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Images

This is the first story I ever wrote. I started it in Berkeley in the spring of 1991 and finished it in Woodstock in December of 1992. I sent drafts to many friends and relatives for comments and also took it to a workshop conducted by Roger Zelazny. One wag suggested that I merely needed to add either a plot or characterization—preferably both. It went through six complete drafts. I would write a draft, read a “how to write” book, mull it over, then write another draft. I was completely at sea until the third draft.

How does it look over two decades later? Oddly enough, I extrapolated socialist India’s bureaucracy just as Finance Minister Manmohan Singh was implementing (for both better and worse) a historic turn to capitalism. But I think I foreshadowed some of Narendra Modi’s high-tech campaign of 2014.

“Teach him a lesson! Teach him a lesson!”

The mob surged through the town’s bazaar, smashing windows and torching shops. Everyone who could had locked themselves inside and was waiting for the fury to pass. Only one elderly Muslim gentleman, out to buy his day’s vegetables, was caught in the open.

“Knock him down!” screamed someone. The front edge of the mob had reached the old man, who was hobbling down a side alley as quickly as he could. A young man snatched his bag of vegetables away, grabbed his shoulders, and spun him into the dirt. The old man landed face down and tried to protect his head with his arms, but the mob was on him. People kicked him and beat him with pipes. When his skull had caved in, they drew back and a policeman came and doused him with kerosene. Someone lit a match. The still-wet blood made a hissing sound in the flames. The smell was awful.

“SitaRam! SitaRam!” the mob cheered. Then it surged back into the bazaar, looking for more shops to burn, others to kill.

Sanjaya was shaking. He had seen the killing from his hotel window above the alley. He had yelled at them to stop, but his voice hadn’t been audible above the roar of the mob. Then he had stopped suddenly, lest they think that he, too, was a Muslim.

Sanjaya brushed back his black hair, nowadays ever more tinged with gray. The acrid smoke made him squint, accentuating the slight wrinkles around his eyes. He closed the window and sat in the room’s lone armchair.

Until today, these riots were something he had only heard about or seen on a view screen: A Pathan bus driver kills a pedestrian or a cow is slaughtered. A demonstration is held. A bit of violence. Then rumors: the public wells have been poisoned, pregnant women have been raped and disemboweled. Liquor, bribes, and kerosene oil begin to flow. Party activists find out who is who from the locals. Then an orgy of violence. The police are slow to respond at best, joining in the looting and killing at worst. Then the energies are spent. Official inquiries are commenced. Life returns to normal, attackers and attackees living side by side. Until the next wave hits.

What Sanjaya found puzzling was that it should happen here, in this small, remote town that had previously been so peaceful. He wasn’t sure what to do. The noise had died down outside, and he wasn’t shaking as much now. The old armchair, with its worn fuzzy cloth and busted springs, felt reassuring.

He and his American colleague, Kevin, had been working in the Himalayan foothills for months, racing to complete the final survey of the India Bioregion Map. If they could get it out, it just might make the difference. Kevin had returned to the ashram yesterday, while Sanjaya had broken his journey at this hotel and still had two sets of instruments to collect. If he left now, he could still collect both sets, spend tonight in his tent, then return to the ashram tomorrow morning. He decided to strap on his pack and try for it.

Sanjaya gingerly descended the stairs to the lobby. The desk clerk was gone, so he left the money in an envelope on the front desk. The front door latched on the inside and he let himself out.

The corpse was still smoking slightly, only half burnt. He headed away from the bazaar and uphill. After five minutes, the houses were thinning out. After ten minutes, he was out of town and scrambling up the mountain slope. By late morning, he had made it to his first set of instruments.

One of the goals of the bioregion map project was to account for all bird species. Acoustical prompts made the birds sing; sound activated videocams sent the images to storage. The insect-sized transmitters attached to some birds had all detached themselves on schedule and buzzed back here to their point of origin. The raw data would later be reduced and cross-analyzed with the Thar desert and the Tibet databases for migration information.

Sanjaya was able to locate all the highly miniaturized apparatus and pack them away. He started down the path leading to the second set, taking care where he placed his feet. As always, going down seemed harder on his ankles and knees than climbing up had been.

As he neared the bottom of the mountain, he decided to take a rest. He found a flat boulder near a stream, slid out of his pack, and cracked open his thermos. He poured a cup of cold water, then set it down while he picked up his TouchScreen. Today was the big day in Delhi. The rumblings of war were getting louder. How long can the infobattle be kept at this pitch? If nothing else, he would take in the spectacle.

