The Undead at War (And Other Stories)

By Randall Schanze

The second full-length collection of short stories from Randall Schanze, "The Undead at War (And Other Stories)" runs the full range of literature from comedy to drama; from straight-ahead space adventure on through a new twist on Transhumanism which SF author Larry Niven called "Highly Entertaining." The anthology includes three stories set in the misleadingly-named "Undead" universe, two stories and one novella from the also-misleadingly-named "Redneck" universe, one unrelated short story, and several bits of interesting lyrics/poetry between the tales.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Randall Schanze
• Release date: Nov 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310935183

Randall Schanze

Randall Schanze is a Science Fiction author and blogger from Florida. He's the child of a NASA engineer and an immigrant, and has had a life-long fascination with space and exotic cultures. He's wild-eyed, engaging, chatty, smart, interested in nearly everything, and hence almost instantly annoying in person. Just the same, his writing has been praised by several well-respected professional SF authors. His first love is Science Fiction, and he's been writing for 30 years, though much of that time was spent writing under various pseudonyms. The most noteworthy of these was "Kevin Long," a name he used to publish four books. For half a decade he was the head writer and editor on the Republibot website but he has since retired. During that period, he went by the nom de web "Republibot 3.0" in a paranoid bid to protect his identity from his stalkers, though obvious since he's using his real name now, he's gotten more laid back about the whole thing. He's middle aged, happily married, and has a family. He also sings.

Book preview

Introduction

Who knew that coming up with a title could pose such an ethical dilemma?

This working title for this book was The Prettiest Lesbian I've Ever Seen. It's pretty lurid, and I thought perhaps it might drive more purchases from Amazon. My first book, Ice Cream and Venom, has a great title, but didn't sell for crap. Having learned my lesson there, I decided to go in a more lowbrow direction. Also, frankly, I couldn't come up with anything nearly as good as that Ice Cream thing.

Is that bad of me? Base? Ignoble? Probably. It's also the kind of thing you learn after you spend three years working on a thing that doesn't sell. I'd achieved my decades-long dream of writing a book and getting it out there for total strangers to ignore. What next? Check it off the bucket list, or keep going?

Keep going, obviously. I really like writing. It's really all I've ever wanted to do. Well, that's not true. I had the normal dreams about being a millionaire playboy astronaut submarine captain rock star, same as anyone else, but writing is the only reasonable thing I've ever dreamed of doing. Arguably it's the only thing I'm particularly good at. I'd be writing even if nobody was looking—I did write for years and years with nobody looking—but when I learned that thirty-seven thousand people had read my story Superheroes are Gay online, I realized that as much as I like writing, I like people actually reading my stuff even more. I'll admit it: Big old ego, flapping in the wind. Obviously I must be compensating for something. (Wouldn't you like to know what it is?) Just the same: Stories are meant to be read, by hook or by crook. Hence the Lesbians title.

Mind you, it's not like I expect to get rich off my weird stories about religious robots and flatulent alien caterpillars. I just love writing it. Honestly, Science Fiction never paid all that well when there was still a real publishing industry. There's a reason most genre writers keep their day jobs, and it's not at all related to a lack of talent. Even some very big names in the field, with awards and accolades and generation-spanning careers can barely make ends meet. And nowadays? Feh. If you're writing SF to get rich, forget it. You're better off learning plumbing or getting a job as a short order cook.

Just the same, there's a not-insubstantial hunk of my life invested in writing the tome that now sits before you, and I'd like to at least preserve the fiction that my fiction is finding an audience. If that makes me as self-absorbed as a five-year-old standing on his hands and yelling Look at me, mom! Look at me! well, I'm not gonna apologize. If I have to give something a title that sounds like an article from Playboy in order to get people to notice, well, hey, it's worth it.

I still felt kinda icky about it, though.

Ah, you ask, But the book isn't called 'The Prettiest Lesbian I've Ever Seen,' it's called The Undead at War!" What happened?

Larry Niven saved me from my own luridity.

