July2009

THE UNITED STATES OF GENERICA

LEE GIMENEZ

Oak Creek Canyon, Arizona

Suddenly, a helicopter gunship appeared on the horizon, flying towards me, its machine gun spraying bullets into the canyon. The shells thudded into the ravine, spitting up chunks of rock and dirt. I ran for cover, but one of the rounds hits me, knocking me flat on my back, the high caliber bullet tearing off part of my arm. I lie on the ground, bleeding, the burning pain blinding me. I crawled behind a boulder, squeezing my arm to stop the bleeding.

The helicopter roared past overhead, its USG markings visible on its side.

Ann ran to me, threw her rifle down and started to apply a tourniquet to my arm.

“John, are you Ok?” she yelled.

I passed out before I could respond.

My name is John Manning and I’ve been fighting with the Resistance for five years. I’ve lost my father, both my brothers and my sister in the war. Our camp is down to twenty – my wife Ann and I, plus eighteen others. It’s been a week since the last attack and my wound is healing. My arm will never be the same, but I’ll live. Two of my friends didn’t make it; they were killed by the gunfire.

Right now we’re hiding in one of the caves in the area. It’s desolate here, there’s just our group. We monitored the radio constantly but haven’t heard from other groups in weeks; we fear the worst. I finished cleaning my Glock and wiped my brow. It’s July and stifling hot in the cave. On the wall we’ve pinned up the flag - it’s red, white and blue colors now faded, the fabric torn.

It’s been a brutal struggle. Until the Generic Act was passed, we were ordinary citizens, ordinary Americans. We lived in a suburb of Flagstaff; I was computer technician, Ann a nurse. With the Act, everything changed. I know the government meant well, in the beginning. It just went so wrong. Now we pray for survival.

The Gray House, Washington D.C.

“Mr. President, what should we do next?” Secretary of State K-7, asked. (His full number was KTW-758933, but no one here called him that).

The President looked around the Oval Office, at the men and women in their identical gray suits. Ignoring K-7, he turned to his Secretary of Defense, Q-4. “Q, give me a status report on the Resistance…”

Q stood up and started to speak, his voice a deep baritone. “Mr. President, they’re down to small groups now, some in Arizona, Utah, Oregon and northern California. We estimate there’s no more than twenty thousand left.”

The President slammed his fist on the desk. “Damn it, Q, it’s been five years! There shouldn’t be any left. When I signed the Act into law, it was all supposed to be smooth.” He glared at K-7. “K, you said it was going to be easy, that the transition would go without a hitch.”

K-7 swallowed hard. “Yes, sir. That’s what we thought. We were giving Americans true equality with the Generic Act. All would be equal. It’s what this country’s always stood for.”

“Damn it, man. I know all that. But why are some people still fighting us?”

“Not everyone likes the new ways,” K-7 said.

The President shook his head. “Look, I’m not crazy about some of it. Not having names anymore…only wearing gray clothes, using gray makeup.”

K-7 held up his hand. “Yes, sir. But with the new genetics, our children will be born with all of the new features – by the next generation, everyone will truly be the same – look the same, sound the same…a perfectly uniform society.”

The President’s face relaxed. “You’re right. Our children and grandchildren will live in an equal society. It’ll be worth it then.” He looked out the window of the Oval Office and saw the gray flag flying in the breeze. He could read the United States of Generica logo on it, written in simple script.

He turned back to the group. “Here’s what we do…we eliminate the Resistance, once and for all. We can’t have any more lawbreakers.”

Q raised his hand. “Mr. President, that’s what we’ve been trying to do for five years…”

“Shut up, Q. We’ve tried reasoning with them for too long. We’ve tried to convert them, but it hasn’t worked. And your military operations haven’t been tough enough. I want an all scale assault.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want all options on the table.”

“But, Mr. President, you can’t mean using neutron bombs on our own country?”

