Ever wonder where you came from? Where it all started?
This is the account of four people who start out looking for their ancient past, one of several groups funded by a wealthy politician.
They must climb a frozen mountain and hunt for a place called Castle Gods-Cut. ‘Cut’ was thought to have once meant ‘origin’.
What they find is a single door blocked by ice that leads to a huge complex of caves and doors, some deadly, some leading to places that can’t possibly exist anywhere on their planet.
With the help of a rescued A.I. that thinks she should look like one of an ancient race called humans, events develop that may determine if humanoids of any kind shall be allowed to exist in the galaxy, as they encounter a race of aliens that love people. For snack food that is.
Edition #84 July 22, 2015
A Planet’s Search for History
By M.F. Burbaugh
“Here they come!” Tici yelled from the north wall.
I had camped next to Loka—if it was the end, I wanted to be with her. “I love you dear,” I heard me say.
“I know, now quit the mushy stuff and let’s kick some ass.” She smiled as I took the needler off safe.
They hit again and again. Several times, we had to fire inside the fort to an opposite wall that was getting overrun. We were failing, we were losing, but they were paying a huge cost for the privilege of killing us.
“Duck!” I screamed, as the pincer snapped shut just above Loka’s head, bringing me out of my dream state. I stabbed the bayonet into the under area as we were taught, just between the eyes, it screamed in their weird way as my wife fired at it point blank. We each grabbed another grenade and threw it over the wall; we heard the screams as they went off.
Then silence—as they came, they were gone. I didn’t think we could last another charge. I checked to ensure Loka was not injured. Runners came by and resupplied us with ammo and the last of the grenades. Finally, we had gotten a break in the fighting.
We came looking to find our history, not make it. I stood at the battlements, needler rifle in hand, six grenades lined neatly up along the inside shelf and waited, slowly scanning the horizon for their next attack.
We lost 83 in the last couple attacks. Compiled reports said fourteen were eaten alive, pulled over the walls and pulled apart as we watched, the rest had body parts snipped off, usually the head, or at the waist. If Lucy didn’t get back before dark, we would all be dead. As my mind and eyes unfocused I found I again was dead tired. We’d been at it for twenty-eight hours straight counting the planning and fort setup. We had less than two dozen of us left alive. I didn’t see Tici anymore. I felt hollow, like I didn’t care, as a young soldier said she was scared and asked what to do.
“Fight, we always fight. We make them pay for the honor of killing us. Look at them; they are eating their own wounded just like we thought. Maybe they will get full and go home to sleep.” I snickered at her as I wished I could do that.
Born in the post war era of 1947 and raised in the farm country of upstate New York, M.F. Burbaugh saw ground level life and death.
Joining the Army in 1966 and spending almost two years in Vietnam, he added to that grounding of reality.
After 21 years in the Army, he now resides with his wife of forty-four years in El Paso, Texas.
“Everyone in the U.S. is represented in Washington EXCEPT the taxpayers.”
“Keep your powder dry.
Get fresh powder, you will need it soon.”
“The Left is never right, they even drive in the left lane and 30MPH slower than everyone else.”
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