Kevin, who had that peculiar American mix of sincerity and naivete that Sanjaya found both charming and grating, would sometimes ask him, “The British ruled India with two thousand men. What’s going on here?”

That, Sanjaya knew, was the well-established mythology. In truth, the British had always ruled indirectly with the help of many more than their two thousand. By Independence, the number had grown to three million, by 1992 to twenty-four million, and now, today, August 15, 2011, the one hundred millionth bureaucrat was to be added to the Indian Civil Service.

Sanjaya balanced the TouchScreen on his knees and tuned in Government Channel A. He sipped his cup of water as he watched.

The installation was certainly being conducted with all the pomp that 1.3 billion people could want—Rajput cavalry with lances at the ready, Sikh infantry with blazing red turbans, the stalwart Ravana II fire support system, the gleaming new Pantheon missiles, and of course, elephants. Each elephant wore gold-brocaded head pieces and a red velvet cupola on top for the mahout. Behind the mahout sat a priest, muttering mantras for the benefit of all in the frenzied crowd (some twelve million, according to the announcer). No doubt most were paid ten rupees each and given free transportation, thought Sanjaya. On both flanks of the beasts were hung large video panels displaying 3D martial images from the ancient epics—the Mahabharata, the Ramayana—while the announcer’s voice droned on and on about the glories of ancient India, the millennia of history and valor, and how the current regime was the crowning glory of this rich heritage.

The ceremonies had started late because of crowd control problems: twenty-two deaths from sunstroke, thirteen crushed to death, seven dead in police actions. (Touching the MORE button, Sanjaya brought up a clip of the police baton charge. As the wounded crawled away, the officers, proud of their charge, posed smiling for the cameras.) But parts were trimmed so that the main event, the enrollment of the civil servant, would occur at the designated auspicious moment. On schedule, J. T. Pakh, B.A., B.A., B.Sc., M.A., M.A., Ph.D., walked up the wide red carpet, passing between rows of splendidly uniformed soldiers, potentates, and foreign dignitaries, carrying a huge ledger. He ascended the stairs of the reviewing stand and presented his ledger to the president for his signature, thus becoming the Second Assistant to the Associate Vice-Controller for Interagency Coordination, Warangal District.

Sanjaya turned off his TouchScreen and sighed. He stared out in the distance for a moment. The high clouds of the leaden Monsoon sky were dark, yet a clear horizon let in the sun, illuminating the ground. It was almost as if the ground were illuminating the sky. Three white cranes flew overhead. The contrast with the dark sky left him a bit dazzled. He finished his water, repacked, and headed down the trail for the next group of instruments.

By mid afternoon, Sanjaya was hiking through the central section of the survey area, which was one of the few zones where deforestation was not severe. Kevin, his long blond hair hanging out of his sun hat, had transected much of this area to catalog the flora. He had taken both video and physical samples. His data would be compared with satellite data and a twenty-year-old Rapid Assessment Survey.

Sanjaya mused to himself as he walked. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, he thought. Gandhi’s vision of a self-sufficient rural India had soon given way after Independence to central planning dominated by heavy industry. Some fresh air had begun blowing in the mid 1980s, but by the late 1990s political fragmentation had led to a reliance on central institutions, and the bureaucracy had mushroomed. As the economy spiraled downward, shortsighted politicians played on communal fears to maintain themselves in office. The British hadn’t been bad at divide and rule, but the Indians themselves became masters of it. Finally, only the crassest appeals to hate and fear kept the creaking juggernaut in motion.

In the late afternoon Sanjaya passed through a village, now almost deserted due to lack of firewood. It had once been bustling, but as the women had to walk further and further for wood, it became less and less viable. The ashram had once supplied solar cookers to this village as part of its Sustainable Development Programme, but the district collector had, well, collected them. “Wouldn’t do to have people too self-reliant, would it? Where would it lead, this self-reliance? Everyone must know their station, this is the essential thing.” Only the ashram’s position as a Hindu religious institution kept it from being closed down entirely by the bureaucrats. And even then, it couldn’t push too hard. Sanjaya pushed on.