“Q, nothing else has worked…We’ll give them one last chance to turn themselves in…if they don’t comply in a week, we’ll blast them.”

“Mr. President, you can’t be serious…”

“I’m deadly serious,” the President said, a grimace spreading on his gray face. “Now go make it happen.”

Oak Creek Canyon, Arizona

It’s been a week since the leaflets rained down from the planes overhead and since the radio broadcasts blared day and night. They all said the same thing: Surrender or die.

We talked it over as a group and decided we couldn’t surrender. We didn’t know what they were planning but we’d fought too long and already lost too much to give up now.

Surrender would mean giving up our individuality, and that’s something we would never do.

We hear a loud rumble and look up. Large jets streak overhead.

Suddenly, there’s a blinding flash, one that makes the night sky look like a bright day. Ann and I hold hands as we pray together.

Virtuoso

by Gustavo Bondoni

Everyone on board was well aware of the honor we’d been conceded. Nothing could match the thrill of watching a true artist at work, and no artist in living memory was comparable with Ternsé.

I’d seen holograms of his work, of course. Every museum worth its salt had a wing dedicated to the reproductions of the man’s genius. Once, I’d been on the fourth planet of the Rampor System during the apogee festival, and they’d had a life-size, real-time projection of his celebrated piece “Juna II” in orbit around the planet. It had been a breathtaking experience.

But to be on the same ship with him, watching as he created his latest masterpiece from inside the bridge which doubled as his studio, was staggering.

Ternsé fiddled with a lever, his anterior tentacle delicately entering infinitesimal corrections as he placed another cube. The location of each cube had been carefully calculated to create the image in the artist’s mind. What that image was we wouldn’t know until the work was complete, of course.

The cubes themselves were another source of mystery. They were blocks the size of mountains which were inert enough to be lowered through the atmosphere and not ignite even when the locals hit them with an unexpected nuclear strike. Yet they exploded with dazzling color and brightness when the show began.

What were they made of? Speculation ran wild in all the best art journals, but the only thing that everyone agreed on was that there had to be at least some phosphorous or magnesium in there to create the characteristic brilliant burn. But even this was guesswork, since they were built in deep space by robot workers in a secret location.

The block he was lowering, a blue cube, was placed at the mouth of a river. We switched our attention from the monitor that showed the view from orbit, to the live feeds from the cameras embedded in the surface of the cube itself. These were showing the descent of the cube onto flat terrain that seemed to be peppered with small rectangular irregularities.

On closer inspection, the irregularities resolved themselves into primitive dwellings, small houses suitable for four or five sentients with some larger edifices sprinkled among them. The buildings were interconnected by a perpendicular grid of roads, packed by some sort of archaic land vehicle, nearly immobile due to the density of the traffic.

I wasn’t worried by the irregular terrain chosen. Long experience had taught us that the cube was heavy enough to create a flat area beneath it – or at least flat enough that the cube’s actuation would not be affected by strange angles.

So we were free to rejoice. This would be a singular occasion. Ternsé himself had often been quoted as saying that a plentiful biosphere was one of the main ingredients necessary to create rich color and a slow, majestic unrolling. And everyone knew that biospheres that supported intelligent life were often the richest around.

I felt a twinge of envy for the sentients on the ground. They were going to participate in one of the greatest spectacles in galactic history. They were in for quite a show. But then, even at this distance, so were we. The cube we’d been watching had been the last. Ternsé was ready to begin.

Without a word, he dimmed the lights of the bridge and began the performance, tentacles working so fast as to be nearly invisible. But we had little interest in the movement of his arms – the true wonder would be visible through the enormous front viewscreen.

The white poles of the blue-green planet in front of us began, slowly, to glow red. Ternsé’s tentacles moved subtly and the equatorial band became a bright, nearly electric blue. Suddenly, dazzling copperish-yellow bands seemed to sprout from the entire surface of the planet as yet more of the mysterious chemicals in the cubes reacted with the oxygen in the atmosphere. Mushrooms of infrared clouds, delightfully vivid, danced through it all.