Somehow he came across an online copy of my short story The Undead at War, and he publicly said that he liked it. Can you imagine how impossibly cool that was? Niven's Known Space stories pretty much shaped my dreams growing up, and you'll find many a reference to them in my stories, particularly in Home Again. Having him tell me he liked my silly little twaddle was amazing! At that moment I felt like I'd arrived, like I'd become what I always wanted to be. (Minus the Submarines, space ships, rock stardom, and money, of course.)

When I asked him about it later on, he very graciously agreed to let me use his comments in my second book. I quickly decided that a blurb from one of the deans of Science Fiction was a way better draw than that whole smarmy title thing (There's lots of pretty lesbians, there's only one Larry Niven.), and I immediately decided to rename this book after that particular story. Also, hey, it might draw in people who like zombies too. They're a big deal now, apparently, looking at all the TV, movies, and other books around.

This immediately put me in a different ethical dilemma: Was I taking unfair advantage of the situation? Was I misrepresenting his comments as though they applied to the book as a whole, rather than just that one story?

Ultimately, I just decided to use his blurb and make it very clear that he was only referring to one specific story, not the collection as a whole. Hopefully that's the right thing to do. It's an ongoing debate. If I've done the wrong thing by anyone, I'll fix it immediately and make a public—and genuine—apology. I'm new at this.

Not as new as I was a year ago, though, and I can honestly say this book is much better than my debut. The material is stronger, it flows better, I'm a more confident writer, and the stories are much more consistently interesting. I discovered that there's a difference between just throwing together a book, and actually crafting the specific kind of book you dreamed of writing when you were in high school. I was proud of Ice Cream and Venom, but I have to tell you: if I were any prouder of The Undead at War, I'd be twins.

First and foremost, I'd like to thank Larry Niven for reading my story, for his public endorsement of it, and for his kind comments to me elsewhere. There are few established authors who have done as much for new writers as he has, and there are fewer still who's efforts mean more. Thank you, sir, from the bottom of my heart.

I'd like to thank my family for their support and patience. I tend to prattle endlessly on car trips when I'm working out plot points. Alternately, I tend to lapse into an insensate blob while trying to figure out the best way to tell the story. That's not even mentioning the hours spent actually writing, mumbling to myself, laughing disturbingly, and basically transmitting crazy guy: do not touch on all channels. Any way you slice it, I am incredibly annoying when I'm working. My wife, son, and parents have borne this with patience and good humor. I have the best family in the world. Thank you, and I love you, and I am not worthy of you.

I'd like to thank Chip Haynes for proofing this manuscript and making some wise editorial suggestions. David Teach not only did masterful work on the final edit, but also did most the technical voodoo that ended up with it being on Amazon. Thank you, Dave.

I'd like to publicly apologize to my friend Gerald Himmelein, who I basically screwed over during the re-edit of Ice Cream and Venom. In essence, he spent a bunch of time and effort working on that book, he made a bunch of insightful comments (Most of which I ended up using), but then I got cold feet and/or a bruised ego, and yanked it away from him. This not only infuriated him, but it really hurt his feelings. His is one of my longest friendships, and really the only one I can point to and say I know exactly when we met. (It was the week of July 6th, 1994, in a chat room on CompuServe. The Babylon 5 episode Grail had just aired, and he was talking about it.) He is on the very short list of my best friends in the world, and I done him wrong. It's important to fess up to that. Gerald: I'm sorry.

I was joking about my screaming ego earlier, but the fact is: it's really humbling to know that there are people who look forward to my stuff. I don't call them fans as that seems like something I haven't earned and can't claim, but just the same: thank you!

Thank you to everyone at the Larry Niven Mailing List for their support and undeserved patience. Special thanks to Mark Firestone for his friendship, his hours of conversation, his technical support, and for talking me into joining the List in the first place. Were it not for him, this book would have been stuck with the smarmy title.

Thank you also to Richard Anderson, Tessa Dick, DP, John Many Jars, and Lars Walker, all of whom have gone out of their way to positively review my work.

And the list goes on and on: there are simply too many to mention in detail, but I owe something significant to all of the following: Lynn Arroyo, Robert Bee, Ben Burrock, Sandra Caskey, Don Davis, Harlan Ellison, Ben Fuller, Mike Heavener, Professor Rita Kronis, David Morris, Mark Musser, Marshall Savage, Bey, Gene and Sally Schanze, Heather Silvia, Linsey Sims-Bohnenstiehl, Keith Spangle, Ian Sutherland, Paula Tabor, Lance Tracy, and Dr. Joseph Webb. Without these people, this book-and much of the physical universe itself-would not exist.

