by Huskyteer
He wondered, sometimes, whether or not it was the devil who made him. If the Catholics were right, and there was a hell, surely it had to resemble being set on committing suicide, and being too much of a fucking pussy to actually do it.
The house ahead was a good firing position. Clear all around, great sightlines, thick walls. He wanted to die, but a churning need to survive in his gut pushed him onwards with the rest of his brothers on the patrol. So far Sokolai had seen two of his brothers die—they’d tried for a medevac, but had been unable to get them out in the six hours stabilizing them had bought—and fifteen get taken to one of the field hospitals they’d snuck into Baku’s underground parking lots, but so far he hadn’t had that kind of luck. Maybe he’d have that kind of luck in the house. It was worth trying.
Edane opened the door with a 23 millimetre shell from his Light Anti-Materiel Weapon that shattered the lock, and Sokolai kicked what was left of the door down, pushing in first, ahead of the others.
A man in a tactical facemask, a goggle-eyed collection of six lenses winking as he looked up, gun rising, died before Sokolai could stop himself from pulling the trigger. It had been a reflex, pure, simple, perfect. If he’d been any slower than that, the man would have killed him. But the man was incompetent, and so was his friend on the far side of the entry hall, who fell back into a row of mail delivery lockers like a split water balloon, body and black uniform visibly warped around the 23 millimetre shell that must have detonated just right to splash the friend across the tiles like a bucket of paint.
It was quiet, while they checked the bodies. Sokolai smiled, thinly.
“I’m going to find a position up near the roof,” Edane said. “If they bring the tanks, I should be able to knock ’em out if I can get an angle on the top armour. You coming?”
Sokolai shook his head slowly. “I need five. Give me a minute to eat something and I’ll be up with you.”
“Sure thing.” Edane slapped his shoulder, and went through the shattered glass security door to the house’s stairwell. The house, the house was more of a small apartment block, to be honest.
Sokolai shut his eyes, and took a deep, deep breath. He could smell raw meat and charring and sewage. He smiled again.
He felt happy. He could smile, just like Michael taught him. He didn’t know why he felt happy. Was he supposed to feel happy?
He lifted the dead man’s phone, and thumbed on the translation program his EWAR kit had installed. The last outgoing message blinked into English.
Khadija, you must not be afraid, daddy will come home when everything is safe.
No, daddy would not be coming home. Daddy was lying on the floor with his head puddled out, like Setzen’s.
Sokolai shut his eyes, hard, and thought about Setzen. Thought about it until his heart shuddered in his chest and he was so afraid he felt like his body was too tight, and he looked at the phone again. Searched around for a family photograph, and compared the man in the picture to the ruination of blood on the tiles at Sokolai’s feet.
Sokolai dry-retched.
Sokolai hated himself.
Sokolai wished he hadn’t had to kill the man. Sokolai wished the man had given up like the other Azerbaijani soldiers. Sokolai wished the man had stayed home with his family.
Sokolai’s eyes were wet. He wasn’t crying, but they were wet.
He lifted his own phone, went to the nearest window, checked for the enemy, went to the next window, letting part of himself just move, live, breathe, do everything needed for survival, while he called home. The phone rang twice, and Michael picked up.
“Socks?”
“Hey, Mike?”
“Yeah? It’s good to hear from you. The gang called, asking about you. Aren’t you, like. Over there?”
“I am.” Sokolai wiped at his eye, and rested his head against the window frame, staring across at the mouth of a street between two buildings, waiting for the enemy. “This. This is a weird question, but you taught me how to smile, and, and I think I’m figuring out some of this myself, but. Can you teach me how to cry? I’m not a monster if I can cry, right?”
“I. Jesus, Socks. I don’t know. We could give it a shot.” Michael was quiet, for a little bit. “Are you okay, Socks?”
“I—I might be. Listen, when I get home, you, you have to teach me. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I have to go now. Bye.”
“Bye. Take care of yourself.”
“I will.” Sokolai killed the connection.
Then he went upstairs, and helped Edane to kill seven more combatants. By the time he’d killed the fifth, he didn’t care much about it anymore, he didn’t give a shit, they were just targets, but Sokolai took photographs with his rifle’s camera.
Later, when he’d learned how to cry, looking at the pictures would be cathartic.
For now, Sokolai let himself survive.
PERSONAL HISTORY, by Tim Susman
Boston, Massachusetts, 2012
The videographer, a red fox from M.I.T., had gone on a dozen of these mostly-fruitless artifact hunts, but his tail twitched back and forth, and his ears kept swiveling around as if scanning for threats in the very ordinary middle-class living room. His eyes remained fixed on the staircase, but he was looking beyond it: remembering, not seeing.
Scuffling noises from the staircase distracted him enough that he tilted his muzzle up. His companion, an early-thirties raccoon in a navy blue business blazer and skirt, watched the camera on his shoulder bobble.
“Are you all right?”
“It’s just…” The noises from up the stairs continued. He lowered his voice. “These bleached-tail Jesus-freak types.” He curled his own tail’s naturally immaculate ivory-white tip upward, off the floor.