Abruptly, unexpectedly, there was deprivation. The heat from the reactions had boiled a surface layer from the oceans, and the opaque steam dampened the bright colors. Reds became pink, yellows paled to insignificance. The beautiful infrared disappeared. We felt the loss like a physical blow.

The artist let us suffer for a few moments, driving home the poignancy of the dullness. But water vapor is also a reactive force if the quantities are known and its properties are correctly used. And we were in the hands of a master. A few swift movements of a single tentacle liberated something deep within Ternsé’s cubes and immediately the entire surface was covered with roiling dark purple waves. Dark patches and light patches intermingled, giving the impression of a stormbound planet-wide sea of deep violet which even invaded the near ultraviolet, in an almost obscenely erotic shade.

Just as we were wondering if he would cross the line into wavelengths forbidden in polite society, a blinding white shaft seemed to bisect the purple ocean. At first I believed that the light had come, unbidden, from deep space, to complete the masterpiece. But then I realized what was happening: the artist had chosen that precise moment to begin the explosion of the planet’s crust. Directed, with masterful precision, into shafts through the roiling violet sea.

Slowly, the force of the chemical reaction overwhelmed any possibility of control, and the white sphere of incandescent rock expanded through the violet light, turning it mauve and then causing it to disappear altogether as the planet exploded.

We watched entranced until the last sparks died in the oxygen-deprived vacuum, and it was only when Ternsé turned to address us that we broke out of our stupor.

“I call it Sol III,” he said.

We call it a masterwork.

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SAM CATCHES HIS BREEZE

by Robert Collins

"Sam, you're a leaf drifting to the ground," Sam's boss, Charles, told him as he and the other laborers finished unloading the river boat. "You'd be content to land anywhere. But you're so much better than that, Sam. I don't see why you don't."

Sam couldn't quite disagree. Partly because he was so tired, but mainly it was because Charles was right. Sam knew he wasn't dull-witted or lazy. His problem was that whenever he began to learn a trade, he would grasp a great deal very quickly. Once he did, he would realize that he had gone as far he could. Despair of not being able to go farther would set in, and that would be that. He needed to find a job that would challenge him. It had to be something that he couldn't learn quickly, or one where learning quickly would not be equal to dull certainty.

As he started walking from the docks to his parents' home, he watched one of the boats he had help load earlier begin its trip upriver. The crew opened the big central sail and the smaller forward sail to catch the wind. It was an obvious thing; sails helped get boats up, and the river current got them back down again.

I wonder if that might be the job for me, Sam thought.

He had picked up some interesting information since going to work at the river docks. Each trip was a little different, either because of the goods being carried or because of crew changes. Then there was the river itself. Sometimes it was high, sometimes it was low, and sometimes these variances created obstacles. It might not be the same work from day to day.

But the more Sam thought about it, the more difficult it seemed it would be to become a river trader. He would have to join a boat and work his way up the ranks of the crew. He'd have to make enough to buy a boat outright, or to buy a partnership in a boat. If there wasn't an opening on the Big Blue River, he would have to move away and find a river that he could work.

He was glum as he turned onto the street that led to his home. Ahead of him he saw three wagons pulled by four horses. His street, once it left Smithford, became the road to Greendale and a few other inland towns. He had to stop and watch the wagons because they blocked the street.

The driver of the lead wagon was cursing up a storm. The horses pulling the wagon were having a hard time getting up the rising street. They continued to struggle as they passed the last houses and went up the slope of the river valley.

Sam shook his head as he resumed his walk home. At the rate they're going, he thought, they'll barely be a mile or so past town when the sun sets. Too bad they can't catch the wind like boats do.

