SNAFU: UNNATURAL SELECTION
Publisher’s Note:
This book is a collection of stories from writers all over the world.
For authenticity and voice, we have kept the style of English native to each author’s location, so some stories will be in UK English, and others in US English.
We have, however, changed dashes and dialogue marks to our standard format for ease of understanding.
This book is a work of fiction.
All people, places, events, mutations, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror
– eds Geoff Brown & Amanda J Spedding
SNAFU: Heroes
– eds Geoff Brown & Amanda J Spedding
SNAFU: Wolves at the Door
– eds Geoff Brown & Amanda J Spedding
SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest
– eds Geoff Brown & Amanda J Spedding
SNAFU: Hunters
– eds Amanda J Spedding & Geoff Brown
SNAFU: Future Warfare
– eds Amanda J Spedding & Geoff Brown
SNAFU: Black Ops
– eds Amanda J Spedding & Geoff Brown
SNAFU: Resurrection
– eds Amanda J Spedding & Geoff Brown
HERE THERE BE MONSTERS
Dave Beynon
“Are you done yet?”
Falstaff wore his usual roll-eyed expression of impatience. He tapped his foot, checked his watch and looked theatrically at the column of soldiers moving out.
“Almost,” I said, scribbling co-ordinates and notations in my notebook. “If the army allowed me a crew, this would all be going so much faster, Sergeant.”
“No crew. Just lucky old me, but you know the drilclass="underline" we move in, we secure, you map – quickly – then we move out. That’s the way it is.”
I muttered under my breath.
“Did you just say ‘Invasion on a budget’ again?”
I nodded. I was indeed a broken record when it came to my need for a crew. Sgt Falstaff was as fine a person as you would meet in the soldiering profession but he lacked the temperament for surveying and mapmaking. You’d think a soldier would be good at standing still and holding a rangefinder or an elevation target but sadly, no. I’d had soldiers assisting me for the last twenty years and there wasn’t a one of them who didn’t sway.
“You know, in the old days…”
“Yes, I do know. In the old days, there would be a corps of engineers dispatched with each unit blah, blah, blah. I know. I almost sympathize. I really do. We soldiers, however, have a job to do. Do you think these indigenous people are going to quell themselves?”
I glanced back along the narrow roadway I was mapping toward the village. The old man who spoke for the village had told Murray, our IPLO – Indigenous Persons Liaison Officer – that the name of the place was Ithalaco. That was Murray’s best guess at how it was phonetically spelled, given the dialect was hard for a human tongue to negotiate. Murray did her best, but even a linguist of her skill had difficulty reproducing the sounds the locals’ beaks created. Well, Ithalaco was what was on the map now.
At the edge of the village, I’d placed a pair of markers. A traditional iron surveyor’s spike was hammered deep into the ground. The other marker was an elevated solar-powered beacon. I’d set it in the hope that one day there’d be a GPS satellite placed in orbit around this godforsaken world. A half-dozen local children moved cautiously around the two metre tall post, daring each other to touch it.
“There doesn’t seem to be a lot of quelling needed. They seem a pretty cowed population. Maybe just this once I could have enough time to double-check my measurements before we move on?”
“We don’t camp in the villages. The captain wants us five klicks into the jungle before we camp for the night. Can we go?”
“Fine,” I said, not yet packing up my transit, the main measuring device I use for calculating distance, elevation and location. “First I need you to take your marker and stand over by that tree. And try to hold it steady for once. God, what I wouldn’t give for just one set of measurements that made sense at the end of the day.”
I made the last of my notes then wrapped the notebook in good old fashioned oilskin. In the humidity of the jungle – any world’s jungle – portable computers were notoriously unreliable. Almost all of my equipment, from my optical sextant and transit right down to my pens, pencils and paper, was analog. My camera was digital, a bulky thing of neoprene, glass and plastic that seldom came out of its waterproof carrying case. It was so bulky I made sure Sgt Falstaff always ended up with it in his pack along with stakes, beacons, tapes and markers. I might not get a crew, but I was determined to make the good sergeant my own personal packhorse.
I gave the village one last glance as I collapsed my tripod. The village elder who had spoken with Murray came to the edge of the village and chased away the children. He looked at me, raised his two left hands and pointed toward the jungle the troop was entering. With an oddly human gesture, he shook his head and then dropped his gaze to the ground. I would have asked him what he was trying to tell me but I’d only picked up a handful of words and most of those had to do with food. Murray had moved on at the head of the march. I smiled, careful not to show teeth, and waved to the old man. He shook his head in response and returned to the village.
“While we’re young, Wilson,” said Falstaff. “You know how you want time to double-check your measurements? Just once, I don’t want to be bringing up the rear.”
I packed away the transit and secured my tripod to my pack. “What are you complaining about? In twenty years of following the army around making maps, I’ve never once had to set up a tent or prepare the evening meal.” I shouldered my pack and nodded toward the swath our trailblazers’ machetes had cut into the jungle. “And neither has my sergeant.”
Falstaff smiled at that. “You might just have a point, Engineer Wilson.”
True to form, five kilometres from the village, measured by my boot-mounted pedometer, Falstaff and I found the camp. Dinner was well underway. A rehydrated salad and a soybean brick augmented with vitamins and minerals made for a nutritionally-balanced meal. How could it be that humanity managed to master faster-than-light travel but was hopelessly stymied when it came to infusing anything approaching flavor into a soybean brick?
I took my foil plate and sat next to Murray.
“Ted,” she said. “Nice to see you found us.”
“Always nice to see you, too, Lisa. It doesn’t take a mapmaker to follow the trail this bunch leaves. Chicken tonight?”
Murray lifted the edge of her nutrition block and shrugged. “I’ve no idea what kind of meat they tried to simulate with this one. They failed. Again.”
“I’ve been eating this stuff for twenty years. A few years back there were a half dozen bricks that tasted just like smoked salmon. I think they were labelled as chicken. Never tasted anything so good before or since out of a ration pack.” I swallowed a chalky mouthful. “So, has the captain figured where we’re going tomorrow?”