The Martyr Contingency

He sat, slumped, in the chair behind the desk in the Oval Office. They'd need to find someone to fill this chair. Not the Vice President, of course. They'd get themselves a nice young handsome man, someone who did what he was told. Though, maybe the next one shouldn't be a complete idiot. That had gotten unmanageable after a while. But they couldn't use the Vice President. They'd cite "health reasons". He snorted, smirking. Not too far from the truth, and the old man had work to do before the end. He couldn't very well do it while having to get up and talk to the idiot people. No, they'd find someone else.

He stood up, considering turning on the TV. It wouldn't have made the news yet. It was done, that he knew, but it wasn't time yet for the people to know. They'd release it with just enough time for the evening news, but not enough time for a bunch of probing questions. There had been vague rumors floating around the Internet for a few hours, but no real news. That would change when he was good and ready. He set the remote down. Not time yet.

There were some who'd been wary of the idea. They thought it was too much. Too...severe. Maybe it was. But with the war going the way it was, and the total cockup of that stupid disaster... hell, things had been going downhill for a while, but that really pushed it over the edge. So, yeah. It was severe. Maybe even a bit much. But he didn't see much other way out of this. He had to think of the party. He had to consider the agenda.

Their boy was a good sport about it though. More so than he'd thought. He figured there would be resistance, a refusal at first, maybe even some crying. But no. He'd forgotten how happy the boy was when he was able to act like a hero, when he got to fly in a real jet and everything. Man, speaking of cock-ups. They didn't get half the mileage out of that one that they should have. Maybe that had been their first warning. At any rate, the boy was just excited he'd get to shoot real guns at some real Arabs. He wasn't thinking about the bomb they'd have strapped to one of the "terrorists". By the end of their conversation, he'd forgotten that unpleasant detail altogether. The boy was excellent at forgetting unpleasant details.

He paced the room a bit, thinking. He'd run some preliminary numbers, and he knew they'd see a solid bounce in the immediate aftermath. The opposition and the media would be quiet out of respect, and they'd just craft the legend. Oh sure, a couple of bloggers and that schmuck on Comedy Central might make some noise, but he was confident the talking points would drown them out. The kid in the press room did great indignant outrage, so he'd have no trouble shooting down any unhelpful questions.

He smiled. Death was always handy. Particularly if it's one big death, rather than a whole mess of little people. Suburban voters tend to get worked up when the little people die en mass. They don't seem to care much more about them in the day-to-day than he does, but kill a whole bunch of them, and damn do the middle class get riled.

But one death? One big death? Well, that just shuts them right the hell up.

So that's what they'd get. One big death to lament and fetishize and film retrospectives over. Then he and his gang could get back to work. The old man wanted to instate martial law, but he wasn't sure that was a good idea. This would get the media back in their pocket, and they'd keep the fodder in line. Better they had the assumption of freedom, than to give them something to fight for by taking it away.

He sighed. He had to admit, he was going to miss the boy. That guy was a hell of a lot of fun to hang around with. But, nothing for it now but to turn on the TV and watch their fortunes turn.

There was a click, and a vapid young-ish blonde anchorwoman was attempting to emote for the camera. "Tragedy struck aboard Air Force One today in a scene officials are calling 'something out of a Harrison Ford movie'." She paused. "Unfortunately, this story...does NOT have a Hollywood ending."

He smiled and switched to another channel. It was on all of them, and they were all striking the same tone, even using the "Hollywood ending" line he'd written.

His smile only grew the more he saw of the smoking wreckage of the plane, juxtaposed with pictures of his boy.

It was times like this that made his job worth doing.

The Last Hope

The Captain sat in her high seat overlooking the bridge of her ship. They were six hours out from Earth's solar system, returning from a mission that took half her life to accomplish. She hoped they weren't too late.

The Earth was in dire straits, which had likely gotten worse in the decades her ship had been gone. The global ecosystem was failing, and the planet would not be capable of supporting human life much longer. Fortunately, in the year prior to the start of their mission, astronomers had found what they believed to be the closest habitable planet to Earth. An unprecedented international effort was undertaken then, and when it was finished, the very first long-range starship had been constructed. It was named the ISS Last Hope, and it had been home to Captain Susan Dell and her crew for the last 30 years.

Their mission had been simple: travel at best possible speed to the planet, rendezvous with the probe that had been launched the previous year and deposit an exploration team on the surface. The exploration team, using data gathered from the probe, would find the ideal location for and begin construction of the first extraterrestrial Earth colony. They would be left behind by the Last Hope to perform their mission, while Captain Dell and her crew returned to Earth to report on the planet, and provide navigation charts for the massive colonial ark that should have been constructed over the past 3 decades.