“He doesn’t seem religious.” She patted him on the shoulder and gestured around at the oak-paneled walls, shopping-mall paintings, furniture caught between ‘recent’ and ‘antique,’ and a distinct lack of holy icons of any persuasion.
The fox snorted. “Then he’s doing it ironically. This guy in my Self Expression class said everyone ought to bleach their tail tips, to mess up the Church or some shit.”
She lowered her voice. “Just go easy on him when I tell him what it’s really worth, and we’ll be back at the museum soon.”
The creak of boards at the top of the stairs quieted them. A coyote not much older than the fox tottered down, his white-tipped tail swaying behind him as he balanced the weight of the broad, shallow wooden box in his paws. “Sorry. Had to dig it out from all my ma’s shit,” the coyote said in a broad New England brogue that pulled his o’s and a’s forward out of the words. He dropped it on the dining room table with a thud that made the raccoon’s ears fold back and pulled a faded, yellowed note from an envelope atop the box. “Says here, ‘this uniform is our most valuable possession.’”
The raccoon winced at the crackling of the yellowed paper on the brown, moldy envelope. She held out a paw. “May I?”
While she inspected the brittle paper, the coyote said, “That’s 1850 at the top. So it’s probably like a Civil War uniform, right? What’s that worth?”
She didn’t answer immediately, but held up the note to the camera when the fox lifted it to his shoulder. Eyes bright and wide, she tapped a finger next to the faded, ancient handwriting, but kept her voice steady as she said, “The paper looks, feels, and smells as one would expect if the date were authentic.”
When the fox had captured the note, the raccoon set the paper aside. “Let’s have a look, sir.” She waited while the coyote lifted the lid from the box.
At the first sight of it, she held her breath, and then the camera’s light came on and she blinked at the bright crimson fabric. “It looks real,” she whispered, and then, louder, “It smells real.” The fox brought the camera closer as the raccoon leaned in, twitching fingers held behind her back. “It appears to be a uniform from the Revolutionary War era, a British one, hardly faded at all.”
; “Probably hasn’t been opened in like a hundred fifty years.” The coyote rested the lower edge of the box lid on his thighs, leaving gritty tracks on his blue jeans and bringing the upper edge, thick with dust, to his nose. He made a face and blew across the lid to clean it off.
“Careful!” The raccoon pulled the box toward her, away from the cloud drifting down from the box lid. As soon as it was clear, she wiped her paws on her jeans and then clasped them behind her back again. Now she spoke to the microphone atop the camera. “The front looks pristine, except for a few stains.”
She didn’t notice the coyote looking down her shirt; the fox did, but kept the camera stable and gritted his teeth. When the coyote didn’t respond right away, the raccoon started to turn toward him, and he flattened his ears back, gesturing at the jacket laid carefully out in the box. “You can get it cleaned, though, right?”
The raccoon didn’t change her posture, absorbed in studying the jacket. “We wouldn’t. The stains on a piece of vintage clothing like this can be very instructive as well. If it’s authentic. Food, tobacco, ale…you can tell a lot about a soldier by his coat.”
“It’s authentic.” The coyote’s ears came back up, the cleavage forgotten. He jabbed a claw at the box. “My great-great-something grandfather wouldn’t lie.”
“Usually they fade. This one looks very new.” The raccoon produced a small metal probe from her pocket and lifted one side of the jacket. “But the stains make me think it is authentic. There’s a lot of blood. No tear in the jacket that I can see, though…he must have been killed at close quarters.”
“One of my ancestors fought in the Revolutionary War,” the coyote said. “Must’ve killed this guy and took his coat.”
The raccoon let the jacket fall. A faint rustle, like the crackle of the old envelope, reached her ears, but she ignored it for the moment. “Do you know any more of the story? How the soldier was killed, which battle?”
“I didn’t even know about the jacket until last week. Grandpa just used to say our family fought the British twice, the Rebs, and the Nazis. I thought this might be a Nazi uniform ’til I saw the date on the note.”
“Mmm.” The raccoon brushed a small, pale stain near the lower hem of the left side of the coat. “This stain might have been oatmeal. That would indicate that the soldier rushed into battle in the morning without time to prepare.”
When the coyote didn’t answer, the raccoon flicked her eyes up and this time caught him looking down her dress. “Would any of your relatives know more of the story?”
“No,” he said sharply. “My cousins don’t even know about it. Mom inherited it from Grandpa and left it to me. Anyway, I’m sure it’s just a boring story. Guy was eating breakfast with his regiment, the Americans attacked, he was killed. What else is there?”
The hills outside Fort Stanwix, August 6, 1777
Sunlight dappled the red coat of John Martingale, the bright spots dancing like light on a crimson sea as the fox lifted his arms. The russet fur visible on his smiling muzzle, bare thighs, and bushy tail shone palely next to the bright scarlet. The dirty white tip of his long tail caught the sun with a flash of white and then flicked back into shadow.
Atop him, the spots of sunlight fell on browns and greens that might have been no more than the forest floor molded in the shape of a slender coyote. Bright amber eyes gleamed in his muzzle’s dusty tan fur as Nathaniel Braxton relaxed atop John, his nose coming to touch the fox’s.
