by Matt Moore
“Let ’im be, Ellie,” Alvin said. To James he said: “We won’t be too long.”
James found a chair and waited. Finally, the group left, most smiling at James as they passed. He stood and went into Alvin’s room.
“’Lo, James,” he said, left side of his mouth curling up in a smile.
“How are you feeling?” James sat in a simple chair next to the bed.
“Comfortable as I can, I s’pose. Docs say it won’t be long. A big ’un’ll come and get me.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you for, um . . . Well, f’ saving my life. I’m sorry. For what I said, that is.” He tapped the side of his head. “Brain wasn’t workin’ right.”
“Apology accepted,” James said, smiling. “And I’m sorry for asking you like that. And my mother . . .”
“You can’t help that. Don’t think there’s any man who can keep your mother from sayin’ what’s on ’er mind.” He swallowed. “I have t’ ask, though. I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout it. Why save me? Why risk your own life? The Cycle says th’ old die so th’ young can live. That stupid kid would’ve run me down and you and Mary could be parents in nine months.”
“Because . . .” James said, “it was the right thing to do.”
“That’s very Christian of you, but not th’ Cycle.”
“I guess . . .” His mind spun. “Sometimes we get mixed up in what our religion says and not what it means. I could have let you die and said ‘the Cycle turns,’ but it wouldn’t have been right. The Cycle’s about having the best world we can. Don’t take too much from it. Work hard. For me, the best world is one with you still in it. Even if it means waiting a little longer for a baby, it’s too selfish to ask you to die.”
Alvin nodded, sunlight catching tear tracks on his cheeks. “I’ve been thinkin’, James. ’bout that night. If I’d been home when th’ stroke hit.” He swallowed. “I’d be dead right now. God wanted me at your place. I’m sure a it. He moved through you so I’d live.” He wiped at his tears. “There’s some message in this. Some meanin’ t’ m’ life.”
James remained silent, not sure how active a role Christians believed their God had in their lives.
“I should have discussed this with you man to man,” James began, frustration creeping up. “Mary invited my parents over. I should have said ‘no.’ Or talked to you first.”
“Too late for that, James. God works His will. Or ‘the Cycle turns,’ you might say.” He reached out and took James’s hand. “Don’t be mad. You an’ your mom; your feelin’s run deep. You got that from ’er, but you got your dad’s soft-spoken side. Your mom knows what she believes. I think you get into fights with ’er ’cause you don’t. And Mary. She’s a keeper. She’s got no family but you. I know what it’s like t’ lose family. When I gave my life t’ Christ my sister cut me off. Just like that.” He wiped at his eyes again. “Hey, listen t’ me ramblin’ on.”
“It’s okay,” James said and meant it.
Alvin cleared his throat and asked, “So, you think the Sox are going all the way?”
James passed the letter to Mary. He’d read the shaky writing twice at the hospital.
Dear James and Mary,
The doctors have told me my chances are not good, so I am going to write this while I can.
We believe different things, but I’ve come to see there’s no harm in someone lighting a candle when I die. My soul belongs to God and I’ll face His judgment, but if you take comfort from a candle and it reminds you of our friendship, it’s a blessed thing. And if you choose to blow it out when your first child is born, where’s the harm?
My church doesn’t agree. They say it’s blasphemy to consider it. But I think about what you said. That sometimes the words of our faith get in the way of what they’re trying to teach us.
And I think that’s what God wanted me to realize. With everything I’ve done in my life, I don’t think God will mind one candle. It’s an act of Christian charity.
I hope you’ll tell your little boy or girl about me. That I tried to live a good life. I did some terrible things in the wars, but I hope I’ve made the world a better place. And I hope your son or daughter will learn that lesson from me.
That’s what I want to leave to this world. The meaning of my life. We can make the world better even with small actions.
I hope you never see this letter and we can go back to drinking beers and watching the ball games. But if not, I thank you for giving me this time so I could see what God had to show me.
