'Executive Orders' is live on Amazon.com!

Executive Orders: Part 2 of the Homeland Series is live on Amazon.com.

Buy it here!

 

 

 

We thought it could never happen in America. We were wrong.

The second installment of the Homeland series begins as America reels from economic collapse, terrorist attacks, and the loss of the power grid. For some, these hardships bring out the best qualities of the human spirit. Neighbors help neighbors as Freeport pulls together to feed the hungry and maintain rule of law.
But there are others determined not to let this crisis go to waste. The new regime enacts currently existing executive orders to seize control of the population and fundamentally change the country. Patriotism is labeled terrorism. Dissent is deemed treason. Citizens must register and turn over their firearms in order to eat. To resist is to die. To disagree is to disappear. The American people are soon plunged into a hellish, collectivist nightmare that grows worse each day. Something must be done before all hope is lost.

Thematically, Executive Orders lies at the intersection of Jericho, Red Dawn, and Schindler’s List.

 

 

 

Executive Orders is now available for Preorder!

Eager to find out will happen next to Sheriff Hank Sexton as he tries to hold the town of Freeport together in the face of overwhelming odds? Maybe you stay awake at night, wondering if Hank's son, Army Sergeant Cole Sexton, will ever make it home. And where in the heck is Eduardo going?

Go here to preorder Executive Orders, the second chapter in the Homeland Saga and be among the first to find out!

Order now to get the early reader appreciation price of only $0.99!

The Political Spectrum: Right vs Left or Citizen vs State?

I have always loved history. In conducting research for the Homeland series, I have had to go back and reexamine some of the things I thought I knew about history, politics, and the way the world works. This post is dedicated to a long-held paradigm that was challenged and ultimately changed by this research.

Conventional wisdom places communism on the extreme left of the political spectrum and fascism on the far right, but is that really true?

I submit that it is not.

 

The mutual fanatical hatred and savagery toward each other by the Nazis and the Soviets in World War II is usually pointed out as the prime example of the opposing natures of the two systems. But this point of view overlooks the fact that Hitler and Stalin were allies at the outbreak of the war. Stalin watched with glee for years as Germany consumed much of Europe. He even helped, invading Poland from the east shortly after Germany blitzed the country from the west. Those arrangements were made between the two dictators before the first panzer rolled. This mutual admiration society lasted until Adolf screwed his neighbor to the east in 1941 via surprise invasion. Stalin was so shocked by the betrayal of his ‘friend’ that it literally took him days to regain his senses and put up a defense. Thus, the hatred toward the evil fascists was born of betrayal and brutality more than from philosophical differences.

The similarities of communism and fascism are brought into focus when we consider the life at the ground level of each government.

 

Both fascist and communist regimes have centrally planned economies. Both control the internal movements of their people (papers, please). Both spy on their own citizens. Both have secret police (Gestapo vs KGB) to quell dissent. Both imprison or execute those who dare criticize the regime.  Both have government-controlled healthcare. Both control the media. Both systems claim to promote ‘the greater good for the greater number.’ Both populations live in perpetual fear.

I could go on, but you get the point.

Is life appreciably different for citizens living under these supposedly opposite systems? If you found yourself in 1938 Berlin, would your thank your lucky stars you weren’t living in Stalin’s Russia? Would the opposite be true? The truth is, life under both states would be pretty similar.

In both systems, the rights of the individual are trampled by the needs (or whims) of the all-powerful state. Additionally, said individual has no recourse to correct harm to himself, his rights, or his property. He is powerless to resist, thus the individual has no rights save those arbitrarily granted by the State. It should be noted that what the State giveth, the State also taketh away. As such, communism and fascism are merely different breeds of the same animal. That animal is Statism, also known as collectivism.

 

When we adjust our view to see fascism and communism less as opposing ideologies and more as estranged siblings, we see that they are just two of the most recent forms of statism to join socialism, despotism, monarchy, and others among the ranks of collectivist systems which crush the individual under the weight of centralized governmental authority.

This is why The United States was designed to be a Republic and not a democracy. Democracy may appear on the surface to be the best defense against State tyranny. In reality, it is also a form of collectivism.

But that is for another post.

This false paradigm may also help explain why many people don't believe their vote matters. If your choices are between two flavors of the same tyranny, how could your vote matter?

Voters sense this false dichotomy at some level, though may not be able to put their finger on why it doesn't make sense. I was in that spot for a long time.

The popularity of candidates like Sanders and Trump demonstrate voters' desire to break free of 'the Establishment' by electing people they see as outsiders. But as long as we are still operating (and voting) under false assumptions, little will change aside from the natural growth of the State.

 

 

 

The Martin Paradox: Has G.R.R. Martin Written Himself into a Corner?

I love the Game of Thrones series on HBO. I also enjoyed the books it was based on…mostly (they move painfully slow, but that’s for another time.)

            G.R.R. Martin is five books into his A Song of Ice and Fire series, the first of which was published in 1996. He has since published a new volume every five years or so.

            The TV series began in March of 2010 and is now in its sixth season. Each season roughly follows a book in the series. As a result, plot of the TV show has now caught up with the plot of the books. The sixth book is due this year (maybe). The next book (which I believe is set to be the series finale) will likely be published around 2021.

            So here is Martin’s dilemma:

1.     At this rate, the TV show will be the ultimate spoiler for his last one or two books if they follow the same plot. The remaining books will just be a rehash of the TV show (which would be an interesting reversal of the usual pattern).

So he can’t do that, can he?

 

2.     If the books follow a different story arc, fans’ heads will explode, the Ice and Fire universe will be torn asunder. I’m talking biblical proportions here: Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria.

So he can’t do that either, can he?

 

 

So what is Martin to do?

We'll just have to wait and see. He's a very smart guy. I'm sure he'll figure something out.    



 

New Worlds

     Homeland: Executive Orders, the second installment in the Homeland series is about 50% complete. I originally committed to writing a minimum of three books in the series, so that puts me at the halfway mark for the whole shebang, which means it’s time to start planning the next project. That being said, if Homeland gains a large readership, there will certainly be more than three books.

     Ideas about what to write after the Homeland have been marinating in my mind for a while now. I’ve all but decided that it will be sci-fi. I can’t give much away at this point, but believe it will involve the new Age of Exploration that will ensue once humanity is capable of harvesting the vast resources of the solar system.

     Will we repeat the mistakes of the first Age of Discovery? Will we war over territorial claims and access to vast wealth and resources?

 

     Or will we all get along and share nature’s bounty as one big human family this time?

 

     Of course not. What fun would that be?

 

     In the mean while, here is the trailer for what looks to be a great indie sci-fi movie currently being crowd-funded on indiegogo.com

 

 

A Conversation about Writing, Dystopia, and the End of the World (Part 2)

Here’s the conclusion of our discussion of Homeland: Falling Down, and the trends which inspired it.

 
HENRY BROWN: So, whether faced with our own military or with modern-day Hessians under globalist command (assuming the 3 percenters have prepped adequately enough to avoid being simply starved to death) with no support from a foreign ally and probably without popular support, how viable do you consider a guerilla resistance effort to be?


R.A. MATHIS: You mention in False Flag that no insurgency has ever won without foreign intervention and popular support, which I thought was a very good point. The two things America has to counter that are the 2nd Amendment and the 2008 election of the best gun salesman the country has ever seen. We have over 300 million citizens and about as many firearms in this country. We are also buying up ammo as fast as it can be produced (at least what is left over after DHS gets their share). Combine that with hundreds of thousands of highly trained combat veterans scattered to every part of the country, and the odds don’t look so long.

(HENRY BROWN: What a coincidence that veterans, patriots and gun owners top the list of potential “domestic terrorists” the government is most worried about, eh?)

R.A. MATHIS: This alludes to the working title of book three, “Every Blade of Grass.”


HENRY BROWN: How appropriate–that very quote (whoever said it) was just going through my mind as your words sunk in.


R.A. MATHIS: I think the success of a resistance would vary by region. Rural areas would be virtual no-go zones for regime forces. Some urban areas may just welcome them like the Vichy French.
It seems to me that the biggest problem for the resistance would be the lack of electricity. If the regime restored power to each region as it was brought into compliance, it could make for effective deadly propaganda against the resistance. It’s the old “freedom vs security” dilemma on steroids. I’m not sure which way the populace would go in that case, especially in winter.


HENRY BROWN: Very good point. Most people  take electricity for granted. Few of us have any concept of what a struggle life will be without it. And that’s even without somebody intentionally trying to kill you.


R.A. MATHIS: How would you go about establishing a resistance? Could it succeed?


