Historical Fiction

Lane's topic: "...take an obviously famous historical figure (one that everyone has , or should have, heard of) and write a historical fiction piece that stars that character, good or bad."

--

July 18th, 1945.

Oppenheimer was, as far as anyone knew, a good man. He had done his fair share of badness, but it was the kind of badness the regular Joe could get behind -- steal a peek at a nudie mag, curse in public when things didn't go right, that sort of thing. He was a human being, after all, and human beings made those sort of mistakes.

But since Los Alamos, people had grown nervous. It wasn't just that he was more Russian than American (or so the brass felt); it was that he had taken to stalking the corridors, pacing in an endless loop around the complex the Manhattan Project called home. In the days before Trinity, he was an amicable fellow who liked to ride his horse; several Generals had gone on trips with him to chat. It was only reasonable that he'd be a bit dour after the test, given the toxic fruit his tree had borne, but his utter disregard for military structure had started to step on people's toes.

Oppenheimer was called into General Farrell's office. He paced down the hall like a flightless bird, bobbing his head forward every so often. Some non-com puke opened the door and let him in. Farrell was sitting behind his desk, if you could call it sitting. It was more like waiting; more like hunting. He leaned forwards in a sleek way that implied he could leap forward with a killing blow at any moment.

"Sit." He smiled. Robert sat.

"We understand that you have some.... apprehension... about --"

"Apprehension?!" Oppenheimer stood up again, slamming his hands histrionically against the solid mahogany desk. It was a serious desk, all dark red stain and hand-carved drawer faces. It shook under the onslaught. "You call this apprehension? My God, man, if this is apprehension, what do you call utter terror?"

Farrell stood up, too. He wasn't about to let some civvie undermine rebellion against the Japs, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let that same civvie look down at him. "I call it unacceptable. Now sit down, Mr. Oppenheimer. We have to discuss your continued support of the Manhattan Project."

"Fine." Muscles oiled by daily work and exercise (not at all those you'd expect on a scientist) coiled in on themselves, bunching up into the chair on the other side of the desk.

"Now. We're going to use the bomb; we've got to use it. I'm as scared as you are about what the hell it might do, but as you know, the Targeting Committee already got their targets set. So that's that. We only gotta use it once. After that..." Eyes never leaving Oppenheimer's iron-clad gaze, General Farrell also eased into his seat. "That's all it's gonna take. If we don't drop it... I don't want to think what might happen if we don't."

Oppenheimer cocked his head. "I wonder. How long would Japan last against a steady onslaught?"

"Plenty long enough for our own boys to lose their lives, if that's what you're suggesting."

"Oh, no no no," said Oppenheimer. "I'm scared too, but... can I be frank, General?"

The General laughed, the joke exiting his mouth at the same time he thought. "I thought that was your brother, Rob!" He began to ease up, but still his sight never moved.

"Good one, General. Seriously, though; I think we should go ahead. The sooner the better; we all need to work together and finish this war. I suppose you think America coming out on top is a rather fine side effect of its usage, don't you?" He didn't wait for General Farrell to answer. "I don't care about that."

"Excuse me?"

"I said, 'I don't care about that.' It's wonderful that we have the best position to maneuver with the eventual treaty, but that bomb -- that explosion -- it's not going to remain unheard. Other people will want it, and there is nothing more dangerous than a covetous friend. When you do use it, ensure that you're the one to stay in power."

J. Robert Oppenheimer got up, gave a mock salute that caused the General to grit his teeth, and paced out of the room.

As soon as the door fell closed, General Farrell pressed the com button. "Shirley?" he said. "Get a couple grunts on Oppenheimer. I think the fella got a screw knocked out by the Trinity blast."

"Will do, General."

--

August 6th, 1945.

All around were cheers and celebratory whistles and even a few catcalls; champaign bottles popping open, each one a miniature explosion of its own; tweeters and clatterers; in the corner, a young couple sucking face. It was all so... plebian. The war had not yet been one, despite the wreckage of Hiroshima. The Japanese were not so simple an enemy; they had centuries of shame and doubt to fight against, along with the continued oppression of nearly every western influence known to modern man. The fires in Hiroshima served only to incite rage.

