Wordmongering is a fitting lifestyle for me, while others prefer warmongering. Could you kill one to save thousands? Could you order someone to die to save hundreds? Would you let billions die to save but a few? Tossing the coin of Fate allows one to see both sides, and rare indeed does it land on edge. See you next month.

　

Fit for Survival by M. S. Sutton

　

Leslie Tharp roused tired, as she always did exiting hibernation. The light level was .03, but stabbed at her eyes. She would note the fact in her first report, and hauled herself out of the warmed sleep chamber, wishing for minimal cold-sleep cramps. She was needed.

　

With a hefty exhale she yanked the fat ventilation and feeding tubes from her throat. Painfully she swallowed until her saliva glands began production. She disconnected the webbing of electrodes strategically attached down the entire length of her torso, and began stretching long dense limbs.

　

Leslie Tharp. Warrior. The best Earth has to offer. Survivor of fifteen missions over the last–

　

"Computer," she hissed, her vocal cords craving flexibility. "How long have I been in storage? It feels like forever."

　

"Ten years," came the canned response.

　

–eighty-eight years.

　

"Mission parameters?"

　

"Humanity has encountered a new and secretive species, the name of which translates as ‘Roundhead.’ Both species wish to colonize the second planet, system A-55, sector Sigma. One warrior has been chosen by each species as per Rules of Engagement. Combat will commence in two hundred terrestrial hours."

"Describe enemy species."

　

"No description is available."

　

"Why not?"

　

"No description has been filed."

　

"Did Central request a description?"

　

"Unknown at this time."

　

Ask a stupid question.

　

"Find out if Central requested a description. If not, contact the Council directly and request one."

　

"Confirmed."

　

"Location of combat?"

　

"Displayed."

　

Possession of Earth’s solar system would never be in doubt. All there belonged to humanity. But as Earth stretched its ambitions, humanity found an autocratic interstellar community, cemented in rules firmly based upon nature’s grand scheme to promote intelligence. Survival of the fittest.

　

Days one through eight, for the most part, were mundane with food and exercise. The training rooted in martial arts and close-quarter weaponry. Catching up on news and correspondence between time was a big deal, with Earth just completing the second step in their effort to terra form Mars, using the rich atmosphere of Venus. Two water mining colonies were lost on Europa for some unknown reason, and her great-granddaughter, Tinka, was now twelve.

　

"Computer, connect to Earth. Family. Monica Wilkins."

　

"Connecting."

　

She waited for quite some time before, "Grandmother? It’s been ages. How are you?"

　

Monica looked old. Far older than she had expected. "I’m fine. You look good."

　

"You look good. I’m pushing forty, and you still look twenty-five. I have some bad news to tell you."

　

"Can it wait until after my mission?"

　

"Not this time. I’m sorry, but we buried mom five months ago . . . an accident . . . Folio Orbital Base II. She left you a letter. I’ll transmit it to you later today."

　

"Thank you. I’m sorry too, Moni. I never said my goodbyes. I haven’t told her that I loved her in years."

　

"She never came to grips with you as a Warrior, yet she had to have space as a home. She made Assistant Commander, did you know that?"

　

"I know now. And you? Did you learn to accept me as a Warrior?"

　

"My problem was Mother’s space fetish. I’ve been in space only once in my adult life, and that was more than enough. Tinka, she wants to be a Warrior. Her school says she has the aptitude. She’s been giving it some thought. You are rather famous as Earth’s oldest surviving Warrior."

　

"Key words: oldest, surviving. I can’t tell her what to do, but this isn’t the life I would’ve ever chosen on my own. Back then, they chose me."

　

"They’ll never take her before her first child. She has time."

　

"You should try to talk her out of it, nonetheless. I’ve missed so much."

　

"I know. I sent several news squirts over the last few years. Did you get them?"

　

"Yes I did, and I’ve gone through them twice. I’m sorry, I have to go. Thank you again for Amanda. I’ll miss her, and you and Tinka."