HENRY BROWN: That endeavor would be a kettle of quandaries stuffed full of dilemmas and wrapped in Catch-22s. What I would encourage is a cellular structure perhaps similar to the French Underground or other successful resistance movements. But if it is successful, at some point it would have to take the offensive. And that would require somewhat centralized leadership–anathema to the principles hopefully held by those who constitute such a movement. That would require very rare leadership–willing to step down and surrender the reins of power when victory was secured–as George Washington did.

Could it succeed? Yes. But it would be an uphill struggle from start to finish, with no room for mistakes at the strategic level. At a tactical level I like its chances a little better, partly because of the points you made.

In Falling Down, Cole’s father, Hank, is an honest cop. In my experience that’s a rare, dying breed. But now and then I come across memes regarding certain sheriffs who have gone on record stating they will not comply with unconstitutional orders from the Feds, including civilian disarmament. As with the military, I’m skeptical that many who wear the badge will honor their oaths at crunch time. How do you see it?


R.A. MATHIS: Again, I think this may be regional. I believe small town sheriffs would be more likely to resist the regime as they personally know most of the people they would be asked to arrest, kill, etc. The impersonal nature of bigger cities allows collaborators to see numbers rather than real people. Like Stalin said, “The death of one man is a tragedy…”

Of course, there would be exceptions on both sides of the spectrum. And we must always remember that power not only corrupts, it draws the corrupt.

That last sentence ran through my mind as I read the McMillan scenes in False Flag. You mention window tint citations a few times in regard to this trooper. Was this character and situation inspired by actual events?


HENRY BROWN: Actually, yes. I made friends with a state trooper a few years back. Unlikely, but true. Stories he shared fit with things I’ve heard from other cops and ex-cops. Basically, somebody with a badge can make your life hell now for any reason at all. Window tinting was one of the specific excuses he used to harass people and help eat out our substance. And that BS fits thematically so well, because the Surveillance State just HATES it when something impedes their invasion of our privacy.

In Homeland: Falling Down, Cole strikes me as a character who’s just an honest soldier who wants to do his duty and avoids politics like the Plague. First of all, is this an accurate assessment?


R.A. MATHIS: Yes. Like most people, he just wants to be left alone. But also like most people, politics affects him in huge ways, whether he likes it or not.


HENRY BROWN: Like the saying goes: You may not be interested in politics, but politics sure has a keen interest in you.


R.A. MATHIS: I found your character Adiur rather fascinating. His connection to Greeley, the secret government training program, the other members of his unit with equally unusual qualities and names. Can you go into detail about this character and your inspiration for him?


HENRY BROWN: This goes back to my research on the occult and mind control, again. There are documented cases of this kind of thing, including superhuman strength, drastic voice changes, change in spoken language, and being oblivious to pain. There’s other bizarre stuff like “remote viewing” and “automatic writing,” too, but I don’t know much about those phenomena yet. Anyway, molestation as a child is pretty common in these “sleeper agents” and sex acts are incorporated into the occultic rituals for adults, too. This is where Greely comes in.

It’s all pretty horrific stuff, which is why I left it behind closed doors, and only implied “vanilla” sex, at that.
Is Cole based to any degree on some particular individual?
R.A. MATHIS: He is the personification of the dilemma faced by our troops in such a time. Hank is the same, but for civilian authorities.

I’ll ask you the same thing about Greeley and Adiur.


HENRY BROWN: Greely and Handel are amalgam characters, based on different people I’ve known and met. I’ve never been involved in drugs or the occult, but I’ve rubbed elbows with others who were. Neither of these characters are what they seem to be on the surface. Greely appears to be the sultry cougar-type “strong independent woman.” She’s the object-of-every-schoolboy’s fantasy. But deep inside she’s a sick tool who is about as independent as a marionette.

Handel’s façade is perhaps just Joe Blow Normal Dude. He’s handsome, clean, in his prime, average intelligence, a “good person” on paper…but there’s more to him than superficial observation would ever indicate. He’s been horribly abused since childhood and doesn’t even know it. He’s fractured. At the risk of spoilers, he has been conditioned to surrender his will and his body over to be used as a vehicle by Adiur–a malicious personality given access to Handel when his psyche was fractured.

I don’t know for sure that anyone I’ve ever met was a bona fide MPD. But I’ve known some guys who were blank slates like Handel, susceptible to that sort of conditioning in my opinion. Such a person has a hole in their soul, and nature abhors a vacuum.
When you first introduced Eduardo in Falling Down, I couldn’t help thinking of Geraldo Rivera. But as the story progressed, I shelved the connection. You really drew a 3-dimensional character in him. He’s a disingenuous self-promoting media whore on the one hand, but he proves to have streaks of decency as well. Congrats on that, BTW. What were your thoughts when you conceived the character, and did he wind up like you first envisioned him?


R.A. MATHIS: He actually was inspired partly by Rivera, especially after I saw how Geraldo behaved on Celebrity Apprentice (not a good look for him). He represents exactly what you stated: the self-serving, headline-grabbing media. He doesn’t care if his reporting is biased or disingenuous. The next step in his career is all that matter to him. He’s not an ideologue, but he will toe the line and support ‘the narrative’ his superiors provide to get ahead. He is a tool (in more ways than one).

It's interesting that you ask if he is winding up as I first imagined him. I like the question because it implies Eduardo has a life of his own and makes his own choices. As a writer, that's when I know I'm onto something…. When I stop directing the characters and let them do their thing, writing down what I observe. That's when it's most fun. I don't know what Eduardo will do or how he will turn out. How will he react when he discovers the true nature of the regime? I don't know. He is a bit of a wild card.


HENRY BROWN:  Definitely onto something. He lives, breathes, sweats and stinks. Seriously: kudos. Very well-drawn character.
Will the presidential candidate from the prologue appear again in subsequent books?


R.A. MATHIS: The candidate, Martha Jefferson, will have a big roll down the road. And that road is gonna be a rough one.
The assassin’s “little green book” will be a factor going forward.


HENRY BROWN: How many books do you think the Homeland series will last?

R.A. MATHIS: Right now I'm thinking at least three, maybe four. It really depends on where the characters take the story…and sales (You’re laughing–I’m not laughing).


HENRY BROWN: Not laughing, really. Just smiling. But think of it as a smile of solidarity.

Is there anything you’d like to share about Executive Order?

R.A. MATHIS: Yes. President Tophet is just getting started. If you thought things are bad now, just wait.

Can you give a hint as to what is in store for the next Retreads book?


HENRY BROWN: I haven’t woven it all together completely yet in the cobweb of my mind, but there’s got to be a showdown between Adiur and Tommy Scarred Wolf. Also between McCallum and either Rennenkampf or Cannonball. The latter would be more dramatic. An EMP. Grid down. Starvation. Dissident extraction. Internment camps. The clergy response team. Jihadi terror cells completely unleashed. Texas secedes. Rocco and his crew take in some refugees. Clashes with occupation forces. And, oh yeah: World War Three. That’s a few off the top of my head.
Changing gears a bit, where did the idea for Ghosts of Babylon come from?


R.A. MATHIS: A few months before deploying to Iraq, I found a picture of my grandfather taken in Germany during WW2. With the photo was a note written on the tissue paper issued to GIs to write home with in those days. He had just learned of Germany's surrender and was looking forward to coming home and not sleeping in a foxhole anymore.

I wished I had more. More of his experiences. More of his thoughts and feelings. More of him.

So I kept a journal during my Iraq deployment so my family would have more than a picture and a note decades from then. When I finally got back home, I started writing, using the journal as the basis for a memoir. It was partly self-therapy and partly out of a desire to pass my experiences down to my children while they were still fresh on my mind.

 It eventually morphed into a novel. I still don't know why. Maybe there were things I needed to say that could only be said through fiction. In any case, it eventually turned into Ghosts of Babylon.
We all begin writing for different reasons. I once read that no one writes because they are happy. What inspired you to start writing?


HENRY BROWN: First of all, that is a cool story unto itself. Thanks for sharing that.

As for me and writing, I’ve always had an active imagination, for one. Also, from a very young age, no matter how much I liked a story (either on film or on paper) I saw room for improvement. “It would have been even better if this was changed, that was tweaked, if so-and-so would have said/done such and such…” At least that motivated me in my first creative efforts.

I kind of did that with real stuff throughout my life, too. “Hey, what just happened would make an intense scene in such-and-such type of story.” Or, “Oh wow–check that out! I’d love to be able to capture what I’m seeing/feeling right now and reproduce it.”
There have been times when I really should have been completely focused on reality and my part of whatever task was at hand, but part of my mind was already busy plagiarizing the situation. Somebody once called me “a cultural scavenger.”  I still have mixed emotions about that remark. Maybe he meant it as a compliment, but it still seems a bit insulting. Nevertheless, there must be some truth to it, since I’m constantly compelled to weave fragments of life experiences together into stories (which are much more exciting than real life).

