//------------------------------// // Excedrin Headache // Story: White Rabbit Object // by L0rd0f7hund3r //------------------------------// My mother always told me there'd be days like these. Damn it all if she wasn't right… It was stuck. The fucking blade was six inches into some Burmese officer and the damn thing would not remove itself from its former owner. Cheap steel… General Moexatl though, Bullets don't work on T.A.C., so these third world despots starting arming their troops with swords and machetes. Never anythin' quality, though, no. Always… this… cheap… SHIT! He had been wrestling with this weapon for twenty minutes or so; beyond exhausted, his mood worsening with each passing second, all he wanted at this moment was remove the highly decorative rapier from the officer's corpse. The third rate steel of the blade had caught on the six and seventh ribs; it must have chipped its edge on the way in. He tugged on the blade for a minute more, not wanting to pull his full strength into it. That would snap the blade and make all this effort useless. One more good pull. That should get it free. Taking both hands to the hilt of the weapon, General Moexatl pulled… and pulled… It was coming free, the damned thing was coming free… -SNAP!- He landed on his ass hard, three quarters of the rapier still clutched in his hands. Frustration washed over him and bellowed to non one in particular. He needed that; it was cathartic, like punching into a pillow when you're mad. Using every vulgar word he ever heard or said in his lifetime, he staggered back to his feet. Once standing, he examined the pitiful excuse for a sword he now held. Futile… absolutely fuckin' futile… Why did I even bother? He shook his head, pitching the rapier off to the side where it sank two inches into the ground next the officer's unseeing head. He brushed his backside clear of dirt. The broken sword was the clincher in an otherwise god-awful day. The fighting began just before dawn, with the Burmese army trying to smite any and all with reach, steel in hand. (Since the advent of Tactical Armored Carapace and ray shielding, most armies were issuing melee weapons and making an emphasis on martial arts and close quarters combat.) The only saving grace for the General and his troops was that Burma had not seen to equip their own soldiers with directed energy or LIMBPAW† firearms. It was pretty pitiful, though, to watch one of the Burmese militia men unload a full magazine from his Kalashnikov, with not one bullet ever penetrating his opponents armor. Still, the stink of sweat and blood was everywhere; it made Ana'Ra woozy. He had his fill of embarrassment today and fainting on the battlefield was not his idea of good times. Fuck it, I'm going back to bed. Flicking his head slightly left, he opened his Communication Suite and sought the common channel. Upon finding it, he keyed it wide and issued his last order of the day. "Wolf Pack, this is Alpha Wolf. Commence mop up. Find and extract any VIPs; evac wounded to nearest MASH as needed. Alpha is now twenty-two-twenty. Anyone who tries to wake me up is getting a boot in their ass. Alpha Wolf, out." Ana'Ra clicks his Comm Suite off, but not before the channel burst with wild protests. You would swear they couldn't get along without me. At the moment, he didn't care. He wanted- needed sleep. Rank had its privileges and he was invoking his. He flagged down a passing troop transit and hitched a ride back towards Forward Operations Base. His adjunct, Lieutenant Fiona Shive, greets him as he enters camp and warns him that the media is coming. He informs her of what they can do with themselves, eliciting a giggle from his camp-de-aide. He knew he would catch Hell from Five Sides, he even expected it. He couldn't care less. What really mattered to him were the two little girls waiting for him back home in Dallas. He missed them and the longing made itself a physical ache no pain reliever could cure. They did have Abigail, their au pair, but this did little to appease Ana'Ra's conscious. Six years to the date, he watched as his wife and the mother of his two daughters died of pancreatic cancer. He caught lucky, if you could call it luck, that he was on furlough when she died. He was able to hold Claudia, then 3, and Lydia, not quite 2, while their mother slipped off this mortal coil. He always considered himself fortunate that someone as beautiful as Natalie McCormick, intelligent, vibrant, and outgoing, would even look at someone like him, a vulgar, cynical, and care-worn shell of a man. Luckier still was he when she gave birth to their two daughters. Both were as warm and beautiful as their mother, even if they had their father's hair and eyes. It was just after six o'clock in the evening on a Sunday in Myanmar, then it couldn't be later than 7 in the morning Saturday in Texas, if his math was right. It wasn't normally; math was never Ana'Ra's forte. He was going to try anyway. Some creature comfort would ease his soul as this "police action" slowly becomes more and more like an actual war. Upon reaching his tent, he kicked off his boots. The carbon-silica and other exotic compound-plated footwear landed with a dull thud amongst the brick-a-brack of General Moexatl's home-away-from-home. His gear was the way he left it when the shooting started: his Macbook Pro was in hibernate, still plugged into a plasma generator, sitting atop stacked ammo crates. A heat lamp was arming his cot; his pillow and microfiber fleece were hot to the touch. A spare uniform, nano-driver multitools, and parts for a sniper rifle were covering a bedside table. His favorite camp chair was empty but for a stuffed toy bear. He plopped heavily