Pibroch and Chaconne

Barros pressed his knuckles to his eyes, trying to shut out the image in his mind; a queue of men in uniform outside his bedroom door, excitedly laughing and joking as they waited their turn. The uniforms differed in colour, but all had stars on their shoulders.

He slumped down onto all fours, head hanging -- the very epitome of a defeated man. Behind him, Stiles took a step closer.

The captain's right leg shot out backwards, his heavy boot catching the lance corporal squarely between his thighs. His testicles slammed up into his body, the spermatic cords that held them in place stretching and tearing as they were pushed further than they were ever meant to go by the rage powering the blow. The marine didn't make a sound as blood began to fountain into his now-vacant scrotum. His mouth worked, spraying vomit as he slumped to the ground, legs kicking spastically as his body tried to contain the pain.

Barros didn't pause, using the momentum of the kick to help lift him back up onto his left leg, the twisting motion aiding the swing of his fist at Landry. His knuckles audibly cracked as they struck the sergeant's temple. For a terrifying moment, it seemed that the marine would finish swinging the M27 towards the captain; then, his knees gave way, and he toppled bonelessly to the ground.

Jenny gave a terrified scream, the sudden violence galvanising her fear. Fighting had always scared her. On one occasion at a bar, a couple of punches had been thrown by two men and she had immediately run out and when he had found her crouched behind a car in the street, she insisted Brian take her straight home.

Barros ignored it, grabbing Landry's weapon and twisting to fire it at the general. Before he could aim, however, the figure slipped into the house. He fired a shot through the wall anyway, at where he might have sheltered, but beyond keeping the man's head down, it was a pointless gesture. He then turned the weapon at Jenny.

She was weeping in the same way she had at her father's funeral, mascara smearing down her cheeks, almost reaching the smudge of red lipstick where she had rubbed at her face. Usually, he would have moved the world to make her feel better. Now it seemed as if he was looking at a clown or a drunken hooker and felt only grief.

"I should use this on you," he said, his voice a lot calmer than he felt. She screamed in fear again. "But it would waste the price of half an ounce of lead and steel. You're not worth even that -- no matter how much your customers pay you."

He heard a movement from within the house and ducked behind the car while keeping his eyes locked on her's.

"I hope you get rich, Jenny," he said, and he could hear the heartbreak in his voice. "Before your cunt is all used up, or you die of some awful disease. Those are occupational hazards all whores face."

"I'm not... Please... I... Don't, please."

"I don't care enough anymore to take the time to find out any more details," he answered. "I don't know how or why you became what you are now, and I can't find it within me to care. I'm too disgusted, too angry and too depressed. I can't stand the sight of you!"

He could hear a siren down towards the road. Of course, General Fuckface would have backup close. Of course he did. He hid while his men died. Just like all generals. Fuck them all! They could all fuck off and die.

He paused long enough to take a few magazines and a sidearm from the two men, Landry still unconscious and Stiles in too much pain even to notice. Then, with a final look at Jenny, he shook his head in disgust and ran off into the darkness.

Somewhere there had to be an answer.

**********

Somewhere

"I'm sorry, but I can't allow that."

"I did not ask permission, I give you courtesy of knowing what will happen."

"If it does, you destroy the best chance we have."

The shorter man spat on the floor derisively. "Hra! Bullshit!"

Dr Jánoš Illic stifled a sigh, showing no sign of his disgust. He had dealt with those people before. That was how he thought of Muslims, as 'those people' or more simply 'them', and looked down on every single one of them. They weren't his friends as such, and in another place or time, they would probably try to kill each other. But as the saying has it, the enemy of my enemy is my friend, and he needed them; their wealth and support. He had that for the moment, but the majority support was tenuous and could be yanked away if this visit didn't go well.

His visitor wasn't the first to make demands and probably wouldn't be the last. But they were so close. So close. He would show none of the disdain and contempt he felt, reining it back completely.

"Perhaps if I show you?" he offered. Both of them were speaking English, the only language they had in common -- at differing levels of fluidity. "You might see a little more of the huge potential in the project."

