SCIENCE FICTION AND ITS PAST RELATIONS WITH THE ACADEMY

Victor Grech, Clare Vassallo and Ivan Callus

‘What was once … a secret movement has become part of the cultural wallpaper’

SF authors have traditionally spurned the disdain of critics who ‘sneer the ineradicable sneer’ at SF authors and assert that SF is too shallow for serious consideration, and such critics have been in turn accused of being ‘ignorant or afraid of science […] rejecting […] the universe in favor of a small human circle, limited in time and place to their own lifetimes’.1 In some ways, SF partakes of some of the properties of fantastic literature, as defined by Todorov,2 insofar as SF leads us to worlds that do not exist, and with readerly agreement, the narratee is ‘transported to a scenario more magical and uplifting than the real, coarse everyday world’.3 Tolkien calls this combination of fantastic, miraculous deliverance and poignant eucatastrophe, the sense of evangelium, a means with which authors impart good news and happy endings.4 This accords with Frederic Jameson’s contention that SF ‘give us ‘images’ of the future […] but rather defamiliarize [s] and restructure [s] our experience of our own present’.5

However, until recently, in the eyes of the academy, SF was treated with a degree of disdain by the assemblage of ‘serious’ mainstream and classical literature. Matters are confused by the fact that SF is inherently dichotomous, both authoritarian and antiauthoritarian, the former due to its traditionally male dominated leanings and its overall hard science slant, and the latter as it is antiestablishment and anticanon.

It was thus for decades that the genre was marginalised and relegated to a subordinate role in literature studies, for being ersatz and escapist. However, ‘the real universe is […] too small […] for the expansion of escapist dreams, so SF has invented a lot of other universes’,6 and this is a major attraction to the SF writer, who has almost carte blanche for his creations. But despite being perceived as somehow ‘inferior’ and actively stigmatised and viewed with hostility by traditionalists, many SF works tend to be intertextual and engage recognised and acclaimed canonical texts, as already discussed, and conversely, a multitude of traditionally canonical texts engage icons and tropes that are typically associated with SF. Luckhurst remarks that there is a ‘sense that SF has been ignored, ridiculed or undervalued’ resulting in repeated attempts by readers and authors alike ‘to carve out a ‘respectable canon’.7

This has been acknowledged by the academy with a relatively recent revival of SF studies, including several journals (such as Science Fiction Studies) with a broadening of the margins of the canon in order to deliberately embrace SF works. However, these efforts remain mired in controversy by virtue of their leanings and selections of texts for inclusion within the canon, a ploy that results in the continuing marginalization of many traditional SF works that engage hard science and are not deemed literary enough.

The first serious academic study of the genre was by the British novelist Kingsley Amis, who also famously championed other marginal writings including Fleming’s James Bond series. Amis ‘was clearly inspired by the idea of making science fiction appear ‘respectable’, by giving it a distinguished ancestry and by giving it a clear social purpose’.8 This arguably constituted an attempt at rehabilitation from a genre born within particularly lurid pulp covers of the 1930s and 1940s magazines that frequently depicted scantily-clad maidens attired in brass underwear,9 menaced by repugnant, bug-eyed aliens while being liberated by square-jawed heroes, the covers were invariably far more lurid than the magazines’ contents, paralleling contemporary prejudices. Indeed, the perpetrator, Earle K. Bergey, was quite renowned for his magazine cover art that frequently portrayed implausible female costumes, including the classic brass brassieres. SF’s image of the time was strongly associated with his Startling Stories magazine covers for 1942-1952.10

When invited to Princeton to deliver the Christian Gauss lectures in 1959, Amis chose to speak about SF which he likened to jazz, an underappreciated American art form. These lectures were published as New Maps of Hell (1960).11 Amis was particularly taken with the humorous dystopias created by Sheckley and the ‘trademark of both Pohl’s stories and his collaborations with Cyril Kornbluth to turn capitalist systems against themselves’,12 as in The Space Merchants (1953) which heavily satirised capitalist systems of advertising, marketing and the resulting excesses of the worst possible consumerism.13