She ran her fingers through her close-cropped silver hair. It had been dark-brown and much longer when the mission began. She was 30-years-old then, the youngest captain in the Space Forces, chosen for her youth as much as her accomplishments, which had been many. All of her crew had been young, so young that she was the eldest among them. They'd had to be. The mission had been calculated to take at least 25 years, and the crew would need to be fit to see it through to the end.

But now they were old, the youngest of them well into their 50s. She had turned 60 last week, and each line on her face and silver strand in her hair had been hard-earned. She toyed with the patch over her left eye, scratching at the deep scar that ran under it from her hairline to her chin. She'd lost more than an eye and the best years of her life to this mission. She'd lost crew. She'd lost friends. She'd lost her husband.

Commander Robert Dell had been First Officer and the ship's Pilot. He was a roguish, cocky sort of fellow, typical of the best star pilots, but he had a warmth and humor that never failed to lift the mood of the ship. No matter how grim their situation, Robert had always been ready with a joke or antic to bring a smile to the faces of the crew. His quick thinking and peerless ability as a pilot had also served them well, especially when they came upon the debris of a ruined world and the vicious aliens that had destroyed it. Thanks to Robert's flying, and the valiant efforts of the crew, the ISS Last Hope escaped danger that day and brought a roving band of genocidal maniacs to justice. That is to say, the ship's Gunner had blasted every last one of them to vapor.

But it was the planet that had taken her husband from her. And her eye.

She shuddered and clenched her remaining eye shut. The memory was 15-years-old, but it still held her fast in its grip, and each year it took a little more from her. She remembered the walk through an alien forest, the strange smells, the odd sounds and the comfortable bed of moss cradled in the roots of a massive tree where they stole some blessed time alone. Then she remembered the crashing in the brush, the horrible roar and the searing pain across her face.

She remembered little after that, save waking up in their camp with a cold empty void in her heart where her husband used to be. Part of her wanted to die there on that planet, to lay her body down in the ground beside his and rot, as her soul would rot without him.

But she couldn't. She had her crew. Her ship. And The Mission.

The Mission. Robert had given his life for it, and she would complete it. Robert had given his life to save the people of Earth, and she could do no less than live her life for the same purpose.

So they left. They left behind a team of scientists, engineers and soldiers to begin the colony, to make this new world ready for the refugees of the old. She raised her Gunner, Lieutenant Carry, to First Officer, giving her the rank of Commander, and promoted a promising young ensign to the rank of Lieutenant so he could fill the vacant Pilot's chair.

She threw herself into their mission, pushing ship and crew to their limits and beyond to get home in time to save their people. No matter what the obstacle: asteroids, space-bourne viruses, pirates or a race of sentient killer robots, Captain Dell always found a way past, around or through it. She stayed focused on the mission, and the mission kept her sane.

And now they were approaching the outskirts of their solar system. They would be home soon. Their mission would be complete, and the people of the Earth would be saved. She heaved a sigh. Perhaps she would return with the colony ship, to end her days on the world that had ended her life.

She was roused from that thought by the beeping of the intercom. It was the ship's operations officer, Lieutenant Cohen.

"Captain."

"Go ahead, Lieutenant."

"Captain, I'm having trouble raising Lunar Station on comms. We're close enough now, we should have no trouble reaching them."

Something cold slithered up Captain Dell's spine. Were they too late? Had the end come while they were gone? Could they be the only ones left?

She shook her head. Such thoughts would lead to madness. There was another explanation. There had to be.

"Lieutenant, see if you can raise Central Command on Earth. Perhaps they're between shifts on Lunar Station."

"Aye, Captain."

When they finally reached Central Command, several hours later, the crew of the Last Hope received a brutal shock.

"Um, listen," a low-level functionary of the recently formed Federated Nations of the United Earth said through the comm channel, "we, uh, kinda figured on you people not making it back, so uh..." he cleared his throat, "we, um, made other arrangements."

"Other arrangements?" Captain Dell tried hard to keep her temper in check. "Are you kidding me, boy?" She didn't succeed. "I didn't pull my crew through decades of misery and danger just to be blown off by some child in a uniform." Her voice cut across the comm channel with an edge of steel. "Why am I even still talking to you? Find someone worth my time."