"Potential is not action," stated the visitor. "Potential is maybe. Action is yes."

"But different actions have different outcomes, and this may be the action to achieve our aims, finally."

The shorter man stared at him. His eyes narrowed as he thought. There was a curiosity in him about what a few others had whispered. He didn't believe it, however. "Show me."

Jánoš Illic led the man towards a door leading out of the pleasantly furnished reception area, and the two started down a long corridor. On the left were unmarked, anonymous doors, while on the right, there was a windowed wall with a spectacular view over the Lora Lai river, the town named after it nestled up to the far bank.

"You are Czech?" asked the darker man.

The doctor shook his head. "No, I am Serbian."

"Me? Samangan," stated the other.

Jánoš nodded with a smile, although he'd never been there and knew almost nothing about it. He guessed -- accurately -- that wherever it was, it would be sandy-brown and mountainous. But, right or wrong, he didn't give a shit where his visitor was from. To his mind, if the world was lucky enough, the place would be swallowed up entirely by an earthquake and take all of them with it. That would be nice. Better it happened later than sooner, however, at least not until he had finished the project. They were the tools he needed right now.

At the far end, a swinging door led to a smaller area with a door on either side. Jánoš led the visitor to an even smaller room where a window looked out onto a single-bed ward. The bed was surrounded by machines that flashed noiselessly. Two drips, one on each side of the bed, unloaded themselves painfully slowly into the patient's arms.

The visitor thought they were in a soundproof booth and opened his mouth to speak. The doctor looked at him sharply and made an urgent gesture for him to be silent. The shorter man frowned heavily but complied. Hurriedly Jánoš flicked a switch on the narrow table in front of the window.

"Microphone," he offered as an explanation.

The visitor immediately launched into a tirade. "You spend our money on healing when we can broadcast an execution and show the world how weak Americans are without their drones and missiles? This bullshit stops now!"

In answer, the doctor pressed another key, and a voice came through a small speaker set on the wall alongside the window. It was a woman's voice with an American East Coast twang to it.

"...when he said that you would be arrested and sent to jail for the rest of your life?"

The figure in the bed, a gaunt man with a shaved head, nodded.

"You remember how angry you were at the general who said it?"

Again the figure nodded.

"How even your own men turned against you."

Nod.

"And you remember how you swore to take revenge on him?"

"Yes." The whisper sounded like the creak of a rusty hinge on a sarcophagus lid.

"Remember that he said he'd taken your wife and used her and then given her to other men to use at a party?"

The man's throat worked. Finally he nodded again.

"And that he'd even taken some of your clothes, replacing you completely, in every way.

A reluctant nod followed a long, drawn-out groan of anguish.

"Do you remember your anger and despair at finding out how many times she betrayed you with those generals?"

This time, an almost inaudible whimper of anguish followed the nod.

"Remember how sad you felt that higher-ranking officers could just move in and fuck your wife, take your home, take your place, take your life?"

Nod. Nod.

"How frustrated you were because you couldn't stop it?"

Nod. Nod. Nod.

"How impotent you felt?"

Jánoš touched the keyboard in front of him and waited as his cousin, a talented voice artist with a knack for accents, skipped to a specific section of the script. Safely ensconced in a different room, she had eagerly accepted the job when he'd offered it, even if they'd had to move to the arse-end of the world to do it.

"How angry are you now?"

A roar of rage, pain and anguish shook the figure on the bed, his face twisted into a rictus that seemed barely human.

"Do you remember running into the darkness, finding your way to a town and stealing a car?"

The nod this time seemed to be one of relief that they had moved on from remembering his wife's betrayal.

"Remember how lucky it was that you had cash with you and managed to sign into a motel hours away and how you used a false name?"

The nod was perfunctory. That was the least part of his escape from the nightmare.

"Do you remember lying low for days and days while you started working out your plan of revenge?"

Nod.

"The desire for revenge against those who had betrayed and hurt you?"

Nod.

"Against all of those who rejected you, conspired against you, falsely accused you with their debauched plots against you?"

Nod.

Jánoš pressed a different button, and the voice paused for a moment and then continued.