Such earnest attention from a mainstream figure naturally enhanced SF’s reputation, particularly when it was followed by several SF anthologies, co-edited by Amis and drawn heavily from Campbell’s Astounding. Furthermore, a tape-recorded discussion on SF took place between Amis, Brian Aldiss and C. S. Lewis, and this was eventually published among Lewis’s work.14 It was also around this time that the first SF critical journal Extrapolation was launched.15 Amis also eventually went on to write two alternate-history SF novels, The Alteration (1976)16 and Russian Hide-and-Seek (1980),17 an interesting choice of SF trope as although mainstream fiction is mimetic of the real world, it too occasionally utilises traditionally SF threads, such as alternate endings, as famously shown, for example, in John Fowles’ The French Lieutenant’s Woman (1969).18

New Maps of Hell, while daring for its time, now seems faintly condescending with low expectations for characterisation and for the very prose itself and while it ‘supplied critical depth, […] lacked breadth […], high on theory but low on detail’.19 Amis’s rather shallow support for SF became evident with the advent of New Wave SF in the 1960s which centred round the New Worlds magazine after Michael Moorcock assumed editorial control in 1963. The most important exponents of this predominantly British movement were Aldiss, Ballard and Moorcock.20 Ballard in particular occupied a ‘weirdly undecidable location […], never fully inside or outside of the SF world’,21 in his literature that contrives to be the ‘union of speculative fiction and the literary avant-garde’.22

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BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

Jeffrey G. Roberts

I stand looking into my open grave. Except it isn’t in the beautiful white sandy beach I find myself on, but above me – some 5000 feet. Like a wound in the sky, I stare at it; it stares back at me – eternal, immortal, frozen in time. The old phrase, ‘what happens when an immovable object meets an irresistible force’ always intrigued me. No more. Now I know. I know – because I caused this. Not God, not the devil, not malevolent nations. Me.

I could warn all the girls on my private island. I could tell my servants and staff to run. I could email everyone on the face of the Earth, to take cover – doomsday is upon us! But what would be the point? They couldn’t hear me anyway. And they never will. For an eternity. The only one that can hear me, the only one I can talk to – is my own reflection. The Earth is silent – except for me.

No, God didn’t cause this, though some might disagree. But he sure as hell is punishing me for it. The ultimate punishment. I’ve run it over and over in my head a million times as I lie on my bed at night, and stare out at the silent stars; at a world made mute by my arrogance. And I wake up the next morning to the birds, frozen in mid-flight. And I have no more answers than I did the night before. Or a thousand soul-searching nights before that. I’m in hell! And I made it, all by myself. Could I have changed anything? Sure. I could have decided to be a decent human being, instead of the son-of-a-bitch I turned into. And now I’m paying the price for it. Oh dear God, please let me go back to the beginning!

“Mr. Bingston, would you be so kind as to input this data on subjects 6-15 into the mainframe?”

“Of course, Dr. McFarland,” the senior technician answered, as he walked up to his superior.

“We’re paid to work here at D.A.R.P.A., Mr. Bingston,” he said sarcastically. “Not to eat. Your last break was three minutes over. Besides, I think you could afford to forego a few donut breaks,” he added, mocking Charles Bingston, as he patted the technician’s stomach.

“Of course, Dr. McFarland.” ‘You royal pain in the ass,’ he thought bitterly. He despised the man; his arrogance, his conceit, and his constant belittling of him, as a sort of indentured servant. ‘I didn’t get straight A’s in college to be treated like a slave. I swear, McFarland, one more sarcastic remark, one more insult…’ Charles Bingston could feel his muscles tightening and his teeth clench, as he began inputting the data. ‘Isn’t there some obscure law in this state against murder? Pity.’

There were 50 scientists & technicians working on this secret “black” research program at D.A.R.P.A., but for some inexplicable reason Dr. Ross McFarland seemed to focus his animosity and sarcasm on Charles Bingston. Charles had no idea why – and he didn’t care. He just wanted it to stop. And if it didn’t, he had the germ of a plan to make it stop – and discredit McFarland at the same time.

Unfortunately, he could air his bitterness to no one. This particular D.A.R.P.A. “black” program was so radical, so revolutionary, and so secret, that it was absolutely forbidden to discuss what went on here. To anyone. To do so would result in the most dire of consequences.

