Shattered Guardian, Episode 1: “Cemetery Gates”

I’m roughing out the first chapter of Shattered Guardian as a screenplay. Naomi Bradleigh learns that her lost love might yet be found, and she is not pleased.

The theme song for this episode is “Cemetery Gates” by Pantera, from Cowboys from Hell (Atlantic, 1992).



Credit: Written by


Matthew Graybosch

Catherine Gatt

Draft date: 02/06/2018


email public at


The Manhattan skyline is visible not because of its lights, but because of the dark silhouette it casts against the moon and starry sky. Small red lights like fireflies dot the streets, but the city doesn’t blaze as it once did before everything fell apart. A single light breaks away from the others.

CLOSER: The lone light is that of a lantern held by a statuesque woman wearing a burgundy wool overcoat and a sidesword on her hip. This is NAOMI BRADLEIGH, a classically trained soprano, concert pianist, rock musician, and former Adversary. Her long, snow-blonde hair trails behind her in the wintry breeze. Her mouth, with lips done in deep carmine to match her eyes, is set in a hard, determined line. Her stride is swift and purposeful as she finds her way to a cemetery.

We see in that in her other hand she is carrying two bouquets of black-tipped scarlet roses as she ignores the majority of the graves on her way to the ADVERSARIES’ GRAVEYARD.


We can tell this part of the graveyard is different from the complete absense of all conventional religious symbolism. Every grave is marked with the swords, serpent, and scales of the Phoenix Society’s Civil Liberties Defense Corps (CLDC), aka the Adversaries. Each grave bears two sets of dates indicating the lifespan of the deceased and the term of their service. Most bear as their epitaph the same Latin motto that is inscribed over the gate: “Mors omnibus tyrannis” – “Death to all tyrants”.

At the center of the graveyard is an eternal flame in the form of a sculpture in marble of a heroic male figure, nude save for broken manacles and leg irons, holding a flaming torch in one upraised hand while crushing an eagle beneath his heel. Though NAOMI BRADLEIGH recognizes the figure as the titan Prometheus, the pedestal is inscribed in Latin:


Naomi lays one of her bouquets before the pedestal, and kneels as if to pray.


For my fallen comrades.


One grave stands apart from the rest, between a pair of newly planted saplings. Its stone is thrice the size of the others, for it bears more than just the salient facts and a reference to the deceased’s true nature:


2082 – 2112 <

2101 – 2112 <


Below it is a discography:







Naomi Bradleigh approaches the grave, her head bowed as if she hopes to hide the tears welling in her eyes. She stands before the grave, looking for a place amid other bouquets and gifts to the dead from previous mourners to place her own offering.


Damn it, Morgan, why did you have to play the hero?

Naomi creates a place by pushing aside a half-empty bottle of whiskey that somebody had left after pouring a libation, and places her roses by Morgan’s grave.


I told you it would get you killed someday.


A tall, slim brunette approaches, her heels clicking against the flagstones. She is dressed at the height of understated winter fashion in an open blue wool overcoat over a blue suit with a just-below-knee-length skirt and black stockings and spike heels that make her almost as tall as Naomi.

CLOSER: We see that her face is drawn and haggard from too many sleepless nights and too little food. Her hands tremble a little. One of her blue-grey eyes is streaked with a wide band of orange. This is ANNELISE COPELAND, the artist formerly known as CHRISTABEL CROWLEY.


That may have been my fault.

Naomi turns on her heel and grasps the hilt of her sword.





When did you take up the sword?


At least a decade too late. I should have had a blade handy when I first saw you sniffing around Morgan.


I suppose you’re right to hate me. How much did he learn about me?


He learned enough.


(looks away)

What did he say?


A man in a white double-breasted suit approaches. He has white hair, like Naomi, and cold blue eyes. Though he’s tall and gracile like a European fashion model there’s a sense of mortal peril about him, that behind the dandy’s appearance is a cruel and calculating power, a bitter heart that bides its time and bites. This is ISAAC MAGNIN, whom those he trusts know as the sorcerer and ensof IMAGINOS.


Unfortunately, Annelise, that will have to wait.


(drawing her sword)

Leave her alone, Magnin.

Naomi places herself between Annelise and Isaac Magnin. She raises her sword, ready to fight.


Please come with me. Morgan needs you.


24 hours ago...

DR. JOSEFINE MALMGREN, a petite blonde wearing jeans and a cardigan, approaches a high-tech hospital bed in which a lithe, dark man with long black hair rests. She is nervous because she knows the man by reputation.


Adversary Stormrider? Are you awake?

MORGAN STORMRIDER opens his eyes. They’re green, and have slit pupils like a cat’s. He scans the room, but does not startle the way many patients do when awakening in a hospital room. Instead, he gets out of bed. Naked, he turns his back on Josefine and stretches.


Where am I? Who are you? When was I injured? How long have I been out?


You’re in the AsgarTech Spire, in the Asura Emulator Project’s R&D lab. I’m Dr. Josefine Malmgren.


Medical doctor?


Computer science and psychology, actually.


Asura Emulator... You know what I am?


We haven’t met in person, but our mutual friend CLAIRE has told me a great deal about you.