Sam stopped again. What if a sail, and the power of the wind, were applied to a wagon? Would something like that work better than horses? He already had skills in wood-working and black-smithing. All he would have to do is buy a wagon, figure out the matter of a sail, put those skills to use, and give the idea a try.

The next day he went to Charles and told him of his idea.

"I'm not sure such a thing would work," the older man said, "but if trying will stop you being a leaf, go ahead. I'll let you work half days so you have time to build the thing. If you get it done, I'll give you a day off to try it out."

Once his first half-day ended, Sam went to the wagon shop. He was able to afford an old wagon with an unsteady brake. The first effort he put in was to repair the brake and lengthen the brake rod from the rear axle. It was clear that he would have to steer and apply the brake from one location. Usually steering was done by urging the horses into a turn. He wasn't going to have that option, so he'd have to steer by turning the front axle. That in turn meant he'd have to have a manual brake on the rear axle, and it would have to reach to the front of the wagon.

When he approached the next day's work he noted that the wagon might move faster if it had an angled bow. Boats cut through the water faster that way. Air can flow like water, so why not apply the idea to his wagon? It took him a half-day to fashion the extension, and the following half-day to extend the bed of the wagon.

He spent the fourth half-day at the docks. Instead of doing the usual loading and unloading, he asked about how sails worked. His questions led him to decide that his "wind-wagon" would need a mast ten-foot tall fixed just behind the front axle. He would only need one sail, eleven feet by seven. The sail could be raised or lowered by a single pulley. It took Sam another few days to build and secure the mast, rig the sail, and connect the pulley.

Once the wind-wagon was done Sam rolled it out of the wagon shop. He jury-rigged a harness to allow one horse to pull it from there to the edge of town. As he led it through town people could see what he had been up to. A few called out, "Interesting contraption you got there, Sam, hope it works," and the like. Only two comments got Sam's attention.

Bruce the Butcher asked as he passed by, "You sure you can control that on your own, Sam?"

"I guess I'll find out," Sam replied.

A few doors down was Ralph the leather-worker. "You're going to use the wind to move that wagon, eh?" he asked.

"I hope so," Sam said.

"What happens if you don't have any wind?"

"I guess I don't move."

That second comment stuck because although he had the wind-wagon at the end of town with plenty of light left in the day, there was barely a breeze flowing, and it was blowing from down-river. Sam ended up having to wait two more days for there to be a strong enough breeze that was blowing out of the valley.

He rolled his wagon onto the road. He unhitched the horse and left it in a field to graze. Sam jumped into the wagon. He lowered the sails, and sat down on the bench at the front of the wagon. He waited for the wind to get the wagon moving.

Within moments breeze caught the sail. Slowly the wagon rolled up the road and out of the valley. Sam smiled to himself. Well, the first part is proven, he thought.

The wind continued to blow his way as he rolled inland. The wind was steady and strong, but not so strong that Sam had much trouble with the steering. Very quickly he felt happy that he'd set himself up at the front, for within the first mile he'd navigated a turn in the road.

For the next few miles the wagon kept going without incident. The road was surrounded by open prairie occasionally punctuated by trees and tiny creeks. Sam hadn't given much thought to how he would get back. He was just starting to ponder the dilemma when a crisis leapt up.

A sudden gust caught the sail and jerked the wagon off the trail. The movement caused Sam to lose his grip on the rope that controlled the sail. That in turn made him lose his grip on the steering pole The wagon rolled along the prairie faster and faster. Sam jumped out of the wagon to save himself. The wagon finally stopped when it smashed into a tree.

Sam started at the wagon for a moment. Well, he thought, so much for that idea. He turned and started the long walk home.

Later he stopped and turned back to the wagon. Hold on, there. All that happened was a gust of wind blew me off-course. If I knew better how to control the wagon, I wouldn't have made that mistake.