By dusk, his feet aching, Sanjaya had come to the last group of instruments and, thankfully, his campsite for the night. He had worked day and—more often—night coordinating dozens of cameras to capture the fauna, producing terabytes of data to reduce. The data would be integrated with other surveys in the watershed. Before it got dark, he quickly checked his instruments. Only the GPS receiver had developed any problems. Everything was ready to be taken back to the ashram. At the ashram, the data would be loaded onto NGO/Net, sent to the supercomputers in Wisconsin for integration into even larger databases, and then, finally, into global simulations.

Sanjaya set up his small cooker and began to prepare his meal. He had developed into quite a fair cook by necessity while doing this fieldwork. Tonight was his final night in the field, so he actually had a small feast of leftovers—nice white rice, chappati, eggplant curry, black gram dahl, mango chutney, and plenty of yogurt for making lassi. Sanjaya checked all his containers.

“Pickle too!” he realized with excitement.

He licked his lips as he stirred his pots. Then he feasted happily.

After eating, Sanjaya retired to his tent and flicked on his TouchScreen. He found an official spokesman on Government Channel B.

“The Thirteenth Five-Year Plan is nearing completion and will be announced later this month. The main goals will be to eliminate poverty, achieve 100% literacy, and ensure the necessary conditions for a healthy and prosperous life for all citizens. An additional forty-five thousand auditors will be assigned to ensure that all regulations are followed.

“In other news, the Ministry of Steel reports that the joint venture with the Bulgarian Ministry of Steel in Eastern U. P. is behind schedule due to quality control problems. The Ministry is requesting an additional subsidy . . . ”

“Enough,” thought Sanjaya. He clicked off the TouchScreen and turned off the lantern.

Sanjaya awoke the next morning in a sweat. The riot of the previous morning had troubled his sleep. Not even the lingering aroma of his delicious cooking from last night could get the smell of kerosene and flesh out of his mind. He was anxious to get going. Sanjaya broke camp and headed for the ashram.

It was a long hike, and most of it was uphill. He stopped at lunch-time to catch his breath and to eat a few sweets for energy. He pulled out his TouchScreen to call up Kevin, but could only get static. Strange. He closed it and hurried on.

It was late afternoon as he approached the ashram. He took his final rest and looked across the last small valley whose opposite side led up to the ashram itself. The building lightly capped its ridge, and was a felicitous mix of rooms and hallways, arches and courtyards, gently mixing with the lush gardens tended so lovingly by devotees and guests. It had been built up piece by piece over the decades, as money was sometimes there, and sometimes not. It was beautiful.

After Sanjaya’s parents had been killed in a communal riot many years ago, the swami had adopted him and several other orphans and brought them back to the ashram. Sanjaya had many happy memories of growing up there, thriving in an atmosphere of faith and tolerance. The swami had deftly balanced other opposites as well. The ashram had been engaged in environmental activities since the earliest days of the Chipko movement, yet its activism did not disturb its quietism. Its considerable use of information technology somehow did not lead to information overload or anxiety. It let in breezes from many foreign lands, but it was never blown off its foundation. He thought he had bid it good-bye for good when he went to Delhi and then Bangalore for higher education, but this project had brought him back.

After a while, he came out of his reverie and scrambled down the ridge, up the other side, and into the ashram.

He had expected that everyone would be about their serene routines, but instead no one seemed to be around at all. He was wondering what was going on when Kevin suddenly appeared in the hallway leading to the main meditation hall.

“Sanjaya! Heard the news?”

“Not since yesterday. My TouchScreen went inop this morning.”

“Not inop. Jammed. Another war panic. Could be for real this time. We’ve been watching it most of the afternoon.”

They headed into the darkened hall together.

People were scattered around the hall in groups of two or three, talking with low and intense voices. People were scared—you could smell their salty sweat. A woman from France was jabbing and cursing her portable phone mercilessly. One man kept bursting into laughter every time someone in his group said something—anything. The largest group was clustered around the large view screen in the front.

Kevin said, “All we can get are the official government news channels. Everything else is jammed, and all coax and fiber links in to and out of the country have been cut.”

“He who controls the images . . . ” said Sanjaya.

“Controls the receiver of the images,” finished Kevin. He paused, then added, “We can’t transmit our study.”

Sanjaya walked up to the back edge of the crowd and started listening to the news channel. The pompous announcer was vaguely cross-eyed and had one of those silly pencil-thin mustaches.

