A DAY AT THE BEACH

There is a reason why Sam Gambol became an explorer scout, preferring the quiet solitude of uncharted space to the dread responsibility involved in his previous line of work. Let’s just say that for Sam, a day at the beach was no walk in the park.

Sam Gambol sat quietly in the dim lit compartment, carefully studying the subspace surveillance stream being relayed to him. "Isolate 350/150," he ordered the computer.

"Activate MDO search."

And there it was on the floatie-screen in front of him, in all its blood and gore. He took his time, letting each of the pictures etch itself into his mind. The satellite probe had just circled Prometheus II once, but already he knew he had the critical data that would legalize his actions.

"Save targeted files and upload to Earth Data Central. Confirm receipt." They'll need to have those photos to justify what I'm about to do.

"Files received," the computer whispered in his mind.

"Activate the troops. We're going in."

Calling those he commanded "troops" was using the term loosely. They were titan terminator drones designed for accumulative slaughter as they circled a planet. There were only five biologicals under his command in the whole of the fleet, and they were merely window dressing.

"You need a human on board so they'll have someone to blame if the machines screw up," was what his instructor had jokingly said at the academy. But the teacher hadn't smiled and the students hadn't laughed, too much truth in the statement.

There wouldn't be any screw-ups this time. With documented photos of the scattered dissected colonists haunting the depths of his mind, he knew anyone seeing what he'd sent back would be willing to justify any actions he took, even a drone extinction strike.
And that was just what he'd intended to give the nether-ghouls on the planet his fleet was headed for.

"Three minutes to alignment," the computer warned.

"Command order: We'll go in with blaze," he grimly told his computer which relayed his message to the fifty networked hyper ships around him. "DES. Terminal mode."

"Confirm order please: Command is DES, terminal mode."

"Drone Execution Strike, terminal mode confirmed."

There was a rattle through the deck below as the ship automatically maneuvered for the transfer to sub-light speed. Then the high-pitched hum of Drone bays coming online.

"Full monitor," Sam ordered. Instantly the dark room he sat in was surrounded by light, as if he floated in space encircled by the sleek ships around him. There was a rainbow of light and then they were through the hyperspace barrier. Below his feet was the blue and green globe, lush with life. "Engage program."

For six seconds the drones fired, wide beam masers flashing from the hulls glowed a dull red, the power beams slashing like crimson spotlights through the atmosphere of the planet. The nether-Ghouls most likely never had time to react since their communications and weapons systems were knocked out during the first milliseconds of the battle, the computerized systems on the ships circling them working from the satellite data stream that constantly relayed updated information throughout the networked fleet.

After that, drones methodically hunted down and killed each of the skeletal creatures on the surface below.

Sam knew what was happening but all that registered with his slow nervous system was one massive flash of light; the human mind was unable to following the numbing speed of the attack on the planet below. It seemed that they had only just come out of hyperspace. Yet the battle was over, the enemies below, slaughtered.

"Mission completed," his computer whispered.

Sam closed his eyes. "Total enemy kills?"

"One million, forty-three thousand, two hundred fifty-six."
Sam remained silent a moment. "Time for the most important part," he said. "Time to wake the actors."

Stanley waded ashore, wondering how it was that the complex system of microchips that were capable of the pinpoint accuracy needed to direct a fleet of drones to wipe out more than a million sentient creatures in just over six seconds could manage to miss the beach, putting the crew into nearly three feet of slimy warm ocean water.

"This is great," the cameraman beside him yelled over the noise of the surf. "We couldn't have planned it better. The actors can wade ashore just like in the old newsreels -- they'll love this back home. Let me set up the camera on the beach and I'll be ready for the 'troops'."

"No big hurry," Sam said, staring at the charred jelly coated skeleton that floated in the waves thirty meters from him. For a moment he felt pity, and then he remembered the hostages that had been mutilated, their arms and legs missing, their faces twisted into gruesome death masks.

"Believe in it," he told himself, closing his eyes. "It happened. They did it. You were justified in ordering the attack."

But perhaps the Nether-Ghouls hadn't known what they were doing. Or perhaps they'd done it to send a message to future trespassers. It didn't make any difference to Sam. Anything or anyone that treated people like that deserved to die.

Wait, had it really happened? Weren’t the settlers still in transit? He felt confused, old doubts resurfacing. He shook his head. It was about time for him to return to the EDC for update programming indoctrination --

"I'm ready," the cameraman called, breaking into Sam's thoughts.

"Computer," Sam ordered. "Send out the landing party."

The large cargo door at the side of the Lander hissed opened and three men in battle gear splashed ashore, surrounded by battle bots and tracked vehicles. As they advanced, the fake guns they held discharged smoke and empty cartridges while the machines around them belched fire. Within minutes the men and mechanicals were ashore, racing past the camera.

"That's it," the cameraman yelled.

The machines and men came to a halt. The mechanicals returned to the cargo bay and stowed themselves, the actors huddled around the camera to check the replay of the scene.

"Are we ready to go?" Sam asked.

The cameraman studied the display on his equipment a moment and then spoke. "It's a wrap. All the stuff we need to create a computerized mass invasion of the beach."

"Right," Sam said. He'd seen it all before. The computers took the images, created variations of the actors and machines that had been filmed, and then reassembled them into an entire army.
When the people back home saw the scene, they'd watch thousands of troops jump into the surf from a hundred ships. Enemy power beams would cut some of the troops down and some would make it to shore to engage the enemy. Images from the surveillance satellites would be added, creating in-orbit pictures of the enemy being destroyed by the landing party.

Eventually, after virtual days of heavy fighting in the shadow war created by the computer matrixes, the invading humans would defeat the skelly foes. Then, according to the script, the nether-Ghoul colonies In the face of defeat would commit mass suicide, leaving the planet open to another wave of Earth settlers.

When protesters back on Earth raised any objections, and they always did, the images of the slaughtered colonists would be released. Those who managed to keep their last meal down would be talking about how the nether-Ghouls deserved everything they got after that, and besides they turned on themselves.

"Let's load up," Sam told the cameraman and his actors that huddled around the screen, watching the replay of their landing. He turned and wadded back toward the Lander.

"Don't you want to look around?" one of the new actors asked. "This is the most beautiful piece of real estate I've ever seen."

Sam said nothing.

"Don't be silly," the cameraman said. "We've got three more planets to hit before the end of the week."

Sam wondered how many they'd kill by the end of their tour. Again he felt the twinge of conscience and nearly stumbled in the surf. It was time to take action. "Computer," he said softly.

"Yes, commander?"

"Prepare the next set of images of slaughtered colonists. And alert EDC that my programming seems to be failing. I'm having trouble believing we're justified in what we're doing."

"I have already alerted them. I suspected you were having problems. Can you continue the mission."

"No problem," he answered grimly. To a good commander, what were a few million more deaths?

Especially when they already had the data ready to justify his actions.