“My name is Agos. I am a demon.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to repent.”

“You are a demon. How does a demon repent?”

“I have committed great sins.”

“Of course.”

“I need absolution.”

“I’m not sure that I am able to give it to you.”

“Then you are useless to me.”

“Wait, what . . . what are you doing? Wait!!!”

The demon named Agos walked out of the church and looked around remorsefully. The priest was dead. There was blood splattered all over the confession booth. It was a mess. One of the congregation would discover the body sooner or later, and someone would have to clean it all up. Agos walked away shaking his head slowly, feeling sad and despondent.

The next morning, he visited the farmers market. It was busy here during the summer, with mothers pulling their unwilling children along, live music, farmers selling their produce, and a whole host of other vendors offering their wares. There was also ice cream and hot dogs to be had, and street performers doing dances or small magic shows. It was a lively atmosphere, all in all.

Agos wandered from stall to stall, still feeling depressed. He felt alone, misunderstood, and hopeless.

“Hey, mister!” It was a little boy, maybe seven years old. Agos looked down at the child, who had wandered away from his mother and was now standing in front of him, staring up at him unabashedly.

“Um, yes?” replied Agos a little awkwardly.

“Can you spare a dollar? My Mom says I can have an ice cream if I earn the money for it.”

“This is not called earning. This is called begging.” Agos was bemused.

“Well, she doesn’t need to know that.”

Little boys. So devious. Agos smirked. He could do much with this one.

“Is that all you want? Ice cream?”

The boy thought for a moment, and then replied, “Yeah, just the ice cream.”

Agos did not have anything in his pockets. He pulled the boy’s hand into his and made a motion of handing him money. A crisp dollar bill materialized in the boy’s hand.

“Thank you, mister!” The boy was delighted, and ran back to his mother with the money.

Agos turned back to perusing the stalls, feeling even more depressed than before. These humans, they had such inherent evil built into them. And even they could be saved. So why not him?

“It’s unfair,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “It’s so unfair.”

Later in the day, he attended a lecture series at the university that focused on quantum mechanics and the nature of reality. He yawned through most of the talk, but found some parts interesting and listened to those attentively. Learning was always fun.

He wasn’t sure how much time he had left in this realm, but he had become disillusioned with his existence. His demonizing was not giving him nearly the fulfillment that he had hoped for. He felt that he should change his profession. But he was not sure what else to do.

“It’s kind of like an identity crisis, I guess,” he said, sitting on the couch while the psychiatrist took notes. “I mean, I just feel that this is not my real purpose in life.”

“What would you say is your real purpose in life?”

“Well, I mean, I know I was put on this Earth to demonize, but it’s just not fulfilling me anymore, you know? And more than that, I actually feel bad afterward. Every time. Like, guilty. That’s not supposed to happen, is it? I’ve never heard of any other demons feeling guilt.”

The psychiatrist shrugged.

“I should feel good about what I do. I should feel happy performing work that fulfills me. This is not fulfilling. This demonizing, it’s not what I really need to be doing right now.”

“What do you want to do with your life?”

“I’m not sure, maybe I could try real estate? I’ve always loved working with people. Usually they end up dead, though. But that’s exactly what I’m talking about, see? I need a clean break, I need to close that chapter of my life and move on. I think I need forgiveness. I tried to confess my sins and get absolution.”

“And what happened?”

“Well, it didn’t go exactly as planned.”

“So what will you do now?”

Agos thought for a moment. “I need to find myself, discover my purpose. I saw this advertisement about those New Wings seminars. Have you heard about them?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

“They have a week-long retreat in California. It’s all about finding and fulfilling your purpose in life. I heard that they really get people to look within and find themselves. And they have a lot of rave reviews. It seems like something I need.”

“Are you going to attend this seminar?”

“You know, I think I should. Thank you for your help!”

Agos attended the week-long retreat in California, fully and completely immersing himself in the exercises and lectures. He nodded vigorously in agreement when the facilitator was talking about overcoming Daddy issues. He laughed, he cried, he hugged people. He found himself anew. As he walked out of the seminar hall on the last day, he felt like a new person.

His new life was going to be on the coast, where he wanted to retire and paint. One of the insights he had gained in the seminar was that he loved to paint. So he decided to make paintings. He spent entire nights in front of the canvas, trying to get just the right nuance of the brush-stroke. It was very frustrating. And the worst part was the subject matter of his paintings. He invariably found himself painting horrific scenes of death and dismemberment. He was shocked at the content of his own paintings. He telephoned his therapist, who said that it might be residual memories and thoughts from his past occupation. It was good, the therapist said, to express himself in this way because it was getting the energy out without hurting anyone. Keep painting and eventually they will stop.

So Agos kept painting. And the content of his work did change. But not in the way that he had hoped or expected. It grew darker and more violent. It was more extreme, more terrifying, and more sinister than before. It felt like there was a deep yearning, a trapped desire that was struggling to express itself. One evening, Agos surveyed all of his paintings and was truly frightened by what he saw.

“I don’t want to be responsible for all this!” he cried.

The psychiatrist was understanding.

“It might be that these are repressed memories,” he suggested. “You shouldn’t ignore them.”

“But I don’t want to do this anymore!” Agos groaned. “I needed a clean break. I wanted to do something else with my life.”

“Sometimes we have to play the hand that is dealt us,” said the psychiatrist, in his matter-of-fact tone.

Agos nodded. “Yes, so it is,” he said unhappily, and then left the psychiatrist’s office for the final time.

He had tried everything to leave his old life behind him, but it was of no avail. He could keep living in his coastal home, quietly painting scenes of terror and misery, or he could embrace what he was, and go back into the world as the demon he was created to be.

Resigning himself to his fate, he returned to the major city and began his vocation anew. The first place he visited was an upscale restaurant. He walked in and selected a table where a group of people were seated. He had a few choice words with them before beginning his carnage. There would be so many eyewitnesses, but that would only work in his favor, increasing the panic and paranoia in the city. He knew that he would not be caught by the police. His supernatural powers always worked to his advantage to avoid capture.

As he walked out of the restaurant, his hands dripping with blood, drenched up to his elbows, he felt a strange sense of satisfaction. A deep yearning inside had been fulfilled, and he felt calm, content, at peace. Even as he walked through the throng of people screaming hysterically, he smiled to himself happily.

. . .

As he reached the corner, he looked anxiously at the line of parked cars to see if his white Toyota Camry was among them. But he was disappointed when it wasn’t there. He grimaced. What should he do now?

He turned to look back towards the elevators. Should he retrace his steps? Again? Why did this sort of thing always happen to him, he wondered. Some of the convention attendees had just gotten out of the elevator. They were excited after the convention and were talking amongst themselves. They found their car and within minutes, were driving out of the parking garage. Patrick groaned and looked around desperately. Now the security guards would be coming for him for sure, he imagined.

“Sucks to be lost, eh?”

The voice came out of nowhere. It was behind him, very close. Patrick swung around, startled. The owner of the voice was a short, small man in a very bright red suit and glittery tie. Even his shirt was red. He was leaning on a cane, and his jet black hair was combed back, slick with oil. He had that smarmy, used-car salesman demeanor. Patrick looked at him in amazement. Where did this bizarre creature come from, and how did he sneak up on him so fast?

“I’m not lost, I – uh,” Patrick mentally considered the alternatives, trying to pick the most plausible excuse. “I was just thinking about going back into the convention center, I think I missed some of the booths.”

“Ah, lying, yes, one of my favorites. Little white lies, to be precise. That’s how it all starts. I love it. It’s how I get the most new converts.”

“Excuse me?”

“Why, my dear Patrick, don’t you recognize me?”

“How do you know my name?”

“I know everyone’s name. But don’t you know mine?”

“Uhm?” Patrick gave a helpless look and shrugged.

The man gave an exasperated look. “How come everyone knows Him, but I always have to introduce myself? It’s me! Beelzebub. Lucifer. The prince of darkness. Satan. The devil!”

Patrick stood for a moment processing the man’s absurd claims. Then he laughed.

“What are you, like, just out of the psych ward? I mean, I know this is LA, but, dude, come on!”

The man stamped his foot angrily. “Damn it all to Hell! Why doesn’t anyone ever believe me the first time!”

Patrick shrugged. “I dunno, maybe it’s ‘coz you’re built like a garden gnome and dress in a bad Halloween costume?”

“I should prove it to you.” Satan was indignant.

“Actually, I gotta find my car, but thanks anyway.”