That got Sam's mind working. As he walked back home he thought about what had happened. First there was the delay in testing the wagon. He would need some way of creating wind when he needed it; otherwise he'd be wasting lots of time waiting for a breeze. That would also solve the problem of traveling against the wind. As to why the gust had taken him off the road, that would have to be solved by more conversation with experienced boatmen.

When he got back to town he asked Charles for help in retrieving the wagon. Charles let some of Sam's fellow dock-men have a day off to assist him. Sam took the wagon to the wagon shop and spent some half-days repairing the damage. Once the wagon was back in its original condition, Sam went around to Thomas, the local mage, to ask about controlling the wind.

"I recall a tale about a hero using a sack of wind to help sail his ship home," Thomas replied. "Perhaps that might solve your problem."

"Would the sack be in my lap?" Sam asked. "How would I open the sack and keep my hands on the controls? If the sack was in my lap, the wind from it would blow towards the back of the wagon."

"Yes, those would be problems." The mage suddenly snapped his fingers. "What about a keg?"

"A keg, like a beer keg? Would that be big enough?" Sam shook his head. "That might be too big, if it's secured to back of the wagon."

Thomas smiled. "Ah, but if the spell is cast right, all you would need is a bottle, or a box about that size."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, a good spell would be one that could provide enough wind for as long as the thing is open. It would then renew itself once it was closed. All you would need is handle to open and close it."

Sam agreed that the idea sounded practical, so he allowed Thomas to experiment. From there he went to the docks to ask a few boatman about the problem of the wind blowing him off the trail.. Each one he asked said the same thing.

"Enough weight will keep her steady," the first one said. "You use the goods as the ballast."

"What if I don't have any goods?" Sam asked the second boatman.

"Do what we do: fill sacks with sand or rocks," the man answered.

The next day Sam went back to Thomas' shop. Thomas had built a box the size of the large end of a wine bottle. At one end was a door that could be pulled open or pushed shut with a handle. Fixed to the top of the box was a powerstone to maintain the spell for several days. The stone would have to be re-powered, but as long as there was some power the wind spell inside the box would remain.

Sam took the box and set it into the back of the wagon so it faced the sail. He took a heavy piece of twine and tied one end to the box handle. He ran the twine through small rings on the right side of the wagon to the front. Sam then bought three sacks and filed them with rocks. He put them in the rear of the wagon. He reattached his harness and had a horse carry the wagon to the edge of town.. He decided that he would wait until the next day to try using the wind-wagon again.

This time he took with him four days' worth of dried meat, dried fruit, water, and bread. He would see how far he could get in two days. That he thought would give him the time to better learn the controls. "I probably won't make it to Greendale," he said to his parents and a few others, "but at least I'll have time to test the wagon."

That morning Sam set out. The wind-box worked perfectly, giving him a good breeze to propel the wagon out of the valley. Within a mile or so Sam learned that he didn't have to keep the box open all the time. He could open it to get up an incline, then close it and let momentum carry him down.

Because he could now control the wind flowing into the sail, Sam learned that he could easier keep control of the wagon. He could open the box, take hold of the steering rod and the ropes, and roll along. To slow down all he had to do was lift and release the brake rod quickly, or let momentum run down.

He wasn't sure how much progress he had made on his first day. He knew that Greendale was four or five days by horse-drawn wagon. There was nothing on the road to say how far he had gone. He camped on the trail that night and set off again in the morning. He was surprised that in the afternoon he was rolling into the town of Greendale. He had made the trip in just over a day and a half!

The people there were even more surprised to see him and his wind-wagon. What made him truly happy was that a man raced up to him and shook his hand. "Son, where are you from?" one asked.

"Smithford," Sam said.

"You going on or going back?"

"Going back, sir. Why?"

"I've got some grain I need to send down there, but the next wagons aren't due for another six days. I'll pay you if you'd carry them in your contraption."

"If they're not too heavy for the wagon, sure," Sam replied. Well, I guess I'm not a leaf anymore, he told himself. I think I've found what I was looking for.