Finally, and most importantly: I thank God. I could have an easier life, but I couldn't have a better one. I have been blessed.

Bubba's Burger Barn

Despite his embarrassingly hyper-patriotic name, Yank E. Flagg wasn't enjoying his Fourth of July. His ship, the USS Monkeyspank, had taken a pounding at the hands of the evil Bahamian Space Force three months back. Half the Fifth Fleet had been destroyed in the initial onslaught, but fortunately Comrade Captain McNeil had pulled the most remarkable strategy anyone had ever seen—running away—and as a result, America's last Fightercarrier had survived. The war with the Bahamas was going badly enough that merely surviving was considered a victory these days.

They'd managed to limp to the nearest friendly port, Saint Friedrich, on Ganymede, where most of the surviving crew had been rotated back Stateside. Comrade Ensign Flagg was the Fire Control Officer— not the exciting kind of Fire Control that got to shoot at people, mind you, but rather the kind of Fire Control that was in charge of keeping the extinguishers in the kitchen fully charged—and as such, he was one of the unlucky five hundred or so who'd been forced to stay with the ship as part of the repair team. It had been three months of backbreaking labor—despite the low gravity on this particular moon—with the prospect of at least another three months ahead of them, before the 'Spank was in fighting trim again. The war would likely be over by then, so, really, the entire project was an exercise in futility. Tiela estas la militista vivo, thought Flagg, philosophically.

The thing that made this so particularly galling was that Ganymede was probably the single most boring place in the entire solar system. Colonized a century or so before by puritanical atheists fleeing the perceived decadence of religionist tolerance on earth, the society they'd set up had been intended as a city on a hill, a shining example of what humanity could accomplish once it had put all those silly gods behind it, but it didn't work out that way. Once the grand opiate of the masses has been abolished, the Ganymedians naturally started going after some of the lesser opiates. First drugs, then extramarital sex, then entertainment, then dancing (Which was actually quite fun in the low gravity), then computer games, then political parties, all had ended up on the chopping block, first censured, and then criminalized. A few weeks ago, Flagg and a couple of his shipmates had grown stir crazy and snuck out at night. One of them —Comrade Bosko—had almost instantly attracted the ire of the locals for Whistling on a Tuesday. They'd been surrounded by an angry surgical mask-wearing mob chanting There is no God, and Madeline Murray O'Hare is His Prophet! There is no God, and Madeline Murray O'Hare is His Prophet! Flagg had been able to make it back to the ship—barely—but his two friends had been arrested, and were even now cooling their heels in some stark art deco cell somewhere.

Today would be different, however, Flagg convinced himself. It was the Fourth of July, and the entire crew had been given leave. They'd suffered through the endless Appreciating the Oneness of the Local Culture lecture the night before, informed of the local taboos, and asked to please return their official Navy-issued prophylactics before leaving the ship, since No one here is into that at all anyway. After a fitful and anticipatory night's sleep, he dressed up in his civies and left the ship, and whistled for a cab.

Instantly, a rickshaw approached, pulled by a skinny metal android on a unicycle.

Lord Running Cab, at your service, the android said. Flagg got in, trying not to stare. The android was no big deal, but he was from Nebraska, and had never seen a rickshaw before. Hey, what do you know, he thought, this could be fun after all!

Where can I take you, Comrade Ensign? Lord Running Cab asked.

Is there a nightlife on this moon?

Regrettably, no sir, the cab replied, It's as dull as a nun teaching geometry around here.

Is there a nightclub you could take me to?

Oh my lack of God, no sir! the cabbie sounded aghast.

What about a bar?

Alcoholic libations dull humanities' awareness and hence your species need to stand on its own two feet without the aide of various psychological crutches.

Foxy Boxing?

Violence and Prurient interests were among the first things the local regime went after, once they'd gotten rid of God, sir.

I suppose a brothel is unlikely?

