B.C. Johnson's Blog, page 2

Children of Dawn Sneak Peek!

Children of Dawn

Chapter 1

Access Log

File number 137486

Android Serial number: 2338

Codename: Anna

28 September 2313

0345 hrs.

I am neither human, nor machine. I am neither dead, nor alive. I am metals and gears, skin and bone. I am immortal, I am impenetrable, I am Android.

That was the statement ingrained into Anna’s memory, the only thing she could ever retrieve from her databanks as to what she was. Of course she had learned much more of the context to her being, but it never boiled down to anything further than that statement. She was not human, she was Android.

Her race was something that had been made by the Tribunal as their greatest police officers. They were the last line in inflicting the government’s justice on the populous. A race of super soldiers with only one order, maintain tranquility.

The Tribunal was the nation’s answer to the chaos after the war. In the early part of the 21st century, the conflicts in the middle east escalated past the point of reconciliation. Containment was thought to be a last ditch effort to pacify hostilities in the region, which did not sit well with the locals. Forsaken by the world’s nations, the leaders of the region struck back in brutal force, eventually escalating the crisis to envelop the entire world in war. Anna could never find much on the extranet about the war, at least not a lot the Tribunal would allow without privileged access. Even Androids could only access level two classed information. Suffice to say the nations of the world fought and died for fruitless reasons, and left behind destruction and anarchy in their wake.

After decades of useless war, the founders of the Tribunal created the sovereign nation of Arcadia, the new utopia risen from the barrens left behind. It was this nation Anna had been created to protect.

She was pulled from her musings by a man in a trench coat walked out of the high rise hotel. Anna watched him from the rooftop opposite. Her visual sensors magnified, verifying he was the correct individual she was waiting for. “Target sighted, beginning pursuit” She said to herself.

She wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular. The Androids worked off a sort of informational web. They had no higher headquarters or chain of command. Each Android worked alone, or at the very most, in small groups. Each agent moved freely, accessing leads and information through a subverted level of the extranet, the information circulatory system of Arcadia. Everything transferred through the extranet, television, correspondence, even information, all monitored and secured by the Tribunal. The Androids reported their cases through a subsystem reserved for them, and their computer systems analyzed growing threats based upon those reports and acted accordingly. Investigations were started and stopped based on relevance and threat, and directives sent through the agents based on their initial programming. It was a much more efficient way to maintain order without all the red tape, and also helped keep them immune to tampering or outside influence. The perfect enforcers, devoid of political ties or power struggles. Lady Justice’s truly blind and fair police.

The target Anna was tracking was suspected of having ties to a sleeper cell within Arcadia, a group with possible motives to overthrow the Tribunal. Though she worked as an agent of peace and not necessarily an agent of the Tribunal itself, her programming had accounted that an overthrow of the political machine that held Arcadia together would spread chaos through both the Citizenry and the Civilian populace, thus posing a serious threat. The safest action would be to find the leaders of this sleeper cell and concurrently neutralize them. Permanently.

The target continued into an alleyway, glancing over his shoulder nervously, almost tripping over himself a few times. In his arms he held an enlarged envelope. Anna smirked. “Target has package.”

The rain came then, pouring down on the inhabitants of the metropolis. Most sensible people ran for cover or safety indoors, but the target continued through the streets, going up sidewalks, running across avenues, up alleys, and back down, always switching, as if he knew he was being tailed. Anna kept perfect track, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, propelling herself with support from her robotic interior. She may have looked like an innocent and beautiful woman in her late twenties in a skintight tactical stealth suit, but she had the agility of a pre-war Olympic gymnast, and the strength of a cage fighter on steroids.

Eventually her target thought himself safe, because he slowed to a regular pace and stopped his paranoid darting from street to street. They were in the Civilian sector now. The section of the city reserved for those who chose not to take part in the political decision-makings of Arcadia. Every person born into Arcadia was classified at first as a Civilian, and then only through military service or graduation from a finishing school program (closely resembling pre-war universities) did someone attain Citizen Status. With such status a person could vote, run for office, and take part in all political proceedings. It was thought of as an honor and privilege, and voter turnout had changed from pre-war thirty percent to one hundred percent. Those choosing to not earn citizenship were cordoned off and worked maintenance or lower responsibility jobs, their every need looked after by the Tribunal. For as long as Arcadia had stood this had been the way of things, and the nation thrived.