"Sleep now, Captain Barros."

The figure which had been twisting and jerking as the questions came, slowly stilled and halted.

Jánoš rechecked the microphone switch before he spoke. "Follow me."

They left the observation room, and the Serb closed the door carefully.

The visitor gazed at the doctor.

"Brainwash."

"No," said Jánoš. "It doesn't work. The Americans, the Russians, the Chinese, the Vietnamese, and North Koreans have all tried and failed. You can't force someone to do something that is against their will. Brainwashing is like trying to make a sponge dance by hitting it with a spade. If it moves, it's purely involuntarily."

"Then hypnotise?"

The doctor shook his head. "Same problem. Forcing people to do what they won't normally do. It can only work if they want to do it."

"What then?"

"False memory."

The visitor looked dubious.

"Sheikh Mohammed, please have a seat. This might take a while."

They sank onto two cushions placed near the window, looking out over the mountains. The doctor had guessed that the peaceful view might subconsciously remind the sheikh of his homeland and help settle his mind.

"You have witnessed traumatic events, I'm sure," began Jánoš.

His cousin's wedding flashed into the sheikh's mind. A strike from a drone and his beautiful cousin had died, a torn, bloody caricature of a human being. One of many. Yes, he had seen trauma.

He nodded.

"And you surely heard the voices of those who witnessed it and realised that every one of them saw something different in those events."

Sheikh Mohammed frowned at the pale-skinned foreigner. What did he know of human pain, the sacrifice of the righteous? Was he saying that his family members, those who had been near and survived the explosion that killed beautiful Kaamisha, had lied?

The Serb saw the man's frown deepen.

"I have suffered too," he said softly. "When I was eleven years old, we lived in southern Serbia, a little town called Grdelica. Once a month, we would take the train to Vladičin Han to visit my Uncle Andrej and his family. My mother and sisters would do a little shopping while my father and I would talk and play with my cousins. Then in the afternoon, we would all eat together outside in the garden -- the whole family. You know much about Serbia?"

The Sheikh shook his head.

"It is very beautiful. Not wealthy, but beautiful. Just as we left our little town on the train, we would pass over the river across an old iron girder bridge. I used to love hanging out of the window looking straight down at the water below -- the Juzna Morava River. It always felt like I was flying, even though the river was relatively small and not very far below.

"I remember it was the day before my birthday, and I was excited because Uncle Andrej had hinted he would buy me an airgun as a gift from his family if my mother told him I'd been a good boy. Even if they wrapped it, when my parents carried it home, I'd know if it was an airgun from the shape. My birthday falls on the thirteenth of April, and in 1999 I became twelve.

"As we crossed the bridge, I hung as far out of the window as my mother would allow, watching the water, and I saw two streaks flash towards the bridge."

Jánoš pulled a face. "The next thing I knew, I really was flying above the river. The flashes were two bombs from a warplane, and the blasts blew me clear out of the window.

"I lost my whole family that day. My parents. Grandparents. My sisters. They never found or couldn't identify any of them but my father and younger sister. There weren't enough bodies or pieces to make that identification.

"The train hadn't gathered much speed before being hit, and when I landed in the river, I was almost unhurt. My uncle took me in, although the war affected everyone by that stage, and he could hardly feed his own family. NATO later admitted they had bombed the bridge but claimed they hadn't meant to destroy the train. NATO -- which we all know means America. They lead that pack of gangsters. I swore I would somehow avenge our people and my family.

"But that is beside the point and nothing unique. We have all suffered at their hands."

The sheikh nodded thoughtfully.

The thing is this," Jánoš continued after a pause. "Everybody reported the event differently at the time. Some said it was one plane, and some said a whole squadron. A few said they saw an American star on a wing, while others said it was a British roundel on the tail. Yet others mentioned seeing a plane going down in flames. One even said he had seen a tank shooting at the bridge. Everyone saw it differently. It always happens that way when the brain is shocked by an event -- good or bad. A great sports event, a killing, a bad traffic accident, a robbery, a natural disaster, big musical concert -- the brain needs time to cope with the adrenalin and eash person interprets that diffently. For example, the police are used to eye-witnesses to a traumatic event all disagreeing with each other."