Once every six months the top brass from the Pentagon would review all relevant black projects in question; to assess their progress, to see how many untraceable billions might have to be further pumped into them, and to determine their relevance in strategic military operations. Bright and early on a Wednesday morning, they came. There were 12 of them, with so much “fruit salad” on their chests, and “scrambled eggs” on their hats, it looked like a buffet. Dr. McFarland had gathered his scientists and technicians together, just before their arrival. It was supposed to be a pep talk, but as was his style, it was more of a dressing down – and he was looking right at Charles Bingston, with an accusatory stare. “Just keep your mouths shut and don’t say a word, unless they address you directly. And if one of them does, direct the question to me. Is that understood?” All nodded affirmatively. “Bingston, get me a cup of coffee. I missed my breakfast. Chop-chop!”

“Yes sir.” ‘Glad to, Dr. McFarland. Will that be one lump of cyanide or two?’

It was a lab quite unlike anything the Pentagon had ever seen before. They suspected something truly strange was going on here. ‘This isn’t science,’ one Lieutenant thought. ‘This looks more like “para-science”!’

“General Butler,” McFarland began, “welcome to Project Tempus. The 28 men and women in these glass containers are the refuse of society, the dregs of the populace. I assure you, they won’t be missed,” he said curtly, referring to his tablet.

“Are they alive?” Gen. Butler asked.

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“Yes sir. But just barely. They are monitored 24/7, so that we may know the exact moment of their deaths. They are all terminal. But I assure you, they are in no pain.”

“What purpose will their deaths serve, Dr. McFarland?” the General’s aide inquired.

“Their purpose, ironically, will be to part the veil between this world and the next, and capture the energy between the two dimensions.”

There was an unsettling murmuring amongst the assembled brass.

“As you can see,” he continued, “there is a quantum computer atop each glass capsule. Surrounding the head of each capsule is a confined magnetic field. You see, there are seven energy fields in the human aura. It is postulated that the highest of these morphogenetic levels – the seventh – has to do with that frequency popularly known – as the soul. This frequency transcends normal time & space. We believe it is the key.”

“The key to what?” Gen. Butler asked nervously.

“To the afterlife, General!”

Now there was stunned silence.

‘I think I’m going to vomit,’ Charles thought.

“Do we plan an invasion of heaven? No, of course not,” McFarland continued. “That is wading into waters far too deep even for us. But consider this: everyone who has been through a near death experience, or NDE, as well as every verifiable psychic medium who has made contact with ‘the other side’, has remarked on the absence of time in that realm. The passage of time to an immortal is irrelevant. But just how does time cease once you cross over?” He walked over to one of the capsules containing a very old and very sickly man, looked down at his tablet, and tapped the magnetic field apparatus encircling his head. “The frequency of that 7th level, we believe, is the key all souls take with them, to initiate the cessation of time in that dimension – heaven, if you will. It is a particle we have dubbed the Tempus Particle. And this device, on each of the capsules, will capture it before it can sail off into that other plane of existence. We will then transfer it into a portable magnetic bottle for study.”

“Aren’t you worried that you’re playing God, Dr.?” the General’s aide asked.

“Someone has to, young man. Someone has to,” he answered matter-of-factly.

“Let’s assume you can isolate this Tempus Particle,” the General wondered, walking among the capsules of comatose and forgotten individuals, who now, even in death would have no peace. “Towards what end, Dr.?”

“Oh come now, General. You’re a military man. Think of the possibilities! Unleashing the Tempus Particle, in a controlled way, here on Earth, instead of in the afterlife? The ability to stop time? Why, you could freeze whole armies in their tracks, then kill them with impunity. These unfortunate souls,” he said, waving his arm about the giant facility, “will have given the ultimate scientific contribution, ensuring that their sacrifice will guarantee consistent victory for our forces in any engagement.” He then made a few taps on his tablet.

‘What does he have on that, that’s not on the main frame,’ Charles wondered. ‘I think I know. Yeah, consistent victory, while you condemn them to an eternity wandering the Earth in torment, you fat son-of-a-bitch!’ he thought.

Whatever bug McFarland had up his butt towards Bingston only intensified in the weeks to come. But it reached a head one day, when Charles handed him a wrong piece of equipment.

“What’s wrong with you, Bingston? Were you born stupid, or did you attain it in slow degrees over time? Hell, I could hire a trained monkey to do what you do!”

And that did it. It was the final straw. He would bring this little Hitler down, end his reign of abuse toward him and others, and put an end to the heartless, if not blasphemous, experiment known as Project Tempus.