Right out, I'm afraid, sir. Everyone here is conceived in vitro and born in artificial wombs.

Oh, for crying out loud! Flagg exclaimed, There's got to be some sin around here somewhere! As if for emphasis, someone tripped and fell into some garbage cans on the side of the road, making a horrible clanging crashing gonging kind of sound.

Of course, sir! Lord Running Cab agreed, Modern sociological theory states that it is impossible to have a functional society without it having some kind of a seamy underbelly. Would you like me to take you to it?

* * *

Bubba's Burger Barn was, apparently, the main attraction of the seamy underbelly. The sign outside boasted The Fastest Food In This Or Any Other Universe! This whole section of town was dark, dank, and seemingly mostly abandoned, though a few people furtively flitted about in the shadows.

A restaurant? Flagg asked despondently, Really?

Oh, yes sir! Lord Running Cab explained, In your own society, I believe there is a taboo against showing one's mucus membranes in public?

What?

Reproductive organs, excretory organs, that kind of thing, the android explained, helping Flagg out of the rickshaw, Particularly when those organs are actually in use, correct?

Oh, right, yeah, I guess so.

Well, the mouth is also a mucus membrane, isn't it? It's the height of obscenity to allow people to see you not only exposing one of these orifices, but actually using it to... Running Cab hesitated a moment, as if finding the next word distasteful, ...eat.

There was a long awkward silence, then Flagg said in a clearly disappointed voice, Well, it's original, I'll give you that.

Perhaps I've overstepped the bounds of bad taste, Comrade Ensign, perhaps this is too advanced a taboo for you. If so, I apologize, there are several other sordid attractions in this part of town...

No, no, it's fine. I'm good.

Really? Lord Running Cab asked. He seemed a bit embarrassed.

No, it's fine, really. I could use a good meal, he lied. The android winced at this.

Please! No details! Gross! Anyway, look, if you need me, you see that building down there? Running Cab pointed down the street at a dilapidated structure with a steeple, completely lined in buzzing neon, I'll be at choir practice.

* * *

The Burger Barn was a long wooden freestanding building, with wooden walls—presumably fake—several windows painted black on either side, and double doors in the middle. There was a near-total absence of ornamentation both inside and out. There were just six or seven bench tables in three rows, some with bench seats, some with folding chairs. The lighting was dim, though Flagg couldn't tell if that was intended for sexy anonymity, or just because of a lot of burned-out bulbs.

It was empty, save one person, sitting at a seat in the front, right table. Upon spotting Flagg, the man yelped and ran off, presumably for fear of the damage that could be done to his reputation by witnesses to his dining experience. In the gloom, Flagg never got a look at the guy's face.

Flagg walked up to the counter, and looked at the overhead menu. Despite the name, there were apparently no burgers available. There was a banner that said Big sins, little prices, however.

What'll it be, big boy? the cashier asked, We've got the most pulse-quickening of sensual delights here, each more enticingly arteriosclerotic than the last, all of them hot and dribbling and just aching to be lustfully crammed down your food hole!

Ew, Flagg said.

Come now, sir, no need to be so squeamish about your mastication!

Yeah, anyway... uhm... what's in the fillet?

Oh, the cashier asked, We start with a kilogram of the finest gristle-free meat-like substance food, then we apply a viscous blister of flavoring agent... flavoring agent... flavoring agent... flavoring agent. The cashier looked annoyed, and held up one finger, motioning Flagg to be patient. He pulled up his shirt, fiddled with his chest for a moment, and then it popped open, revealing tape spools and blinking lights and assorted technological bric-a-brac. The android—whom Flagg had previously taken to me human—pulled out a jeweler's loop, clenched it one eye, pulled out a lot of slack tape that had come loose from the spools, and started poking at it with a toothpick.

I'll just have a 'Taco Viva', Flagg said. The android cashier nodded absently, punched a button without looking at it, and then a little TV screen popped out of the cash register, displaying a friendly but obviously android face and saying That'll be three Universal Money Units and Ninety-Nine Fractions, sir. If you'd be so kind as to just leave it on the counter, Anteater there will put it in me once he's fixed his reality perception problem.