Sheikh Mohammed nodded slowly. It had happened the same way after the awful ending of the wedding.

"But two years later, they all remembered the events the same way. They'd talked to each other, read reports, and unconsciously developed their memories to ally with each other. So I got a few to undergo lie detector tests, which they passed. They all really remembered it the same way.

He paused for effect. "Even those who weren't there at the time. They remembered it as if they had been right there."

The Afghan warrior's eyes widened. He had experienced the same thing. Men he had stood alongside, watching the television together as the martyrs rode their planes into the New York skyline. Some of them later swore they had been in the city that day and had watched the buildings collapse from a safe distance. They remembered being there, where they couldn't possibly have been.

"False memory?" he breathed.

Jánoš nodded. He pointed at the door to the viewing room. "A carefully briefed group of men captured Captain Brian Barros while he slept, three days after the killing of Abdul Noor al-Nazir. They had chased him non-stop to force that opportunity, although they could have executed him on several occasions.

"However, he remembers escaping by helicopter. It isn't something someone has decribed to him. No one told him the details. He simply remembers the flight. If we woke him now, he would swear blind that he got clean away."

"But so much detail? How do you know so much about him?"

"We don't," the doctor said flatly. "But we don't need to. He is receiving a cocktail of drugs and is sedated -- not unconscious, but almost. Enough to make him hear the voice without questioning it, and the script is very carefully written so as not to ask for anything specific. We ask him to remember the helicopter that picked him up, and he fills in the details from his earlier memories. He is a special forces operative, so we knew he must have been in one before. That memory of his rescue is a patch taken from one or more older memories. We didn't put it there; he did that himself. If we asked him if he remembered the pilot, he would put a face from his past into place or remember that he couldn't see the pilot's face -- maybe because of his helmet. We remind him that he flew back to America, but we have no idea what he remembers about that trip -- what the plane was or who shared it with him.

"The soldiers that tried to arrest him weren't described in the questions we put to him. Instead, he put those details into place as his mind filled in the memory -- a false memory. The general that he remembers at his home will be one he doesn't know; we asked him to remember that he couldn't see his face. He remembers details about his wife that night that originate from various memories during his marriage -- how she was dressed, how she spoke, the words she used. We only asked if he remembered how she confessed to having an ongoing affair with a general, and having senior staff officers partying with her in his house. The details and her words originated in his mind, although I believe those false memories were boosted by the fear almost all soldiers have -- that their wives will be unfaithful while they are on duty. His subconscious mind amplified that fear and had her act that way, even though he consciously believed she would never do such a thing. We have no idea what was actually said.

"His rage is steadily building," Jánoš smiled. "But it's not blind rage."

The Afghan butted in. "Did he tell you who informed the Americans where al-Nazir was hiding?"

The doctor shrugged. "We didn't ask. We didn't need to."

Sheikh Mohammed stared at him.

The Serb didn't even blush. "We gave the Americans the information. One of our men 'carelessly' gossiped with a known informer."

His fingers indicated the apostrophes on the word while continuing before Mohammed could express his anger.

"After that, we just had to wait. Al-Nazir is a martyr to our cause, and we will miss his insight and planning. But in return, we acquired a greater weapon, one I believe will be similar to a nuclear warhead in its results."

The sheikh looked dubious, then thoughtful.

"You will target someone in America?"

"We won't target anyone," Jánoš started. "We..."

"Once again, hra! You could make him target the president..."

"No! That isn't how it works! Look, we don't know if he's ever met the president, but I doubt it. We can't create a false memory of someone he hasn't met or interacted with. From my research, I know he's populating those new memories with people he knows, or he simply put together those creations in enough detail, and they become almost faceless in the memory. If he's never met the man, he can't patch false memory from the recall of his own mind, and a faceless president just wouldn't work at all. He doesn't have a personal gripe with him, and we can't create one unless we installed him into a memory he's already made. But having the US president turn up to fuck the captain's wife would be too improbable for his mind to accept. He has to believe in his own memory, or it all falls apart.