Ross McFarland may have been a senior scientist at D.A.R.P.A., but Charles Bingston was one of the top engineering technicians in the country. He knew the schematics of the revolutionary portable magnetic bottle, inside and out. And, given enough time, he could fabricate one himself. Which is just what he proceeded to do; bit by bit, component by component. It took him six months, but now he was ready for phase I of his grand plan to rid the world of the malignancy of Project Tempus. And its reprehensible architect.

He had come to the lab one night on graveyard shift, ostensibly to catch up on some unfinished work, before McFarland found out. But he had allies here – for McFarland was universally despised.

“Evening, Jim.”

“Evening, Mr. Bingston. Burning the midnight oil again?”

“It never ends, Jim. Some loose ends I’ve got to input – before Dr. McFarland finds out.”

The guard shuddered in mock disgust. “Oh, we sure wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Walking to the main clinic lab, the first thing he did, outside of the reach of the security cameras, was to initiate a continuous feedback loop. This way, any review of the past 24-hour shift would show no one in the clinic at this hour – which was as it should be.

He had devised a complex mathematical probability algorithm, which would predict, with 93.2% accuracy, which one of the 28 poor souls assembled here in their futuristic capsules, would expire first. His heart was pounding as the minutes ticked by. He prayed his equations were correct. He didn’t have long to wait.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he said quietly, stopping in front of one glass container. It held an elderly woman who looked to be in her 90’s. A red light was blinking atop the tube’s energy field apparatus, indicating she had just passed. Her Tempus Particle – her key to heaven – cruelly snatched from her soul and stored in a magnetic containment vessel. “I will find out who you were. You were not a number. You were a human being, with a family somewhere, hopes, and dreams. I swear, your sacrifice will guarantee this atrocity will end. I’ll find you all. I promise. Because I now know where he keeps your names. Like sick trophies. Again, forgive me, ma’am.” And he took out from his briefcase the magnetic bottle he had so carefully assembled over the past six months. He connected it to the containment field of subject # 523318, and with an eerie flash of light – stole a piece of God’s creation, as her Tempus Particle transferred into Charles’s bottle. At this point he suddenly became truly frightened for the first time – over the implications of what he had just done. Was he now no better than McFarland, he feared? But he shook the thought out of his head. There was work to be done. The particle glowed in the translucent bottle with a soft green eeriness. There were three sets of numbers on the bottle now. One showed the frequency of the 7th energy level – the Tempus Particle. The second was the frequency of the energy field in which we all live – Earth. And the third showed an energy frequency no human had ever seen, nor comprehended before – the frequency of the afterlife plane – heaven! Two were flashing wildly, trying to resonate with each other: the afterlife frequency and the old woman’s Tempus Particle frequency; her key to heaven. But for the first time in creation, they could not resonate, because the Tempus Particle was now trapped in our dimension. But slowly, inexorably, the numbers began to slow down, trying to match and resonate with Earth’s frequency. Within minutes, they did. The numbers for both the Earth plane and the Tempus Particle now matched! Heaven lost out this time. Could Charles Bingston use the power of the gods wisely? He was about to find out. His magnetic bottle was actually two magnetic fields in one container. The first field contained the Tempus Particle, and it was impenetrable. Nothing could escape it. The secondary field acted as a mirror, reflecting the particle’s energy into the world – but not the particle itself.

Now was the moment of truth. He depressed the secondary field emitter button. He began to feel dizzy for a few moments, then recovered. He prayed her particle was not sentient, as a white light began to permeate everything around him. He could not see, it was so bright. But soon the glow faded, and the world – stood still! Birds in mid-flight, airplanes, people, animals, everything froze in their places. And Charles walked out of the D.A.R.P.A. complex, passed frozen security guards, and graveyard shift employees. Once in his car, he pressed the primary field emitter button. And as the energy turned back on itself and retreated into the confines of the magnetic bottle – the world sprang back to life, none the worse for wear, and none the wiser.

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He knew what he had to do. And he knew where he had to go.

He could feel the rage building up in him as he approached the house. Mansions, Olympic-sized swimming pools, and BMW’s & Mercedes were in abundance. Charles Bingston had no inherent animosity towards the wealthy. But with Ross McFarland he made an exception. As far as he was concerned McFarland gained his upper class style of living on the backs of good researchers – and the souls of unfortunate citizens. His lack of remorse was as profound as his penchant for personal gain.