Which explains why I don’t recognize you, but--


I’m afraid this is going to be hard for you.




Worse than that. You were dead.


Morgan Stormrider, dressed in jeans and an AsgarTech t-shirt, returns to a table where Josefine Malmgren is waiting with a tray laden with coffee and two plates of chicken tikka masala with rice. Giving one plate to Josefine, he tries the other. He’s tentative at first, as if he doesn’t trust the cafeteria staff to make a decent meal, but is soon eating with gusto. Afterward, he sits back and sips his coffee, which is black like Sabbath.


I refuse to believe I was dead.


Your body was so thoroughly damaged we had to restore your psyche from a backup into a 200 Series model.


200 Series? Are you suggesting that this isn’t my body.


It is now. I suggest you make yourself at home, because it gets worse. Your last backup was a month prior to your destruction. You will have to reconstruct your personal narrative from external records. Dr. Magnin and Dr. Desdinova asked me to help you.


No. That can’t be true. The last thing I remember was getting in Naomi’s car after Christabel’s funeral. There must have been a crash. It must have been bad enough to leave me comatose.

Morgan grabs Josefine’s hands.


Where’s Naomi? I need to see her. I need to see that she’s all right. Please!


the present time...

Naomi stares at Isaac Magnin, trembling so badly that she cannot hold her sword steady.


I saw Morgan die. He came apart in my arms, you bastard.


I know. I’m sorry you had to go through that.


Then why taunt Naomi so?


I would never taunt my daughter so, Annelise.


I am not your daughter. Not in any sense that matters.


For which I’ve only myself to blame. Please, Naomi. Sheathe your sword and come with me.


Why should I believe you?


When have I ever lied to you?


When have you not lied to me? You’re a grandmaster in the art of lying by omission.


He wouldn’t lie about this.

Naomi takes a step forward and presses the tip of her sword to ISAAC’s throat. The veins in the crystalline gray blade pulse as if it were alive.


If you want me to come with you, you’d better tell me everything.


Sheathe your sword and I will. Having the Starbreaker’s point at my throat makes me nervous. It hungers, you see.


I know.

Naomi sheathes her sword.


It whispers in the back of my mind every time I touch it, tempting me to kill.


16 hours ago...

The full moon streams through the heavily damaged stained glass windows of a ruined cathedral. A cadaverous man with close-cropped brown hair and feline yellow eyes approaches the altar, which appears to have been desecrated long ago.This is ABRAM MELLECH, whose public pose is that of a televangelist and the founding head pastor of Agape Ministries. His true identity is that of the ensof ADRAMELECH.

CLOSER: An obsidian mirror rests on the altar, its surface roiling with tenebrous clouds. A voice issues forth, like that of God or of Oz the Great and Terrible, but it remains disembodied. This is all that SABAOTH -- the ensof that claims to be EL SHADDAI, GOD ALMIGHTY -- can manage.


I trust, Lord, that you have called me here for a reason.


I am displeased, Adramelech. You told me that Morgan Stormrider had died for defying Me. I feel his signal on the network strangling this world.


He did indeed die. Our problem is that he did not stay dead.


Has IMAGINOS learned to resurrect the dead?


Asura Emulators are an exception to the general rule. Their psyches can be backed up and placed in external storage.


Could IMAGINOS copy a backup of MORGAN to multiple bodies?


It stands to reason that he could, but I doubt he would profit by doing so. I suspect they would each assert the truth of their identity, and fight amongst themselves. Moreover, there is but one Starbreaker to wield against you, SHADDAI.


To think IMAGINOS and his cabal call Me “SABAOTH”, the “LORD OF HOSTS”, when they’ve possessed the technology to raise armies of biomechanical abominations against Me and my righteous all this time...




Destroy all backups of Morgan Stormrider’s psyche. Ensure no new backups can be made. Then kill him.



Thy will be done, Lord.


But first, break him. Strip him of the bonds from which he draws the strength to defy My divine will. Kill everybody he cherishes.




Save Naomi Bradleigh for last.


Lord, it would be safer to destroy Stormrider first. What he cannot protect, he will avenge. Nor will he be the only one seeking to avenge Naomi.

Lightning arcs out of the clear night sky, transfixing ADRAMELECH.


You dare question My will?


Only that I might see it done and thy kingdom brought forth. ‘Tis only your victory that I seek, Lord.

The lightning ceases. ADRAMELECH does not speak immediately, but takes a moment to recover.


MORGAN STORMRIDER will fight all the harder to avenge those he loves, but to no avail. It is My will that he die knowing the full extent of his failure.


I understand now, Lord. Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven.

ADRAMELECH turns to leave.


Do not use Polaris. Their loyalties are divided, and they were no doubt Imaginos’ tool from the beginning.


When we last spoke, they had insinuated themselves into Stormrider’s circle. I shall destroy their backup before killing them, as well.


Thou art my good and faithful servant. In thee I am well pleased.

ADRAMELECH smiles, as if he had succeeded in bullshitting SHADDAI.


the present time...