The target walked towards the back door of a bar, knocking on it and looking about again, making sure for the hundredth time he hadn’t been followed. Anna found a shadowed nook on the roof overlooking the door, magnifying her view well enough to watch it. She snapped pictures of the targets face into her databanks, instantly transferring them to the extranet for analysis. Soon another man walked from the door into the alleyway, she took facial scans of him as well. The two men talked, their hand motions indicating elevated stress levels. As Anna moved to a better position to view the meeting, her facial scans came back with a beeping in her ear. She opened the message in a mini window in her optic sensors, where a human’s eyes normally were. The message read in her consciousness. “Target verified as Alan Trosky, Citizen, bank teller for Arcadia National Treasury and Funds, ID number 549-72-8452. No prior implications of crimes against Arcadia.”

Anna clicked to the next man, the one who had exited from the door. “Second Target verified as Devon Trosky, Citizen, private entrepreneur, Owner of Bar titled ‘The Bullrush’, ID number 549-72-8451.”

Anna thought. “Hmm, sequential serial numbers… twins.”

The two men argued further, before Devon allowed his brother entrance into the bar. He scanned the alleyway a few times before closing the door behind him. Anna reported. “Target has entered establishment ‘The Bullrush’ Civilian sector 5. Switching to thermal scan.”

Her vision changed to a flush of blues and varied degrees of reds and oranges, indicating where heat was. The rain was working in her favor, cooling everything around her so she could see into the bar more easily. Even robotic forms gave off some sort of heat, which helped her see people even if they had augments to their bodies. Robotic science was an ever growing business, many people placing their faith in robotic implants for various body parts. All augments documented by serial number and stored in Tribunal databases.

Within the bar she could see a grouping of individuals on a higher level from that of the patrons. “A meeting.” Anna said to herself.

Anna turned back to her regular optics and started out across the rooftops towards street level access. She pulled back her left sleeve to expose a touch screen embedded into her forearm. She clicked a few buttons, placing a charge she had set to arm, then detonate. The bar erupted into a plume of fire and smoke, the charge she had secretly placed within the bank teller’s envelope earlier succeeding in its job. Anna could hear the sirens of fire and police vehicles speeding her way as she clambered down from the rooftops.

Her video log was stored and transferred as she set foot on the sidewalk a couple streets over. She would let the regular police investigate and determine the casualties of the blast, if the meeting had been the leaders for the cell she had been tracking, she would know soon enough. The rain continued to pour down on her as she reached her car parked along the street. She entered, powered up her vehicle, and allowed it to speed down the street towards the core of Arcadia’s downtown. The car patched into the road network, mapped out the fastest and safest route, and continued to pilot itself as Anna reviewed her recent investigations. For months she had been tracking down and eliminating various sections of this group, but every time she thought she had found the group’s core leadership, another pocket had appeared. She wondered if this organization worked much like her own, a free flowing web of informers and enactors, simply working together rather than working from one leader. She quickly squashed those thoughts; Humans were not capable of working in such an organization, even with robotic implants. Their human brains just couldn’t work fast enough, that and they each had some unexplainable desire for power and control. There had to be a leader, somewhere.

A priority message came through to her consciousness, screaming an alarm in her ear. She opened the video call immediately. It was the Main Access to Data and Reconnaissance Executive, or M.A.D.R.E, the central computer system of Arcadia. If a city could have a soul, M.A.D.R.E was Arcadia’s face and voice. “Android 2338” M.A.D.R.E said.

“Confirmed” Anna replied.

M.A.D.R.E’s digitally created face lightened. To Androids, M.A.D.R.E was their mother. She was in charge of the creation and programming of every Android, and even arranged them each an individual personality. She also gave each a name, even against the Tribunal’s intention. “The Chairman wishes an audience with you Anna.” M.A.D.R.E’s soothing voice exclaimed.

“With me?” Anna spoke surprised.

“Yes, immediately. If you are not too busy.” M.A.D.R.E smiled.