In fact, that’s still at work today, in yarns like False Flag. All these trends are converging toward a perfect storm that promises a bleak future and an end to life as we know it…so why not insert some guys like the Retreads, who won’t take it lying down, no matter the odds. Islands of integrity in a world of treachery. They’ve got the skills and wits to bring smoke on some scumbags in the process. And most important, they’re compelled to try to make a difference.
You strike me as a voracious reader. I sure used to be. When I was on active duty, when possible, I always had a paperback stashed in my cargo pocket or rucksack, for the inevitable “wait” phase of the old hurry-up-and-wait S.O.P. Did you keep a book stashed in your tank?


R.A. MATHIS: I read a little of everything. I especially enjoy sci-fi, fantasy, history, philosophy, and even a little horror. Unfortunately, working and writing leave far less time for reading than I would like. I read as much as I can, but am frustratingly slow at it. I often supplement reading with audio books and YouTube.
I usually had a book handy in the Army, but never got to read it on the tank as I was the platoon leader and barely found time to eat and sleep during operations. But I read constantly during after-operation downtime. Like you, there were also the times waiting on the tarmac for a flight, leaning on my rucksack, stealing a few pages here and there.


HENRY BROWN: Oh yeah, I got a lot of reading done sitting around Green Ramp in my lower enlisted days.


R.A. MATHIS: What do you enjoy reading most?


HENRY BROWN: Excepting horror and philosophy, the same ones you listed, plus classic pulp; westerns; war (fiction and non); military history; and various & sundry fare from the blogosphere in the “neomasculine” genre.

Have you/do you read SHTF or TEOTWAWKI fiction from other authors? If so, which do you recommend? (Some authors I recently discovered, who have written some enjoyable books, are “Joe Nobody” and Mark Goodwin. I’m curious about “A. American” and some others, but haven’t taken a chance on them yet.)


R.A. MATHIS: Oddly enough, I haven’t read many other SHTF works other than False Flag (which I thoroughly enjoyed) and a bit of James Wesley Rawles first book, Patriots. I want to keep Homeland original as possible, so I’m avoiding similar works right now. I do plan to read them once I’m a little further into the Homeland series.

HENRY BROWN: Interesting. It seems that it’s paying off–Falling Down did not seem derivative or imitative of any other SHTF works I’ve read. And thanks for that!

 I read Patriots as well, and have considered trying more of Rawles’ fiction…but haven’t, yet.


R.A. MATHIS: Which authors do you recommend I start with?


HENRY BROWN: Me, of course. But seriously, you might want to try “Joe Nobody“–he blends prepping info into his narratives fairly well. The protagonist in the ones I read was easy to root for. The action was believable. Overall a good read.


R.A. MATHIS: Thank you again for having me, Hank. Your questions were enjoyable and thought provoking. I truly enjoyed them.


HENRY BROWN: Hey, same here. We should do this again some time.

R.A. MATHIS: That's a deal.

A Conversation about Writing, Dystopia, and the End of the World (Part 1)

I was recently interviewed by author, Henry Brown for his blog, Virtual Pulp. The interview turned into a running discussion about writing, dystopia, and worst-case scenarios.

Here is part 1:


HENRY BROWN: First of all, thanks for agreeing to do the interview.


R.A. MATHIS: Thank you for having me, Hank.


HENRY BROWN: After reading Ghosts of Babylon, I guess I assumed you might follow up with something similar, or possibly move on to more mainstream literature. What made you decide to spin a SHTF yarn?


R.A. MATHIS: I wrote Ghosts of Babylon because I had to. It began as an effort to mentally sort out my Iraq experience. The Homeland series is the same.

 The seed was formed from the occasional news story of another general being fired for questionable reasons, a new executive order being announced, or the IRS being used as a weapon. That seed took root as these stories began to appear with alarming regularity. I thought it was just me being a bit paranoid, so put it aside and kept my mouth shut. But then I noticed others voicing the same concerns, both on the street and even in the popular media.
The last straw dropped when a guy came to our house to work on the air conditioner. We struck up a conversation as he worked. He told me that he was mortally afraid of the government. That’s when I began to realize how widespread the concern really was. (As a side note, I believe this sentiment is a contributor to the current election cycle’s rebellion against all things establishment.)

(HENRY BROWN: I would have to agree. And on the one hand it’s about time. But on the other…it seems to me that the pent-up outrage, now that it’s finally loose, is proving to be misdirected in many quarters.)


R.A. MATHIS: Homeland is an attempt to test the thesis, to mentally sort it out as a kind of mental experiment. Unfortunately, the thesis is proving all too plausible.
On a similar note, I noticed your Retreads series has gone from pulpy men’s adventure to a more serious SHTF genre. Why the shift?


HENRY BROWN: I’m not sure I can answer that in a way that makes sense to others, but I’ll try. Some of the times I’ve been happiest in life were when I had my head stuck in the sand–either voluntarily or unintentionally. That applies to the writing partition of my life, too. My whole experiment in men’s fiction was partly an effort to relive the fun and the rush of adventure lived vicariously through characters in some of the novels I read as a kid and young man. Better yet: to pass that experience along to new readers. Such was my ambition. (And yet, I couldn’t go Full Ostrich all the way–in Hell & Gone you can already see the government attitude–through the goons in their alphabet soup agencies–that certain law-abiding Americans are more dangerous than actual terrorists. In Tier Zero I sort of laid the ground work for False Flag by introducing some ugly little secrets of black ops, and how, if Washington doesn’t have a convenient one to exploit, our would-be rulers are willing to manufacture a crisis as an excuse for the next power grab in their agenda.) But I got to the point where I just couldn’t swallow the blue pill anymore.

I see the world around me drowning in deception. People who recognize this must not let the truth be buried. We have to shout it from the rooftops as best we can, despite the odds. If those sound like the words of a maniac, well, so be it.

I guess I should mention that I’ve had it in mind to write apocalyptic or post-apocalyptic fiction for a long time–but something a little less heavy, like the Last Ranger series or Doomsday Warrior before it (only without the mutants, the Zen philsophy and the weird psychodelic acid trip scenes). However, taking stock of the situation facing us in America, people need to wake up; not be somnambulized into maintaining their complacency.

The Retreads were established characters, who I and some readers really liked. If I could choose anybody to guard my flanks when facing Armageddon, it would be guys like them. After all, they were staring down the barrel of WWIII from their very debut, and handled it pretty well. At the same time, I knew that pulling out all the stops politically would piss off some readers who liked the previous books. Oh well. Life is too short and freedom is too precious to lose sleep over whether I offended somebody or not. I get offended constantly in books and movies. Suck it up and drive on.

Aren’t you sorry you asked that question, now?
When you introduced the DHS involvement with the regular army in Falling Down, it made perfect sense and I wondered why it hadn’t been done before (my own excuse is that I haven’t yet depicted conventional national military forces). After all, the Red Army had its political officers–military commisars or whatever, feared by all the regular soldiers. Same with the Soviet Navy. The Wermacht was, to an extent, gripped by terror due to the SS and Gestapo. Compared to me, your active duty experience is very up-to-date. Did you witness anything first-hand that confirmed for you this scenario will play out in a SHTF scenario?


R.A. MATHIS: You are exactly right about the Soviet commissars being the basis for the DHS “advisors” assigned to active units in the book. In fact, an important parameter of my “thought experiment” mentioned above is that there must be historical precedence for the events in the book, especially in the actions taken by the government. Knowing that the new regime would be suspicious, or even hostile, toward the military, commissars assigned to keep the troops in line would be a top priority. If you put yourself in the regime’s shoes, the DHS seemed like a perfect fit.

 My first-hand military experience ended in 2006, before our current President took office. At that time, the political correctness machine was already in full swing, but I never experienced blatant meddling by civilian agents. That being said, the amount and pace of social engineering forced upon our men and women in uniform since then is both staggering and alarming.

There is something I found interesting as I read False Flag. The occult ceremonies woven into the plot and connected with the tier-zero units and other operatives. Can you go into more detail about their purpose to the regime and why you included them in the story? Also, are these ceremonies simply mind control, or are they really colluding with unseen forces?


HENRY BROWN: Well, now you’ve done it. If people didn’t believe me to be a tinfoil hat whack-job already…
This angle came entirely from my research, which encompassed everything from MK Ultra and Monarch to “satanic ritual abuse.” I followed the leads where they led and was astonished to discover how interconnected it all is. It all sounds crazy on the surface–some of it as if inspired by a B-horror movie or bad sci-fi. And don’t get me wrong–there are a lot of cockamamie wive’s tales out there. Unfortunately, much of it is mixed up with things that happen to be true. I could go on at great length on this subject, but will try to pare it down to just a couple aspects.