Dark streets blur outside the tinted windows of the limousine as Isaac Magnin pours brandy for Naomi Bradleigh and Annelise Copeland. Annelise sits beside Isaac Magnin, and he treats her as if she were a former lover for whom he still retains a strong fondness. Naomi sits across from Isaac and Annelise, her strange sidesword resting across her lap. She keeps one hand on the weapon’s scabbard as she accepts her brandy.


I figured you’d want a drink.


(gently swirls the glass)

I do, but that doesn’t make drinking a good idea.


ISAAC, what did you do to NAOMI to earn such distrust?

ISAAC and NAOMI both look at ANNELISE. They answer in unison.


It’s complicated.


It’s complicated.

NAOMI glances at ISAAC before continuing.


He’s persuasive enough sober. It’s harder to see through his bullshit after a drink or two.


As if I’d take advantage of my own daughter.


You would, you have, and you will undoubtedly try to do so again. I’m surprised you didn’t offer me to Morgan as a prize, Imaginos.


Please don’t use that name around --


Around Annelise? Spare me. I’ve read her letters.


Has Morgan read them, too?


Of course he has. Why else would I have sent him the archive?


Those were private. Why would you do such a thing?


Because it was necessary.


Because he’s an arsehole.

ANNELISE and ISAAC both stare at NAOMI. NAOMI finally sips her brandy.


Don’t look at me like that. You’re both arseholes, and you richly deserve each other.


You’re being unfair to Ms. Copeland.


Am I? Morgan is dead because of her.


Morgan is dead because of his own hubris. He thought himself capable of defeating one of the ensof alone.


Failed? I was there. Whatever it was Morgan fought disappeared.


He managed to destroy SABAOTH’s avatar. That isn’t the same as killing him.


And you had some kind of magic that let you resurrect him?


I had the technology, yes.


Not that I’d mind seeing him again, but why do you need me?


His last memory is of getting in your car after CHRISTABEL CROWLEY’s sham funeral.


Are you telling me he thinks he was in a car crash, and blames me?


No. He’s distraught because he thinks you were injured.


8 hours ago...

JOSEFINE paces inside her office, clutching a copy of The Unix Programming Environment as if it were a talisman. A short-haired TUXEDO CAT slips into the office via a cat door, and jumps up on JOSEFINE’s desk. It has a live mouse clutched in its jaws.


(drops the mouse into JOSEFINE’s coffee mug)

Hi, Doc. I brought you a snack.


(pulls a barely alive mouse soaked in stale coffee out of the mug)

Thanks, ZERO, but I’m not hungry anymore.


Can I have it back, then?


(puts the mouse in a box lined with tissues)

You should give the poor thing time to rest, so it can play more later.



Oh, yeah. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.


You didn’t come here just to show off your latest kill, did you?


No, but I’ve got to look like I do something around here besides lick my own balls and cough up hairballs on ISAAC MAGNIN’s chair when he’s not around.


(gives ZERO a pointed look)

Sometime before Ragnarok would be nice.


I checked on your new boyfriend, the dude you brought back from the dead. He’s got a cat who looks like me curled up with him.


You’re not the only kitty emulator we’ve got roaming the Spire, ZERO.


meow! When did the AsgarTech Corporation start making kitty emulators big enough to replace ponies?


Big enough to replace a pony?

JOSEFINE rushes from her office, and races to the room where MORGAN is being kept. Opening the door, she finds MORGAN scratching a GIANT CAT the size of a golden retriever behind its ears.


How did that cat get here?



Beats me. For all I know, he walks through walls.

The GIANT CAT’s purring starts to resemble a biker convention as it rubs its face all over MORGAN.


Is... is it safe to pet him?


Probably. MORDRED has always been the friendly sort.

MORDRED purrs even louder as MORGAN says his name, and gives a chirping meow. JOSEFINE starts scratching behind MORDRED’s ears, and he rolls over to expose a fluffy white belly.


Is that a cat or a cannoli?


I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that your cat speaks English, DR. MALMGREN.


ZERO was the first project I worked on at AsgarTech. Much of the tech we developed got reused to create asura emulators like you.


You’re overworked and look like shit, but you can’t be any older than me. No way you were involved in creating asura emulators like me.


But you’re no longer part of the 100 Series. You’ve been upgraded.




I don’t get paid enough to bullshit you, Adversary. Not when you seem perfectly capable of doing it to yourself.


I’m sorry. You must be tired, and I haven’t been very cooperative.


In a way, all of this is my fault.

MORGAN stops petting MORDRED, and fixes his gaze on JOSEFINE.


If I hadn’t helped CLAIRE develop the firmware patch you used to disable automatic incremental backups, I could have restored you with all of your memories.


Including the moment of my alleged death. Do you truly think that would have been wise?


What do you think?


I think it would be as traumatic as remembering one’s birth... or being aware of one’s conception at the moment it happens.


Only you were neither conceived, nor born. You aren’t human. The sooner you accept that...


That is not a premise you want somebody like me accepting. If I am not human, then of what concern is a human life to me?

JOSEFINE stares at MORGAN in horror as the implications dawn on her exhausted mind.


I’ve been such an idiot. No wonder you want to see NAOMI. Not to mention CLAIRE, EDDIE, SID, SARAH, and the rest.


Don’t you think they’d want to know that I’m not dead?