“ . . . These Pakistani aggressions, no doubt aided and abetted by the American CIA, will not go unanswered. The state of emergency will remain in effect indefinitely. All states must submit to direct central rule. The public is reminded that the taking of photographs of airports, bridges, railway stations, military bases, harbors, or other vital locations is strictly prohibited.”

The picture shifted back to the parade in Delhi yesterday. But this time it focused even more on the military hardware. The announcer’s voice continued.

“India is fully capable of defending itself. Our new Pantheon series cruise missile, using 100% indigenous technology, is fully capable of hitting all targets inside Pakistan.”

The missiles looked odd to Sanjaya. He didn’t know much about military technology, but the missiles seemed too large, not aerodynamic enough. What was all the apparatus on top? His mind was losing its focus. Another Indo-Pak war. Another distraction to cover policy failures. He needed some air.

“Come, Kevin. Let us go outside,” said Sanjaya.

They made their way out of the hall and onto the main deck of the ashram. It looked down the ridge, into the valley and onto the great plains of North India. The daily Monsoon rain had washed the sky and made it clear and still. Two children were at the far end of the deck, playing at being Rama and Sita.

Sanjaya walked out to the railing and rested his elbows on it. Kevin came beside him and did the same.

“I thought we had it in the bag,” said Kevin.

Sanjaya ran his soft brown fingers through his hair. He sighed.

“We ran out of time. We were small and nimble, but the sheer weight and scope of the state were too much.”

Kevin said, “But we’ve proved just how imminent collapse of the ecosystem here is! Totally! Conclusively! I honestly thought that if we could get this thing out there, the facade of the regime would finally crack. The people would wake up!”

Sanjaya smiled slightly. Kevin’s naivete did not hearten him much now. He was tired. Sanjaya was thinking about the riot, about his parents, about everything. He said nothing.

Kevin continued, “I don’t know. Maybe I was hoping for too much. I’m just one scientist.” He paused. “I’m going back inside to catch some fresh news. Coming?”

“Go ahead. Later, I will come.”

Sanjaya paced a bit. At the far end, the child playing Rama brandished a sword. Sanjaya turned away and walked to the other end of the deck.

Some years ago a well-to-do guest, an astronomy buff, had donated a pair of 20x80 binoculars to the ashram. They were mounted here on a pier, and in the past Sanjaya had often found many hours of pleasure using them. He didn’t feel much like using them now, but he also didn’t know what else to do.

He started pointing them skyward when a bright blue dot caught his eye. It was close to the horizon, moving east to west. He pointed the binoculars and started focusing in. A man riding an eagle? How could that be? He focused more as he tracked it.

Suddenly, it became chillingly clear. It was the god Vishnu—one hand grasping a club, one hand spinning a discus, one hand holding a conch shell, one hand holding a lotus blossom. The eagle was his mount, Garuda. And both were holographic images projected above a cruise missile headed for Pakistan.

As he followed the blue dot west, he picked up a bright golden dot headed east. He started tracking this one. It was an enormous scimitar, beautiful and deadly, calligraphy etched into its blade and hilt.

By the time he had tracked the scimitar east, the eastern horizon was full of dots—red, green, yellow—many more. He quickly found some of them—Shiva, Kali, Durga. The pantheon. All fearsome images riding cruise missiles. All headed for Pakistan.

The golden scimitar landed with a distant thud.

Island Vacation

This is the second story I wrote, in March of 1993, and it took just two days. I was very relieved to find that—after the protracted labor of my first story—writing could also be quick and effortless. I believe anyone who has ever been on a cruise ship will recognize the setting.

“Cruise ship coming tonight. That’s what the Prez says,” said Stan.

Matt nudged his sun hat to look up at Stan. Stan had his mirrored shades on, so it was a little hard to tell if he was joking or not. His voice said not. Matt let his hat fall back over his eyes and settled in his canvas deck chair.

“Great. Just what we need. More tourists,” Matt replied. “At least they’re not coming during the day.”

“Yeah. That’s always hairy,” said Stan.

Stan flip-flopped up the beach toward the resort, beer in hand. He had on one of his all-time loudest shirts. Matt wanted a little more sun before heading in. Even though the weather was perfect almost every day, he still liked to get his morning sun in before he started his afternoon security round. And Stan was great in the morning. Never handed off any big problems to him. Always took care of the morning’s problems in the morning. He was like that back in the Air Force, when they were doing the Java Run together. Dependable. When the morning position opened up, Matt talked him into coming out to Gafia.