onto his cot, his body aching from lack of sleep and jet lag. It was cool this morning, and the evening was getting just as cold. Even with compression and Thermal gear on, Ana'Ra felt the chill seeping into his every pore. A Sunshine Belt kid, the cold was highly uncomfortable to him. He didn't dare take off his socks. Instead, he wrapped his hands in his microflber fleece, pulled the crates of ammo closer and opened his Macbook. He pressed the power button to kick it on and the familiar Apple logo sprang up on his screen. Soon, he was looking at his desktop, with all his most used apps and folders still resting in the ObjectDock. He clicked on the Skype icon on the Dock; it launched and found the camp's local Wi-Fi networks. The strongest was his personal network, tied into his TAC. He told AirPort to connect to it; within moments, Skype relayed that he could now connect to the world-at-large. He didn't need the world-at-large; all he needed was the little brownstone in the Hamilton Park neighborhood of Dallas. That number was in his bookmarks, so soon, Ana'Ra was looking at a cheery-faced woman with graying ash-blonde hair. "General Moexatl!" beamed Ms. Abigail, "How are we today?" "Lousy," replied Ana'Ra, "but I'm getting better. Where are my two little ladies?" "In the living room," reported Ms. Abigail, "Claudia is reading her scriptures to Lydia. I'll let them know.you're on." The au-pair left the screen for a moment, calling on the two girls in the next room. Excited gasps can be heard and soon, both girls are sliding into view, pushing and shoving each other to fit onto the chair in front of the family computer. "DADDY!" they scream, filling Ana'Ra with love and pride. "My little ladies, how art thou?" "We're fine, Daddy," Claudia says, "We've been keeping busy while you're away." "We made ya something, Papa!" croons Lydia. "Well, what is it?" The girls disappear for a moment, then emerge with a sparkle laden poster that sports the words, "WE LOVE YOU, DADDY!" "D'aww, girls…" They talk on for a half hour, sometimes talking nonsense, sometimes diving into global politics. That was made Ana'Ra so proud of his daughters: they were so smart and knowledgeable. Their teachers had never had two girls with such an appreciation of learning or the willingness to be taught. He cultivated that in them. His wife helped with that, before she passed. Most people would think that being away from his daughters would make his widower life easier, not having to look at the reminders of his one true love. The opposite was true: being away from them made it harder for him to remember Natalie and that made him depressed. "Daddy?" Claudia had interrupted a moment of silliness between Lydia and himself. She was looking rather startled. "Yes, darlin'?" "What's that noise?" "What noise…" Ana'Ra began, but soon, he couldn't feign not hearing it. Outside his tent, there was screaming. He saw shadows passing at frenetic pace from his tent flap. He flicked his Comm Suite back on and heard voices just bulging with fear. The screaming was so loud, he had to rip his helmet off… "Daddy? Dad?" "I'm here, Claudia. Something's up, can't tell what. I'm goin' for a look-see. Stephanie, can you switch us to HHUD‡ mode?" 'Yes, sir. Connecting… You're connected.' Ana'Ra planted his helmet back on head, saying, "Thanks," to his ancilla, then to his daughters, "Tia, Lulu? Ya still there?" "We're here, Papa," Lydia answered, "Papa, I'm ascared! I can hear them- All of them- They are all so- afraid. What's going on?" "I dunno, darlin'. Gonna find out. Where's Tia?" "Here, Daddy," Claudia said, "Dad, you have to get out of there! Something terrible has happened. Something about an experiment… Aggh! The pain- What is white rabbit object?" "Gets me; first I've ever of it-" He wanted to say more, but his mouth dried out. Looking from his tent flap, both boots only partly laced up, he sees something that takes away his courage: a mushroom cloud, not the orange color of atomic flame or the yellow-white of plasma, but the neon green of something- horrible. He can hear his daughters, they're yelling for him to flee, to run away, go anywhere but where this cloud is. Before he can answer, the world goes dark- Can't sleep… *****'ll eat me… Can't sleep… *****'ll eat me… Ana'Ra hadn't lost consciousness. One minute he was in Myanmar, watching a sickly green mushroom cloud expand over the horizon, next, he's on his back in some sunny field in- wherever here is. He can tell it's a field because he feels grass underneath him. Around him the scent of trees (sycamore, pine, cedar, oak, maple, fir, ash, aspen) is all around. He hears chickens clucking just downspin. When the wind blows, he hears it hoot around the eaves of a wood frame cottage. He tries to raise his head, but upon doing so, vertigo takes over his senses. I can haz concussion, plz? What had his fortune been today in to Astrology section? 'Stay in bed; today is your day of infamy.' He couldn't have agreed more to that. "Stephanie, sit-rep. How am I holdin' up." 'You've had better days, sir,' his ancilla informed him, 'I'm doing diagnostics now, but all communication systems are down. Mil-net is gone… GPS is gone… DNR and IFF are non-functional… We are stand-alone, sir.' "Well, we wouldn't it the easy way, now would we?" he replies. "We wouldn't?" asks a voice. Ana'Ra turns his head. Gazing at him, both frightened and curious, is a pale gold pony with a gray rose mane and cyan eyes. He is most certain it's a female, given the curvature in the hips and legs. "Huhsaywha-?" "Why wouldn't you want it the easy way?" says the pale pony, much to Ana'Ra's surprise. "Boyo, I have a feeling we're not in Texas anymore…"