Whitley Strieber: 2012: The War for Souls

“Are they dying?” Wylie asked.

“I think they’re going through. But it’s not right. It’s very not right.”

“Brother, has your soul been trapped in this car all this time?”

“Hell no, I stole the car yesterday. I’ve got a lot of bodies. I use them like scuba gear, to dig into the physical whenever I need to. And—uh-oh!”

There was an angry rattle against the vehicle, which proceeded to shoot upward so fast that Wylie blacked out momentarily. When he came to, flashes were speeding past the windows. “Pulse/Strider,” his brother said.

This was a weapon that delivered pulses of discrete superexcited electron plasmas that could instantaneously incinerate a car like this.

“Fly me, Brother.”

“Me? I don’t know how!”

“You were a hell of a pilot as a boy.”

“How could you know? You were…dead.”

“I’m an operative just like everybody else in the family. They were tricked into believing they’d captured my soul.”

Mean red light filled the car, and it tumbled wildly through the air.

“Brother, I need you to remember your piloting skills! Do it now!”

The words cause memory to flood Wylie’s mind, of being at the controls of a machine like this, of handling the twin sticks, of firing its weapons at sky targets, of having a glorious time in mock dogfights and evasion training.

He’d expected to be a pilot, but his aptitude tests were what had gotten him dragooned into intelligence. That, and he now also realized, the fact that his brother was already an agent. He remembered it all now, his whole life as a Union kid, his training…and something so poignant that he could almost not bear the recollection. He’d had a girl. He’d married her. He had a wife here on Abaddon, in the Union, the one good place that remained.

The car rattled, there was a flash, and this time the cabin filled with smoke and the fire alarm started.

“Fly me!”

Wylie gripped the controls. He swung the car from side to side, spotted the telltale sparkle of the Pulse/Strider installation on the ground. He turned hard, thrust the nose down, opened the throttle and slammed both sticks hard over.

The car shot like a diving eagle straight toward the installation. Pulses poured out. They would be forced to go on continuous triangulation, and his random jigging of the controls meant that not even he was sure of the trajectory.

He was nearly on top of them when they began to try patterns. Now, this was bad, this might work for them. “Are you unarmed?” he asked his brother.

“Of course I’m unarmed, I’m a sports car!”

“Just asking. Hold on!”

“My keel hurts, I can feel my keel going!” If an ensoulable machine’s nervous system was properly designed, the soul inhabiting it would sense it the same way it did a body.

Wylie leveled out. He was now speeding across open land, directly toward some aristo’s hunting estate. It was fashionable, he could see the house like something out of the English countryside. His brother said, “I see twelve bogies coming down on us.”

Wylie went into the forest, among the trees.

“You’ll wreck me!”

He took some advice from Martin’s son, Trevor. Just let yourself happen. His hands moved as they shot down a forest path, then up a stream. This far from the city, it wasn’t so polluted, not even on the Corporation side where mentioning global warming drew a death sentence. But then again, practically everything drew a death sentence. Executions were not only a form of population control, they kept the masses both entertained and fed.

Then he saw a wall. The wall, the one the Corporation had built around the Union. It was gray, immense, and dead ahead. He pulled back on the sticks and hopped it, and suddenly everything changed.

Here were fields of swabe and borogrove and orchards full of trees heavy with lascos and spurls and nape. Everything was green, the sky was dusty blue rather than dirty brown, and he knew that there would be stars at night, a few stars. Here, it was illegal not to mention global warming.

“I’ll take me back,” his brother said.

“Yeah, since I don’t know where I’m going.”

“I’m pulsing our code but we could get a look—see from the Air Force, so if we do don’t take evasive action. We are home, Brother.”

Wylie’s heart ached as he watched the rich green Union land speed below them. Home. And look at the houses, he could even see pretty shutters. Most unionists farmed. He had farmed, and he could see that the harvest was still coming in here and there. “Harvest is late.”

“Winter’s late, it’s too warm. If only an eighth of the planet fights the good fight, we can’t win, we can only lose slowly. The Gulf Stream stopped for four months this year. Avalon nearly froze while here in Aztlan, most of the maize crop burned.”

“What about the Corporation? They must be feeling it, too.”

“Farming’s illegal there now.” He paused for a long time. “I suppose you noticed what they’re eating.”

“I noticed.”

They came down on a pebble driveway before a modest old sandstone, its worn carved serpents of luck and joy barely visible in its ancient walls. But this was home, all right, a place he now realized that he had felt as an absence in his spirit for his whole time away.

He got out. “I wish you could come in, Brother.”

“When this tour’s over, I go back to my natural body forever, and I am looking forward to that, Wylie.”

“I don’t want to rattle around in the house alone!”

The arched wooden door opened. A figure stood back in the shadows, one lovely, tapering claw on the doorjamb.

Oh, it was impossible.

“Talia?”

“Aktriel?”

“Yes.” His response was so automatic that it required no thought. Aktriel was his real name, and he was a Department of Defense information officer. After pilot training, his work had been involved in the issuance of directives and proclamations, and he’d been sent to the human world because of his writing ability and his communications skills.

As she came out into the light, the car’s horn beeped twice and it took off into the sky, turned, then raced back toward Corporation territory. For a moment, Aktriel watched it go, watched sadly, wishing that his brother would come out, understanding why he could not bear to live in the freedom of his real body even for a short time, only to have to return to that miserable thing and go back to his hellish work.

She came to him, her eyes lowered, tears flowing. He took her in his arms, and truly he was home again, and from such a far, far place. “I’d forgotten everything,” he said.

She nodded against his shoulder.

“But where’s your husband, Talia? Your family? Surely you have one. It’s been years.”

Arm in arm, they went into the dim, comfortable interior of the house. Memory flooded him as he walked into the broad central room with its white walls and sky blue ceiling, and the climbing flowers painted everywhere. His mother’s hearth was here, his father’s tall harvest boots still by the closet where he’d always kept them. Beside them, smaller, shorter boots. When he’d waded for the tender swabe, he’d worn them.

“Do you still farm?”

“It will always be a farm.”

“Of course.” The Union’s goal of environmental balance meant that changing land use patterns was not done without major reason.

She took his hand. “Do you want me?”

He threw his arms around her, felt her heart beating against his. This love—how had he ever managed to leave it? She was his dear, dear one, the alpha and omega of his soul. When he could have farmed here forever and never left her side, why had he ever gone?

Then he remembered his little Kelsey and proud, strong Nick, children of two worlds. His kids, and they were out there on the front line with their mom, and if he stayed here they would be abandoned.