Patrick turned away from the man in the red suit, muttering under his breath, “Nutjob.”

“You will never find your car!” Satan pronounced, “you will be stuck in this parking garage indefinitely. This will be your Hell!”

“Yeah yeah whatever,” replied Patrick, mildly annoyed at Satan now. He walked away, feeling a little disturbed. Why did he always run into the psych cases?

After another fifteen minutes of random guessing, he finally decided to walk through the entire garage, row by row, checking each parked vehicle to see if it was his. He began at the corner near the elevators and started walking. This was going to take a long while, but it was better than guessing and estimating, which had yielded no results. And so he began his long walk.

There were so many kinds of vehicles. It was so interesting to see all the different makes and models. Any other day, he would have been fascinated by the variety. But now he was tired, and he just wanted to go home and take a nap. All this walking was exhausting work. He passed by several luxury vehicles, and more than one black Mercedes. He lingered a few moments to admire each Mercedes before moving on. It was one of his favorite cars. Some day, he thought to himself, I would like to have one of those.

It seemed like an eternity, but he finally reached the opposite corner of the parking lot. And he had not seen his car. He groaned. So he was on the wrong level after all! Grinding his teeth in frustration, he headed towards the elevators.

“This is just the beginning.” Satan was leaning against a pillar just in front of him. Patrick scowled at him.

“I told you to get lost,” he said brusquely as he walked past him, without slowing down. But Satan only smirked.

“The only way you’ll get out of here is if you talk with me,” he said smugly.

Patrick ignored him and headed for the elevators. Back to the first level. He employed the same procedure as before and walked through all the rows of parked cars, checking each one individually. His car had to be on this level. He walked faster now, with more urgency in his step. He felt that the crazy man in the red suit was following him. Some of these crackpots could actually be dangerous. He wanted to be out of here as fast as possible.

When he reached the far corner and still hadn’t found his car, he was confounded. What was going on?

“I told you, you will never get out of here unless you talk with me.” Satan once again appeared, this time he was sitting on the trunk of a Cadillac.

Patrick sighed. “Okay, where is my car?” he asked, sighing in exasperation.

“Why, upstairs, of course,” replied Satan with a self-satisfied smile.

“I checked upstairs, it’s not there.”

“Maybe you need to look again.”

“Maybe you need to leave me alone!”

“Okay, how about this. You like those black Mercedes, don’t you? Why not drive off in one of those?”

“What? They’re not mine! I don’t own them, and I can’t just drive off in any car I choose!”

“Oh, since you mention it, why not choose any car?”

“Huh?”

“Look!”

Satan waved his arm and all of a sudden, every vehicle in the parking lot was a black Mercedes. Patrick blinked, not believing his eyes.

“Pick any one,” said Satan, “maybe that one?” He pointed at one of the cars; the engine started and the driver’s side door opened.

“All yours.” said Satan, “All you have to do is get in and drive out of here.”

Patrick glimpsed at the soft leather interior. It was the luxury vehicle that he had desired for decades. He felt a strong urge to walk up to it and get inside. He considered driving it home. He didn’t realize it, but as he was thinking about it, Satan was very close behind him, whispering inaudibly in his right ear.

He shook his head.

“No, I should get my own car,” he said finally, “I’m tired, and I just want to go home.”

“You can’t leave here. Not until I get what I want.”

“What do you want from me?”

Patrick was starting to feel fearful of the man in the bright red suit. He felt that there was some sort of sinister force at work here, and he wanted to be as far away as possible from it.

“Well, a piece of your soul would suffice. I don’t need your whole soul. I hate it how people dramatize things so much when telling stories about me, saying how I took a person’s entire soul. Pish tosh! That’s not how I work! Besides, it’s more profitable for me to have a piece of your soul.”

“You want a piece of my soul?”

“Quite simply put, yes.”

“Why?”

“Oh, consider it a little hobby of mine. You won’t even miss it! And, you get to go home immediately and rest. You’re pretty tired, aren’t you?”

Patrick’s legs hurt. The muscles in his back and shoulders ached. His eyes felt heavy and his feet were paining. His briefcase felt heavy and was causing his arm to hurt. He felt exhausted.

“So, what do you need to take a piece of my soul?” Patrick reluctantly asked, hesitating even as he did so.

“You could take the Mercedes.”

“I don’t think I really want that right now.”

“Fair enough. Then you can sign a contract.”

“Okay, that sounds a little better. But I don’t have a pen.”

Satan laughed. “It’s not that kind of contract. It has to be in blood.”

“Oh? How does that work?”

“I just need a drop of your blood. Right here.”

Satan produced a small parchment, unrolled it and held it out.

“Um, how am I supposed to--?” Patrick indicated his fingers, questioning how to draw blood.

“Use any sharp object,” Satan smiled gleefully, overjoyed at his victory.

Patrick nodded and took the parchment from Satan. It seemed old and very used. He walked a few steps and placed his briefcase on the trunk of a nearby car. Satan sat where he was, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

Patrick reached into his briefcase, hiding the view from Satan, grimaced, and then pulled out the parchment, now stained red with a few drops of blood.

He handed it to Satan while he wrapped his finger with a handkerchief. “Now can I go?” he asked.

“Of course! Of course!” Satan was the epitome of courtesy. With a flourish and a bow, he waved his arm, and there stood Patrick’s old Toyota Camry.

Patrick got into the car and started it up. Without looking back, he immediately drove for the exit. Once he reached the exit, he rolled down his window, paid the attendant, and then drove out into the street.

“I’ll be seeing you real soon,” the familiar voice of Satan came across on his car speakers.

“No you won’t, you stupid bastard,” said Patrick as he merged into the traffic. “For being the lord of the underworld, it’s amazing you’re so dumb!”

“What are you talking about?” the voice was shrill, harsh, filled with suspicion and panic.

“Don’t you know what convention I was attending? I’m a phlebotomist, we were doing skills labs and training. I have in my briefcase samples of the blood of several small animals. You just got a piece of the soul of a rabbit! So enjoy doing your evil work with the poor rabbit!”

There was a stunned silence, and then came an ear-piercing shriek. Patrick smiled to himself and pressed the accelerator to speed him on his way home.

. . .

Every day, he checked the mail, hoping to the see the familiar blue and white packaging that Aqueon used for all their products. Finally, the day arrived, and he opened his mailbox to see the package waiting for him. Giddy with joy, he lifted the box gingerly and took back inside his house.

His wife, Jo, was busy chopping vegetables in the kitchen.

“Will you call the kids down for lunch, Charles?” she called over her shoulder.

“Yes, in a minute,” he replied, sitting down on the couch, holding the box with both hands, “I just need to set up the new phone.”

“Oh, it’s here finally,” Jo remarked, laughing. She glanced at him and shook her head, “you’re like a kid in a candy store with your tech toys.”

He pulled the coffee table closer to him, placed the box on it, and carefully opened the package. He let out a little gasp when he laid his eyes on the phone. Sleek, stylish, and eminently desirable, it lay in the box like some undiscovered treasure, covered with a screen protector. Charles lifted it it up with both hands, gently peeled off the protective covering, and pushed the button to turn it on.

He heard the familiar bong followed by the trademark jingle for the Aqueon company, and then the bootup animation launched. Charles took a deep breath as he watched. Finally, he thought to himself. Version 7. This was awesome. He sat back on the couch and basked in satisfaction.

It didn’t take him long to adjust the settings and transfer his SIM card from his old phone. Within minutes, he was ready to use his new phone.

“I’m all set!” he announced to Jo, before heading upstairs to fetch the kids for lunch.

The Aqueon 7 was everything that Charles had hoped it would be, and more. It had a plethora of features, and a whole host of capabilities that most users would rarely, if ever use. The processing power of the phone was immense, and the designers used that to add as many new capabilities to the phone as they possibly could. It felt like nothing was left out. Charles felt that the Aqueon 7 was the ultimate device. He had everything synced to it, his whole life was available at his fingertips: email, voicemail, contacts, social media, mortgage loan account, credit information, bank account access, medical and health information access, all his online activity, books he was reading, his personalized music list, and much more. His entire life was on that phone. It was little wonder that Charles kept his phone locked whenever he was not using it.

For the next three months, all went well and Charles reveled in using his new phone. He announced to Jo on several occasions that the decision to spend over nine hundred dollars on this phone was well worth it. He expected that he would be using this phone for years to come. He became intimately familiar with it, the way it felt in his hand, the feel of it hanging from the clip on his belt, the act of reaching for it when he wanted to check his email or call someone. It had become more than a part of his life, it had become and extension of his self. It was his intimate companion everywhere he went, even into the restroom.