She then logged off, leaving Anna to herself as the car took the onramp to the Downtown Freeway. Anna couldn’t wipe the shocked look from her face. “What would the Chairman of the Tribunal want with me?”

Through a Soldier’s Eyes

There have been a number of people who have asked me, “Do you like war?”

It baffles me as to why people think that because I am a soldier, that I would support a war simply because of my occupation. That people might think because I am part of the United States Military, that I may have some foothold in the political agenda of some politician. It surprises me that people, in even such a country as the one we live in today, where a surprising majority of its citizens have some relation to the military, still see things in far grander stature than how a soldier sees things. One man even asked me once, “Do you think you’re some kind of hero?”

When looking at something like this, one must look at it from a soldier’s perspective. When asking if I “agree” or “disagree”, one must put into account the entire purpose of what it is to be a soldier, a marine, an airman, or a sailor. People still to this day don’t understand that there is a significant difference in point of view, hell, even some military personal still don’t see it.

When signing a contract to enter the military, one vows to protect the country and everything it stands for. When I swore in, I promised to uphold the constitution against all threats, foreign and domestic. What I’m finding is that we have a lot of enemies out there, more at home than away. The British philosopher John Stuart Mill once said, “War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself.”

I didn’t come into this occupation wanting to win medals or become famous. I did it because I knew I could. The way I see things, as I am sure it is with most of my brothers and sisters in arms, is in a much smaller state of affairs. I don’t look at the media’s propaganda and slandered views to win ratings. I don’t look at the political games and jargon that cover the asses of those in seats of power. I look at what affects me and those like me. I don’t do this job for them. I do it for the single mom, working two jobs to support her kids. I do it for the college kid wanting to leave home and go wherever he wants to learn and earn a college education. I don’t do it for those who praise me for doing this job; in fact, I do it for those who are trying to stop me.

Believe it or not, there are those out there who want all of us dead, for whatever reason. I know there are, I’ve seen them, I’ve fought them. I’ve encountered people who would destroy everything that I have known and loved living here and I’ll be damned if I let any of them near those I care about. Do I agree with the president, maybe, maybe not? Do I agree with what he stands for? Your damn right I do.

You have to look beyond the media, beyond the politics. Look at it in a simpler setting. We don’t do this for the people in power, we are not their puppets, rather, we are better than them. We fight for the morals and ideals of our country. We symbolize the ethics and views of the Constitution. We uphold that. We don’t ask “Why”, we ask “Where”.

People ask me if I supported the war in Iraq, they wonder if I think there shouldn’t be a war, ever. A part of me wonders if there ever will be a world without war, but then the other side of me realizes then I’d be out of a job. That’s what it is, that’s how a soldier, an airman, a marine, a sailor sees it. It’s a job, a duty. I defend those unable or unwilling to fight. I fight for what I know is the best damn country in history! I fight to remember those who have fought before me and those fighting now, sleeping in ditches below armored vehicles, riding along roads littered with explosives, and I don’t ask for pity from anyone. Why? Because that’s my job.

The fact of the matter is, it doesn’t matter if I support the war or not. It doesn’t matter whether or not I agree or disagree with the president. I’m going to fight for all the reasons I have mentioned. So, the next time you see someone from the military and you want to ask his feelings on the war, don’t. Try looking at things through his or her eyes first. Try placing yourself in their shoes, think of what they stand for. Instead of trying to analyze their feelings, why not shake their hand instead, thanking them for defending your right to question their motives, because there are so many other places on this earth where that luxury is unheard of. Look into their eyes and see just how simple it really is.

Do you want to know what I said to the man who asked me that question? When a man asked me “Do you think you’re some kind of hero?” do you know what I told him? “No sir, I’m just doing my job.”

May the Spirits guide you and your Guardians stay true.

Pancake Sunday

It's the little things. That’s what they say. In today's culture, it's all about “the plan”, it’s all about the future. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” “What are you going to major in?” “Where do you see yourself in five years?” I guarantee you've had these questions asked of you. Thinking about the future is important, I know I don't know how to function without a long-term plan, but I caution everyone to not forget the small things. Don't forget to enjoy the pancakes.