One of the first bombshells to land on me was that multiple personality disorder (MPD) can be artificially created in people. And I’m understating the fact here, because some who have studied it much more than I have will tell you that EVERY case of MPD was manufactured by high level experts in cognitive sciences; and furthermore, that they do so with a common denominator of ulterior motives, and with government funding.

Some of those same folks will tell you that there absolutely are unseen forces at work. Certain spiritual beings are always looking for a body to occupy, and when a personality is split, they are given entry. This is stuff I don’t really want to believe. I’ve never been obsessed with UFOs, vampires, werewolves or witchcraft. I don’t watch “ghost hunter” shows or think zombies (as depicted in pop culture recently) are very credible. In most of the churches I’ve ever attended, great pains were made to downplay the supernatural in the Bible, and remove the paranormal/supernatural from the Christian worldview. Frankly, that tendency rubbed off on me, so I’ve never taken that stuff seriously most of my life. That is beginning to change. I’m at the point now that I do see a spiritual/occultic aspect to the postwar mind control efforts. But not many rational people can swallow that–which I certainly understand. What I tried to do was write that subplot in an ambiguous enough manner that the reader can take it whichever way they are most comfortable with–either just advanced brain-screwing built on the discoveries of the Nazi mind control pioneers with occultic trappings to make the victims believe they’re tapping into some ancient spiritual power; or human scientists carrying out the brain-screwing at the behest of the unseen beings they serve (knowingly or unknowingly). The bottom line for most readers, perhaps, is that it’s fiction. There are plenty of theories even more far out than this in other books or movies, and people suspend their disbelief for the sake of entertainment. Frankly, I’d love to be proven wrong about a lot of stuff I’ve said both on this blog and in my books.

As to what purpose our domestic enemies would have for such individuals…when you take stock of what they are doing and still intend to do, sleeper agents they can activate like flipping a switch can come in very handy. Especially in false flags. The cream of the crop could be held in reserve for really big jobs–high profile assassinations, for instance; while the unstable sleepers can be used as cannon fodder in the school-shooting-of-the-week. One investigator has discovered that many of the MPD cases are part of a “super soldier” program, which makes sense when you consider that the mind control endeavors in North America took over where the Nazi scientists left off. Pretty scary, if true.

You mentioned how the purge of the  US high command partly inspired you to write Falling Down. In my own SHTF book, that purge of field grade officers (which began in earnest about 2009) also plays a part. First off, I’m curious how the average Joe in the ranks feels about this today, as well as the junior grade officers. Secondly, you wrote it in such a way as to suggest that Colonel Lee bugged out before being nabbed by the DHS. Are we going to see him again in future installments?


R.A. MATHIS: On the purge subject: Like the old saying goes, you can’t fool the troops. I still have friends in uniform. They see the attack dogs ejected while the lapdogs are promoted. It has an adverse effect on morale across the width and breadth of the active force.

 Yes, we will see more of Colonel Lee. Good catch on that one.


HENRY BROWN: Considering those purges, among other things, what is your general gut feeling about whether the regular military will hesitate to make war on American citizens?


R.A. MATHIS: That is why I included Cole in the book. I needed to see the situation through the eyes of a soldier. I don’t think they will obey that type of order, the outstanding conduct of our troops in the Middle East (with very few exceptions) over the last 13 years will testify to that. But what if extreme coercion is applied?  In Homeland, all military families are brought on base when it hits the fan. This allows the soldiers to focus on their jobs, knowing that their wives and children are protected and cared for. However, this move also gives the regime leverage. If a soldier refuses to commit atrocities, his family may be forfeit. That kind of pressure is enough to make good men do very bad things. I do not envy our troops in such a situation. The same tactic can be used on just about anybody. This was a key tool of the totalitarian regimes in the last century. I don’t see why future regimes would stop using it.


HENRY BROWN: I don’t envy them either. In fact, rarely does a day go by anymore that I don’t find myself opining that I couldn’t be a part of what the military has become. It is no place for a patriot, or even for a good soldier anymore.


R.A. MATHIS: What are your thoughts on the likelihood of the American military making war on its own citizens?


HENRY BROWN: No offense, but in my experience officers often have a perspective on situations and shared experience that is rosier than the grunts see it. I’ve been on the enlisted side and could write quite a hatchet-job on the rank-and-file, even back in my day and even in an elite unit.

It boils down to this: kids growing up in the USA have no appreciation for how good we’ve had it here. They not only take our freedom and rights for granted, they are conditioned to have contempt for America. Very few of them resist that conditioning. Those people grow up and join the armed forces and, big surprise, the motivation is rarely patriotism. It’s for college money and job training. And that’s how the recruiting commercials pitch it. They throw bait out for mercenaries and that’s what they get.  (But perhaps many did join in the months/years after 9/11 for a more altruistic motive).

Career soldiers would just as easily fight for any cause and as part of any army. That’s the impression I got of the average G.I.
All officers have some generic pretense of honor, but when the rubber meets the road, most officers and NCOs are serving their career ambitions, not their country. Some are better than others, but those who rise to the top are nothing more than uniformed politicians.

Baron Von Steuben gave us quite the compliment when he illustrated the uniqueness of the American soldier (unlike any other soldier who receives an order and automatically complies, Americans had to have confidence in the motive behind the order before they would comply). This is definitely no longer the case.
All of this was bad enough when I wore the uniform; I’m sure it’s much worse now. Thank God there are exceptions. But what few good soldiers, sailors, marines and airmen remain are either being purged, or forced out by the increasingly hostile environment the military is being transformed into. So yes: I’m afraid most will fire on American civilians, and with little hesitation–especially with the added head games they are sure to get immediately prior. I would love to be proven wrong, but won’t hold my breath.

So, whether faced with our own military or with modern-day Hessians under globalist command (assuming the 3 percenters have prepped adequately enough to avoid being simply starved to death) with no support from a foreign ally and probably without popular support, how viable do you consider a guerilla resistance effort to be?


R.A. MATHIS: You mention in False Flag that no insurgency has ever won without foreign intervention and popular support, which I thought was a very good point. The two things America has to counter that are the 2nd Amendment and the 2008 election of the best gun salesman the country has ever seen. We have over 300 million citizens and about as many firearms in this country. We are also buying up ammo as fast as it can be produced (at least what is left over after DHS gets their share). Combine that with hundreds of thousands of highly trained combat veterans scattered to every part of the country, and the odds don’t look so long.


(HENRY BROWN: What a coincidence that veterans, patriots and gun owners top the list of potential “domestic terrorists” the government is most worried about, eh?)


R.A. MATHIS: This alludes to the working title of Book Three, “Every Blade of Grass.”


HENRY BROWN: How appropriate–that very quote (whoever said it) was just going through my mind as your words sunk in.


R.A. MATHIS: I think the success of a resistance would vary by region. Rural areas would be virtual no-go zones for regime forces. Some urban areas may just welcome them like the Vichy French.
It seems to me that the biggest problem for the resistance would be the lack of electricity. If the regime restored power to each region as it was brought into compliance, it could make for effective deadly propaganda against the resistance. It’s the old “freedom vs security” dilemma on steroids. I’m not sure which way the populace would go in that case, especially in winter.

 That’s about the halfway mark. Look for the rest of the discussion tomorrow. – Rob

Click here to read Hank's review of HOMELAND: Falling Down.

Author Spotlight: Henry Brown

    

 

     Today's Author Spotlight guest is Henry Brown. Henry (or Hank if he likes you) has recently completed the third installment of his 'Retreads' series. This latest book constitutes a new direction for the characters and the franchise in general, but I'll let Hank tell you more about that.

According to his Amazon bio: "Henry Brown was born to a fierce Mongol chieftain and a mighty Viking warrior-queen who were promptly kidnapped by alien wargamers from another dimension, leaving him to be raised by wolves on the frozen steppes.

Trapped in an avalanche caused by a tremendous meteor strike and frozen alive, he stood in suspended animation as the centuries passed until a team of nubile swimsuit model archaeologists rescued him in 2010, nursed him back to peak health, fell in love with him, bought him a state-of-the-art underground lair complete with mad scientist laboratory hidden on an uncharted subtropical island, and now cater to his every whim while he devises diabolical schemes of world domination.

True story.

Oh yeah: in his spare time, he writes fiction."

Wow! With a bio like that, I have to hear what Henry has to saw about his writing.

Take it Hank!


   Thanks, Rob.

    I don't think of myself as a morbid guy. I would prefer to be apolitical, and believe that peace and freedom will endure in America for the rest of my days. But try as I might, I just can't keep my head buried in the sand.