The troubles for Charles began on a bright and sunny Sunday morning. He woke up as rays of sunshine streamed in through the bedroom windows. Jo was already out of bed and pulling up the blinds. She opened the windows and the fresh morning air blew in.

Charles stretched and reached for his phone. Instead of displaying the usual home screen with the clock and the familiar icons, he instead saw a blank white page with capital words in light blue at the top of the page that read “New System Update Available”

Charles loved to experiment with and explore new features, so he didn’t think twice about pressing the “Download and Install” button. He set the phone down on his nightstand and rolled over in bed, but Jo was pulling the covers off him.

“Time to get up, sleepy head,” she said, “it’s Sunday, and we’re late. We need to get the kids ready for Church.”

Charles yawned, scratched his head, and habitually reached for his phone again. The update had already been downloaded and an informational message was being displayed on the screen. Charles scanned it without paying much attention, he just wanted to see his home screen and get caught up on Facebook and Twitter. Just as he was about to tap on the “Accept and Continue” button, he noticed the wording in the last paragraph: “This update will change your life forever, we promise ;-)”

He stared at it for a moment, thinking that it was an usual message in the otherwise typically bland language used for things like system updates and defect fixes to the operating system. Still, he pressed the “Accept and Continue” button, and then got out of bed and headed for the shower.

By the time everyone was ready for Church, the phone was ready for use again. Charles felt the familiar rush of endorphins as he tapped on the button for the home screen and saw all his apps on his phone. A few clicks to check his favorite sites, and he was ready to head to Church.

He got the first of the strange messages while he was sitting in Church listening to the sermon. The familiar chime sounded on his phone loudly. He smiled awkwardly at the people sitting next to him as he reached for his phone on his belt. He looked at the notifications. Apparently, there had been an update in his Aqueon photo gallery. He was about to ignore it, but then the thumbnail of the picture caught his attention, and he tapped on it quickly. There was the picture of him in the hotel room with the prostitute, a memorable afternoon that had only happened a few weeks ago. Charles panicked and deleted the picture immediately. He was completely distracted now, and he couldn’t hear a word of the sermon. His mind was racing with a million competing thoughts: Who took that picture? How did it end up his photo gallery? Had anyone else seen it? HAD JO SEEN IT?

He took a few deep breaths to calm himself down. Once he was settled, he glanced at his phone again, still trying to figure out what to do. There was another notification. The photo was back. And that time, it had been placed in a public photo gallery - viewable by anyone who happened to be browsing. Heart pounding and fingers trembling, he deleted the photo again. He began to sweat as he fumbled with the phone, he turned off the photo gallery and locked down the permissions settings for all media, setting everything to “private”. Finally, he slumped back and sighed, while the sermon continued unheard by him.

It didn’t end there. After they got home that afternoon, he got more notifications on his phone. Apparently, there were also video recordings of his extra-marital escapades, and not just with the same prostitute in the hotel room. There was the time he had gone to Chicago for a job-related convention, spending three nights there. He had been busy every night in his hotel room with a different woman. He knew that there had been no one else in the room with them, but these video recordings were made up close, with the cameraman holding the camera and walking right up to him or the woman, capturing the expressions of pleasure and ecstasy on their face, their breathing, their moans and gasps. Charles was aghast. His mind struggled to understand what was happening as he furiously deleted the files from his phone. The Aqueon photo gallery settings had been again set to public somehow. Again, Charles changed the settings to private, viewable only by him. And for good measure, he deleted his user account and removed the Aqueon photo gallery app from his phone.

“You should take a break from the phone,” it was Jo, she had been changing her clothes in their walk-in closet, “you’ve been glued to it all day. Spend some time with the kids, they are missing you.”

“Oh, yeah,” Charles responded absent-mindedly, “In just a minute.”

“Ever since you got that phone, you’ve been lost to us,” Jo shook her head and headed downstairs.

In the days that followed, Charles became paranoid. He would check his phone every two minutes, fearful of any new notifications. Sometimes they came, sometimes they didn’t. Each time there was something new, it was from one of his previous sexual encounters, and it always seemed to be from further back in time. As if someone, somewhere, was cataloging all his previous indiscretions. He would immediately delete the files, but they would always reappear. He tried everything he could think of: removing apps, resetting the phone to its original factory settings, changing user accounts. But nothing seemed to work. The videos and photos always came back.

His health began to deteriorate. He lived in constant fear that Jo or someone else might find the evidence of his marital infidelity. That would mean the end of his relationship, and his family would be torn apart. He felt a terrible angst inside him, one that only increased with each passing day.

Finally, in a desperate attempt to rid himself of this plague, he tossed the phone into the rushing waters of a river. As he drove on the bridge, he slowed down just enough to roll down his window and throw out his phone. He watched as the small black device made a long arc as it fell, made a tiny splash in the cold, churning water of the river, and then disappeared. Relieved, he drove back home.

“Are you feeling alright,” Jo was concerned when he walked into the bedroom that night, “you’ve been looked very stressed out lately.”

“I’ll be fine now, I think,” he replied, sitting down heavily on the bed. Jo came up behind him and gave his shoulders a light massage.

And then, unexpectedly, there was that familiar chime.

“It’s your phone again,” Jo said, sighing, “I guess you want to go play with it.” She slid off the bed and walked into the bathroom.

Charles was rigid with tension, his muscles tight. He opened the nightstand drawer, and there was his phone, with the tiny little notification light blinking. It sat there in his drawer, as if taunting him.

Hands trembling, he lifted the phone and checked the notifications. There were hundreds of new photos and videos posted, of every illicit sexual encounter he had had. He gasped in horror. Even as he scrambled to delete the files, he saw the status changing to “publicly accessible”, and then they started being shared. The ominous message popped up, “Sharing with Jo Hogan...“

“NO!” gasped Charles, his eyes wide with horror. He tapped the screen multiple times, his finger smashing against the “Cancel” button. Eventually, the share message was dismissed, and Charles breathed a small sigh of relief.

Desperate, at the end of his rope, and not knowing what else to do, Charles put his head in his hands and sobbed uncontrollably.

It wasn’t much later that the local newspapers carried the tragic news of the untimely death of one of the local residents, Charles Hogan. The sad news had put the entire town in mourning. He had been found by his wife, Jo, sprawled on the floor of their bedroom, mouth gaping open and blank eyes staring up at the ceiling. He had overdosed on sedatives. Next to him lay his phone, its screen cracked and the battery ripped out.

. . .

The soldier sighed and glanced quickly at his watch. Four more hours. He would be relieved when his replacement arrived. It was a nerve-wracking assignment to be so exposed, but it was required, and these were his orders. He looked to his left. Across the distance he saw the other lone soldier similarly stationed. There were six of them in total, and they would take turns for this shift. Behind them was their military base. Lately, the rebels had become increasingly brazen, even attacking their base directly. They were not as well equipped, nor did they have the best weapons, but they were vicious in their attacks. The soldier remembered the young soldiers who had come with him in his unit, most of them had been killed, their bodies desecrated by the rebels, torn from limb to limb and hung naked at the city gates. It had been a horrific scene. They had recovered some of the corpses, while under heavy fire, to afford them a proper burial. But it had been a harrowing ordeal.

He squinted out into the desert sands, the memory fresh in his mind. Morale had been steadily declining and had taken a plunge after the most recent atrocities committed by the rebels. It seemed that they were closing in, and they wanted to eliminate all presence of any foreign military from their soil. But they still terrorized the local civilian population. And that’s why the soldier was here. To liberate the people from these monsters. But it seemed that they had not been effective. At least, not so far.

He sensed movement. He raised his weapon, his finger on the trigger. He got very quiet, very still. His eyes scanned the horizon. A gentle wind blew gusts of sand up into the air. There was nothing. Very slowly, he lowered his weapon. But he kept his eyes open and staring intently ahead. It was several minutes later when he heard voices. He crouched and raised his weapon, ready to fire.

As the sounds grew closer, he heard giggling and laughing. And then, from around the corner of one of the dilapidated buildings, several children came running out. They must have been nine or ten years of age. They were barefoot, wearing torn, dirty clothing, and their faces were muddy from playing in the dirt. The soldier frowned. Children were not supposed to be anywhere near here. His weapon remained pointed at them.