And there it was. A three-story Tudor mansion, with expansive grounds, gardens, and a new Mercedes and Audi in the circular driveway.

“Time to end your reign of terror, McFarland.” He held up the bottle, and with a blinding flash the Earth again went silent. Walking inside the palatial residence, he went straight to the master bedroom. And there he laid, fast asleep, his wife next to him. “Ah yes. Miranda,” he said with disdain. “The warlock’s familiar, I presume?” His tablet lay on the roll top desk. Charles picked it up, scrolled through it and, as he suspected, soon found what he was looking for. “Faceless no more. Real people. Real lives.” Then he found her. “You’re not # 523318, are you? No, you’re Emily Barkan. I’ll never forget you.” He copied the names, and then left. And as he drove away, the world awakened once more.

Several weeks later he resigned his position at D.A.R.P.A. and Project Tempus. He could have told Ross McFarland precisely what he thought of him, but dared not let his hatred of the man arouse undue suspicions. For truly, Charles Bingston was not yet done with his former boss.

A month later, following his carefully thought out timing, he sent an untraceable communication to the head of the Department of Justice, complete with the names of all the poor souls McFarland’s group had kidnapped, and the macabre details behind Project Tempus. No doubt the good doctor would not see the light of day for quite some time.

McFarland never did solve the puzzle of how subject # 523318 could have expired, without the monitors catching it, or how her Tempus Particle was not automatically captured. Somehow it, and her, sailed off into the next plane of existence. Yes, that must have been it. It nearly drove him out of his mind, probably contributing to a raging ulcer. Charles figured it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. Wait until the D.O.J. guys come knocking on his door! He giggled at the thought, wishing he could be a fly on the wall. ‘Remember Ross: don’t drop the soap at Leavenworth,’ he thought. And began laughing harder.

In time he reveled in his victory. He had single-handedly brought down a boss that made Leona Helmsley look like Mr. Rogers.

But perhaps the old adage is true: an idle mind may very well be the devil’s playground. No man is wise enough or good enough to be trusted with unlimited power. And that is what faced Charles Bingston one cold, crisp afternoon, as he began tweaking and editing his resume. And as he sat in front of his computer he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, two things: his bank statement on the desk – and his briefcase on the floor. The former was the problem – the latter contained the solution.

“Are you out of your mind?” he said to himself. “Didn’t I just use the Tempus Particle to take down a monster? Now you expect me to use it to feather my own nest? Disgusting!” But he looked down at his bank statement – quickly dwindling. And as he gazed out the window, wracking his brain for answers, he spotted something down the street that did indeed provide an answer. And he recoiled in horror at the implications. Yet the more he thought about it, the horror subsided, eventually replaced with a rhetorical ‘Why not?’ For what he saw – was a bank. ‘Absolutely nobody would be harmed,’ he justified to himself. ‘The F.D.I.C. insures the bank, and its depositors. Miss Emily Barkan, we may just have one more date together.’

Did Charles Bingston know the phrase, ‘Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely’? If he did he didn’t care right now. He had found a solution to one of his problems. And no one at all would be hurt. Where was the harm in that, he reasoned? His conscience was clear. Sadly, that might have been the most dangerous attribute of all.

By the time he had finished his spree, he had amassed a fortune. And to his word, not one soul was ever harmed. This emboldened him. And so began the gradual slide into hedonism. He fancied himself a god; a god who could stop time and walk the Earth a creator. No secrets could be kept from him; no guards could stop him. Indeed, he put his god-like power to good use, traveling the world, seeing the sights he once only dreamt of. And if he could steal governmental secrets from the intelligence services of various countries, and then anonymously blackmail them – all the better.

By now he’d outgrown the dingy home he had lived in for ten years. He bought himself a private island, and lived the life of a king. He had any woman he wanted – and he always wanted more; eventually growing tired of them in favor of some new plaything. He equated them with his vast wine cellar, filled with rare vintages; literally unobtainable. Except for him. His girls, like his wine, were his possessions. And true to his word, he walked the island a creator. “Here, I am God!” he boasted. And so he was.

One bright and beautiful morning on Bingston Island, he was strolling the white sandy beach of his own private empire. And as he waded through the turquoise surf, the fur on the hem of his custom-made royal robe trailed behind him in the water. Today was a good day to do what he loved most – surveying all that he saw, knowing it was all his.