Now that’s a fitting name, Gafia. After Acquisitions had found this little jewel in the Pacific, bought off the natives, and moved them out, Marketing cranked up a helluva campaign stateside. Get Away From It All. Get Away From It All! Get Away From It All!! They poured so much money into the campaign that they decided to rename the island. And it sure is a great vacation spot—warm sun, bright white sand, turquoise sea, the works. A little close to Indonesia and the Philippines, but other corporations beat them to the better locations.

“Time to work, sir!” his beeper said.

Matt got up and headed for the resort. He thought he’d start today’s round at the pool.

The pool was trilevel, with waterfalls connecting the pools. Whirlpools were on one side, a live band on the other side, and a bar at the top in the back. Everything seemed fine. He climbed up the marble steps toward the bar. Everything was quiet there, too. He had to smile when he spotted Mrs. Walker.

Mrs. Walker was wearing a string bikini and leaning on the bar. This was her fourth trip to Gafia this year. Her husband is some sort of big-time fixer and arranger. She says we’re like family to her and these trips give her life meaning. Her legs were straight and she was bending over at the waist, advertising it. On each cheek of her buttocks was the number 60 in bright red letters. Born in 1960, 60 years old. She was tall, thin, tan, and golden haired. Her second face and body lift had been superb. The only thing a little too perfect about her was her unnaturally straight teeth. They had sort of given him the creeps when he was banging her last night.

He decided to avoid her and started to check out the indoor facilities. He circled round and came through the main lobby. It was a grabber. More waterfalls, trees, birds, animals, and half a dozen party girls in grass skirts. This was their day gig—they did their real work at night. Most had been tourists once themselves. They adjusted.

Matt went through the lobby and into the promenade. The first room on the right was the go-for-it room. In it was just one incredibly fat guy crashed in a beanbag chair, covered with candy wrappers and cookie crumbs. Yep, that’s the drill. The room had shag carpeting, beanbag furniture, and four walls covered with cabinets and refrigerators that were always well stocked—but only with junk food. Double-fudge brownies with double-chocolate chunks washed down with a double-cappuccino cola was the latest rage. If you got tired of foraging through the cabinets yourself, a waiter would bring whatever you wanted right to you. If you really had enough, the bathroom had a stomach pump and a vomit pit. It was all guilt free. What are vacations for, anyway?

Matt closed the door and headed down the promenade. Foot traffic was light. Most people spent the afternoons on the beaches or in the water. The next stop was the clinic, or, as he and Stan called it, Hypochondria Central. It was as lavish as the rest of the resort. It had all the diagnostic equipment. Staffed twenty-four hours a day, with the specialists there every afternoon. If they couldn’t figure out what was wrong, all the top people stateside were on instant call.

Of course the funny thing was that most of the time nothing was wrong, but that’s okay. The staff was always smiling and cheerful and willing to accommodate that request for one final test—just to make sure. Just pop in the credit card and do the test. Hell, the margins were higher here than on the drinks at the bar!

There was just one guy here, too. Seems he was jogging on the beach this morning and his energy level wasn’t quite what it usually was near the end of the run. He had checked with his own computer and found 15 possibilities, some of them serious. Better safe than sorry.

Matt continued down the promenade to the theater room. Originally, the room actually had a theater in it. The sound system had been incredible. However, once VR began to take hold, attendance dropped, and the profit-per-square-inch numbers started to look bad. There had been some talk of making it into an orgy room, but right about then everyone started discovering that alcohol and VR don’t mix. Guests started actually walking around with their goggles on, bumping into trees, falling down stairs, or walking into the pool when they thought they were flying into the rings of Saturn. He and Stan had to go straight to the Prez on that one. So the theater room became a theater room again, only now every person watched their own separate movie. And the staff was there to make sure no one got hurt. When tourists arrived, the place was jammed.

Matt left the theater room and headed down to the end of the promenade and stepped outside. Gorgeous weather! Someone called his name.

“Matt! Oh, Matt!”

He turned around. Mrs. Walker was seated with a man and a woman near the bar. She was half standing up and waving madly with one arm.

“Matt, come over and meet my good friends,” said Mrs. Walker.

He walked over to the table.

“Matt, this is my good friend Jodi. Jodi, Matt is such a sweetie.” Mrs. Walker looked at Jodi. Jodi looked at her, then at Matt. They’d been talking. Jodi stood up and pecked him on the cheek. Soft lips. Maybe he’d do her tonight.