　

"Awake only for another mission?"

　

"The life of a Warrior. I love you all."

　

"We love you. Good luck."

　

She had two hours to quietly grieve her only daughter.

　

It was time to make her final selections. She procured her equipment out of military shipboard stores. Every item selected was as lightweight and as lethal as possible. Look non-threatening, be deadly.

　

Explosive Bolos: these would wrap around neck or limb, and explode with malignancy enough to cancel the victim and anything nearby.

　

Disruptors: micro-pellets that worked on the molecular level, releasing the electrical energy binding any living organism with tremendous explosive force.

　

Ringer Bullets: they would bore into the skin and rummage for an enemy’s vital organs, injecting them with a potent acid.

　

Concussion Grenades: for distraction in surprise.

　

Silencer Bullets: tiny handheld devices firing a poisonous dart, using compressed air.

　

Cadmium Mini-mines: she didn’t need the enemy warrior skulking up behind her if the battle was prolonged by strategy.

　

One last item, the PDA to enter her battle-log. Strapped to her wrist, she could key an entry on events and set it to transmit hourly or daily. It was time to go.

　

"Shuttle prepped?" she asked.

　

"Shuttle is ready," the computer replied.

　

"Relay current log and repeat every six hours. I’ll instruct you on the battle-log later."

　

"Program code Alpha, complete." The computer was set for shuttle recovery and ship return, whether she lived through the battle or not.

　

She entered the shuttle and belted up. The hatched closed automatically and locked.

　

"Program code Alpha engage," she said. The launch was sweet. Into space and falling.

　

"Designated battleground in ten minutes," the computer informed.

Leslie Tharp. Warrior. Chosen for her caustic intelligence, willing to fight and die based on substantial maternal instincts toward humanity as a whole.

　

"Designated battleground in five minutes."

　

The shuttle savagely rocked back and forth upon entering the planet’s thick atmosphere, but smoothed a moment later.

　

Her mind blanked. Her body sagged. The last few minutes she spent gathering her strength based on an internal mantra burrowing deep into her soul, fueling her heart and mind.

　

"Designated battleground in four . . . three . . . two . . . one."

　

With the shuttle down, she popped her belt and blew the hatch, eyes livid with survival, and dove from the shuttle, finding cover behind a massive green boulder. A quick 360 revealed zip possible enemy life forms. The smell was that of any living ecosystem: decay and methane. It was midday, and already hot.

　

Her eyes registered an anomaly of light fourteen degrees from zero, and processed the same into her consciousness. Upon further study she concluded it a camouflaged structure. She studied the immediate area again and confirmed no other possible targets.

　

She quickly spidered to the left and watched, not long though, her shuttle depart as per Rules of Engagement. Defiling Rules meant extreme sanctions. Was the structure the enemy’s craft? Had the enemy risked exile from the greater galactic community?

　

The dry rocky landscape allowed advantages, and sliced the odds in her favor. She planted a mine with a ten meter proximity fuse, and began a wary reconnaissance of the structure.

　

One third of the way around an opening presented itself, and although the structure seemed empty from her position, she was unsure. She set her second and third mines and inched closer. A choice had to be made.

　

No physical description of the enemy rocked the odds toward the enemy. This structure was clearly a trap, and an all-out frontal assault tipped those same odds toward her favor, but left her vulnerable for the millisecond she needed to identify the enemy and secure the kill.

　

Three grenades sailed into the structure and detonated, quickly followed by Earth’s finest Warrior.

　

The door thudded shut behind her, as expected. She crouched, waiting for the enemy to pounce from a hidden vantage point: from a wall, the floor or ceiling, but nothing happened, nothing at all. She waited until she could wait no more.

　

A slow visual inspection of the room revealed nothing. The walls and such were baby butt smooth. All corners rounded. Leslie Tharp’s equipment clinked, tinkled and whuffed as she closely probed the walls, floor, and ceiling.