He stretched out on one of the many hammocks he had erected on his island, and dwelled on the pressing issues of the day – such as what should he have his chefs prepare for dinner, and which girls should he invite to the later soirée at the main estate. It was a good life. He put his drink down on a little table next to the hammock, and shut his eyes. The waves, the sea birds, the coconut palms, the girls – all his.

But within a minute he became annoyed. “What cloud dares block the sun on Bingston Island?” he said angrily. He opened his eyes, even as the wind began to pick up. And when he did, a feeling of incomprehensible horror washed over him, the likes of which neither he, nor any other human, had ever experienced before. For what he saw, still five miles in the sky, literally shredded his soul, as it blotted out the sun.

He jumped up, shrieking in abject terror. Could he make it back to the main house in time? He had to! He thought his heart would burst, his lungs would explode. He tripped and fell once on a rock, and shed his kingly robes in order to run faster. He was running in just his underwear now. Bloody and screaming, he made it to the house in record Olympic time. Tripping once more on the floor, he lunged for his briefcase. Barely stopping for a breath he thought he’d have a heart attack, as he exploded with it out of the house. Before he even got back to the beach he frantically took out the Tempus Particle magnetic bottle, pointed it at the sky – and pressed the button. The passage of time across the entire planet, as well as everything in its atmosphere – stopped dead. Including what was now 5000 feet overhead. The sky had turned blood red, the wind almost hurricane strength, and the ocean was threatening to destroy Bingston Island, should the passage of time resume. And what was causing this horror lay at the center of it all – now silent and malignant – and waiting. It was a meteor the size of Rhode Island! This would not just cause a titanic crater. This was a planet killer. The end of everything. The end of Earth. The end of Man.

Charles Bingston looked up at it, as it cast a blood red shadow across his face. He got down on his hands and knees and pounded his fists against the ground, tears streaming down his face. “No! No! No!” He shook his fist at Earth’s assassin. “This is my world! This is my island! But I’ve stopped you, you bastard from hell! Me! Charles Bingston! I am god here! I stopped you! You have no power over me! You have…” And he stopped in mid-sentence, and let out a shriek of terror that originated from the depths of his soul. He looked out at the ocean waves, now frozen, the birds stopped like air-borne statues, his staff and girlfriends fleeing in abject horror, eternally in the now. And not since God decided to destroy the world once, millennia ago, had any human faced the same horrific choice. Until now.

“I dared play God,” he whimpered. And this is His vengeance. I have my island and everything in it. All my people are here. And they’re mine – frozen for eternity! I am totally and completely alone!” He began to cry bitterly again. “No! No! I can’t die! Not like this! I can live on my island, the last man on Earth,” he lamented between tears. “Or push this little button on the magnetic bottle, and be vaporized along with the rest of humanity! Oh dear God, forgive my arrogance! What do I do? What do I do! Have mercy!”

And through his tears he noticed something, and wondered why he had never seen it before. It was a very large boulder on the edge of the beach. And somehow, someone had prophetically painted two words on it. And when Charles Bingston read them, he promptly went mad. The two words were – DECISIONS, DECISIONS.

Food for Thought

It is said power corrupts; and absolute power corrupts absolutely. And those that attempt to wear the mantle of God commit the ultimate in hubris. Do we have the right? No matter what the motives, nor how pure of heart we may be in wielding the power of the gods, it must always end in unmitigated horror. Mankind is not smart enough, nor wise enough, to play God. Will science eventually, in the decades to come, advance to levels so fearful, that the exercise of such technological power will be like forbidden fruit to all but the most pious? In W.W.I, we thought the invention of poison gas, the airplane, and tanks, would make war so horrible as to be impossible. And yet, it was tantalizing fruit for evil men. How will that question be put forth in the 22nd century and beyond? These are murky waters even I fear to tread, and will quietly slip away.

About the Author

Born in New York City,

Jeffrey G. Roberts has written numerous short stories, and has 2 novels available on Amazon – THE HEALER and CHERRIES IN WINTER. He writes in the genres of science fiction, fantasy, horror, and fantasy/comedy. He has a life-long interest in Mars, the truth about UFO’s, the paranormal, and aerospace. He is a graduate of Northern Arizona University, in Flagstaff, Arizona, and now resides in Tucson, Arizona. He blogs at atalespinner.weebly.com

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THE HEMINGWAY HUNTER

E.J. Shumak

If someone is lucky enough to leave behind quotes when they exit this physical plane, they are often unlucky enough to be judged and remembered by them.

