My Father’s Name Is War is a veteran’s reckoning with memory, disability, and the empire that shaped them. In the tradition of The Things They Carried , this debut short story collection refuses to sanitize conflict or glorify sacrifice. The Global War on Terror did not take place. These violent hallucinations reveal what did. A futuristic weapons program uses nostalgia and shame to enforce battlefield obedience. - Virtual reality therapy rekindles a longing for wartime in a broken veteran. - A South Korean magnate’s passion project threatens to rewrite the logic of global power. These nine transmissions include fictions, fever dreams, and fragments of philosophy that trace the psychic and political debris left behind by protracted conflict. Drawing on science fiction, horror, poetry, and psychological realism, Bauder examines the machinery of the security state and the human lives caught in its gears. For fans of literary fiction, complex narratives, and postwar reckonings. "Bauder sets these nine stories in a variety of wartime settings... but the core narrative of the collection is born out of what's referred to here as the Global War on Terror... The various stories underscore the surrealism of war from the viewpoints of the ordinary people caught up in it-the author states that, among his other reasons for publishing this collection, he intends it to be 'an attack on the pious fetishization of sacrifice.'... Bauder's talent for pacing and ear for sharp twists in dialogue will carry the reader into the weird realities of conflict." - Kirkus Reviews "A powerful collection... Its anger constant and at times white hot . My Father's Name Is War grapples with an individual's own experience inside and adjacent to the United States war machine, but not without objectivity, resulting in a relentless critique of a manifestly destructive system." - Independent Book Review " My Father's Name Is War is hard-hitting, raw, and at times surreal. While written as military fiction, the situations depicted are realistic, giving rise to the disturbing possibility that much of what has been presented is true. Bauder writes with a fascinating style that is provocative, punchy, and will challenge the reader... However unpalatable the content may be to some, it is an intriguing, perceptive, and thought-provoking work that is highly recommended." - Readers' Favorite Excerpt from the included short story Private Passenger . Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.   It's half past seven, and my notes are ready for the eight o'clock with the boss. I have feelers out with a few sources tied to my bit of gold, which appears to be growing heavier by the minute. Some people in this line of work tend to conflate social credit, financial credit, and the type of credit born of Information and her needy lover: Exclusivity. Abby is one of those people, blissfully yapping away while I'm busy making myself a coffee in the break room.   "So, I took my son to school at our synagogue last week ..."   "Right," I say. There's a speaker overhead blaring our company's radio messaging. I find it equally engaging.   "IT'S SEVEN-THIRTY ON RADIO [REDACTED] ; THIS IS KARL KIWI, WITH MUSIC AND ..."   "... and they tell us we're going to perform their monthly active shooter drill alongside our children ..."   "Oh, wow."   "... AND NOW, A SPECIAL MESSAGE FOR OUR ASSOCIATES SERVING OUT IN HARM'S WAY ..."   "... and now I've got the words 'Run, Hide, Fight' playing over and over in my brain..."   "Mm-hm."   "OSCAR-SIERRA-SIERRA-ONE-TWO-ONE-FIFE-SEVEN-NINER. OSCAR-SIERRA-SIERRA ..."   "Did you see the new Zen garden they installed on campus? Out by the smoke pit?"   "THE BOOKS HAVE TAKEN A SPILL."   "Nope." Shit, are we still out of creamer?   "THE BOOKS HAVE TAKEN A SPILL."   "... and there's, like, that sand that you can rake ..."   "JOHN LOST HIS FAVORITE WHISKEY."   "... and I thought it was so ironic ..."   "JOHN LOST HIS FAVORITE WHISKEY."   "Like, why do we need that? We're in the business of killing people..." She punctuates the statement with a giggle.   I can't help but gag. "Wait, what did you just say?" There's a limb before my open maw.   "It's ironic, right?"   "No—I mean, sure, but after that."   "We're in the business of killing people?" She hesitates.   Her pupils are widening; perhaps her prey drive is kicking in. "When have you ever killed someone?"   "Oh, I haven't—"   "Of course not. You don't kill; you protect the company's assets. Actually, that's not quite the truth, either. You support those who do—poorly, I might add—if your recent DUB briefs are any indication. The associates in the call centers achieve more for Ol' Karl Kiwi than you." Fucking delusional.   She's glitching, dying eyes retreating. "I—I don't understand. Last week, you said I was improving... and I adjusted my wardrobe to be more work-appropriate, just like you recommended. I... Where is this coming from?"   It's over. She's gone. I'll