Finally, after several more lower functionaries, officials and ministers, she was connected to the Chief Executive of the Federated Nations. What she told Captain Dell and the crew of the Last Hope was chilling.

"Well," the younger woman said, leaning back in her plush seat behind a wide desk, "after thinking it over, we realized it wasn't the planet that was the problem, but all the damn people living on it." She paused to light a thin cigar. "So," she said, puffing away, "we killed them." She laughed at the shocked look on Captain Dell's face. "Oh, not everyone, obviously," the Chief executive said with a chuckle. "We kept the rich, the powerful, the elite. We kept a bunch of the poor around to work for us, of course. But we wiped out the middle class. Not good for much except bitching and moaning anyway. Anything that needed doing could be done by a machine, or some poor slob willing to work for a bottle of water and a handful of dried meat." She waved her hand dismissively. "So, yeah. Thanks for everything, but, y'know, we're fine."

"Fine?!"Lieutenant Cohen blurted out. "You're not fine! Yes, you may have slowed the depletion of your resources by a few years, but you've done nothing to reverse the damage to the ecosystem! If you want future generations to have a chance at survival, you still need to--"

"What part of fuck off," the Chief Executive growled, "do you people not understand?"

The line went dead.

There was silence on the bridge of the ship.

Captain Dell cleared her throat.

"Lieutenant Cohen."

"Yes, Captain."

"Does this ship have enough power to return to the new planet?"

"Of course, Captain."

"Even allowing for landing on the planet, taking on passengers and supplies and then taking off again?"

"Um... yes. But, Captain--"

"Good. I want you to do a long-range scan of the planet and locate any camps or slums where these laborers of theirs might be living. Then contact Major Thomas and have him prep his troops for a rescue mission. Pilot, bring us into a fast approach. Commander Carry," the captain said, turning to her First Officer.

"Yes, Captain."

"Once we're in range, I want you to target the source of that transmission and launch half our compliment of warheads."

"Aye, Captain."

Captain Dell walked up to her seat above the bridge. "Pilot, once that is done, I want you to coordinate with Lieutenant Cohen and get us to those people as quickly as possible. Once Major Thomas and the evacuees are aboard, set a course for the new planet and get us there, best possible speed."

"Aye, Captain."

She settled into her chair to wait. It shouldn't take long. She would save the people of this planet. She would bring them home.

She would fulfill her mission.

Goddess in a Short Skirt

“Hey,” Charles said. “Dig the chick doing the schoolgirl thing.”

He looked, even though he didn’t generally go in for the schoolgirl look. Then he saw her.

“That’s no schoolgirl act,” he said.

“What are you talking about?” Charles smacked his arm. “She’s got the white shirt, the socks, and dude… the skirt. Come on, look at that skirt!”

Oh, he was looking. But she still wasn’t a schoolgirl. She was what the schoolgirl mystique aspired to be. She was what all those skinny girls in fake school uniforms were trying to be when they tried on the look. She was a woman who knew what men wanted, and was prepared to make them earn it. A woman who could wear a short skirt, and not make men think of Catholic girls half their age. She was a dying breed, and she’d come there for him.

She stood behind the sofa, her hands pressing against it, her back to the door. She knew he could see her from where he was. She also knew he wasn’t coming any closer.

But she knew he wanted to.

And she knew just how much her skirt was showing him. She felt his gaze move up her legs, felt them linger on her thighs, drinking in her luscious curves before focusing on that tantalizing glimpse she’d let him have.

She felt his desire from across the other room, felt it through the throng of partygoers and their trivial muted lusts, felt it pulsing in waves of heat that flowed over her body.

She would bring him to her. It was the only way he could have her; the only way any man could have her.

She gave him a better look. Her posture and the view served to issue him an invitation. She knew he wanted her, and she wanted him. With a flick of her skirt, she sent her own desire back to him. It was a thick scent of August nights and close quarters, a damp musk that filled his senses and made him drunk with his need for her. He stared at her, and the vision of perfection she offered him. He wanted her, ached for her, but could not bring himself to go to her. She was a Goddess, a living work of art. A woman like her was surely beyond his mortal grasp.

She could still feel his eyes on her. He was worshipping her: very inch of her, every perfect curve. Others watched her now too. A group of skinny girls in tank tops and miniskirts left quietly. They knew they’d make no conquests here tonight. A drunk approached, reaching a hand out toward her ass. At a single word from her, his hand stopped and his face went pale. The drunk left quickly, and for the rest of his life could only be aroused by the memory of her.