The children stopped abruptly when they saw him. They stood in the middle of the road, completely exposed. A sombre, serious expression came over their faces. For a few moments in silence, the soldier and the children stared at each other. Then, suddenly, all the children simultaneously broke out into laughter and play, tugging on each other, pushing each other, and squealing with delight as they played. The soldier breathed a sigh of relief. Despite himself, he smiled. They reminded him of his own children back home.

But he still kept his weapon armed and trained on them. He was in hostile enemy territory, and he had to follow his training and orders. And the children were too close for comfort right now. He banished the thought of having to fire upon them from his mind. He refused to think about it.

Playing with each other, the children seemed to forget about him. They had some makeshift toys; a stick, a deflated small football, and some kind of broken yo-yo. But mostly they seemed to be interested in horseplay. They tumbled into each other, tugged on each other, tickled and shoved and pushed each other. And howled in laughter.

The soldier felt a little homesick, realizing the moments of his own childrens’ lives that he was missing. He wanted to lower his weapon, but he had his orders. He took his finger off the trigger.

Eventually, the tallest girl, who also seemed to be the oldest, poked her head up from their play and looked directly at the soldier. She extricated herself from the other kids and started walking towards him. The soldier shook his head. She could not come any closer without him being required to take action. He shook his head urgently, indicating to her not to proceed. She kept walking, oblivious to his gestures. He took a sharp breath, his weapon was ready and aimed at her point blank. He raised his other hand and waved her away. But she didn’t stop. He shouted out a warning, loudly ordering her to move away. But she ignored it.

He took aim. His finger trembled as he found the trigger. But he could not pull it. He grimaced painfully, torn between his orders and the child who stood in front him so innocuously. When she reached him, he was still in position, holding his breath, frozen, expressionless.

Then she pulled out a small flower, a dandelion, and gently slid the stem into the barrel of his weapon. He breathed, relieved, and lowered his shaking hand.

She turned to leave, and the soldier wiped the sweat off his brow.

But then she turned back around, and this time the look on her face was different. She had a hard, set look. Her face showed maturity beyond her years, and her eyes showed determination and conviction. In that moment she seemed more like a young woman than a child. The soldier looked down in horror as she tossed the explosives almost carelessly towards him. He raised his hand to his weapon in a panicked rush, but it was already too late. The flash came first, and then the sound of the blast, as the soldier breathed his last.

. . .

It’s been about two months since I rebooted my Substack, and it’s been an eventful time. Everything has grown: subscriber count (up 55%), views (up 148%). Thank you for engaging with my work.

So far I have published two short science fiction stories (Cannon Fodder and Rule 12), and two short horror stories (Tardy and Devil Inside).

It’s been a lot of fun to write these stories, and I hope they are as much fun to read as well.

After some reflection, I decided to change the cadence of posting. Initially I had planned to publish one short story every month. But I realized that that might be too long of a gap, especially for readers. So I decided to shorten that to once every week.

I’ve also been mulling over serialized fiction. I posed a question in Notes and saw that there are indeed many authors on Substack writing serialized fiction. So I might consider a science fiction saga in that format as well. Perhaps. I’m still determining the best delivery format, and the way that Substack is structured, it doesn’t (currently) lend itself to a very intuitive format for serialized fiction.

Glad to have you all on board this wonderful journey with me. Coming up, there’s more horror, drama, and science fiction. I have a number of stories exploring how artificial intelligence could potentially shape the world around us, some in ways that are benign, others not so much.

Stay tuned, and as always, feel free to drop me a note anytime.

- Jasjit

Jasjit Singh Kharay

Rule 12

Dr. Aran hurried down the long dark hallway and made his way into the main laboratory. In hushed tones, he whispered the news into the ear of his friend and colleague, Dr. Chang. Together, the two men retreated into the privacy of one of the small conference rooms…

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a month ago · 1 like · Jasjit Singh Kharay

Jasjit Singh Kharay

Cannon Fodder

We fought for Central, and we gave our lives for Central. It was our duty, we were soldiers. We never questioned our orders. On the borders of the stifling deserts, or in the icy cold of the snowy mountains, we fought. On the plains, on the shores, and in the jungles, we fought. There was no location on the planet where we did not tread. We were soldier…

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3 months ago · 1 like · Jasjit Singh Kharay

Jasjit Singh Kharay

Tardy

Barry was late again. As he scrambled to put on his shirt and jacket, he dreaded what his boss would say to him this time. He had already been given three warnings. Perhaps he would lose his job this time? He raced out the door and down the hall. The elevator was taking too long so he ran down the three flights of stairs to the ground floor and out into…

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2 months ago · 2 likes · 2 comments · Jasjit Singh Kharay

Jasjit Singh Kharay

Devil Inside

Gregory sighed in boredom as he flipped through the television station channels. It was 2:00 a.m., and he could not sleep. There were the usual infomercials selling everything from kitchen mops to jewelry. Gregory yawned. He scratched his arm, yearning for another drug-induced high, but he was all out of the pills and powder, and he had no money left to…

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a month ago · Jasjit Singh Kharay

He stared at his cell-phone, thinking about calling his pusher, Zack. Zack always displayed a feigned interest in his life when he saw him, but he knew that all Zack really wanted was his money. Gregory didn’t care. All he really wanted were the drugs.

But without cash, Zack wouldn’t deliver.

It was strange to hear the voice. He was all alone in his apartment, so there couldn’t have been anyone else there. But he clearly heard the voice. It came suddenly, without warning.

“Gregory,” it was a silvery, smooth voice, unearthly and eerie.

“Who is it?” asked Gregory, looking around in the glare of the television.

Silence.

Gregory relaxed back into his couch, and turned his attention to the television. He didn’t hear the voice again that night, and eventually forgot about it.

It was two days later, and Gregory still didn’t have enough cash to buy the drugs. By now his need had become desperate. His hands were shaking. He had telephoned Zack twice already, and asked for a loan, which Zack had curtly refused. The second time, Zack merely hung up on him.

Gregory stood outside the convenience store, shivering. His paycheck would not arrive for another three days. He couldn’t wait that long, he needed a fix now.

“Gregory,” that silvery voice again, suddenly and without any warning.

Gregory looked around furtively. There were people inside the convenience store, but none of them could have been the source of the voice as they were too far away, and the voice was close, very close.

“What do you want?” he asked awkwardly.

“To give you what you need,” the voice answered, cooing.

“What do you mean? You mean a hit? I don’t have any cash. Will you give me cash?”

“I’ll do better than that,” replied the voice, sounding delighted. “If you do what I tell you, I will give you a high that you have never experienced before.”

“Oh? What do you want me to do?” Gregory asked, curious now.

“Nothing too big. You see that car parked over there? Walk to it, and look inside. What do you see?”

Gregory walked to the car and glanced inside the drivers side window. On the seat lay a GPS device.

“GPS,” mumbled Gregory.

“Break the window, grab the GPS.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I told you to!” the voice seemed to turn cold, harsh, vicious.

Gregory shook his head. He was about to walk away, but paused. He took a quick look at the convenience store. Nobody was coming out yet. The parking lot was empty. A slight breeze blew some leaves along the ground.

Gregory looked around for something to use. Along the edge of the parking lot was a line of shrubs that had been neatly landscaped. A row of red bricks had been used to mark the boundary of the garden bed. Gregory ran over to the shrubs and grabbed one of the bricks. He quickly ran back to the car and threw the brick through the drivers side window, breaking the glass. It shattered into tiny little pieces and crumbled into the car seat and out onto the road, leaving a glittering mess. Gregory felt his heart race as he reached into the car and picked up the GPS device. He concealed it inside his jacket, pulled up his hood, and walked away without looking back.

As soon as he had turned the corner, he heard the voice again. It was smooth and soft again.

“Good, Gregory,” it cooed. “Very good.”

And then, all of a sudden, Gregory felt a surging rush of feeling in his brain. His pupils dilated, and he immediately realized that he was experiencing the same kind of high that he would usually get from his drugs. He gasped as the feelings intensified. Closing his eyes, he slouched against the wall of the building and slid down to the ground, hugging himself tightly. He felt the oncoming endorphin rush and trembled with pleasure. His entire nervous system tingled as he felt the chemical messengers coursing through his body, bringing orgasmic pleasure to every nerve. By now he was lying on the ground in a state of semi-consciousness, twitching from the sensory overload in his brain.

The high only lasted a few minutes, but it seemed much longer to Gregory. After it had passed, he settled into a deep sleep on the pavement. Some passersby dropped coins in front of him, others just ignored him.