Sincerely,
Alvin
As Mary read, James placed the simple translantern that the nurse had given him on the mantle. Through the few round holes in the thin metal frame, a candle burned with Alvin’s soul.
At least, that’s what he’d been taught to believe. What his mother believed and what Mary believed.
She finished reading the letter and hugged him.
“Does this mean . . . ?” she started, her words slightly muffled with her face against his chest. “Your mom—”
“Alvin was more like family than some cousin I’ve never met. My mom will have to accept it.”
She squeezed him tighter and began to cry. He held her for a few moments, then she asked: “Did you mean what you said to your mom? About not wanting to be part of the church?”
James went cold. After his parents had left that night, James had been terrified of Mary’s reaction. That night, in bed, he’d stared at the ceiling, wondering if his marriage was over, his mother would disown him and Alvin would die.
In the days since, she’d never mentioned it.
But now here it was. He picked his word carefully. “It’s her insistence on being right. On following so many rules. So many of them are hers. They’re not even the church’s.” He glanced at the translantern, the flame burning inside. It didn’t hold a soul for his child, he admitted to himself. Just permission to have one. “It’s not her decision. Why should she—why should anyone—get to say when we can start a family?” Frustration flared now. “Like our kids would be . . . ? What? Monsters killing small animals? People new to this country act like they’re fully ensouled. But downtown, white people who should have been fully ensouled live on streets, break into cars.” Mary shifted against him, pulling away, and his anger collapsed to fear.
She looked up at him, tears in her eyes. “I’ve wondered,” she said, “why is it that a Negro or Oriental, even as an adult, can become fully ensouled through hard work and accepting the Cycle, but a white baby must have a soul when it’s born?”
James nodded, fear melting to surprise—shock even—at Mary’s question. He told her of the time as a teenager when he’d asked his mother something similar. “She wouldn’t answer. Said only a half-souled person would ask.”
“I think about what Alvin said,” Mary went on, “about abortion and slavery. The Conklins and Sullivans with their three kids.”
The night when they’d made love without a condom after returning from Alvin’s house came to mind. “Do you believe in the Cycle?”
Mary was still for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t think my parents are right, either, but I don’t think I believe. Not anymore. It doesn’t make sense.” She hugged him tighter, her face against his chest. “I’ve been so scared that you’ll lose your parents like I lost mine. I said such terrible things to them, things that your mother would have said. I—I didn’t want you to lose your parents, but I see now.”
“My mom won’t risk losing touch with her kids. And grandkids. Things will have to change. But we have a flame now and . . . and I don’t even care about that. It’s our decision.”
They held each other for a while.
Not everyone Alison invited came to her birthday party. Only about half the girls who’d gone to Jennifer Conklin’s party and Karen Sullivan’s party went to Alison’s. It made Alison sad, but Mommy told her to be happy about the girls who did come.
There were games and presents and cake. They listened to music on Daddy’
s radio and sang along with the songs they liked.
At least Rebecca Okafu came. Alison had never seen Rebecca at other birthday parties. Sometimes Rebecca would play with the girls in the neighbourhood, but Alison didn’t know anyone who’d been to her house. And some of the other girls said mean things behind her back. Alison thought it was just because Rebecca was black.
After everyone had gone home, Mommy said it wasn’t Alison’s fault that some girls hadn’t come. Alison wanted to play with her presents, but Mommy sat her down and Daddy sat down, too. That meant they were serious.
They told Alison that some of the parents didn’t like that Mommy was going to have another baby, but didn’t have a translantern. That’s why some of the girls hadn’t come to the party. It wasn’t that they didn’t like Alison, but their parents had told them not to go. Some people, they said, believe you had to have a special candle before you could have a baby. That was the Cycle, Alison knew. Daddy’s mommy and daddy believed that. But Mommy’s mommy and daddy believed anyone can have as many babies as they wanted. They were Christians, Alison also knew.