     Big trouble is headed our way and you don't have to be a “tinfoil hat” type to see it. More and more people are waking up to this, but life as we know it is coming to an end soon regardless of how many believe or not.

 

     It's a real chore to both stay informed and avoid being consumed by utter helplessness in times like these.

 

     The natural human instinct when everything looks bleak and there is no realistic hope to be found, is to escape. For some, temporary escape is found in beer, “reality” TV or the things money can buy.

     Anything to distract you from the worry and fear. I have the same escape instinct, and sometimes I let it win.

     I hope it's not a symptom of insanity that I sometimes escape by reading fictionalized predictions about that same bleak future. I suppose it's got something to do with being an “observer.” It's other people who have to face catastrophe and make the incredibly tough decisions, when you're reading about doomsday scenarios. Not only that, but the good guys usually win.

 

     Now, writing about the end of the world as we know it (TEOTWAWKI)... that's easily explained.

     First of all, I'm a writer. Writing is what I do. Secondly, it's therapeutic.

     I've wanted to write apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic stories for many years. I've never been completely satisfied with how it's been depicted in either film or fiction. But like any writer of the incorrect political convictions, striving to interest a publisher prior to the POD/E-Book revolution, I got in the habit of self-censorship.

 



     My debut novel, Hell & Gone, was written during those days when traditional publishing was the only “legitimate” path for a writer to become an author. And though it was written in the span between 9/11 and the invasion of Iraq (when patriotism made a brief comeback), I still had to dial down the God-mom-and-apple-pie sentiments. Not all the way, mind you—just enough, I hoped, to get it past the leftist gatekeepers in publishing and into the hands of readers.

 

    Yeah, I was pretty naïve.

 

    Eventually, Hell & Gone made it into print (and E-Book) anyway. By the time I wrote its sequel, Tier Zero, I was slowly liberating myself from self-censorship. Where Hell & Gone was a fusion of modern military thriller and old-school pulpy action novel, Tier Zero leaned harder to the pulp side. I wrote it in the style of an old post-Vietnam paramilitary adventure, and the book even has a cover to match. I allowed more truth, as I see it, to slip through—sometimes at the expense of a character's likability. But my quixotic goal was mostly to “bring back men's fiction,” not to hammer home a cautionary message. It turns out that reviving men's fiction (which necessitates that men actually read, rather than only watch sports/play video games) is possibly just as outlandish, or more so, than waking up the ovine masses via a cautionary work of fiction.

 

    Nevertheless, in the months following Tier Zero's release, I did some soul-searching and prioritizing.

 

    The result was that I completely unleashed myself. I decided to take these characters I dubbed “the Retreads” and usher them from pulpy men's adventure into a dark tale about the death of America. It wasn't exactly the TEOTWAWKI story I wanted to tell. I would have had more fun spinning a yarn similar to The Road Warrior or Craig Sargent's old Last Ranger series. But doomsday has been hanging over the heads of the Retreads ever since I first introduced them. In a way I can't quite explain, it is somehow fitting that these guys face threats now so real as to be petrifying.

 

     I knew I would offend and alienate some of my readers. Furthermore, there were some aspects of

     America's demise I just didn't want to deal with.

     Racial conflict, for instance—what Jesus warned about when He said ethnos will rise against ethnos.

     I didn't want to include it; but to not portray the deepening racial divisions and their likely consequences would have been willfully ignorant—an attitude that drives me up the wall in other people on other subjects.

 

     There are aspects of the perfect storm heading America's way that I did not deal with at all in False Flag; and some that barely get mentioned in passing. Maybe I'll have opportunity to incorporate them into future tales, but there just wasn't room for them in this already epic-length book.

 

     Obviously, most people are completely ignorant of what's going on and dismiss all warnings as “conspiracy theory.” Of those who are aware, many Christians assume the rapture will save them from any sort of inconvenience whatsoever. The rest are busy prepping as best they can.

That's the wise course to take. The survival of you and your loved ones is far, far more important than entertainment of any variety. However, when you're preparing for, and stressing over, impending catastrophe 24/7, sometimes you need to pause and take a few breaths. TEOTWAWKI fiction affords some degree of “escape,” while still keeping you focused enough to not let normalcy bias and the distractions of this world derail your awareness and purpose in the long term.

    That's why I read apocalyptic fiction and will continue doing so while possible. Whenever I have what is now the recurring argument with myself (why should I write TEOTWAWKI fiction when I believe I am staring down the muzzle of TEOTWAWKI right now?), I always wind up descending into a more basic question: why write fiction at all?

   The answer, for me, is: because I can't help it.

 

Thanks again for visiting the assembly area, Hank. It was a real treat.

You can find Henry at:

• His blog, Virtual Pulp
• His Amazon Author page
• His Goodreads page

The Next Step in E-Books?

A few years ago, I ran across a Kickstarer campaign for a sci-fi novel called Statisticity. This title was not your typical e-book. It was an enhanced e-book. I wasn't sure what that meant until I watched the video below. It opened my eyes to the potential of e-book technology. I have been very surprised since then not to see a boom of similar enhanced books hit the market. I still think enhanced e-books are the next step in the book market. Watch this video and let me know if you feel the same way:



Great News!

 

The release date for Homeland: Falling down has been moved up to February 29th!

This date is especially meaningful for our family as it was on February 29th, 2004 that we received the phone call notifying us that my unit was deploying to Iraq. That was a VERY difficult day. I'm thankful to be celebrating the release of a new book this time around.

Happy Leap Year, everybody.

Sci-Fi Short Story: 4 A.M. at the Paradise Lost and Found

Just in time for Valentines' Day.

 

      This story is very different than most of my other work. I wrote it a few years ago after my grandfather died of Alzheimer's. Watching him fade away was like watching a hard drive being erased a little at a time. It made me ponder the possibility of digitally preserving thoughts or even consciousness. That led to more questions.

 

      This short story explores those questions. Think of it as half Transcendence and half The Notebook.

 

       PS: I realize the title isn't the greatest, but it was the best I could think of at the time.

 

 

 

4 A.M. at the Paradise Lost and Found

by R.A. Mathis

Simon sank into a chair by the crackling fireplace in his study. The flame’s warm glow drew long, twirling shadows across the room. This was his favorite place. His sanctuary. His prison.

He contemplated the substantial library that filled the case along the nearest wall, a polyglot collection of tattered paperback novels.

If you were stranded on a desert island and could bring only one book…

A weathered paperback had a permanent place on his chair-side table. The title Paradise Lost adorned its cover in faded letters. He picked his reading glasses from a pocket and pondered their smooth glass lenses and fine silvery framework. He didn’t need them. He didn’t need the book or the hands that held it either. Everything around him was a collection of comforting illusions of days long gone.

He checked the grandfather clock standing sentry by the door. Only a few hours remained, but he was ready.

A beautiful face stared down at him from a portrait over the fireplace, its angelic gaze filling him with melancholy. The fireplace still shone brightly, but Simon could no longer feel its warmth. Solitude’s smothering chill blocked every sensation but grief and anguish. And bittersweet memories of her.

He opened the paperback to a yellowed page and read words he already knew by heart.

Grace was in all her steps,

Heaven in her eye, in every gesture dignity and love.

Simon closed his eyes, his thoughts returning to a warm spring day during his last year of post graduate school.

“It’s going to work this time.” Simon slipped the scan-cap onto his head. Myriad wires ran from sensors all over its surface to a supercomputer a few feet away. He knew he was close. He crossed his arms and stared at the computer monitor on the desk in front of him. Success was almost within his grasp. It’s got to work.

He’d been cloistered in the virtual reality lab for two solid days with no sleep; his only sustenance the nutrient deprived student fodder of the lab’s vending machines. He stretched his tired limbs and shook the cobwebs from his head. One more try.

Simon pictured a triangle in his mind’s eye as he stared at the blank computer screen. He closed his weary eyes tightly and concentrated. The triangle became ten triangles, then a hundred, then thousands. They swirled around him before coming together to form a giant pyramid with him at the top. He was elated. Simon felt as if all his dreams were about to come true. At the apex of his reverie, he heard a voice say, “Simon!” Where did it come from? “Simon!” There it was again, cold and severe. “Simon.” He suddenly felt sick. The pyramid shifted. Pieces began falling away. Small ones at first, then huge then massive slabs cracked loose and tumbled into the void below. It was slipping away. The pyramid lurched as its disintegration accelerated. Simon lost his footing and slid down the crumbling mass. He clawed at the air as he tumbled into nothingness among a jumble of polygons. The voice called again, “Simon. Wake up.”

Simon opened his eyes. He was face-down on the desk. It was a dream, the same one he always had. A fellow grad student was poking his shoulder. “Dude! Wake up! You’ve been out for an hour.”