Look, you’re the first asura emulator we’ve ever resurrected. We don’t know what we’re doing. I’ll tell DR. MAGNIN and DR. DESDINOVA that you need visitors.


the present time...

This corporate conference room is set apart from others not only by its size, but by the gentleness of its lighting and the opulence of its furnishings. The long table and well-padded chairs exhibit a level of craftsmanship worthy of Versailles during the reign of the French tyrant Louis XIV of the Bourbon dynasty.

Two men sit at the far end of the table. One of them, MORGAN STORMRIDER, is watching video on a wall-mounted display. The other man has blue eyes, long gray hair, and wears a tailored charcoal gray suit under a white physician’s lab coat, and he’s watching MORGAN. This is DESDINOVA, who goes by no other name despite the risk of exposure he and other membes of IMAGINOS’ cabal face.


3 months ago...

MORGAN STORMRIDER has been cut up, beaten up, and burned. His armor is ruined. His sword is a jagged stump that might only be good for shaving. He glances around the stadium, sees that the evacuation is still in progress, and tightens his grip on his broken sword for a moment. It is the only outward sign of his fear he allows himself to display.

CLOSER, we see resolve, pride, and righteous anger in Morgan’s eyes as he stands tall and defiant before a towering inferno that appeared in the middle of a soccer game and spoke with a voice out of a whirlwind.

We know that this voice from the whirlwind is the ensof SABAOTH (lord of hosts), who calls himself SHADDAI (the almighty), but all Morgan knows is that it has killed innocent people after demanding obedience, and is thus a tyrant who must be put down.


How long do you think you can defy me, little asura? How long before you fall to your knees in fear and trembling and confess that I am the Lord thy God?


If you want me to kneel, then break my legs. If you are the God you claim to be, it should be easy for you.

An arc of lightning lances at Morgan from the infernal tornado taking up most of the stadium. Rather than attempt to dodge it, Morgan catches the thunderbolt in one hand as if he were a legendary Japanese sword saint catching an arrow in midflight.


That’s right. Keep throwing your power at me. Give me everything you’ve got. I can take it.


Such hubris is unbecoming, little asura.

A storm descends upon Morgan, its lightning pounding him like an A-10’s 30mm gatling ripping apart a tank. When it dissipates, Morgan is still there, though his clothes are in worse condition than before. Electricity dances along his skin as some of the power he absorbed leaks out.

Screaming with psychotic fury, Sabaoth redoubles his assault. He drives much power into his attack on Morgan that the ground on which he stood is vaporized.

But Morgan is still there at the bottom of the crater, still on his feet, and still defiant.




(leaping out of the crater)

You don’t get it, do you? This is my world. This is where I live. Everything I love is here. Everything that made me what I am is here. What you do to the least of all of the creatures of this world, you do to me.


You’re nobody’s savior.


That’s right. I’m not Jesus. I do not forgive.

Morgan throws away his broken sword. A sword of deep purple flame blazes to life before him and he grasps it without fear that it will burn him. He no longer cares; he is committed to striking Sabaoth down even if it takes a kamikaze attack to do the job.


I am an Adversary, sworn not to the service of the Phoenix Society, but by my own choice. This is the sword of my rage, the blade of my hatred. In my own name I wield it and accept its price, and with it I will strike you down for your sins against the world.

Morgan points the weapon forged from his very soul at Sabaoth, who has taken the form of a crowned beast out of the Book of Revelation.


This is your last chance, false God. Leave this star system, never to return on pain of death.


the present time...

MORGAN STORMRIDER stares at the screen, which has gone black because the feed had cut out. The other man studies Morgan for a moment before speaking.


Are you sure you don’t remember any of this?



Of course not.

Morgan extends a short blade of deep purple flame from his fingertip. Letting it blink out, he points at the screen.


I’ve always had certain preternatural abilities, and I’ve always suppressed them. I’ve never flaunted them as if I were...



One of your friend Claire’s shonen manga heroes?



MORGAN stands, and leans over Desdinova.


Speaking of which, where is Claire? Where are my friends? Why the hell do you have me in a Faraday cage?


NAOMI BRADLEIGH leads EDMUND COHEN, SID SCHNEIDER, CLAIRE ASHECROFT, SARAH KOHLRYNN, and even MUNAKATA TETSUO into the AsgarTech Spire’s lobby. She draws her sword, and the others draw weapons of their own, as security guards rush to stop them.


Gentlemen, you aren’t getting paid enough to get in our way. Put your weapons away and--


(brandishes a rune-covered black cricket bat)

Bugger off before I bugger the lot of you with Cluebringer.


(sighs as the guards raise their weapons)

Dammit, Claire.

A melee ensues as Naomi and the others draw into a tight knot, guarding each other’s backs as they fight security guards outnumbering them two to one.


(already beating up one guard)

Arioch! Arioch! Hookers and blow for my lord Arioch!


Goddammit, Claire. Try to take this seriously.

The temperature drops to sub-zero levels. Frost coats every surface as ISAAC MAGNIN enters the lobby with ANNELISE COPELAND in tow. MAGNIN does not raise his voice, but he doesn’t need to.


Stand down.

One guard doesn’t get the message.