What Mommy and Daddy believed was somewhere in the middle. They said even if people believe different things than you, you had to do what you thought was right. They told her again about their friend Alvin. She was named after him, she knew, even though it was funny to be named after a boy. Alvin had done some things some of his friends didn’t like. But he did them because he thought they were right and could make the world better. Even a small thing can make a difference.
Alison asked if Alvin’s friends stopped being his friend.
No, they told her. His friends forgave Alvin because he was a good man. When he passed away, they followed their traditions to remember him and show him respect.
Alison thought about that, then asked if some girls didn’t come because she’d invited Rebecca. Alison said her friends said black people weren’t fully ensouled. They said their parents said the Okafus were going to wreck the neighbourhood. “Next thing you know,” Alison said, imitating Karen’s daddy, “there will be coloureds all up and down the damn street.” Alison giggled, imagining Ridgeline Crescent on top of a dam. She hoped her backyard would be on the water side, not the side with the big wall going down.
Mommy and Daddy didn’t laugh.
“They’re ‘black,’ sweetie,” Daddy said. “Coloured isn’t a nice word.”
Alison thought about that for a second. “But black is a colour.”
“Alison,” Mommy said. Mommy only needed to say her name like that for Alison to be quiet.
They asked her if she understood and she said she did. She helped Mommy and Daddy clean up from the party and had a small supper. She was stuffed from the cake and chips. Mommy helped her get ready for bed and tucked her in.
Lying awake, she heard the older kids yelling and playing outside. Downstairs, Mommy and Daddy watched television. For a little while, she thought about her presents and the great day she’d had playing with her friends. Especially Rebecca.
She thought about Alvin. He’d been a brave man. A soldier. And brave enough to believe something different than other people because he thought it was right. And he thought it would make things better for other people.
She wanted to be brave like Alvin. And Mommy and Daddy. She didn’t care what some of the other girls thought. Rebecca was nice and fun and smart.
Tomorrow, she’d go to Rebecca’s house to play.
The Pack
DOCUMENT 1: COMMUNIQUÉ
SENDER: Dr. C.-L. Ibarro, Medical Director, Advanced Soldier Enhancement and Survival Program (ASESP)
RECIPIENTS: Brigadier General Douglas Stern, Advanced Weapon Systems Research, Development and Engineering Centre (AWSRDEC)
Clark Bernshaw, Assistant Deputy Undersecretary of Defence
I have completed assessments of the six surviving members of the ASESP.
The nanites now constitute between 2% and 3% of the men’s body weight. This represents an unanticipated 300-fold increase from initial dosage.
There is another complication. Each man was injected with a unique nanite model. Each man now hosts an identical hybrid model which appears to be the result of cross-contamination and replication.
I cannot explain the periods of prolonged silence reported among the program’s survivors.
I cannot predict what other side-effects may occur.
I will repeat that I warned that field testing could result in unexpected consequences.
I recommend the nanites be removed immediately.
DOCUMENT 2: COMMUNIQUÉ
SENDER: Brigadier General Douglas Stern, AWSRDEC
RECIPIENT: Clark Bernshaw, Assistant Deputy Undersecretary of Defence
Sir—
Dr. Ibarro was unable to remove the nanites. She is unsure how to proceed.
I’m worried by these men, who took on the nickname “The Pack” during their training. The few times I’ve talked to Sergeant Calabrese, it’s like he’s looking right through me.
I haven’t heard one laugh, seen one smile, get mad. When they’re together, they’ll go hours without saying a word. It’s eerie. Makes me wonder how far Dr. Ibarro went with having those things play with their brains.
The only outsider they retain any respect for seems to be Colonel Holding. If it wasn’t for her, I don’t think they’d follow chain of command. I have increased Holding’s security clearance. We will need her fully informed on the nature of the program if we are to have any hope of working with these men further.
Honestly, I think something happened to them in the desert.