And still these fools danced and laughed. J. Robert Oppenheimer had become a man who did not party. There were more important things to attend to. Without a single man or woman knowing, he disappeared from the celebrations.

The night air was cool and crisp; the complex was well-lit and alive even at this late hour. Oppenheimer preferred to remain in the shadows. He turned right, towards the intelligence offices; two goons guarded his approach. They seemed to Oppenheimer to be made of nothing so much as chin and shoulders and machine guns.

"Sorry, sir," said one. "We can't let you in during festivities," said the other. "Right," said the first with a little less humility and respect, "So fuck off, 'kay? We're tired of babysitting your sorry ass."

Oppenheimer nodded, but he wasn't really paying any attention; instead, he was looking past them, directly at a locked door marked in black lettering that pronounced "JANITOR'S CLOSET" with all the subtlety of a negro at a triple-k rally. "Hey," the angry one was saying, "You listening to me?" He was not.

Back at the party, nobody heard anything.

--

August 9th, 1945.

Major Sweeney didn't know what the flying fuck Oppenheimer thought he was doing sitting around the B-29 that Sweeney called home, but he was sure that it wasn't anything good. The guy had gone from an amicable, human-centric person to a downright nutjob. Unfortunately for the United States Military, nutjobbery wasn't a pre-requisite to kicking ass and/or taking names, and he was still (supposedly) a hell of a scientist. This bomb, he had promised with a twisted smile, this bomb was much better than the previous one.

Sweeney believed it. He wasn't around to see Little Boy in person, but Fat Man was more than big enough to scare the bejezus out of his kids back home. It seemed to radiate threat, and if he understood his physics well enough, it was doing just that. All encased in a neat little lead shield, or something like that. He wasn't really even that comfortable keeping it in his cargo bay, but that's what he was for, wasn't it? And it wasn't like he was going to let the American Military down. Kokura was going to be a perfect little ball of melted people when he was done.

From the back of the cockpit came a low little chuckle. He had really wished that James hadn't brought the guy. James was really nervous about it, too, like he was doing something he wasn't supposed to do. "Sorry I got held up," he said -- even though he was five minutes early -- "but Mr. Oppenheimer kind of wanted to come, and... well, here he is." It was really weird, is what it was, but James Hopkins wasn't the kind of person to let much under his skin, so Sweeney figured that it wsa part of something more important.

They passed over their primary target; On the eastern side was a massive front of clouds. Luckily, it hadn't reached Kokura yet. "Alright."

He got up after switching on auto-pilot for a minute so he could round up the crew and get the bomb prepped. Unconsciously, he straightened his hair and pushed out his jaw. Business time, boys.

The hold looked like hell on Earth; blood was splattered across the metal hull, matte red obscuring the shine of steel and making the light jagged and awkward. He barely had time to ask what the fuck had happened when a bullet pierced his shoulder. He screamed and fell backwards.

J. Robert Oppenheimer. Of course. That bastard scum. "What the hell--?"

Oppenheimer smiled and pressed the Walther to Sweeney's head. "That is the plan, my friend." He sighed, and released some of the pressure of the barrel from poor Sweeney's temple. "I don't suppose you've seen it, hell? It's not all that bad. I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

Just fifteen pounds per square inch, and Charles W. Sweeney was no more. Oppenheimer stalked like a savannah lion to the cockpit of the Bockscar. Kokura lay ahead of him, a ripe fruit fallen to the ground to rot, to gather worms and viruses and scum until it was itself the disease, spreading to the nearest fruit. Trinity replayed in the back of his mind. He had had enough. He had to get rid of the bomb the only way he knew how. He grabbed the throttle and pushed. The plane started to tilt downwards.

Fat Man had already been activated; he had put a switch in to do it remotely. At first Oppenheimer considered detonating it on the proletariat swine that was The Brass, but he realized they were too far removed; they weren't the problem, anyways. The social mores of society itself were to blame. Every single human was complicit in the continued machinations of The Government against itself. It was ridiculous. It had to end. And J. Robert Oppenheimer knew how.

"I am become Death, Destroyer of Worlds." The plane hit the ground.