“There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.”

Ernest Hemingway A Farewell to Arms All italicized quotes credit Hemingway

After travelling more than six hundred miles, Jim Ritchie is road-weary and Mopar seat-sore. He knows what to expect, this is his eighth time. Seven Hemingways cleanly killed.

“What can we do for you today sir?” asks the ginger kid behind the counter.

“I need a six-hour Hemingway.”

“Six-hour, are you sure?”

“Unless you discount me further for less time.”

“Sorry sir, I can’t do that, but perhaps a discount on a different target, perhaps a J.D. Salinger, or even a Jack London, they seem challenging? You have bested several Hemingways. Perhaps a different encounter could increase your level of satisfaction?”

“Look, are you here to argue with me?

“No, sir, my apologies. However, several million people worship him.”

“Several million are wrong – should I go elsewhere?”

“So sorry, no—no; what weaponry?”

“A pre-64 Winchester model 70 in 25-06 Remington with a Leopold 2 to 7. Don’t tell me you don’t have it, I know better. At these prices I should have Zeus’ own lightningbolt.”

Smiling, Ginger Kid says, “We can do that too, if you’d like. May I have your left wrist for payment?” The hunter extended his left arm, palm up, exposing the location of the embedded EEPROM chip. “Oh, AMEX platinum. You are entitled to a cabin upgrade.”

“Wonderful. As you mentioned I won’t be spending any time in my cabin. I only have the six hours to dispatch him.”

“Your equipment and supplies are being delivered now and will arrive before you. Your pass code is on your chip and you are in cabin 27. Have a great hunt.”

“Not fruitful?”

“Not all great hunts need be fruitful, sir. We only desire your satisfaction.”

“Right.”

Less than forty-five minutes later Ritchie is walking out of his cabin, heading to sector 37-b where his Hemingway is supposed to be; the Hemingway supposedly armed with a custom Springfield 35 Whelen from Griffin & Howe. “Well, up and down from the original 30-06.” He opens up the eight foot cube of a blind and sits down to wait. Experience tells him the Hemingways never just sit still.

I rub the back of my neck, irritating the crèche plug.

“That’s where we pump in the Hemingway — along with your growth nourishment.” So I was told in the crèche. I remember the words and the lilted tone, but not how I heard them. I can smell the here and now, but I cannot remember the smells of the crèche. The grass and wildflowers beneath my feet are sweet and mild, while the G96 treatment on the rifle coupled with the wooden stock’s linseed oil finish compete with nature for my olfactory attention. Nature wins, but just barely.

They told me my DNA-sake’s wit, wisdom and weapon craft came to me the same way as my physical nourishment. But why don’t I remember any smells. Well, I do remember weapon craft and the smells associated with that. I retain the tactile erudition of firearm care and usage. Or is it memory? Hell, why do I torture myself this way? I will never truthfully discern the difference.

I just cannot think of myself as Ernest or even Hemingway. I know I am Hemingway MKVII–42, or 42 as my crèche mates called me. The only time I was happy, with my mates; “crèche mates” like litter mates – I’m really just a kitten, not a Hemingway after all.

I reach into my pocket and pull out four cartridges, real ones. The headstamp reads LC—62. After all these years there still remains a “cordite” smell emanating from them. I know it is not truly cordite, but it is the only way I have learned to describe the combination of nitro-cellulose and nitro-glycerin coupled with metal seeping from unknowable microscopic or atomic gaps in the cartridge structure. I only know what a rifle cartridge smells like and I suspect they have smelled that way since 1846. Why in hell do I know that year?

I found the cartridges secreted in my storage tube, the tiny ex-hotel “capsules” they salvaged from Tokyo hotels – home sweet home. The cartridges are apparently a gift from a previous MKVII. I’ll remember him – me – somehow. I gently cradle the rifle (another crèche memory or memory reference? – I never really know). I open the bolt and load the four precious cartridges in through the top.