Simon wiped away his drool with his sleeve. “Sorry. Guess I dozed off.”

“Go home and get some sleep.” The student said over his shoulder as he walked away, “And take a shower. You stink.”

Simon gave himself a whiff and recoiled from his own stench. He removed the cap and closed his eyes again, once again willing the image in his mind to the computer screen in front of him. He opened his eyes slowly, expectantly.

Nothing.

He turn off the monitor with an irritated flick and gathered his things.

He needed a drink—after a nap and some serious personal hygiene. Simon left the lab and its fluorescent gloom behind, his steps slow under the weight of failure. The sun assaulted his eyes as he stepped into the open air. He shielded his face like a vampire caught in morning’s first light. He lowered his guard as his eyes adjusted to the land of the living. Then he saw her. And nothing else mattered.

She sat alone on a sunny spot of grass next to the university center reading an old paperback novel and eating a brown-bag lunch. Between bites of a homemade ham and cheese sandwich, she absently brushed a rebellious lock of nutmeg hair from her sea blue eyes. She was the most beautiful thing Simon had ever seen.

He sat next to her and said the only thing he could think of. “Come here often?”

She gave him an annoyed glance. “Has that ever worked?”

“No.” He smiled then blushed as he again realized how badly he needed a shave and a shower. “How am I doing this time?” he asked, trying to fix his unkempt hair as inconspicuously as possible.

“Not good.”

“I know I look a mess, but I’ve been working in the lab. It’s a huge project. I’m going to change the world.”

She rolled her eyes. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

He cringed. “That came out all wrong.”

She put her book down. “You don’t talk to girls much do you?”

His blush deepened. “No…But… I just had to talk to you.”

She smiled and held out the uneaten half of her sandwich. “Hungry?”

“Starving.” He gladly took the ham and cheese. “Thanks. I’m Simon.”

She brushed back her unruly hair again. “I’m Maggie.”

He looked at the weathered softcover in her hand. “Where did you get that old thing?”

“It’s an antique,” she said with a hint of annoyance.

“You don’t like digital readers?”

She held the book to Simon’s nose and flipped the pages. The oddly comforting aroma of old paper filled his nostrils. The scent reminded him of the old stacks in the library where the books waiting to be scanned into the mainframe were kept. He decided that if knowledge had a smell, this would be it.

“You can’t digitize that,” she said.

“What are you reading?”

“Milton’s Paradise Lost.”

“Heady stuff.”

“You’ve read it?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I’ve heard…well…I mean…”

“How are you going to do it?”

“Do what?”

“Change the world, of course. Please try to keep up.”

She was lovely, intelligent, and sweet. One in a million, Simon thought.

He gathered up his nerve and asked, “Are you busy tonight?”

“Sorry. I have a date.”

Simon’s face flushed again. He felt like a fool. Of course she had a date. A girl like her probably had guys lined up just to be near her, but something inside him wouldn’t give up so easily.

“Is it serious?”

“No. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Good. Cancel it and go out with me instead.”

Maggie laughed. “You have some nerve. I’ll give you that.”

“I’ll die if you don’t.”

“I doubt it.”

“But what if I did? Would you want that on your conscience?”

Maggie gave him a perplexed look. “You’re a strange one, like a puzzle missing some of its pieces.” She returned to her book.

Simon hung his head in defeat. His heart felt like a soaked sponge sagging in his chest. “Okay.” He got to his feet. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Eight o’clock.”

“What?”

She shrugged. “I like puzzles.” She stood, plucked the pen from his shirt pocket, wrote an address on Simon’s hand and said, “This is my dorm. I’ll see you at eight.”

Simon arrived at Maggie’s dormitory an hour early. He spent the next forty-five minutes pacing across the street in front of the old brick building working up the nerve to go in. When he finally mustered the courage he squared himself and marched across the quiet lane to find her sitting on the steps, smiling at him.

“I got tired of watching you walk back and forth,” she said with a smile that stirred his soul.

He reached to his back pocket and pulled out a tattered pulp science fiction novel. He gave it to her and said, “For you.”

Maggie’s eyes widened. “Where did you get this?”

“It’s an antique. Do you like it?”

She held the book to her nose and inhaled deeply. “I love it!” She kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

Simon blushed. “You’re welcome.”

“What do you want to do?” she asked.

“Are you hungry?”

“I just ate.”

“How about a movie?”

She held up the novel. “I’m more of a book person.”

“Oh.” Simon scrambled to think of something else, but his brain stalled. Nothing would come. He tried to look cool in spite of the sweat beading on his flushed forehead.

“How about if we just go for a walk?” Maggie suggested.

“Sounds good.”

She put her arm around his. “Lead the way.”

Shadows inched across the manicured landscape as they walked aimlessly around campus, talking about everything and nothing. They strolled past gardens of solar panels whose faces rotated automatically to catch last rays of twilight. Wind harvesters creaked overhead on the warm breeze that heralded summer’s impending arrival. The same breeze cooled Simon’s brow and swept his anxiety along on its journey to parts unknown.

Around dusk they found a small all-night café and went in for a snack.

“What scares you?” she asked over coffee and scones.

“I dunno. Failure, I guess.”

Maggie wrinkled her nose in thought. “No. I don’t think so. A guy like you can handle failure because you never give up. You’re driven.” She looked into Simon’s eyes. “I bet you’re most afraid of being alone.”

Simon squirmed in his chair. She’d hit the nail on the head. He cleared his throat. “What scares you?”

“Clowns.”

He laughed. “I’m serious.”

“So am I! Have you ever tried to sleep in a room with a clown doll on the shelf?” She shivered. “It’s terrifying.”

“Okay, what’s your favorite flower?”

“Red poppies. I just love how bright and happy they are. So full of life. When I’m sad, I close my eyes and I pretend I’m in a field of them that goes on forever.”

They talked till dawn, sharing each other’s hopes dreams. I didn’t take Simon long to realize Maggie wasn’t one in a million. She was one of a kind, the only person to ever truly understand him.

Days turned into weeks as they spent every possible moment together, walking, talking, and falling for each other over scones and coffee. She would always find him waiting in front of her dorm with red poppies or another old book for her. She had no idea where he got either of them.

Simon sat alone in the lab late one night facing his nemesis. The blank computer screen stared back at him, daring him to try again. He had reviewed every line of code. Every connection had been checked and double checked. This semester, his last semester, was almost over. It was now or never. He made one last adjustment to the scan-cap, slipped it onto his head and closed his eyes.

Maggie woke with a start an hour later. A loud popping noise had pulled her back into her dark dorm room from bright dreams of sunshine and poppies. She sat up and looked for her roommate. The girl was still in bed, dead to the world. Then she heard it again. Something was tapping her window. She crept out of bed and peeked through the curtain to see Simon standing on the sidewalk three stories below.

She opened the window and said in a loud semi-whisper, “It’s three-thirty in the morning!”

Simon replied in an imitation of her husky tone. “I know! Can you come down? I have something important to tell you!”

“Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’

“No! Let’s go for a walk!”

“A walk?” She stepped away from the window then poked her head back out and said, “Okay, I’ll be right down. By the way, you don’t have to throw rocks. I have a phone.”

She met Simon on the front steps. He had a bigger smile on his face than usual.

“What’s with the grin?” Maggie asked.

“I did it.”

“Did what?”

“The experiment finally worked, of course. It just took a few adjustments. The computer can scan and interpret thoughts. I did it!” He grinned. “Please try to keep up.”

Maggie took his hand. “Congratulations! I’m so proud of you!”

“There’s one other thing I want to tell you.”

“Yes?” Her eyes sparkled in the street light.

 “You know I’m not good with words,” he said.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Very funny.” He swallowed, his old anxiety returned. “I just wanted to say…I mean…I’ve never said this to anybody else. Well, besides family, but that doesn’t...”

“I love you too, Simon.”

He picked her up in his arms. “Marry me!”

Maggie laughed. “Wow! You get right to business!”

“Marry me, Maggie. I can’t live without you.”

Her smile faded as she looked deep into his eyes. “Yes.”

The campus clock tower struck four as they kissed.

Simon whispered, “I could never live without you.”

After graduation, Simon took a job with a biotech firm. It was a good job, but it wasn’t his dream. After long days at the lab, he spent long nights in their garage turning his vision into reality.

*****

Late one summer night, Maggie was shaken awake.

“Come down stairs! Hurry!” Simon said excitedly, “It’s done!”

She checked the clock by her bed as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. It was four A.M., but Maggie wasn’t upset. She knew this was what she’d signed on for when she married an eccentric like Simon. She gave a drowsy smile and tried to hide her amusement as he led her by the hand to the garage.