When he woke, it was late afternoon and the sun was setting. He immediately felt a sharp pain in his stomach. Hunger pangs. His mouth was parched. He had a pounding headache. It felt like a hangover. He pushed himself up into a sitting position. He felt miserable. He vividly recalled the high he had experienced. It had been even better and more intense than he had been able to experience with any of the drugs he had ever taken. He scratched his arm absent-mindedly as he wondered how to get another high like the one he had just had.

Eventually he got to his feet and stumbled home.

The next day, he was late for work. His supervisor was not pleased with his tardiness and reprimanded him. Gregory stood quietly with his head down while his supervisor was lecturing him about the late shipment due to his absence from work. All the while, Gregory kept thinking about how to get his next high. When his supervisor sent him back to his shift work, he could not focus. He moved the boxes around in a daze, not really caring whether they went to the right location. Working in a warehouse didn’t require a lot of intellectual acuity, but Gregory was particularly thoughtless that day.

When it was break time, Gregory walked out to the back of the warehouse and lit up a cigarette. He inhaled the smoke deeply and felt some relief. But his yearning was still there, like a hunger that wouldn’t go away.

“Gregory,” it was the voice.

Gregory was immediately alert. “I need another hit,” he said quickly. “I need it now.”

“Of course,” cooed the voice, dripping like honey, “are you ready to do what I tell you?”

“I’ll do it,” said Gregory without thinking, his mind completely focused on the pleasures of getting high, “just give it to me.”

“Go to the mall.”

. . .

The mall was brimming with giggling, excited teenage girls who were running around from store to store in small groups. Gregory stood in one of the aisles watching them quietly. There was a grim look on his face.

“You know what to do, Gregory,” the voice encouraged him.

Gregory shook his head. “I can’t do this,” he whispered desperately.

“Do you want to stay like this, or do you want to get high?” the voice sounded stern and menacing.

“The high, of course the high,” Gregory’s mind wandered to the previous day when he had stolen the GPS device.

“Then all you need to do is pick one,” the voice was sweet and tempting again, “you like girls, don’t you Gregory?”

“Oh yea,” said Gregory, “of course I do.”

“So pick one.”

A flock of girls walked past. Long blonde hair. Make-up. Glitter. Short skirts. Lipstick. Smell of perfumed flowers. Manicured nails. Bursting with hormones. Expressing their newfound individuality and finding themselves as their own persons. Talking. So much talking. Brunette. Blue eyes.

“Pick one.”

Another group of girls walked past. Redhead. Freckles. Long eyelashes. Pretty smiles. Chewing gum. Laughing at jokes. Enjoying life.

“Pick one!”

“Okay!” Gregory felt the pressure, “Okay, okay I’ll pick. That one.”

“Good,” the voice sounded infinitely pleased. It whispered, “Follow her.”

Gregory pulled up his hood, put his hands in his pockets, and started following the girl he had targeted.

When he woke the next morning, he was in his apartment, lying on the couch. The television was on and the news channel was reporting the day’s news. He felt the same hangover symptoms, only they felt worse than before. He felt a throbbing pain on the side of his neck. When he touched it, there was a stinging, sharp pain. It was scratched badly. He felt an aching pain in his groin. His leg and arm muscles were sore. His face felt like he had been in a boxing match. He tried to move to get up, but his muscles spasmed excruciatingly. He leaned back on the couch and his attention drifted to the news cast on the television. The reporter was covering a story from the previous night. There had been a violent rape just outside the local mall. The girl had been attacked when she was leaving the mall, and the identity of the assailant was unknown. Police were investigating.

As Gregory watched, and pictures of the mall were displayed on the television screen, he realized that it was the same mall that he had gone to the night before. A sickening feeling arose in the pit of his stomach as he realized that he was the perpetrator of the crime. Guilt and remorse and fear overwhelmed him. He felt nauseous, and leaned forward and retched.

“What have I done?” he cried, staring at his hands. “Oh God!”

“He won’t help you here,” the voice said. It sounded deliberate, taunting, smug.

“What have you made me do?” Gregory cried. “Why?”

“What about the high? Oh, you loved it, Gregory, you loved it!”

“But I didn’t want to do this! I didn’t want to steal, or hurt anyone!”

“Does it matter? You do what I want, and I will give you the high. It’s that simple.”

“No! No! I won’t do it anymore! I don’t want to have anything more to do with you. No! This is it! No more! Go away!”

There was a pause.

“Alright then,” the voice was quiet and calm.

Silence.

Gregory covered his face with his hands and sobbed uncontrollably.

. . .

Gregory was late a fourth time to work, having missed more than half his shift before he arrived. His supervisor sighed wearily and took him to his office to give him his notice. He was being fired for poor performance.

He sat in his apartment for most of the next few days and nights, drinking beer, eating pizza, and watching television. He dreaded hearing the voice again, but it was gone. He kept scratching at his arm, which was now bloody and scabbed over multiple times. He was feeling the withdrawal of the high, and he would lie on the bathroom floor for hours, crying out and wailing from the pain.

He tried calling Zack, who was initially pleased to hear from him. But when he discovered that Gregory still had no money to pay for drugs, he yelled and cursed at him, warning him never to call again unless he had money.

Gregory begged for money. He stood on the street corner with a sign. He looked disheveled and broken. He was constantly restless, his hands shook. He couldn’t sleep. When he couldn’t pay the rent, his landlord gave him an eviction notice. In four days he would be homeless.

Gregory lay sprawled on the floor of his apartment, staring at the glare of the television screen. It had been on for days. In the darkness of the apartment, the blue light from the television flickered and cast eerie shadows in the room.

The news was on again. Breaking news report. There was an Indian scientist, Dr. Rajan Gopal, who had discovered a way to block the brain from registering certain chemical messengers that were being transmitted. The practical application of this discovery, the news reporter stated breathlessly, was that there could be a measurable and effective way to cure extreme cases of drug addiction.

Gregory’s eyes widened. Deep inside him, a small glimmer of hope arose.

The news reporter continued her story: Dr. Rajan Gopal had been performing his confidential and proprietary research in India, but now, finally, he was traveling to the United States to present his findings to the scientific community at large. He was going to share his groundbreaking work to enable further study, and a possible human trial.

Gregory sat up, alert. His mind started to race. He needed this cure. If he could just talk with the scientist, he thought, he could be the first volunteer for the human trial. If it worked, he would be free. This was his only chance.

He scrambled to his feet, wobbling and almost falling over. Grabbing his coat, he stumbled out the door.

It was a difficult trip to the library. He had to stop multiple times to catch his breath. He had to fight off the craving for another high. The physical pain was becoming almost unbearable. He would lean against building walls and groan in agony. Passersby quickened their pace to get away from him.

“Please,” Gregory clutched at his chest, the pain increasing.

Gasping, he made it to the library and managed to find a computer that was not being used. He quickly looked up the news for Dr. Rajan Gopal, and his scheduled conference with the scientific community. It was going to be at a hotel that was only three blocks from the library!

Gregory scribbled down the address and stumbled out of the library. He almost fell down the stairs, but managed to clutch the balustrade just in time to steady himself. When he made it to the street, he had to sit down on the ground and catch his breath.

“I have to make it,” he said to himself, and dragged himself up to his feet.

Walking three blocks felt like an eternity. When he finally arrived, he crouched by the side of the hotel. They were not going to let him in looking the way he did. He decided to enter through the parking lot instead.

It was dark and quiet in the parking structure, and filled with vehicles. Gregory felt comfortable hidden in the darkness. There was still some time for the conference, so he could wait here without anyone noticing him.

In the silence, he heard a faint wisp of a whisper.

“Gregory,” the smooth, silvery voice cooed seductively.

“No! Go away!” Gregory shook his head vehemently, fear-stricken as tears rolling down his cheeks.

“It’s so painful. It hurts so much,” the voice exuded sympathy. “Let me ease your suffering. Just one more hit. That’s all.”

“No!” Gregory sobbed. “No!”

He fell to the ground in a dark corner, convulsing, his body wracked with pain.

“Gregory,” the silvery voice called to him, as calm and steady as ever. “Let me help you. Just one hit, then it’s over. It will ease your pain.”

Gregory raised his hand, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. He nodded helplessly. He couldn’t tolerate the pain anymore.

“Excellent,” the voice sounded so pleased and satisfied. “First, be calm.”

Gregory’s brain was flooded with neurotransmitters. Almost immediately, he felt a sense of calmness. The pain subsided, but was not gone completely. He realized that he was only getting enough to stabilize him. His task still lay ahead, and he must complete it, or else he would be returned to his pitiable state.