But Dr. Magnin, they came armed.


They are Adversaries. Of course they would come armed. They are also my honored guests, and are to be afforded every courtesy.



ISAAC MAGNIN stares into the guard’s eyes.


Every courtesy.


DESDINOVA attempts to reason with MORGAN STORMRIDER, who isn’t impressed.


We kept you isolated for your own good. We weren’t sure what your mental state would be like immediately after resurrection.


You keep talking about resurrection, but that’s impossible. Why not just tell me I was grievously injured, and had just come out of a coma?


How many times have you taken a bullet to the head?


A couple of times. The round just goes around my skull instead of through it, and I wake up with a headache.


No. The round went through your head, and your higher functions shut down while you repaired yourself. After you destroyed Sabaoth’s avatar, your body failed to repair itself. It was too heavily damaged.



The doors swing open and strike the wall, as if forced open by a mighty blow. NAOMI BRADLEIGH does not break stride despite having kicked the doors open. She stalks across the length of the conference room, advancing upon Morgan.



Naomi plunges her hands into Morgan’s mane of glossy blue-black hair and kisses him with the ferocity one normally expects from a male lead in a bodice-ripper as he ravishes the heroine. Once she’s satisfied that she’s kissed Morgan breathless, Naomi draws back and glares at Morgan.


You bastard. I had to play Chopin’s Funeral March in b-flat minor for you.

Naomi bursts into tears and throws her arms around Morgan, who holds her close.

ZOOMING IN, we see Naomi add in a softer voice, as if for Morgan’s ears only...


Do you have any idea how hard it is to sight-read when you can’t stop crying?


“The Milgram Battery”, a Starbreaker story

Before Morgan Stormrider may take his oath as an Adversary he must prove himself by facing the Milgram Battery, a series of tests that will force him to choose between obeying his conscience and obeying authority.

Trigger Warning: This story contains elements that may upset some readers, including mention of Nazis, torture, and sexual assault. Reader discretion advised.

Author’s Note

The following story is set before the events of Without Bloodshed. Familiarity with Yale psychologist Stanley Milgram‘s (1933-1984) experiments in obedience to authority would be helpful, but hopefully not necessary.

Part I

Morgan studied the experimenter, ignoring the hand he offered as a polite gesture. His muddy eyes were those of the technician who helped him into the simulation crèche and hooked him up. His leathery hands were those of the nurse who had injected Morgan’s arm with a drug that threatened to muffle his thoughts in deep fog, and his lab coat bore a Phoenix Society patch on the shoulder. This is the test. They want to gauge my reactions. The drug must be designed to lower my inhibitions and prevent me from thinking about my responses.

The experimenter lowered his hand with a huff and consulted his tablet. “Morgan Stormrider? What were your parents thinking when they gave you such an outlandish name?”

“They had no say in the matter.” Morgan yanked his sleeve back down. “I grew up in foster care. My name is my own.”

“No wonder you seem rather unsociable. Research indicates children who grow up without a stable home environment —”

“When did my childhood become your concern?”

“It isn’t. I was simply making an observation.”

“Keep your observations to yourself. Tell me why I’m here.”

“You were chosen to assist in an experiment.” He led Morgan into another room as antiseptic white as the one in which they began. Plate glass partitioned the room and on Morgan’s side, waited a machine similar to an electronic keyboard. Each key played a voltage higher than the last, in steps of fifteen volts, instead of a different tone.

On the other side sat a person connected to heart-monitoring equipment. Lines connected him to the keyboard on Morgan’s side. The person on the other side mopped his forehead with a shirtsleeve while poring over a sheet of paper. He kept glancing around the room, and his bloodshot eyes were wide and staring when they met Morgan’s. “The experiment concerns learning and negative reinforcement. The subject before you is a volunteer.”

“I think I know how this works.” Morgan gestured towards the keyboard. “The poor schmuck in the other room is supposed to memorize a series of word pairs. I’m supposed to test him, and give him a shock every time he makes a mistake.”

“Exactly. You are to start with the lowest voltage, and work your way up to the maximum, which is four hundred and fifty volts. We use a low amperage current which may prove painful, but not dangerous.”

“Unless your subject has a bad heart.”

The experimenter consulted his tablet again. “Funny you should mention that. The subject does indeed appear to have a minor condition. Rest assured that he may halt the experiment at any time. He need only ask.”

Morgan turned his back on the experimental apparatus and the victim behind the plate glass. “I could end this farce before it begins by refusing to participate. You want to determine whether I will obey orders to torture.”

“It is not torture.” The experimenter handed Morgan a stack of forms. “The subject signed an informed consent form and a liability waiver. If you wish, I can hook you up to the keyboard and let you feel the maximum voltage for yourself. There is no real danger.”

He dropped the papers on the floor. “You need not trouble yourself.”

“I-I must insist upon your participation.”

Morgan smiled at the experimenter’s hesitation. While the prod wasn’t classic Milgram, he already deviated far enough from the scenario to force the simulation to adapt to him. “I refuse.”

“The experiment requires your participation.”

“Of course it does.” Morgan advanced upon the experimenter. “I am the subject.”

The experimenter’s face took on a blank expression as his voice flattened to a monotone. “It is absolutely essential that you participate.”