When I led my platoon into Iraq in 2011, I was a nervous wreck. I did my best to hide it, but I don't think I did very well. I was constantly worried. Will today go well? Have I planned this mission right? When is the other shoe going to drop? Combine that with being constantly bombarded with rocket fire and having little to no sleep, there's a reason I came home with a lot of gray hair. The only thing that kept me going was my troops. They'd see me frustrated, see me about to flip a table, and remind me “Just a few days till Pancake Sunday, Sir.”

Every Sunday, our dining facility would make made-to-order pancakes. Chocolate chips, strawberry dressing, peanut butter in the batter, whatever you wanted. It wasn't anything fancy, you could probably get the same stuff at any ihop, but for us it was everything. With our base being in the middle of nowhere, constantly attacked, and little amenities, having something close to what we might have at home was worth its weight in gold. My platoon did their best every week to have breakfast together on Sundays. We laughed, we shared stories of home, and generally celebrating that we had survived another week in that godforsaken war. It was the highlight of the week. You don't find that level of esprit de corps just anywhere.

So when things were at their worst, we would remind each other, “just a few days till Pancake Sunday!” When the heat was making us practically collapse from exhaustion, “just a few days till Pancake Sunday!” When the homesickness had us wanting to go AWOL and hop on the first plane home, “just a few days till Pancake Sunday.” When explosions pounded the ground all around us, and we huddled together in the makeshift bunkers, not knowing what rocket had our names on it, I would always hear at least one person say, “hey guys, remember: just a few days till Pancake Sunday.”

It became a sort of payer. A therapeutic mantra that magically eased the weight from our shoulders. It reminded us that this pain, whatever it be at the time, was temporary. That this too shall pass. That we had faced challenges before and we had conquered them; that we would conquer this too. A way to give ourselves that last surge of energy, or temporary boost in morale until things got better. And things always got better, because even in war the darkness recedes from time to time.

I tell you this story not to gather pity, but to share my experience. We all have times of depression, of frustration, of defeat. We all have those moments, or days, or weeks that nothing goes right. Where it looks like our great and grand plans are falling apart, or we’re making no progress, or we're letting people down. When those times rear their ugly heads, just remember; “it's just a few days till Pancake Sunday.” In no time at all you will get through it, the darkness shall pass, the sun will shine. Treasure the smaller things in life, the little rituals. The hour of quiet after the kids have left for school, the lunch break once a week where everyone dines together, the show that everyone watches every Thursday. Let those moments be your Pancake Sunday. Covet these little things as highly as you covet your major accomplishments, because you'll remember them much more. I can't recall the ceremony where I received my medals, but I remember vividly those mornings with my soldiers. And that, I think, is much more important.

May the Spirits guide you, and your Guardians stay true.

Where Did it Start?

It all started on a Fool’s Day. That right there should say it all. My mother was carrying late, a few days past her due date for her first-born. My father was in the Army at the time, so it was only logical she would travel to the base for her appointments. She was twenty-four, my father twenty-eight. Young, no more than high school degrees, barely able to take care of themselves, let alone the storm of energy and chaos about to come their way. The Army doctor, barely out of medical school himself, told my mother that her baby would have to be induced, that something was strange about its placement and that she should get her husband there immediately. It took three doctors getting onto the phone to convince my father this wasn’t an April Fool’s joke.

I was born with my umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. Barely breathing, grossly underweight, my mother didn’t get to hold her baby for the first few hours of its life. But this doesn’t end the story… not by a long shot. For you see, this baby was a fighter, a warrior from day one, and there’s one thing that can be said about warriors… they don’t know when to quit.

Within no time at all I was off like a shot, barely able to be contained. My father has said that I learned how to walk one day, then I was running the next, and I haven’t stopped since. I had a pretty happy childhood. My father, a victim of abuse in his own childhood, wanted nothing but the most secure and safest home for his kids he could muster. My mother, an independent woman by every definition of the phrase, was a mother bear with her cubs; stern when needed, warm and welcoming anytime. My parents made many sacrifices for my sister and me growing up, more than I realized at the time. They kept up with our endless energy. I was always doing more than one thing at a time growing up: School, Boy Scouts, Band, Drama. My parents taught us independence, to question everything, to never stop learning, and to respect everyone and everything. It was a wonderful way to grow up… almost too wonderful.