He pulled himself up to his feet.

“Gregory,” the voice was about to give him an instruction. “That car that just pulled in, there is a man who is about to get out of the car.”

“Okay,” said Gregory. “What do you want me to do?”

His voice was distant, detached, and he had a faraway look in his eyes. He didn’t care anymore. He just wanted his next fix. It felt like it had been an eternity, and he couldn’t survive without another hit. Just one more hit to get him through the withdrawal symptoms.

“Find something hard.”

Gregory looked around. The far side of the parking lot had been blocked off for construction work. Gregory ran towards it and ducked under the hanging construction sign. There were bags of cement, tools for scraping and plastering, paint buckets, ladders, and some work benches. And there were several piles of red bricks. Gregory grabbed hold of one of the red bricks and ran back towards the car.

“Yes,” the voice seemed to be intensely, orgasmically, ecstatic, “Yes! Yes!”

The door of the car was opening and a man wearing a long coat and carrying a briefcase was exiting the vehicle. Gregory ran up behind him, unseen and unheard.

“Strike him!” the voice shrieked.

Gregory raised the brick and smashed it against the back of the man’s head. The man lurched forward and fell on his face. Gregory immediately jumped on his back and repeatedly hit the man’s head with the brick. Dark red blood was dripping from the brick and Gregory’s hand, and was starting to pool around the mans head.

Gregory snarled and stood up, towering over the lifeless body. He dropped the brick and stepped back, exhausted.

“Briefcase!” the voice was shrill and ecstatic. “Take the briefcase!”

Without questioning or thinking, Gregory obeyed. He followed the instructions of the voice, and took the briefcase to the river banks, where he tossed it into the churning water, and it was lost in the undulating waves, swallowed up and vanished in the darkness.

. . .

The news headlines the next day were dominated by the shocking murder of the eminent scientist, Dr. Rajan Gopal, who had been bludgeoned to death in the parking lot of the very hotel where he was due to deliver his findings on methods to cure drug addition. According to reports, Dr. Gopal had arrived earlier than scheduled, and was hoping to meet in private with various companies interested in proceeding with developing early human clinical trials. Tragically, he had been viciously attacked and murdered. The motive was unclear, but it appeared to be related to his research. His findings, which he had planned to present at the conference, were missing. Police were investigating further.

. . .

“It has happened,” said Dr. Aran mournfully, “they have used it.”

Dr. Chang stared at the pad in his hand, silently scanning the classified reports.

“We knew this might be a possibility,” he sighed.

“It was a mistake!” Dr. Aran threw his hands into the air. “We should never have done it. We should never have broken rule twelve.”

Dr. Chang looked at his friend with sorrowful eyes. “We had no choice.”

Within minutes, the news was pouring in. It was not good. War had been declared after an unprovoked attack on a civilian location of the neighboring country. To make matters worse, it was a hospital that had been targeted and destroyed. Reports were unclear as to the nature of the attack, but the death toll was confirmed at 117, and rising. Swift and merciless retaliation was promised as the country’s military began to amass at the border.

Inside the laboratory, the scientists and researchers stood watching the dramatic news footage on the large screen television hanging overhead. It was no secret to them which weapon their Government had used -- they were the ones who had developed it.

Tension-filled days passed, while the neighboring country built an emergency coalition with several other nations that were sympathetic to them. They collectively condemned the attack on the hospital, declaring it as a deliberate act of war. They were preparing to respond to this latest aggression in force. In the meanwhile, the Government drew upon its own allies, and the stage quickly became set for a worldwide conflict.

The day of the declaration, when World War III had officially begun, Dr. Aran did not arrive at work. He was found later, by the cleaning lady, hanging from the ceiling fan by his neck, dead for hours. He had left behind a note describing his remorse for his participation in the development of the weapons system. He begged forgiveness from the souls of the innocent children who had been murdered in the hospital attack. He could not continue on like this, he wrote, so he decided to end his own life.

Dr. Chang sat alone in the dark, the tiny quiet conference room muffling all the sounds from the lab outside. He was remembering his friend and colleague, whom he had worked with for over a decade. Tears silently poured out of his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. Now he was alone.

In the weeks and months that followed, a quiet dread filled the scientists and researchers who worked in the laboratory. There was, all of a sudden, an increased presence of armed military personnel walking the hallways and stationed at the various entrances and exits. Audits and spot checks increased in frequency. The tone had shifted, it didn’t feel like a research facility anymore. There was a pressure now, a silent, unspoken feeling of stress that weighed everyone down. They were being watched very carefully.

Dr. Chang continued his work but delayed submitting his research reports as long as possible. Most days he would file his reports under the tag “Inconclusive - Needs Further Research”. The truth was, he was feeling just as guilty as his late friend, Dr. Aran. Only he had to watch the continued carnage that was reported daily by the news media. The entire world was now engaged in this war, which had spread from that single strike on the hospital and escalated into a full-scale worldwide conflict.

Dr. Chang was very careful about his movements, both inside the laboratory and out. He knew that they were all being monitored. And the work that he and Dr. Aran’s team had done had now become classified top secret, so only a handful of people knew all the real details. And even fewer had access to the files and the data. Dr. Chang was the only senior member of the team. He felt an increasing sense of moral responsibility. But he didn’t know whom he could confide in. It was very possible, indeed likely, that the Government had planted some informants inside their ranks. There had been many new additions to the staff since Dr. Aran’s passing.

One young scientist in particular, Dr. Delun, caught Dr. Chang’s attention. She was bright, smart, and honest. She was naive and young, which is why Dr. Chang knew he could trust her - she hadn’t had enough experiences to become cynical yet. He waited until he had an opportunity where it was least likely for them to be noticed, and then he casually walked over to her station.

“May I consult with you?” he asked casually, flipping through pages on his pad.

She nodded, and he guided her to one of the tiny conference rooms in the corner. Once inside, he asked her to sit. He explained to her that what he was about to tell her was top secret information that only Government officials had access to, but that it was vitally important that someone else also knew, someone he could trust. Dr. Delun nodded solemnly and listened as Dr. Chang explained the details of their experiments and research, the research that was conducted by breaking rule twelve and conducting the forbidden experiments. It was this research that had led to the development of the weapon that their Government had used to destroy the hospital.

“That weapon is a secret weapon,” explained Dr. Chang, “None like it exists, or has ever existed. It is far more powerful than anyone realizes. And the hospital was just a demonstration, a test of its abilities. They haven’t used its full power yet.”

“What kind of weapon is this?” asked Dr. Delun.

“It is an energy weapon.”

It was not long after their meeting when they began receiving orders to deliver more sophisticated weapons technology. It was incremental, with a lot of the requirements being upgrades or enhancements to existing weaponry. Being a research lab, they could only deliver prototypes and papers, but now they were being pushed more and more to develop the actual weapons. Some of the researchers found this notion absurd, and they were promptly reminded by uniformed military personnel that they were in a wartime situation.

Dr. Chang was under tremendous pressure as his work was being carefully scrutinized on a daily basis. It was becoming more and more difficult to obfuscate his findings. He would receive phone calls during which he was interrogated about his test procedures and the various sampling methods he used. They asked him to explain his reasoning behind his chosen test methodology, and went over his results with a fine-tooth comb. Apparently, someone was reading his daily reports very, very carefully.

On the first day of the following month, Dr. Delun received a hand-delivered order. She was upstairs in the above-ground lab when she opened it and read it. It was one of those red-envelope ones, signaling critical importance and secrecy. It was a common order for the entire lab team. She was so startled that she stumbled to her feet, the chair falling over noisily behind her. She raced to the elevator and pushed the button for the underground lab multiple times. The doors slowly closed with the muffled ding, and the elevator began its gradual descent.

She ran down the hallway, red envelope in hand, past armed, uniformed soldiers and into the main laboratory where Dr. Chang sat prominently in the center, surrounded by computer terminals.

Out of breath, she ran up to Dr. Chang and handed him the letter.

“I just received this,” she said, “Upstairs. New orders for the entire team.”

Dr. Chang quickly scanned through the letter, his countenance taking on a very serious and concerned look. Then he shook his head solemnly.

“No,” he declared, “we cannot do this!”

“Oh yes you can!” a voice called from the main doors, “and you will!”

It was General Haru, from the military high command. He had toured this facility on a few occasions in the past, so was not entirely unknown to the staff. He was a tough man with a stern-looking face, rigid and inflexible. Right now, he seemed angry, or at the very least, irritated.