“She says you tell just the greatest stories,” said Jodi.

“And this is my good friend Harold,” said Mrs. Walker.

Harold stood to shake hands. “You got a good thing going here. Great location. Great concept. Great execution. I love it,” said Harold.

“Thanks. Anything for you guys,” said Matt. He pulled out a chair and joined them.

“See what I mean? So sweet,” said Mrs. Walker.

“Mmm,” said Jodi, eying him as she sipped her drink. Mrs. Walker was also twinkling her eyes at him. Now he wasn’t sure.

“Mrs. Walker here tells us you were in the Air Force, Matt. I was a Navy pilot myself, but I won’t hold it against you. Carrier-based ECM. Loved it,” said Harold. Now even Harold had a gleam in his eye, but it was more of the old-soldier type.

“You really did the Java Run?” asked Harold.

Matt sat back. He had this story down pat. The guests loved it.

“Yeah. Me and Stan,” said Matt.

“Ooh, Stan!” said Jodi. This woman would be defenseless in a poker game.

Matt started his story. “Yeah. You’ll recall that at one time the U. S. and Indonesia actually had relations—you could get a visa and travel there, and they could get a visa and travel to the States.”

“I remember that. Bali was great,” said Mrs. Walker.

“Great,” said Harold.

“So we would fly in and land on a strip on Java and…”

“Actually land on Java?!” gasped Jodi.

“Yeah. Actually land and unload. Then it just started to get too hairy. Warlords. Factions. Kidnappers. Disposable people. So we started flying low over the targets and dumping the pallets out the cargo hatch. Then…” Matt paused for effect. He sipped on the Mai Tai the waiter had brought him. Infinite free drinks. This place had the perks.

“Then what?” asked Jodi.

“Then the antiaircraft fire started. The government was completely gone, who got the U. N. seat was in dispute, and antiwesternism set in. Especially anti-Americanism. So we just started flying higher and higher to be safe. The best trick was taking the cargo off the pallets, packaging it in reflective silver, and sending it down loose. It acted as radar chaff that way. That’s what I always remember when I think of the Java Run: one million shiny condoms flowing out the rear cargo hatch like powdered snow and floating down into the jungle.” Matt touched the Help Me button on his beeper. Now just ten seconds to go.

“Great story,” said Harold.

“Oh, so fascinating,” said Jodi.

“Duty calls, sir!” his beeper said.

“Oh Matt, must you really go?” asked Mrs. Walker.

“You heard the word. It’s been a pleasure chatting with you. I look forward to seeing all of you again. Please enjoy the rest of your stay on Gafia,” said Matt.

“I’m sure Jodi and I will see you tonight,” purred Mrs. Walker.

Both of them? Matt raised his eyebrows and Jodi giggled. He stood up and excused himself again. Then he continued his rounds.

It was near the end of the dinner show that evening when Stan came up and spoke quietly in his ear, “Now’s the time.”

Matt got up from his seat in the rear of the room and went with Stan to the Situation Room. It was one of the few places in the resort that was utilitarian. Matt and Stan were the only ones authorized to enter.

“Copter drone up?” asked Matt.

“Up and in position,” replied Stan.

“Let’s look at it on the monitor,” said Matt. He flipped it on and started scanning and focusing. There it was.

“Cruise ship!” said Matt.

“What’s the position?” asked Stan.

Matt checked.

“Excellent! The tide should carry the debris away from Gafia. No need to notify the guests or meet the tourists on the beach,” said Matt.

“Yep, now’s the time,” said Stan.

Matt was making his final adjustments. The image was crystal clear. A long, open boat; listing, and taking on water. The passengers were sitting in four rows, two on each side. They were all bent down, furiously praying. One man at the bow was standing, leaning his back on a large cross. His face and both arms were raised to heaven in prayer.

“Filipinos,” said Matt.

“The asking-for-compassion routine again,” said Stan.

Matt adjusted the cross hairs for the missile on the copter drone.

“Cross on cross,” said Matt.

“Cross on cross,” said Stan.

“Firing now,” said Matt.

One second passed.

“Light show!” exclaimed Stan.

“Light show,” agreed Matt.

“Tomorrow on the beach?” asked Stan.

“Tomorrow on the beach,” replied Matt.