Once there, Simon helped her put on a bulky headset and said, “This is just the prototype. The final product will be much more compact.”

“What’s it do?”

“You see that?” He pointed to a robotic arm on his workbench. “Imagine it moving to the left.”

She did. It did. She looked wide-eye at Simon.

He was ecstatic. “Keep going. It’ll move anyway you want it to. Try the fingers!”

With only her thoughts, she was able to manipulate the arm through any maneuver she desired as smoothly and nimbly as if it were her own. “This is incredible!” She hugged Simon’s neck. “You did it, baby!”

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You’re going to get a big promotion for this.”

“No. We’re going to start our own company. It’s time to change the world.”

“I always knew you would.” She smiled.

“I can do anything as long as I have you.”

“There’s only one thing missing.”

“What’s that?”

“A house full of kids to share it with.”

He took her in his arms. “What do you say we start right now?”

Over the next ten years, Simon’s technology revolutionized fields from medicine and commerce to manufacturing and communications. Billions around the world used his thought-activated devices. Their business, Cognitech, grew beyond anyone’s wildest expectations. But their happiness was incomplete. Their greatest dream had not come true.

                                                            *****

The autumn sun dipped below the horizon as Simon drove home after a tough but rewarding day at the helm of the corporation. With a thought, he activated a prosthetic earpiece and called Maggie. No answer. Another thought brought up a holographic map projected inches in front of his left eye. A red dot shone at his address. She was home. Why doesn’t she answer? He remembered she had a doctor appointment earlier that day. More fertility test results. More disappointment. His brow furled. He disengaged the car’s autopilot and mashed the throttle.

Simon found her sitting alone in the dining room. “Hi, sweetheart!” He tried to sound cheerful in spite of the look on her face. “What did the doctor say?”

She shook her head. “I thought I was finally pregnant.”

Simon held her hand and smiled. “It’s okay. We won’t give up. Medicine can do anything these days.” He paused. “Did the doctor say why you haven’t…?”

She nodded. “Cancer.”

The color drained from Simon’s face as he fell into the chair next to her. “Where?”

Maggie’s eyes welled with tears. “Everywhere.”

“What…How long…”

She sobbed. “Four months. Maybe six.”

“No! There’s got to be something we can do. We’ll go to the ends of the earth if we have to. We can beat this!”

She sank into his arms, heaving as she wept.

He held her and tenderly kissed her head. “It’s going to be okay.”

Weeks later they sat in a Vienna oncologist’s office. Maggie was pale and gaunt. Dark circles ringed her eyes. She asked Simon, “Do you think he can help?”

“He’s the best in the world.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Simon stared at the floor. “We have to hope.”

The door opened. The doctor entered. He shook his head. “I am sorry. There is nothing I can do.”

More test results. More disappointment. No cure. No hope. And precious little time.

Simon said, “This isn’t over. There are other doctors.”

The doctor excused himself. “I am very sorry. Take as long as you need.” He left, closing the door behind him.

“No,” Maggie said sternly.

“What?”

“No.” She shook her head. “No more doctors.”

“We’re not giving up.” Simon sighed. “We’ll talk about it when you’re being rational.”

“I’m the only one being rational.”

“How can you say that?”

“You’ve spent the last ten years building Cognitech, working day and night. You missed birthdays, holidays, anniversaries. I slept alone more nights than I can count” She laughed softly. “But I never complained. I loved you enough to not stand in the way of your dreams.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. That’s just who you are. I knew it when I married you.”

“Then let me help you. I have to do something! Please.”

“You can’t fix this. Nobody can.” She took his hand “Love me enough to let me make this choice. No doctors. No drugs. No treatments. Just us. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Good.” Maggie reached out and tenderly touched his cheek. “Paris is beautiful this time of year.”

The next afternoon, Simon pushed her wheelchair down brisk Parisian streets. He smiled as she excitedly pointed out the buildings and scenery to him. A gust of autumn gave Maggie a shiver. She pull her blanket closer. Simon stopped, tucked her in and said, “It’s getting cold. We should head back.”

She answered, “No. I’m fine. Let’s go on.”

Simon gave a doubting look then kissed her cheek and pushed on. He tried to capture every moment, hiding every sight and sound deep in the safest part of his memory where only his heart held the key. He soaked in her bright eyes and giddy smile, burning them indelibly into his mind. This was the most alive she’d been in a long time. He reached down to stroke her hair and realized the same was true of him.

A small café caught Maggie’s eye. It looked warm and inviting in the late afternoon chill. Simon asked, “Hungry?”

She nodded. “Coffee sounds nice.”

They found a small table by the widow and ordered an early dinner. Maggie barely touched hers. They watched from their cozy nook as pedestrians rushed to cover when a sudden downpour drove them splashing from the street. Simon took her hand. “Looks like we’re stuck here.”

“Sounds great to me.”

They talked until streetlamps burned brightly against the night. It was the first time in ages. No doctors. No treatments. No Cognitech. Just them.

*****

Winter’s first snow fell outside as Simon sat alone in his study two months later. The fireplace was dark and cold. A half-empty bottle of whisky warmed him instead. He’d never felt so helpless. So useless. He took another swig. The grandfather clock struck four. He watched with bleary eyes as the hands crept across its face. The chimes softly marked the passing of another hour. Time was his enemy, the clock its willing accomplice – mercilessly burning away every minute of every day. Stealing her from him one second at a time. No matter what he did, he could never hope to win.

He gripped the liquor bottle tightly and stood to face the timepiece. Simon raised a trembling hand and hurled the container at the thief. Chimes clanged angrily as the flagon shattered against the clock. Pungent spirits drenched the old wooden watchman, but the pendulum still swung inexorably. The glass window covering the face was spattered and cracked, but the hands marched on. I can’t save her. He fell to his knees in defeat as bitter tears began to flow. It was the first time he’d allowed himself to cry. I can’t stop time.

Simon suddenly raised his head. Or can I? If his technology could read brainwaves, why not copy them? He put on a pot of coffee and got to work. If I’m going to stop time, there isn’t a moment to lose.

When all was ready, her time was almost gone. Their bedroom looked more like a hospital ward than a master suite. A vase of red poppies was its only cheer.

Simon sat at her bedside and held her withered hand as the winter wind howled outside. “It’s me, sweetheart.” He thought he was too late, but then half-closed eyes drifted to his face.

“Where’ve you been?” she whispered.

“Working on a way to save you.”

She glanced at the strange looking equipment he’d placed by the bed.

He said, “It’s ready. I know you’re tired, but I need you to hang on for just a few more days. Do you think you can?”

She gave a barely perceptible nod. “As long as you’re with me.”

“I’ll be right here.” He kissed her forehead and placed the neuro-topographer at the head of her bed.

Begin mapping.

Simon spent the next three days at her side reminiscing about their life together. He held her hand and gently stroked her hair as he talked. She listened peacefully – squeezing his hand every so often to let him know she was still with him. All the while, the topographer silently went about its work. Simon kept one eye on the small data screen that reported its progress. It was agonizingly slow. After twenty hours: Fourteen percent complete. Two days: Forty-eight percent complete. Three days: Eighty-six percent complete.

Simon awoke at four in the morning on the fourth day to the sound of electronic beeping. At first, he thought it was her life support, but quickly realized there was no emergency. Her respirator was humming and hissing normally. The beep was coming from the topographer. He checked the data screen. One hundred percent complete. It was then he noticed her looking at him.

She whispered, “Can I go now?”

Simon’s eyes filled with tears. He choked out, “Yes.”

She mustered her strength and gently caressed his cheek. “I’ll be waiting for you.”  She closed her eyes as Simon took her hand in his.

Begin program.

Transfer initiated.

It didn’t take long – just a few minutes.

Transfer complete.

Her vitals flat-lined as Simon softly kissed her forehead. He ran a hand over a little black box attached to the topographer. She was in there now. Her body was dead, but she still lived. Her consciousness, her being, was digitized and preserved within its circuitry. He’d saved her. Time couldn’t claim her anymore.

Simon integrated her new existence into the Cognitech mainframe, sold their house, and made a Spartan home for himself in the lab so he could always be with her. His only luxury was an exact replica of his old study adjacent to his own private lab in a quite section of his company’s headquarters.

Simon lost interest in the company and gave up his duties as CEO. As the years crawled by, he became obsessed with finding a way to communicate with her. He had high hopes for the first few years, but they faded after more failures than he cared to count. Her programing was too primitive. Preservation was its sole purpose. He hadn’t had time to incorporate communication. An upgrade was out of the question. His computer models indicated that the slightest change to any algorithm could ripple through her entire being. She’d be corrupted. Her ‘mind’ torn to tatters.