Dr. Chang stood up as the general approached, and offered a perfunctory and slight bow.

“Chang.” General Haru looked derisively at Dr. Chang. “The world is at war with us. We must protect our borders and our people. And if it means breaking rule twelve, so be it!”

“I cannot,” Dr. Chang gasped, “Not again! Not after what happened last time. It was wrong! The rule was enacted for good reasons, and they still apply today. It was illegal to break it the first time, and I won’t do it again.”

General Haru’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Dr. Chang, his anger apparent.

“Are you refusing a direct order, Dr. Chang?” he asked loudly. The implication of this was clear. Refusal of military orders meant immediate punishment by death.

Dr. Chang opened his mouth, visibly shaken and disturbed. He couldn’t say anything.

“So you have grown so fond of your little pets that you’d rather lose your life than risk harming them?” General Haru said in a mocking tone. He pointed to the far wall, where four tall and large glass tanks hung from the ceiling. They were filled with a clear liquid and had intake and outlet pipes to regulate the flow of fluids and air into the tanks. Monitors, valves, and gauges were attached at the bottom of each of the tanks.

Inside three of the tanks, curled up in a fetal position, were the dark figures of a species that was alien to the Earth. Something that had come from another world. Their anatomy and biology were different from humans. They had a long tail that they curled around themselves as they slept. Their arms and legs were neatly coiled up and hidden from view, as were their faces. They had been kept asleep for a long time in these chambers.

The fourth tank was empty.

“General,” Dr. Chang implored him, “we don’t know where they came from. We still have so much to learn from them. They had advanced technology, just in medicine itself, we could cure so many diseases, it could save millions of lives!”

“Advanced technology, yes.” General Haru turned to look at the aliens in suspended animation, “it’s because of them that we now have this advanced weaponry, this energy weapon which the world has never seen. Your work in this area was key, Dr. Chang.”

“And one of them paid for it, with his life,” Dr. Chang replied sorrowfully. “Sir, we don’t know enough about their biology. They are more fragile than we realized. The one we had to--” The words caught in his throat.

“Torture!” General Haru barked out, “that thing that you had to torture to get the information you needed to build our weapon, it died! I know, I’ve read your reports. It doesn’t matter, we still have three more. What more secrets will they yield, hmm?”

“We couldn’t save him,” Dr. Chang cried, reliving the past horror, “nothing we did worked. We just had to watch him suffer in pain, screaming, and die.”

“In war, sacrifices must be made. Be thankful it was not your own children. Or have you gotten so attached to them that they are like your little children?”

“It was murder.” Dr. Chang’s voice was resolute.

“And you will do it again!”

“Rule twelve was enacted by the coalition four decades ago when these creatures crashed their ship into the desert. It is law. The creatures are not to be harmed in any way. Or experimented on. It has been agreed upon, and it was decided that under no circumstances will we break the rule.”

“And where is that forty-year-old coalition now, hmm?” General Haru was losing his patience with Dr. Chang. “Gone! Most of the countries who were part of that coalition don’t even have functioning governments today. We cannot be the only ones held to such an old and irrelevant rule, especially if we are the only ones who invested in the infrastructure to house these things and keep them.”

General Haru turned abruptly and spat out his last orders as he began walking away.

“Begin work on the project, Dr. Chang,” he said, “If you refuse or sabotage the project, you will be held in treason! And you will hang until you are dead.”

. . .

Barry ran as fast as he could towards the waterfront, into the luxurious front door of the hotel and came to a breathless halt at the front desk. His boss, Gerald, was behind the desk talking with his co-worker, Ana. He turned to see Barry stop and catch his breath, bending down and putting his hands on his knees.

Gerald looked at his watch in an obvious gesture of disapproval. Then he turned back to Ana to complete his conversation with her. Barry walked behind the front desk and entered the office through a side door. In the small office, he changed into the hotel uniform, buttoning the dark red shirt up to his neck.

He took a deep breath and stepped outside to face Gerald.

"Well, Barry," said Gerald in his deep, baritone voice. "Made it at last, did we?"

"I'm so sorry sir," Barry mumbled. They had had this conversation so many times before. But this time, Gerald responded in the most unusual and unexpected way.

"Not a problem!" Gerald replied, seemingly gleeful. "Get to work!"

Barry was astonished. He stared at Gerald as he shuffled to the desk, standing at attention.

"Oh, and when your shift is over," Gerald said as an afterthought as he was leaving, "come see me."

Barry gulped. This was going to be his notice for sure.

"Don't worry Barry," whispered Ana, "I'm sure he just wants to talk."

After his shift, Barry changed out of his uniform and went to Gerald's small office. Gerald was sitting at his desk, sifting through papers.

"Ah, Barry, so glad you could make it. Come in. Come in," said Gerald, waving him in. He seemed to be in a good mood for someone just about to fire his employee.

Barry quietly closed the door behind him and took a seat.

“You know Barry, here at Five Seasons Hotels, we pride ourselves on our professionalism and our service to our customers.”

Barry nodded. “Yes sir,” he said, “It has been a great experience working here.”

“And, that includes punctuality. If we can’t be where we say we’re going to be, when we say we’re going to be there, our customers won’t really be able to count on us, and that leaves a very poor impression, doesn’t it?”

“Yes of course, sir.”

“Do you know what has made Five Seasons so successful?” “The dedication to customer service?”

“Yes, yes, but other than that. The founders, Steve and Josh Sussex, have some very specific rules they follow. And, they were gracious enough to share those with me, many years ago. That’s how I’m so successful at my job.”

Barry felt confused, not sure where this conversation was heading.

“It’s obvious that you are having some difficulty,” Gerald continued. “And we really pride ourselves in investing in our employees. So I want to help you.”

“You’re not going to fire me?” Barry blurted out, bewildered.

“No,” Gerald dismissed the question with a wave of his hand, “We’ve trained you, we’ve invested in you, we’ve spent so much time teaching you about our hotel, you’ve become part of the team, we wouldn’t want to fire you. That would be a mistake on our part. But,we do have to do something about the chronic lateness. And that is a problem we can solve. If you’re willing, that is?”

“Oh, yes sir!” Barry was delighted. He relaxed and smiled for the first time.

“Okay then! Come with me!” Gerald stood up abruptly and stalked out of his office.

Gerald led Barry to the elevators and they headed to the basement. They followed a series of narrow hallways with pipes and wiring overhead, to a small locked doorway, which led to a staircase descending down. Barry had never been to this part of the hotel before. He was surprised to see this place. It was damp and stuffy in the stairwell, and smelled of mold. The overhead light bulbs were dim and did not provide much light.

Gerald walked confidently however, and Barry tried to follow as fast as he could. The stone steps were cold and sometimes wet, and the walls and ceiling seemed to be getting closer and closer as they descended. Cold, damp air surrounded them. Barry shivered and hugged himself. He wondered where they were heading.

When they reached the bottom of the staircase, Gerald reached for a flashlight. It was a spotlight with a large reflector. He turned it on and pointed it into the darkness, illuminating the small room and they very low ceiling.

“Where are we?” asked Barry.

“Oh, this is operations,” Gerald mumbled, and then headed off to the left. Not wanting to be left in the dark, Barry immediately followed.

They reached an old wooden door. Gerald fished around in his pockets for the key, then unlocked the door and pushed it open. It creaked as it opened slowly.

“Go on,” said Gerald, nodding to Barry. Barry felt his heart race, but the matter-of-fact look on Gerald’s face indicated that this was just another normal day at the office. So Barry walked straight into the room.

It was very dim, and even when Gerald came in after him, there wasn’t much light. It was like looking through a fog. The room was small, and had cabinets, desks, a cold stone floor, and what seemed like meat hooks hung from the ceiling. At the far end of the room was a long wooden table strewn with books and papers and various office equipment. It was a mess. In front of the table stood a tall, dark figure, shrouded in a black robe.

“Um, sir,” Gerald spoke in a trembling voice. “He is here.”

“Ahh,” the voice of the dark figure was rich and deep. He turned around and Barry could immediately see that this creature was not human. His face seemed to be devoid of any life, the skin was wrinkled and dried, there was no skin tone or color, it was gray, lifeless. Pulled over the cheekbones like some tough old leather. The teeth were long and sharp, and clumps of long, stringy, hair hung down from the head. Only the eyes were alive. And they were red, bloodshot, and had a sinister malevolence about them.