Presently his order came—three (presumably) beef tacos, with lettuce, mayonnaise instead of sour cream, and diced strawberries rather than tomatoes. They'd gotten the image right, but not the substance. Flagg reflected on how the quality of vice is always much lower in puritanical societies than it is in more liberal once. You'd expect the bad stuff to be really bad, given all the repression going on, but, no, given the deviant's lack of experience, technical proficiency was almost nonexistent, and little discretions were a big deal.

While poking at his food, he heard the door and looked up absently. There he saw what was unmistakably his own self walking in to the restaurant. Flagg pushed aside his mostly-uneaten food, yelped, and ran out.

* * *

What the fudge was that? He wondered as he hid in the alleyway. He looked at his watch. That couldn't be right! The time showed twenty minutes earlier than it should be. He peeked his head back in through the side door, and saw himself standing patiently at the counter while the android cashier was going into his sales pitch about food holes. His heart raced. He crept forward along the wall, towards the street, and tried to decide what to do next. His first impression was to run back to the ship, but instead decided to make for the church and find Lord Running Cab. Through a mixture of fear and confusion, it took him a fairly long time to reach the street. No sooner was he there, than he saw the android cabbie pull up with yet another iteration of himself in the rickshaw. As Flagg number three went into Bubba's, he heard a muffled yelp, and saw Flagg number two bolt out the side door.

Running Cab hopped aboard his unicycle and started pedaling towards the church when the original Flagg stepped out of the shadows.

Hey! he said.

My, that was fast, the android said.

What the fudge did you do to me? Flagg demanded

Such profanity! Please, Comrade Ensign, I am on my way to church! There's no need for the potty mouth!

I saw another me! Coming into the restaurant! Another me! How can that...?

Oh my, Running Cab said, That's pretty bad, I'm afraid. It would seem like you've fallen in with a bad crowd and gotten yourself in trouble with a temporal anomaly.

Flagg lunged at the cabbie, strangling him, and screaming, What? Bad crowd? The only person I've talked to here is you, and that stupid wonky cashier in there.

Everyone knows androids are a bad influence, sir. He deftly extricated himself from the young officer's impotent grasp—he was very strong, and being a machine he had no windpipe to crush—I'd suggest you turn yourself in to the Chrono-Synclastic Bubble-Plastic office downtown. They're in charge of paradoxes. In any event, the version of you in the alleyway is making it close enough to notice any moment now, we should probably move along. Would you like to go to choir practice with me? The two of them edged down the street, Lord Running Cab's cab riding slowly alongside Flagg, who was on foot.

No, I don't want to go to choir practice with you, all I wanted was a lousy taco. Actually, I didn't even want a taco, I wanted a stripper or something, but I settled for a taco. Behind him Flagg number three had reached the edge of the alley, Flagg number four was pulling up in another version of Running Cab's rickshaw, and Flagg number three was yelping, and running out the side door.

You play, you pay, sir, the cabbie said. How was the taco?

Worst one I ever had.

Well, we don't have much experience with these things, we're pretty much winging it, much like the medieval Satanists who constituted a religion based merely on the reversals of accepted ritualistic norms of Catholicism, without any actual theological underpinnings that go towards making up a relig— Suddenly a shot rang out, and the cabbie's head exploded.

Flagg shrieked and dived for cover. A second shot rang out, nearly missing him. He got to his feet and started running. Whoever this guy is, he's nearly as bad a shot as I am, thank God! he thought. He ducked into a greeting card shop, dimly lit, with row after row of smarmy men in raincoats picking up greeting cards and smiling salaciously, then putting them down again, their shifty eyes darting about.

Confused, he made his way back to the counter, where a tall, attractive, thin, blonde woman was appraising him. Behind her was a doorway with a beaded curtain covering it, and some low moans coming from the back room. The sign above it said Hallmark.

I'm... uhm... I appear to be in some kind of temporal anomaly, Flagg whispered. Can you help me?

Ouch, she said, bad luck. Where'd you get it? The Laundromat?

No, the burger place.

"Oh, yeah, it happens there, too, sometimes. Look, I feel for ya, brother, really I do, but Temporal Anomalies are an incurable social disease. I'd feel better if you'd leave my shop.