He often starred at the powerful computer and pictured her in it. Alone. Trapped in an electronic tomb. He could hold her in his hands, but she remained just out of reach. Was she conscious or in some kind of digital coma? Was she really in there or was he just fooling himself? All knew for certain was that he had to be with her. To see her beautiful smile, feel her gentle touch, and hear her sweet voice. He never gave up. Year after year. Decade after decade.

*****

Simon sat alone in his dimly lit study tucked away in a corner of Cognitech. The entire building was empty. Tonight, Milton’s masterwork shared the chair-side table with a small headset and a vase of wild red poppies. He ran a weathered hand through his snow-white hair as he stared longingly at the painting of her. “Happy fiftieth anniversary, sweetheart.”

The clock struck four as he picked up the sleek headset – remembering the clunky eyesore he’d presented to her decades before. This is just the prototype. The final product will be much more compact. It seemed like yesterday. He said to her portrait, “I’ll bet you’re wondering what this one does.” He donned the device. “Let’s find out together.”

Begin mapping.

It now took moments instead of days.

Mapping complete.

This was it. No going back. He hesitated as doubt took hold in his mind.

Simon picked up the book, hoping Milton could give him comfort. He pick up the old book and flipped the pages in front of his face, inhaling deeply as he thought of that spring day long ago. He put on his reading glasses and turned to a passage he knew by heart:

The mind is its own place, and in itself

Can make a heav’n of hell, a hell of heav’n.

My mind, he thought. Is that what I’m about to put into that box? My soul? Or just a lifeless copy – the original lost forever.

He pondered the question, then decided to proceed. Whatever happened would be better than going on any longer without her.

Begin program.

Our state cannot be severed, we are one.

One flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself.

Transfer initiated.

The room faded. The ticking of the clock grew more and more distant until it, too was gone. Nothingness overtook him.

Then he felt something. A breeze – soft and warm on his face. Simon opened his eyes to find himself standing in a field of the reddest poppies he’d ever seen. Their rolling undulations in the gentle wind looked like wildfire.

Transfer complete.

“Come here often?” a familiar voice said from behind him. He wanted to turn, but was afraid. Afraid it wasn’t real.

A hand touched his shoulder. He turned to see Maggie smiling at him. She wasn’t withered and sick anymore. She was the young, healthy, beautiful girl he’d met so many years ago. He caught sight of his hand as it reached for her. It was young and strong again.

She said, “Welcome to Paradise.”

Simon grabbed his wife and kissed her as tears rolled down his face.

Maggie whispered, “I’ve waited so long.”

“I know. We’re together now. Forever.”

“Forever.” She nodded with a smile. “I have a surprise for you. Cover your eyes.”

“No. I want to look at you.”

“Please? I’ve been planning this a very long time.”

“Okay.” Simon did as she asked.

It only took a second. Maggie said, “You can look now.”

He opened his eyes and stood speechless.

Maggie beamed. “Recognize it?”

He stood in a small college coffee house. “Of course I do. How did you?”

“This is Paradise. We can do anything here.”

They found an empty table and talked for hours as rain pattered against the window.

Simon reached across the table for her hand. He wanted to take in every part of her. He was studying the nape of her neck when it happened. So fast it was almost imperceptible. She flickered. For the slightest moment her face fluttered like a candle too close to an open window.

“What’s wrong?” Maggie could always read him too well.

He forced a smile and convinced himself it was just his imagination. “Nothing. I’m fine. Where to next? Tahiti?”

“Let’s go home.” Maggie gave a sly smile.

They stepped from the café to their front door in a blink.

Simon paused before entering their home. He’d missed this place. This life.

Late that night, Maggie lay in his arms amid the tangled, sweaty sheets of their bed. She sighed. “I really missed that.”

Simon laughed. “It’s nice to be appreciated.”

“Wanna go again?” she said in her most mischievous voice.

He ran a hand down her back and grabbed her naked bottom. “Time to find out if this really is Paradise.”

She sat up suddenly. “I have a better idea!”

“I doubt it.”

Maggie wrapped herself in a quilt and dashed from the bedroom. She returned with a photo album, plopped into bed next to Simon, and excitedly opened the picture book.

Simon said dryly, “I like your first idea better.”

“Come on. It’ll be fun.”

“Okay, let’s have a look.” Simon pointed to a picture of them in sombreros and laughed. “Ha! Mexico! I can’t believe you talked me into hiking that bug infested jungle and climbing those pyramids. My legs ached for a week!”

She looked confused.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Sure ya do. It was our honeymoon.”

She shook her head. “I can’t remember any of it.”

“Of course you can. We’re part of the mainframe now. We can do differential equations in our sleep. We can recite the collected works of Shakespeare and Tolstoy off the tops of our heads. We remember every second of every day.”

Maggie just stared at him. “I don’t remember.”

“We’ve had a big day, that’s all. Let’s get some sleep.” Simon turned out the light. He knew she’d see through his façade if he left it on. He pulled her to him and stroked her hair until she fell asleep. He watched her for hours afterward; feeling her warm breath against his chest.

He awoke the next morning alone. He called, “Maggie!” There was no reply.

He grabbed some pants and ran into the living room. Empty. He dashed to the kitchen on the verge of panic and found her staring into the open refrigerator.

“Thank God! I thought I’d lost you again,” Simon said with relief.

Maggie looked upset. “I was going to surprise you.”

“Sorry.” Simon smiled. “I’ll go back to bed. This never happened.”

“No. I was going to make your favorite breakfast, but I can’t remember what it is.” Tears filled her eyes. She began to tremble. “What’s happening to me?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll fix it.” He held her tightly. “It’s going to be okay.” His stomach knotted with the memory of the last time he told her that.

He went to his study and ran a diagnostic. He ran it again, then seven more times. Each with the same result.

She entered before he started another. “Sorry, but I couldn’t wait. Did you find anything?”

He looked away and nodded – his jaw clinched.

“What is it?”

He looked into her frightened, trusting eyes. “Your program’s been corrupted. It’s causing holes in your memory. And they’re getting bigger.”

“But how? I’ve been fine for years. Why now?”

“When I put myself in here with you, the newer coding caused compatibility errors. I thought I’d found a way around it.”

“How bad is it?”

“It’s everywhere.”

She sat next to him. “How long?”

He choked out, “Four months. Maybe six.” He put his face in his hands. “It’s all my fault.”

She put her arms around him. “It’s nobody’s fault. It’s just life.” She cupped his face in her hand and gently lifted till their eyes met. “Let’s make the most of the time we’ve got.”

A few weeks later, Maggie found herself in a strange place. She asked Simon, “Where are we?”

“Home.”

“I don’t recognize it.”

 “We’re in the living room. You had another episode.”

“How long was I out this time?”

“A few hours.”

“It’s happening faster than we thought, isn’t it?”

Simon nodded. “It’s just accelerating so much faster than I ever thought it could.”

“I can feel it. Just like last time. Pieces of myself falling away.”

Simon just stared at her.

She smiled softly and took his hand. “I need you to do something for me.”

He didn’t answer. He knew what was coming.

But it didn’t come. Nothing did. She was frozen—trapped in an endless loop of broken algorithms. She stood there, flickering every few moments like a bad fluorescent bulb. Simon held her hand. There was nothing else he could do.

After three days, Maggie finally awoke. She looked around the room in disorientation and asked Simon. “Where are we?”

“Home.”

She shook her head “I can’t do this. I can’t fade away again.”

“I know.”

“Let me go,” she said, “while there’s still some of me left.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to. For me. Please.”

Simon sat there a long moment – struggling to form the word and then to release it. He finally said, “Okay.”

“Thank you.” Maggie kissed him softly. “It’s going to be okay.” She took his hand. “I’m ready.”

“Now?”

“Yes. I want to be myself when it happens.” She asked again. “Please?”

He nodded, unable to speak.

“Thank you.” She kissed him again.

He pulled her to him and embraced her.

End program.

“This isn’t the end,” she whispered, “I’ll be waiting for you.” Maggie flickered and vanished. She was gone, slipping just beyond his reach. Again.

Simon fell into his chair. He neither moved nor ate nor slept for three months. He just sat – paralyzed by the pain of her absence.

Milton’s words echoed in his mind as he gazed at her portrait above the fireplace:

Grace was in all her steps…

Guilt gnawed at him. He pondered the curse of his self-imposed immortal isolation.

O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams
That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.

It may have been a fitting punishment, but it was more than he could bear.

The grandfather clock chimed four A.M. He watched the pendulum swing – back and forth like the Reaper’s scythe. “You win,” he said.

What comes next?

She said this wasn’t the end.

She said she’d wait for him.

Maybe she was.

Perhaps there really was something more.

He hoped so.

End program.