The drawback of having a sheltered childhood, is that someday those walls have to come down, and mine came crashing down on September 11, 2001. I was in my junior year of High School. I was wondering who I would take to the Winterfest dance in a month. I was worried about an upcoming Biology test (mostly because I hadn’t studied for it one bit). I was worried about petty, selfish things. Then I watched those towers come down. I watched those people die. The news played it over, and over, and over again. I realized, very harshly, that the world was about more than just myself. The world had some really horrible people in it, who were willing and able to do horrible things. But, I also watched the after effects of that day. I watched people come together unlike ever before. I watched rescuers scour through rubble to find anyone they could. I watched celebrities, politicians, musicians… Americans; grieve, and rage, and mourn… together. I knew then how my life was going to be spent. I would spend it honoring others, serving others, trying to make up for the massive hole left by those thousands of people who were stripped from us.

At the time, I was mostly angry. I vowed to join the military, like my father before me, and I would personally put a bullet through Bin Laden’s head. (I was still pretty naive as you can see). I joined the Army as soon as I was able, on September 14th, 2002. At the time, I had to be “signed” over to the army by my parents because I wasn’t of legal age to make my own decisions. My mother was not very willing, but knew her son was the type who would not be deterred once he put his mind to something. My father only signed on two conditions: 1. That I attend college as soon as I was able, and 2. That someday I achieve a rank where if he had still been serving, he’d have to salute me. Both promises I would someday achieve.

I would never see the mountains of Afghanistan. The Iraq Conflict began in 2003, shortly before I graduated high school. By December of that year I was in Baghdad. We were shot down as we came into the country, a sort of “welcome to the war” gift from the insurgency. The Grim Reaper and I would run into each other a lot over the next few years. Things like that stay with you. There’s a part that never seems to recover, and a piece of you remains behind while a dark hole takes its place. I came back from my first tour a different person I think. Maybe not fully grown, maybe not yet a man, but definitely no longer a boy.

I was somewhat cavalier after I returned. I was convinced at the time that I was not going to survive into my thirties. With two wars going on and I in a prime position to redeploy at any time, it was easier just to assume the worst and then prepare myself and my family for it. I did want to fulfill my promises to my father first however so I applied and went to college at a small Baptist university near home and enrolled in their ROTC program. I found that I did exceedingly well at “acting” like a leader. I didn’t wholeheartedly enjoy the burden of responsibility, but I did enjoy getting results. I have always liked being a problem solver. When something was wrong, I would usually take the initiative to fix it. Being in a leadership role, seeing a problem, sending my teams on a mission to fix it, that’s what I excelled at I think. I genuinely cared for my troops, took care of them, sheltered them, developed them. I knew that taking care of those under my command would result in their loyalty and would make them work harder for me than for anyone else. I had been in their shoes, I knew what kinds of leaders I wanted, and I was very talented at acting like one of those leaders.

The problem came when my superiors didn’t seem to care as much for their people… they cared about results. About image. About themselves. When I graduated college, I was almost hindered from commissioning because a few hardcore instructors felt I couldn’t make the cut, and so sabotaged my final physical fitness test. I appealed for a second test and was granted one by other cadre from a different school to grade it. I walked away from ROTC a victor, but whose trust in their higher ranking official’s never recovered. I very quickly deployed again, this time with a platoon under my command, and was given the responsibility of protecting a Special Forces compound on the Iraq/Iran border. That tour was far worse than my first. Death was constantly looking over my shoulder, I waiting for the day he would decide it was time. We were rocketed constantly, danger around every corner. We lost some good soldiers on that trip. Brave young men who thought that dying for their cause would bring their country honor. That war somehow breeds heroes, when all it does is makes corpses and broken old men. I’m not sure how, but I made it through that entire tour without losing anyone under my direct command. Other platoons in my company weren’t so lucky.

When I returned from Iraq in 2012, I had a hard time securing the appropriate awards for my troops. I became mauled with paperwork and red tape. It became harder and harder for people to reply to my emails and phone calls. It was then I realized that the Army had failed me and my people. That the country and the army it seemed wanted to forget Iraq ever happened. That they just wanted it all to go away. That was the day I decided my career in the military was over.