　

The door had shut with a seam, yet dry air squeezed past. She wasn’t in any danger of suffocation.

　

I could, she thought, pack explosives into the seam and scrag the trap. In the silence of her thoughts she noticed the room softly clinked, tinkled and whuffed back at her.

　

She scritched her last three mines open and rolled the explosive contents like clay, packing a half meter of seam. Would it be enough?

　

She cricked open a Bolo, one side only, and molded that into the seam. A proximity fuse was set for one meter. She lay flat, up against the opposite wall, and tossed the Bolo’s cord.

　

She felt and heard the crack-whoomp, yet the structure was unmarred when examined.

Acid from her supply of Ringer Bullets did nothing, and the Disruptors were useless. Zwipps and snicks were added to the low din, and the mingled sounds were annoying.

　

She keyed events into her log, and concluded her report with these words:

　

MY FIRST ATTEMPT USING AVAILABLE RESOURCES HAS FAILED. I WILL CONTINUE WITH REMAINING WEAPONRY. THE SOUNDS I MAKE ARE COLLECTED BY THE STRUCTURE AND REFLECTED BACK CONTINUOUSLY. THEY SEEM TO BE GROWING IN INTENSITY.

　

She again packed the same spot with her remaining explosives, effectively doubling the charge, and detonated. Nothing happened but more sound. She sat and thought about her problem for quite some time.

　

MY TIMEPIECE NOTES TWO STANDARD DAYS HAVE PASSED, AND THE NOISE IS FAST BECOMING UNBEARABLE. WADDING PACKS MY EARS. EXPLOSIVES SPENT. OTHER WEAPONRY ALMOST GONE. I WILL CONTINUE TO EXPLORE EVERY AVAILABLE SURFACE FOR POSSIBILITIES.

　

NINE DAYS SINCE LAST REPORT. I DESTROYED MY EARDRUMS TO SAVE REMAINING SANITY. I HAVE FAILED. ANY SOUND I MAKE CONTINUES TO AMPLIFY EXPONENTIALLY. I FEEL THE VIBRATIONS IN MY INTESTINES.

　

RATIONS GONE THREE DAYS NOW. USED A SILENCER BULLET ON MYSELF. LAST ITEM ON MY LIST OF OPTIOND. SAT LOG REPEA EVTKP JEIP% KS . . . .

　

***

　

"Madame President?"

　

"Come in and sit. I just finished the report on the Warrior named Tharp, and didn’t like what I read. Did we have any trouble recovering the body?"

　

"The structure’s door remained open for all recovery efforts."

　

"Surprising."

　

"It surprised us, too."

　

"Our best Warrior, Puffer. Gone. She did everything she could, right to the bitter end. Is it our policy to treat obvious traps the same as an ambush? Hit them head-on and hope for the best?"

　

"Yes, ma’am."

　

"I don’t like it."

　

"History has proven the technique successful 87.3% as compared to other methods."

　

"We might want to reconsider that. Have the strategists search for new options. It looks like she tried to set her battle-log at the very end, but the poison was too fast for her. Have all Warriors key their battle-logs to transmit every hour automatically. No exceptions."

　

"Yes, ma’am."

　

"She died an ugly and entirely needless death, Puffer. We could have relinquished the planet without losing credibility, if we had known her predicament. We could have saved her life. I don’t want something like this to ever happen again. I suppose I’ll be the one to notify the family. And I noticed in her records she has a great-granddaughter. The girl’s school notes some aptitude as a Warrior. Have her accepted as a Warrior, and arrange for a child within the next year. The sooner the better."

"Yes, ma’am."

　

"We also have two upcoming battles with the Roundheads, and both worlds are marginal at best. I don’t want the galaxy thinking humanity unfit to survive. Concede until we have more information on them as a species. Give my regards to the Council."

　

"Yes, Madame President."