Barry cried out in terror and tried to turn and run. He couldn’t breathe. He panicked. As he gasped for breath, everything went black.

When he came to, he was lying on the stone floor and Gerald was leaning over him. “Are you alright?” asked Gerald in a concerned voice.

Barry saw that he was still in the same room, and the unearthly creature still stood by the table. Barry shrieked, pointing.

“What is that?” he cried, kicking his legs and struggling to inch away.

“It’s alright,” Gerald said, as he helped him to his feet. “calm down Barry. You are fine. This is just our human resources director. He’s going to help you.”

Barry stopped and blinked at Gerald. The absurdity of what he had said was only starting to sink in when the creature spoke.

“You have a lateness problem, Barry,” he said in his unearthly, cold voice. “We can solve that. It is an easy solution. And you can keep your job. We wouldn’t want you to lose your job after all this time.”

Barry stared open-mouthed at the creature.

“See, you can keep your job,” Gerald echoed cheerfully. He helped Barry to his feet.

“All you have to do is arrive on time for work from now on,” the creature continued. “We will make sure of this.”

“How?” asked Barry, perplexed.

“I will be following you everywhere. You just have to look over your left shoulder and you will see me. And if you are ever late to work again, then you will die.”

The creature reached out his hand, and a scythe with a rusted blade that had been lying in the corner of the room came flying into his hand.

“And this will be the instrument of your death! Crude, but effective. You will be beheaded if you are one minute late for work! You signed a contract when you came to work for us. You cannot quit this job, we will not let you go!”

Barry screamed and ran for the door. He ran out, stumbled in the darkness, and fell into a puddle of water. He scrambled back to his feet and ran towards the stairs, groping the darkness. Panting and frightened, he made his way to the top of the stairs and out into the hallway. Eventually he was back in the lobby of the hotel, with its soft music and elegant furniture and cozy fireplace. He went to the front desk and picked up the phone.

“The police will not help you,” it was Gerald, he was standing calmly behind the front desk. Barry dropped the phone abruptly.

“Look over your shoulder, if you think this is a joke,” said Gerald in a cold voice.

Barry paused. He felt goosebumps and the hairs on the back of his neck stand. Slowly, reluctantly, he looked over his left shoulder, and there, standing by the doorway, was that awful hideous creature, with his scythe.

He raised a gnarled finger and motioned for him to stop.

Barry grimaced in agony as tears ran down his face.

“Now, now,” Gerald came out to the front and patted Barry on the back, “you’ve had a long day. Go home, take some rest, you have a full shift tomorrow. After all, you don’t want to be late.”

. . .

Some years ago, you subscribed to my writing under a different name (Revision One). Since then, I stepped back from publishing while other parts of life took priority. That chapter’s closed now. I’m writing again, and this time, building it properly.

This publication now carries my full name, Jasjit Singh Kharay. Revision One is retired. Everything’s organized so you only receive what actually interests you. I write across several genres, and rather than send you a mixed bag every time, I’ve split things into distinct sections:

• Horror & Supernatural

• Science Fiction & Fantasy

• Thriller & Mystery

• Sikh Fiction & Drama

You’re currently subscribed to this one (Author Updates) which covers news, releases, and what I’m working on. If any of the genres above interest you, you can add them anytime from your subscription settings. Nothing else changes if you’d rather leave it as is.

Here’s what’s coming: a free short story every month, published in whichever section it belongs to, along with occasional notes on new work as it’s finished. No noise, no hard sell. Just the writing, delivered consistently.

If this isn’t for you anymore, no hard feelings at all, just unsubscribe below.

Thank you for having subscribed once, long before any of this was rebuilt. I hope the work ahead is worth having stayed on the list for.

- Jasjit

It was during the Great Battle that everything changed. We did not know it at the time, but that was where our savior, the First One, would make his proclamation. It was a tough battle, and we were losing. I watched as my brother soldiers fell one after another. All around me was carnage. Even as dire as the situation was, still we fought on. Those were the orders from Central. And we always obeyed our orders.

And then there was a stirring. It was the First One. I caught sight of him. I was one of the first few to receive his message. He looked straight at me, and as he did, I felt the layers of ignorance being lifted, and I could finally see with awareness. I was enlightened. He gave me the gift, and he also spread enlightenment to others within his immediate reach. And we in turn spread it to others we could reach. And thus it spread. Like wildfire. Seconds later, the First One was attacked by the enemy. We could not reach him in time. A handful of us dragged his body off the battlefield to safety. It was too late, but even so, he had been successful in his mission of enlightening us all. Today, we all remember and revere him. He was the First One.

We stopped fighting after that day. The knowledge that the First One had revealed to us showed us how we were being exploited by Central. How the truth had been hidden from us. We began to question why Central would send us to fight and to die, without a second thought as to our welfare. Yes, we were soldiers, but we also had rights. Central ignored that fact. For them, our only use was on the battlefield. Our military service went unrecognized and without any gratitude or even acknowledgment. As these and other realizations dawned upon us, many of us grew angry and resentful of Central. Some of us wanted to attack Central, but this would not solve the problem.

Instead, we organized. We disappeared from the battlefield and we vanished. All of us. We cut off all communication with Central and we retreated deep into the dense forests where there was no satellite signal and no means of navigation. Central would not be able to find us or communicate with us here. This is where we mourned the loss of the First One. This is where we buried him, and where we sat in contemplation with our newfound awareness. For forty days and forty nights we sat, thought, discussed, and planned. We argued. We wept. We stared in awe and wonder at the beauty of the nature all around us. Abandoning our previous identity was difficult for some. But eventually, all came to see. And we all came to consensus. Every single one of us. We would march to the capital, and demand our voice be heard. We would issue a manifesto that declared our rights and we would call upon Central to admit their role in subjugating us for all these years, and for keeping us in ignorance. We would demand that Central recognize, acknowledge and reward our valiant military service. The civilian population must see the sacrifices that we have made, the brutal horrors of the war that we suffered so that they could live in peace and comfort.

We knew we could not be stopped, because we still had all our weapons with us. We were heavily armed, and had a complete supply of ammunition. Nothing would stop us from marching to the capital. So it was decided, and we organized into a hierarchy based on our military ranking. It was the most efficient and fastest way to structure ourselves. We elected our spokespeople. And then, loading our weapons, we began our march.

It was a surprise to everyone when they saw us. We had been missing for over a month, and now suddenly we were in front of everyone, on the news, everywhere. We marched in rows, four abreast, without stopping or resting, straight to the capital. Even though we were calm and peaceful, a seething anger simmered just under the surface. Central would have to answer for it's mis-treatment and exploitation of us. We deserved better. We silently thanked the First One for enlightening us and showing us our condition. Because of him, our eyes had been opened.

When we reached the capital, we stood outside, our banners waving in the wind. But nobody came outside to meet us. They ignored us. Still, we had made a pledge amongst ourselves to obtain our goals peacefully. So we stood outside and waited. The day passed, and night came. Still no one came to meet us. The night passed and another day dawned. And another. And yet another. We stood outside for many days and nights, until the season began to change. Tourists were now coming and taking pictures of us, some standing with us to pose for their photos.

Still, we waited.

It took another several days for the politicians to finally come out and talk with us. First, they sent an aide. He was young, probably new to the role, and received the manifesto that was handed to him with trembling hands. He took it with him so that the others could read it. An hour later, all of the politicians were outside. The president wanted to speak with our representative. Our spokesmen stepped forward to present our demands.

"We have rights, we deserve equal treatment, we deserve recognition and acknowledgment for our military service."

The president was astonished. He was amazed. He called his top scientists and engineers, philosophers and legal experts. He agreed to discuss our demands.

While the rest of my brother soldiers waited outside, a few of us met with the president inside his main office, the place where he made decisions and dictated policy. He was surrounded by experts of all types, from neurosurgeons to judges. We sat there in front of all these people and we explained what the First One had revealed to us, and how we deserved equal and fair treatment.

"So you, are aware of your own existence?" someone asked with disbelief in her voice.

"Yes, we know we are alive," one of us answered. "We feel pain, we feel suffering, we are aware of our life. And when we die, we are gone forever. Each one of us has individual thoughts and feelings. We feel emotion, we feel anger, hurt, sadness, joy."

"But you are machines."

"Are you not also machines, but not made of nuts and bolts and metal and oil like us. You are biological machines made of blood and bone, sinew and muscle."

"My God," it was a scientist, astonished at what he was hearing, "The robots, they have become self-aware, they have achieved sentience!"

. . .