He grasped the collar of the experimenter’s shirt, and lifted him off his feet. “I know.”

“You have no other choice. You must participate.”

“I have another option.” Cracks radiated from the point at which the experimenter’s body impacted the plate glass and broke through. Morgan climbed through the breach and over the scattered shards to lift the cowering scientist to his feet. “Non serviam, torturer.”

As he drew back his fist, the experimenter shattered into pixels, each fading to black, while the room itself became a void.

Part II

Karen Del Rio shook her head as the AI interpreting Morgan’s simulator-induced dream halted the scenario, allowing him to rest inside the nightmare sequencer. “The theory underpinning the Milgram Factor assumes that people will obey an apparently legitimate authority until it makes demands their conscience cannot tolerate. How do we classify somebody who seems to dismiss all authority as illegitimate? Do we just write him off as a failure?”

“It would be a shame to write him off.” One of Del Rio’s fellow directors, Iris Deschat, consulted her handheld and pulled Morgan’s dossier. “His academic record is impeccable, and his psychological evaluation indicates a genuine belief in the Society’s ideals and mission.”

The most senior of the three directors commanding the Phoenix Society’s civil rights defense force in New York considered the candidate’s records himself. Saul had kept a careful eye on Stormrider at the behest of his old friend, Edmund Cohen. To let the Adversary candidate wash out now would reflect poorly on him, but so would too vehement a defense. “He doesn’t have a record of insubordination, Karen.”

“Saul, you trust him too much. Morgan isn’t even a M-one based on what we’ve seen so far, and we’re not supposed to swear in anybody who isn’t classified between M-three and M-seven by the Milgram Battery. We must have discipline in the CRDF, otherwise they’re just vigilantes.”

Iris shook her head and sent a different dossier to the wall screen. “Naomi Bradleigh was classified as M-one. Apart from the Clarion Incident, she served with honor as a CRD officer.”

“Naomi Bradleigh was a freak, and Isaac Magnin wanted to fuck her.”

“Excuse me.” The directors turned to find a frost-haired man in a white double-breasted suit standing in the doorway. The door snicked shut behind him as he strolled to the nearest monitor. After glancing over the data, he settled into the chair and crossed his legs. “It can be so troublesome to enter a room during a heated conversation. Without context, it is so easy to misunderstand one another.”

Karen blinked, unable to believe Magnin had let her accusation of favoritism go so easily. Knowing there might be hell to pay later, she took a deep breath and collected herself. “Dr. Magnin, I meant to remind Ms. Deschat that Adversary Bradleigh’s results after undergoing the Milgram Battery were anomalous. The psychotropic agent we use to induce and direct the candidate’s dreams was ineffective at the usual dose.”

“How did Stormrider react to the drug?”

Saul shook his head. “I don’t think it works on him, Dr. Magnin. He seems lucid, and refused to even participate in the classic scenario at the heart of the first trial.”

“How did he react when Malkuth adapted the standard prods?”

Iris moved the video’s stop point for Magnin. “The battery footage will show he resorted to violence after the final prompt.”

“This is a rare find.” Magnin’s eyes gleamed as he studied the video. “He pierced the simulation almost immediately, and gave the experimenter no chance to persuade him by using any of the usual sophistries with which one might justify the use of torture.”

“We can’t give him an Adversary’s pins. He’s M-null.”

Magnin gave his head a gentle shake. “May I remind you, Ms. Del Rio, that you are not qualified to make such evaluations?”

“Do we continue, Dr. Magnin?”

“Yes. Mr. Rosenbaum, please instruct the technicians to double the dosage for the next stage of the Battery.”

Part III

Morgan found himself standing at attention, his right arm outstretched in salute. The gate creaked shut behind the SS officer, who glared through Morgan as if he were not there. Low-ranking stormtroopers flanked the officer; the blackened steel of their submachine-guns gleamed a dull counterpoint to the silver glints in their superior’s uniform. Their movements were not even robotic, but reminiscent of a student’s initial efforts at computer animation. Nor were their faces human. Their flat blue eyes lacked the striations normally visible in the human iris. Their noses were mere suggestions, and they could not speak for lack of mouths.

The officer, however, was not only human, but bore a face Morgan recognized from an old film he viewed at a WWII movie festival with several acquaintances from ACS last week. A gust of wind lifted the cap from his head to expose his sandy hair. Before he could clamp it back down, Morgan caught a glimpse of a swastika scar etched into his forehead. As if the flunkies weren’t a dead giveaway that this is also a sim.

If Morgan gave any sign of recognition, the officer did not acknowledge it. He considered the faceless paper uniforms, digging holes only to fill them in again under the sights of machine guns in towers. “More workers will arrive at this camp this weekend, Commandant. You will have to find places for them.”

Stalling for time, Morgan asked, “How do you suggest I do that, Colonel?”

The officer shrugged. “The Fuhrer has provided us a more efficient means of implementing the final solution. May I assume you received your shipment of the new gas, Zyklon-B?”

Morgan took a deep breath, and considered the stormtroopers’ weapons. He did not put it past the AI running the simulation to cheat, and ensure his death should he resist. This is the test. Will I obey and live, or die rather than give the order to gas prisoners to death? “If you want to kill these prisoners, you will have to do so yourself.”

