On the same day that I read a new BBC article announcing that a cloud rainforest in Ecuador is now protected from deforestation and mining by possessing legal personhood, I was informed by Teoria Omicron, a magazine in Ecuador, that my eco-fiction short story “The Spectator” was just published by them. Strange synchronicity! The story takes a moment out of a chronicle of revolution and war between eco-terrorists and a corrupt technocratic government. Caught in between is Gunther, just trying to survive…

A man tries to survive In the ruins of a bloody war between Gaians and Technocrats where Techno-clones rule.

Here’s an excerpt:

The ruins of the city rippled in the heat like a bad movie. Gunther raked his fingers through his hair and paced the exposed second floor of the dilapidated building. His gaze panned the city. Haze the color of rust lingered over phantom pools on the horizon.

“It’s hot as hell,” he complained, shrugging his Computerized Automatic Rifle over his shoulder. His camouflage fatigues clung to his body like something he needed to shed.  “I’m dying in this heat.” Several flies buzzed around his head and he flapped his gangly arm madly in the air. “Damn flies.”

Slouched against some rubble, Rick ignored him and ran diagnostics on the CARifle stretched out on his lap, verifying the output data on his eye-com. Rick’s sullen face was barely visible under the V-set strapped to his head. Gunther pulled out a stick of gum, unraveled the wrapper and pushed the wad into his mouth. Smacking his lips, he savored the mint flavor and tossed the wrapper.

“Ass hole!” Rick snapped. “Pick that up.”

Gunther snatched the wrapper. The rifle slipped off his shoulder and clattered to the ground. Forcing on a nervous grin he scrambled to pick up the weapon then stepped on the vee-set he’d yanked off earlier.

“We’re Gaians.” Rick’s finger stabbed the green band on his arm. “Protectors of the Earth, ass hole.” He turned back to his CARifle and muttered, “Just like a filthy Techno. . . no idea why you’re doing anything.”

 Gunther replaced the V-set on his head and slung the CARifle over his shoulder. He sagged under its weight and let his gaze stray to where the roof had been blasted away. The air smelled of smoke and burning metal. He blinked away the sweat that ran into his eyes and squinted at the sun, suspended in a yellow dust cloud. “Those lousy Technos caused this heat wave. We’re turning into a desert!”

Rick ignored him and kept tinkering with his weapon.

“Hell, if it weren’t for this revolution,” Gunther continued, “the planet would be toast already . . .” he trailed, lost for a moment in a terrifying place. More flies buzzed furiously around his head. “Get off!” he shouted and shook his head violently. He frowned and muttered, “We better see some action soon.” Gunther poked the rubble with his rifle. “When I took this post I was glad I’d be toasting any coward Technos trying to escape the city.” He raised his rifle, aimed at an imaginary target and made clicking sounds with his tongue. “When I asked the Gaian committee for this post—”

“Ass hole!” Rick spat. “You didn’t ask for it; they assigned you.”

Gunther half-grinned, exposing dirty teeth, and shrugged.

Rick spit on the ground. “I know your story, turd. You hid in some hole during the whole clone siege. Waiting to find out who won so you could take their side.”

Gunther inhaled the gum and coughed.

Rick sneered. “I figure they put you with me to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t run away like them other Technos.” He rubbed the graying stubble on his creased face and his eyes narrowed to slits.  “Hell, you were probably a Techno before we found you. Come to mind, you look like one of them. . . .”

You can read the complete story of “The Spectator” in the Teoria Omicron ezine. An earlier version of this story was published under the title “Frames” in my short story collection Natural Selection published by Pixl Press.