No others approached. Not even the one she wanted. He was running out of time. Her offer would expire soon, and she would leave alone if need be. Only the strongest of men could satisfy her. Only the boldest need try. She thought he might be both, but he was proving to be neither.

She decided to give him an even better look, an even more tantalizing glimpse. She spoke in a breathy whisper that carried across the crowded party to his ears alone.

“What are you waiting for?”

She showed him again. Showed him what he could have, where she wanted to feel him. His desire was a physical presence in the room. It wrapped itself around her and penetrated her. She felt his lust inside her, and she knew he could feel hers, reaching out to him and grabbing hold, daring him to come to her, leading him to her.

But still he stood, unmoving, a forgotten beer getting warm in his trembling hand.

She stood straight, demanding the attention of those few who hadn’t given it. Every eye was on her, tracing the luscious curve of one perfect leg up under the hem of her skirt.

They all worshipped her now, every one of them, waves of lust buffeting her from every corner of the room. But she would have none of them, save him. She spoke again, once more whispering words for him alone.

“Here I am,” she said, her voice a soft purr with a hint of steel. “I am yours for the taking, if you have the will to take me. Take me,” she promised, “and you will feel passion you never dreamed possible.”

And yet he remained still, unmoving. He took a nervous sip of his beer, wishing for the courage he knew he didn’t possess.

And then it was too late. She pulled on her discarded panties and pulled down the hem of her skirt, giving him one last look at the glory that could have been his.

“You had your chance,” she said, this time loud enough for all to hear. She walked away, tossing a casual taunt over her shoulder as she sauntered out of the party.

“I came here seeking a man, but found a house full of boys.”

And then she was gone.

He ran from the house, finally jolted into motion by fear and regret, but she was nowhere to be found. She was gone from his life forever, and would haunt his every sexual encounter until the day he died.

The Traitor

Jonah Atkins walked a slow circle around his lavish, well-appointed office. He stopped at the bar, pouring himself a glass of scotch, making sure the wine bottle was handy. It was an ancient-looking decanter, well-suited to the bit of theater he used it for. He had actually purchased the thing at a yard sale for a quarter almost five years ago. It didn't matter, though. They were always awestruck by it, as they were by his office. And once they'd drunk from it...well... He chuckled, taking a small sip of his drink.

The intercom buzzed. "Sir?"

"Yes, Jennifer," he replied.

The voice on the other end was uncertain. That was fine. Jennifer had been one of his many "students", and uncertainty was at the core of their conditioning. He expected them to turn to him for guidance in all things, which is why so many ended up working for him... in some fashion or another.

"Sir, there is a... Dana here to see you."

"Last name?"

"She won't say, sir."

"Does she have an appointment?"

A hesitation. "No, sir. But she insists on seeing you. I was going to call security, but wanted to check with you first."

He smiled. "Good girl. Always check with me first. And don't worry about this 'Dana'. I have a feeling I know what this is about. Make her wait another few minutes, then send her in."

"Yes sir," came the relieved response. "Thank you, sir."

The intercom clicked off. He crossed back to the bar, bringing the wine bottle to a small table in the far corner of his office. Oh, he definitely knew what this was about. Some out-of-town "high priestess" had gathered herself a coven, and learned of his school. Full of self-righteous empowerment and a crusader's zeal, she was no doubt here to "shut him down". He laughed, tossing a few pillows onto the plush couches near the small table in the corner. He'd made no friends in the larger pagan community since he rose to power. There was considerable anger at what many considered the "branding" of their faith.

He'd enjoyed a great deal of financial success selling pagan books, self-help manuals and pre-packaged ritual kits. His tax-exempt "Church of the Great Goddess" was the fastest-growing alternative religious organization in the country, surpassing even Scientology. Many pagans were wary of his commercial success, and the fact that he was the only male member of his church. The tendency for members of the church to break all ties to home and family caused some concerns among lawmakers, more than one had used the word "cult", but he usually managed to settle such concerns over a glass of wine.

He lifted the bottle, smiling as he swirled the blood red liquid around. The wine was key, of course. Without it, the hypnotic suggestions would not have taken as strong a hold, and his wealthier students would have been far less inclined to open their bank accounts to him. He also would have had a much tougher time convincing those two senators that his church was on the level. He put the bottle back down on the table, turning toward the door as it opened.