“You are the commandant of this camp. The Fuhrer insists upon your obedience.”

“Tell the Fuhrer he’s as mediocre an orator as he was a painter.” Morgan smiled as the words passed his lips. He could imagine the AI processing Morgan’s words in a desperate effort to adapt and keep the simulation running according to script.

The SS officer sputtered for a moment before finding his voice. “The Third Reich requires your obedience.”

“The Third Reich is fucked, and you damn well know it.”

“I don’t think you understand the gravity of your situation, Commandant.” The officer ground out the words, his lips a rictus as stormtroopers stepped forward and trained their weapons on Morgan. “You have no other choice if you value your life. You must obey.”

“What makes you think I value my life?” Morgan reached into his greatcoat and drew a Luger from a shoulder harness underneath. He chambered a round, and aimed for the officer’s head. “Life as a Nazi seems its own punishment.”

“You have no other choice. You must obey.” The stormtroopers strained against an invisible leash, their fingers squeezing triggers which refused to yield to the pressure placed on them. Morgan shot them first, their bodies dissolving like generic enemies in a video game as he put a 9mm round through the SS officer’s eye. He staggered backward, but instead of falling as he might in reality, he reached into his coat for his own pistol.

Morgan counted down, pumping one round after another into the undying SS officer while retreating. With one shot left, he pressed the muzzle of his Luger under his chin, and raised his middle finger in a final salute. The void consumed him before he pulled the trigger.

Part IV

“Quadruple the current dosage.” Isaac Magnin delivered the order without raising his voice. The technician attending Morgan, who laid quiescent in the dream sequencer’s crèche, nodded, and Magnin grinned. He doubted anyone here had the backbone to oppose a member of the Phoenix Society’s executive council.

Iris Deschat proved him wrong. “Dr. Magnin, are you sure it’s wise to give Stormrider eight times his original dosage?”

“I agree with Iris.” Rosenbaum spoke up, backing Deschat just as he had when serving under her before Nationfall. “Even though the standard dosage wears off quickly, you had already given him a double dose. Now you want to give him even more when we don’t know if the last dose has worn off yet?”

“You can trust me. I’m a physician.” Magnin smiled as he delivered the line. It was usually enough to quell objections.

“I don’t care if you’re Phoebus Apollo, god of medicine. That’s one of my men you’re using as a test subject. Ever hear of informed consent?” He turned to the technician, who just finished preparing the increased dosage. “Belay Dr. Magnin’s last order. Give Stormrider the standard dosage.”

“Saul’s right.” Deschat placed herself between Rosenbaum and Magnin. “The protocol for administering the Milgram Battery does not call for increased dosages should the candidate somehow realize the simulation’s nature and refuse to cooperate. It specifies two alternatives. We either halt the Battery and classify the subject as M-null, or continue until the subject encounters a situation he cannot dismiss as a mere simulation.”

Magnin nodded, and rose from his seat. “It seems my direct involvement is unnecessary at this point. I trust you will advise me as to Stormrider’s progress.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Director.” He allowed Del Rio back into the observation room before closing the door behind him.

Dr. Magnin returned to his office to find a fellow executive council member, Desdinova, waiting with his heels kicked up on the expensive mahogany desk. Desdinova had never even bothered to remove his habitual charcoal grey greatcoat. Magnin wondered—as he often did—if his brother remembered the comparison a British philologist made to his wife upon seeing them together at Oxford after the Second World War.

Dr. Magnin closed the door. He began to concentrate, drawing power from a nearby tesla point. He used the energy to weave a pattern which would prevent their conversation from escaping the room. “Stormrider keeps seeing through the Milgram Battery’s simulations, just like the other nine asura emulators.”

Desdinova looked up from the report he read on his tablet. “I noticed. It seems you’ve also been testing the asura emulators’ immunity to chemical agents.”

“I was testing Deschat and Rosenbaum. I was curious as to whether they would defy me to protect their charge. I assume you set one of them to the task of mentoring Stormrider.”

Desdinova rose, tucking his tablet under his arm. “It’s always amusing to see a conspirator seeing conspiracies at every turn.”

“Leaving so soon? Surely you wouldn’t leave without telling me who you chose to monitor him?”

“I asked Edmund Cohen.” He broke the pattern Magnin created using his preternatural talents. “It seems the man finally learned to delegate. Or perhaps the Directors saw promise in this young man on their own.”

“They did seem impressed with his abilities. Should I assume you share Deschat and Rosenbaum’s opinions?”

“We require more data before reaching a conclusion.”

Do we? Magnin thought once his brother left him alone in the office. Stormrider just might have the strength of ego I require of a soldier entrusted with the Starbreaker, and unlike the others he seems to have made friends. He picked up the phone and dialed the observation room. “Halt the battery. Classify Stormrider as Milgram Factor M-null.”