The saw I found myself, while I walked the woods. I’m still amazed they let us do that between hunts. Perhaps they think it will make us believe we have a real life. Not a metal saw, but it was rated all purpose, or so it was emblazoned on the shank. Naval jelly had once, probably many many years ago, been used to clean it and the strong acidic (phosphoric acid) smell remained along with apparently significant rust protection.

It took me forty-two hours to cut off the end of the hardened 4140 carbon steel barrel using that rusty, smelly, old saw, but I finally cleared off the welded portion of the rifle. The saw was probably over fifty years old – the rifle hadn’t been manufactured in more than one hundred – a fair match I suppose.

The saw and I converted the weapon back to functionality, allowing the rifle to resume its lethal purpose, permitting it to actually fire a round. The welded and plugged end of the barrel and the electronic tracking crap was now gone; the rifle once again a “real” 35 Whelan G&H. I suspect the “real” Hemingway would have been pleased.

It is easy to see the blind: but not the obverse for my adversary. Even if the hunter is looking through the port cut into the timbers, it is physically impossible for him (Why him? – well it usually wasn’t a woman) to see me. The angles are for the hunter’s safety, not for field of view. The 35 Whelan would cut right through the timbers. I “remember,” is that what this is? — the cartridge was a ‘brush buster’. I hold left and low from the upper blind port. I must not damage the guy’s chip and I really don’t particularly care to kill him either. I don’t understand why or how, but it just didn’t feel right to take this life unnecessarily. But it does feel right to shoot this man and claim freedom – even for a short time. Looking through the peep sight, I squeeze the trigger on the Griffin & Howe. Nothing. Great – hang fire or dead primer.

I wait patiently. Hell, the ammo is well over a hundred years old. It could be a dead or oil corrupted primer, moisture soaked powder or primer, or anything in-between. A hang fire would simply be a late ignition. If I open the bolt too soon I could lose a hand, or even my face. Ten nano-centuries pass (or ten pi seconds) then twenty – I hold on target. Lowering the rifle and working the bolt, I catch the cartridge as the claw extractor in the bolt’s full cartridge head support, pulls it from the chamber and the rectangular ejector pops back, sending the cartridge slapping into my upside down palm, my fingers closing tightly around it.

Solid primer hit, at least the gun seems to be functioning. I put it in my pocket, that may be unwise, but I can’t bring myself to discard something that has been so hard to acquire. Working a fresh round into the chamber with the bolt handle, the extractor now grabbing the cartridge head solidly and guiding it into the chamber, I once again gaze through the Parker Hale PH5a aperture sight.

This time when I squeeze the trigger, the Griffin & Howe barks, bucking back into my shoulder with a satisfying snap. I smell the satisfying odor of burnt gunpowder and primer residue. My ears ring so loudly I am effectively deaf. Why didn’t I remember that little tidbit of weapon craft?

This time it worked. The 220 grain slug blasts through the lower edge of the upper port in the blind. I imagine hearing the gratifying thump as the hunter’s body folds up. I wait. It seems the woods grow silent. I see no movement anywhere and can only hear the ringing in my ears, the left much worse than the right. The nitro-cellulose still hangs heavy in the air, blocking any sense of smell.

I quickly rack the bolt, reloading the 35 Whelan and slicing a thin piece of my left thumb in the process, the extractor and bolt head closing on and pinching my skin. Apparently my weapon craft is less than perfect. As I fully stand, the firearm discharge smells dissipate: I can now again smell the oil on the Griffin & Howe coupled with a metallic blood scent from my thumb and the surrounding wild grasses and flora..

I hike the one hundred fifty yards to the blind. Kicking in the door, I level the Griffin & Howe at the hunter. No movement. Leaning down, I immediately notice a steady and solid breathing pattern – and a lot of blood – the copper metallic odor filling the small blind. The copper jacketed slug held together and expanded only slightly on exit through the blind wall. Once through the wall and into the hunter, entry is just above the right lung and bodily exit through the lower scapula.

I pull out the misfired 35 Whelan cartridge, using it to plug the entry wound. It seems to squeeze in nicely and appears to be holding. I manage to insert it far enough for the 17 degree shoulder angle to catch on something internal to this guy’s wound. It can’t be inserted further without extreme pressure. It does seem unlikely to dislodge on its own. Well, half done. The exit wound will be a bit more difficult. I just hope the hunter remains unconscious, at least for a bit longer.

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