Battling with a self-identity crisis when you’re also dealing with reincorporation into normal life is not something I would suggest to anyone. I was completely and utterly lost. The Army was all I had ever known, all I had ever wanted, and for so long I never thought I’d make it out alive. I met a girl who seemed to have her whole life together and was (much to my surprise) willing to spend time with me despite all my issues. The world made sense around her, the whispers of the past grew silent when I was looking at her face. She took care of me like no one but my family ever had. Maybe it was time to stop thinking about myself once again, maybe it was time to start living, rather than planning on dying.

Becca and I were married in July of 2014. Shortly before, I took a chance at an Emergency Medical Technician course and found that I excelled at it. The body, it turns out, is just one giant puzzle. I found that I was pretty good at fixing that puzzle whenever it started going out of wack. I found that I could stay calm in intense situations. I found that a little humor in the right place can make anyone feel better about their shitty day. I found EMS, and my time in the army could not have prepared me better for such a job. Finally, I felt like I was doing something again, solving problems, helping others, doing something meaningful, like I had felt when I was starting out in the army. So this is what I’m doing now.

As far as hobbies I like things where I can escape. Mostly I like writing. I started writing as far back as the third grade. I’ve always had an over-active imagination. I used to make believe I had my own TV channel when I was a kid, and every game I played was a show on that channel. As I grew older and I found more creative ways to spend my time (mostly getting into trouble), I could easily write down my little adventures like they were some mini-series or movie. My friends and I made our own movies growing up and I wrote scripts. In Drama class I’d write monologues, dialogues, I even wrote and directed my own one-act play. By the time I was close to graduating High School I was writing 50-60 page short stories while my peers were struggling with five paragraph essays. The inevitability in writing novels was apparent to everyone who knew me, only problem was… I sucked.

I had ideas, sure, but structure? Please. I knew nothing about plots or tropes or genres. I knew nothing about adding themes or building complex characters. Children’s tv shows had better plot lines than my stories. I never seriously thought about publishing until I was much… much better. That came when I was in college. Studying as a history major helped me immensely, I think. Seeing old civilizations, their governments, their heroes. Reading about the rise and fall of certain leaders and their cultures. It helped me see patterns to human civilization, helped me pick up on the pitfalls and triumphs of our species. I started to question ideas, started to question what ifs, started to wonder like my parents had always pushed me to do when I was young. I started putting these questions into my writings and viola… themes. It started getting out of hand really. I had so many ideas, some of which were possibly dangerous if the wrong person read them, that I decided a pen name was essential. B.C. Johnson was born… in a matter of speaking.

Reading so much for college, I was never much of a reader for recreation. My mother tried to get me interested in reading when I was young. She used to read stories to me before bed. We got up to chapter books before we stopped the practice. I took more enjoyment in spending time with her than in the books themselves. I actually got most of my entertainment growing up from movies. If it’s on film, I’ve probably seen it at least once. I’ll watch bad movies just to see what NOT to do story wise. I also LOVE animation; I’ve had a slight obsession with it while growing up. So, I probably am about 1/8th of Disney’s income at this point.

On par with the animation obsession, is my gaming obsession. I play a ton of video games, probably more than what is healthy. I’m more into solo ones, because of (what else) the story. I don’t play a lot of the games that don’t have story (i.e. racing, sports, shooters). I’d say I’ve learned the most about story telling from Video Games. I know how to balance spectacle with context. I know to focus a story on characters but also to build a vivid and living world. All these things I learned from the greatest video games.

Music, TV, woodworking (occasionally), and spending time with my animals and wife rounds out my time. I have five animals (I love animals, more so than humans I think). Three cats and two dogs I’ve raised since they were 5 weeks old. They make cameos in my writing.

Well that’s it I think. Well, not IT, hopefully I can keep trudging forward for many years to come. My wife and I are thinking about kids soon; I’m also planning on going to paramedic school within the next year or so. I’m still writing and probably will continue to do so until my fingers fall off. I just hope that they can get out there and people will enjoy them.

May the spirits guide you and your Guardians stay true.
-B.C. Johnson