To say the woman who entered was beautiful was akin to suggesting it might be warm on the surface of the sun. This woman defined beauty, and negated all other applications of the term. The hem of her long black dress brushed the tops of her bare feet as she glided across the carpeted floor. She was tall, with wide hips and round full breasts. Her hair fell in dark waves around a face that was at once palest white and a deep dark brown. Her features seemed vaguely Asian, except when they didn't. To look in her eyes was to stare into infinity, and when she smiled, it was as though the sun itself had come to his office to shine for him alone. Her hair glittered when she moved, and he could have sworn he saw stars among her thick black tresses.

Without waiting for his leave, she sat down on one of the couches, gesturing for him to do the same. He did so, before remembering that he was supposed to be in control. He quickly stood, attempting to assert his dominance.

"You must be Dana." He tried to keep the quiver out of his voice.

"I am," she replied, staring directly at him. He found he could no longer meet her gaze unflinching. Doing so made him feel as though he were falling from a great height, the black void of space all around him, nothing to hold on to, no one to help him. He was alone, falling forever in a--

He closed his eyes, bringing himself back to the reality of his office. He didn't know who this woman was, or what cheap parlor tricks she was using against him, but he'd put a stop to that straight away. He lifted the faux-ancient decanter.

"Some wine, my dear?"

She smiled, as though sharing a private joke. "I would love some, thank you." Her gaze followed him as he reached for the glass he'd placed on the table earlier. He refused to meet it. Later, when those piercing eyes were glassy and half-closed, then he'd look at them. Then it would be her turn to feel the power of his personality.

It usually only took about a third of a glass to make the girls pliant. The wine was laced with a potent cocktail of sedatives and hallucinogens that made the drinker highly susceptible to suggestion. The effects tended to linger, even after just one dose, as he was discovering to his benefit in his ongoing dealings with the two senators. He filled her glass to the top. He'd never given anyone such a strong dose before, but something told him he'd need it with this one.

She accepted the glass, draining it in one swallow. He sat down next to her, waiting for her eyes to glaze over, her speech to slur and her head to loll back against the cushions. Then he'd dim the lights and begin the conditioning process, among other things. She...

She was still staring at him, and her eyes were still clear. "I suppose you're wondering why I've come to see you," she said, with no hint of slur in her voice. So stunned by this was he, that he failed to look away, and found himself staring deep into her eyes. Eyes that went on forever, deep pools of infinite void that pulled him down. Down into nothing, he was falling, falling without end, and this time he couldn't stop it, even with his eyes shut tight.

Her voice echoed around him, bombarding him with waves of sound. "Do you recognize me now, little man?"

"N-no," he stammered out. Somehow, he was naked. His paunchy belly and balding scalp revealed. And still he fell.

"No?" There was laughter in her voice, mocking laughter, directed at him. "Is it not my church that you use to strip the gullible of their fortunes? Is it not my name you invoke in your clumsy seductions of innocent girls?" The voice deepened with fury. "Did you honestly believe you could do such things and worse in my name, and I would not know? For how long did you think you could escape retribution?!" Stars swirled around him, her voice took on the quality of thunder and he fell even faster. "My daughters deserve better than to suffer for your petty ambitions and your venal appetites." She was all around him now as he fell. She was in his mind, devouring his soul.

"I-I'm sorry!" he cried out, his voice a thin whine nearly lost in the din of her anger. "P-please! M-m-mercy!"

Her laugh echoed across infinity. "No, little human thing," she said menacingly. "I believe you have me confused with someone else. There will be no mercy for you, and no forgiveness. You will send a message to all who would use me as a tool for profit and conquest."

Her laughter wrapped around him, and he knew then that he would never stop falling, and that it would be eons before he was granted the refuge of madness. And the sweet release of death would be forever denied him.

*****

Jennifer sat uncomfortably at her desk. She was starting to feel odd. Well, not so much odd, rather... normal. Yes, that was it. For the first time in what seemed forever, she felt a bit like her old self. For the first time in too long, she felt she could make a decision without asking Jonah first. It amazed her that she had not even realized how different she'd become. She had been studying law once, hadn't she? What was she doing working here? What had Jonah done to her?

She stood, determined to get answers from the man she was convinced had stolen not only her money, but years of her life. She flung open the doors to his office, words of accusation on her lips, and stopped short with a gasp.

"Jonah?"

He was seated at his desk, naked, his toupee lying limply on the desk in front of him. He stared dully into space, a thin sheen of drool covering his chin. He made no noise save a low, almost inaudible hum punctuated by soft grunts. But the thing that really gave Jennifer pause, the thing that made her turn and run from the building screaming, never to return, was the word that hung above his head, made from letters of pure fire.

WARLOCK