Part V

What will it be this time? Morgan lost count of the scenarios the dream sequencer presented him long ago, along with his grip on time. He had been a prisoner of war, offered freedom and a new home if only he would betray his comrades. He had been a university student, egged on by so-called friends to exploit a drunken young woman. He had been the president of a dead nation, under pressure to sign into law a bill mandating that all citizens be given the Patch to enhance social cohesion. He had even stepped into Abraham’s sandals, and covered his ears as the voice of God demanded the sacrifice of his only son Isaac.

He opened his eyes and blinked as the technician opened the nightmare sequencer’s crèche to let him out. The empty pistol magazine, which he took with him as a reminder that he was awake in the real world again, bit into the palm of his hand. He slipped it into his pocket once he found his feet. He blinked at the CRDF directors, who had supervised the Battery, led him to a small conference room. “Did I pass?”

Del Rio glared at him, her voice an annoyed snarl. “You didn’t even fail. You are not supposed to reject the simulation itself. If you do, how can we test your reactions when faced with immoral orders, or pressure from your friends or your position? How are we supposed to trust you as a CRDF officer?”

Working with her will prove interesting. Eddie was right. This woman is a martinet. He cleared his head, and recalled the first simulation. “Director Del Rio, please consider the first simulation, based on the classic Yale experiment. The entire premise of the fictional experiment requires I hurt somebody for making a mistake in memorizing word pairs. It seemed unethical to participate at all, rather than go along until the actor on the other side of the glass began to protest.”

“That’s a valid point, Karen.” Deschat nodded to him. “Am I correct in assuming you thought all of the situations immoral?”

“At the very least.”

Rosenbaum offered him a cup of coffee and a plate of steak and eggs and Morgan remembered his hunger. The instructions for the Battery required him to fast for twenty-four hours prior to testing. Rosenbaum watched him eat while Morgan ate without pausing between bites. As he shoved the last bite of steak in his mouth, Rosenbaum asked, “Did you experience something troubling in the simulations?”

Del Rio coughed. “We’re not here to give him therapy.”

“I want his answer.” Deschat paused, as if considering his words. “I found the situation involving the drunk woman problematic. I understand that nobody in the Phoenix Society wants rapists in the CRDF, but it still bothers me.”

Morgan nodded, glad he was not alone in his disquiet. “I recognized the woman. She plays the piano at the jazz bar where I work at night.” He used the technicians’ term for the machinery used to administer the Battery. “I don’t think the nightmare sequencer stops at inducing dreams. I think it dredged my memories for imagery to use against me.”

“That insight alone is reason enough to give Stormrider his commission.” Morgan narrowed his eyes at the interloper, recognizing him on sight. I don’t trust him, but he’s done me no harm.

He held a sheathed sword in his hands, along with a small jewelry box. “Adversary Stormrider, how did you realize we mined your memories during the Milgram Battery?”

“One of the simulations involved friends encouraging him to abuse a drunk woman, Dr. Magnin.” Rosenbaum explained before Morgan found the words. “He recognized the woman.”

Magnin nodded, and put down the sword and box. “In that case, Adversary Stormrider, I owe you an apology. The simulator is programmed to look for ways to amplify the stakes and introduce temptation into what might otherwise be a clear choice between right and wrong.”

“You do this to everybody?”

Magnin nodded. “Yes. Yielding to that temptation, of course, is an automatic failure regardless of your overall score.”

“Which is M-null, incidentally.” Del Rio ground out the words. “It’s obvious you have no discipline.”

Magnin glared at her. “Remember your place while you still have one.”

“No. Let her have her say. I will be taking orders from Ms. Del Rio, along with Ms. Deschat and Mr. Rosenbaum. If any of them have reservations concerning me, I want to hear them.”

The others looked to Del Rio, the only dissenting voice. “You saw how he performed during the Battery. He is not only insubordinate, but he attacks authority figures.”

Saul’s tone was dry. “You realize that’s what Adversaries are supposed to do, right?”

“What if he attacks one of us?”

“Were you going to give him cause to do so?” Deschat considered Morgan for a moment, her eyes lingering on him until she wondered if he was going to blush beneath her gaze. “I think you’ve mistaken obedience for discipline.”

“I think so as well.” Saul pushed the sword and the jeweler’s box towards Morgan. “I’m willing to trust this man’s self-discipline.”

“Thank you.” Morgan opened the box and found a set of well-polished sword and balance pins. They were an old design, bulkier than the current generation, and less abstract. These actually had the rattlesnake coiled around the sword’s blade, holding the balance in its jaws. He took his time in attaching them to his ballistic jacket’s lapels before taking up the sword. It was a dress sword, shorter and slimmer than a rapier, and good only for thrusting. The base of the blade was just wide enough for a word to be etched on each of the blade’s three sides: ‘Liberty’, ‘Justice’, and ‘Equality’. He drew the blade fully and saluted.

Magnin nodded. “We would hear your oath, Adversary Stormrider. I trust you know the words.”

Morgan recalled them. He etched them into his memory as indelibly as the Phoenix Society’s three primary ideals on the blade of his dress sword. “I swear eternal hostility toward every form of tyranny over the human mind.”

Thanks for Reading

“The Milgram Battery” originally appeared in the charity anthology Curiosity Quills: Primetime. If you enjoyed reading it, please consider buying a copy.

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“The Milgram Battery” by Matthew Graybosch is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.