to the original tissues, but other times they had to make do with whatever organic, metallic, or synthetic substitutes were available. In short, he now looks like an action figure that some kid cobbled together with disparate spare toy parts. He is rusty in some places, and he leaks in others. Even his face, which is more or less intact, is replete with scar tissue and a purple rash he picked up on some faraway world.

      There is only one place he can go to find sexual solace: low town. The entire moon is staffed

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