—Doug
DOCUMENT 3: COMMUNIQUÉ
SENDER: Clark Bernshaw, Assistant Deputy Undersecretary of Defence
RECIPIENT: Brigadier General Douglas Stern, AWSRDEC
Doug: I know you opposed early discussions of extreme ASESP termination measures, but I ask you to look to the safety of your command and the American people. Consider the changed behaviour of these men and the capabilities this program was designed to instil. I have come to believe they could pose a significant danger.
The men volunteered. They were aware of the risks. It seems Dr. Ibarro’s technology did not undergo a thorough shakedown on their last mission; perhaps a more dangerous mission is called for.
DOCUMENT 4: TRANSCRIPT
(Audio file on cellphone recovered from Assistant Deputy Undersecretary Bernshaw’s basement. The voice has been confirmed as Sergeant Calabrese.)
CALABRESE: Good, you’re awake. Didn’t mean to hit you so hard, but couldn’t have you screaming like that. It could draw attention in this nice Arlington suburb.
Stop struggling, Under Secretary. The straps are too tight. No one is coming to save you. Your bodyguards? Dead.
You know who we are, right?
BERNSHAW: Sergeant Calabrese. From—
CALABRESE: Good. Now, you’re going to tell us what the hell you did to us. Then, how to fix it. And I’m recording this in case anything happens to us.
BERNSHAW: Let me make a phone call. We can sort this out—
[SOUNDS OF A STRUGGLE; MUFFLED VOICE]
CALABRESE: No. No calls. Going to tell someone where we are? We’d just kill them, too.
[SEVERAL SECONDS OF SILENCE]
CALABRESE (cont’d): My friends say to kill you. But you’re going to understand, Under Secretary. What we’ve been through. What we’ve become.
Colonel Holding had three hundred volunteers that first day. Three hundred men and women willing to put their lives on the line. We didn’t even know the risks. “Become better, stronger soldiers,” they told us. No more bulky exoarmour. Win these damned wars and get our boys and girls back home. And after people got screened out or flunked out, you had ten of us. We put up with injections and drinking crap that looked and smelled like motor oil past its prime.
Some quick shakedown missions. Then the big one. Dropped deep behind enemy lines to hit a supply depot. We pulled it off, then waited for an e
vac drone that never came. Heard about the double agent, the drone getting shot down, in debrief. All we knew then was that we had strict radio silence orders and a fifty-klick march through hell.
We reported minimal enemy contact. But that’s bullshit. We got hit on the third day.
Small arms fire and mortars. We’d been holed up, catching some sleep. Had some of our gear off. Shrapnel cut Bailey across the middle, guts spilling out. Screaming, thrashing. I held him down and Gündersen got a pressure bandage on. Over Bailey’s screaming, Gündersen said she felt something moving. I told her to shut up and dug for a fentanyl tab in my kit. But Gündersen lifted the bandage.
The rip in Bailey’s skin looked like scorched, ragged lips pulled back over a mouth of blood-smeared meat. But the bleeding had stopped. And I thought I was seeing things, but the organs were shifting, putting themselves back where they belonged. Should’ve shit my pants. Or puked. Or something. Instead, I put the tab in Bailey’s mouth, calm as can be. Knocked him out a few seconds later. The organs kept moving. Then two feet of ripped-up bowel got shoved out of the wound. And I’ll be damned if the skin didn’t pull together on its own.
Next second, a mortar threw me into a rock, head first. I didn’t have my helmet on. Just remember the sound of my skull breaking.
When I came to, the enemy had broken off. Gündersen was down. Caught five rounds in the chest.
Five rounds I saw get pushed back out of the entry wounds.
The next day, the three of us were up like nothing had happened. We knew the program would make us tough, but this? I felt like nothing could stop Bailey, Gündersen and me. We were tight. And I don’t mean because we’d been through the shit together. We acted as one. Like we knew what each other was thinking.
Two days later, an RPG took Nawaz’s arm and half of Pratt’s face. And then they were Pack, too.
Soon we all were.
But we lost people. Whatever you did can’t fix an artillery shell taking your head off.