John pulled Nathaniel down atop him. “Thank Providence for this meeting,” he said. “I have missed you, dear.” Their lips met, and John held the coyote’s head down, making the kiss long and deep.
Hoofbeats echoed in the distance, and both their ears perked. Nathaniel raised his head and chest to peer deep into the shadows and trees. “You should hurry back.”
John smiled lazily up. “I’ve ten minutes at least.”
“And you still must put those breeches back on.”
“I could walk into camp claiming a dashing Colonial rebel stole them from me.”
“To take your dignity from you? I’d take your coat first.”
“What, all stained and dirty?”
“Even so.” The coyote grinned and pulled the fox up to kiss him on the nose. “Especially so.”
“It would set off your eyes nicely.”
Nathaniel reached down to tease the fox’s naked midriff. “Bah! As though I would sully my fur with that fabric.”
“You know you look good.” John reached up to brush his fingers along the tan buckskin vest. “Even dressed so shabbily.”
“My father’s father killed this buck himself.” Nathaniel rested his fingers on John’s, and his tongue lolled. “At least we don’t make targets of ourselves.”
“No, you lose each other in the smoke and shoot your comrades.” John looked along his muzzle at Nathaniel’s black nosepad and gold-amber eyes. His ears flicked back to the approaching hoofbeats, and his smile weakened. His voice lowered, trading jocularity for urgency. “Come with me. We’ve Colonial Loyalists in camp, some coyotes even. You’d be welcomed.”
“Come with me,” Nathaniel riposted, clasping the fox’s paw in his. “We could make our way back to Boston.”
The fox’s fingers tightened, returning the embrace. “And then what? Live in the shed behind your house, with Selah bringing me meals, with whatever time I can steal from you?”
“Selah likes you. She begrudged you not a whit of our time together.” His ears perked. “Your life would be your own. Is that not what you fight for?”
John lowered his muzzle. “I fight for God and King and country. My life is in his service.”
“Hang the King!” Nathaniel said.
In the ensuing silence, the hoofbeats marked time like the ticks of a pendulum clock. Finally, John sighed. “I know that our stationing put an unfair burden on you.”
“On you, rather. Many of your fellow soldiers found wives, while you stood dignified and aloof. On the outside.” The coyote pressed closer and smiled a long grin. “Only to me did you show your soft underbelly.”
John accepted the embrace, pulled his lover closer still. “Only you deserved to see it. Well, why do you think I left England to begin with, in the company of other strapping young men?”
“And yet you sought out the company of one not even your own species.”
“What matters species? We’ll have no cubs, no matter how we try.” The fox buried his fingers in the thick brown fur at the coyote’s side.
“If we could have been married…would you have left the Army to take up a trade in Boston?”
They lay, noses a hair’s breadth apart, breath warm on each other’s whiskers. “What use debating that question?” John said finally.
“No,” Nathaniel said. “You’d not leave the Empire.”
“How can I throw away the history—?”
“History!” The coyote barked a laugh. He brought the fox’s paw to his tail, where it curled around at his side. “We wear our history on our skins, John. This fur my father had, my cub has, and his cubs will have after him. History is not so easily discarded.”
“And yet…” John’s paw curled around the black tip of the tail, held it, felt its restless twitching. “Your grandfather’s father did not live in a town. Nor was he a Christian.”
“I promise you, whether my grandchildren live in towns or cities or in hide tents under the stars, whether they follow Christ or no, they will still be coyotes, children of First Coyote, ready to take whatever advantage they can from life.” He grinned pointedly at the russet-and-white fur below him. “Just as your cubs will show the fire from which First Fox sprang.”
John shifted, bracing himself on the damp, dirty ground with one elbow. “Christ’s blood, you rascal. And Mary’s touch—”
“Yes, Mary’s cleansing touch. So are the true children of Christ marked for entry to Paradise, while the rest of us cluster at the gates outside.”
John let the old, familia
r teasing pass; it was comforting, in a way. “But this uniform is part of my life as well. And so are you.”
Now the hoofbeats drummed as loudly as a summons to war. Nathaniel sighed, released John from his embrace, and stood.
The smell of pork grease filled the air. The coyote lifted his nose and grinned without humor. “At least the boys will think I’ve snuck off to raid the enemy’s stores, not their soldiers.”
“Come with me,” John pleaded again as Nathaniel pulled his pants up. “As a defector you would be welcome. As a prisoner—you could be docked.”
The coyote curled his tail around his leg. “I’ll lose my life before my tail, thank you.”
“Don’t talk like that.” John lowered his ears.
“It’s not me you should be worried about,” Nathaniel said. “I’ll be safe behind our lines in the time it will take you to clean yourself off and find your breeches. Fort Stanwix shan’t fall, whatever your generals may think by besieging it.”
“Go, then,” John said, reaching to one side where his dark blue breeches lay. “Godspeed.”
“Don’t fret,” Nathaniel said. He leaned forward to kiss the fox on the nose. “We’ll meet again in happier times.”
John pulled the coyote’s muzzle to his. Their tails and ears stilled, and the forest stilled around them. Even the urgent hoofbeats died away, leaving only birdsong and the soft whistle of breath through two long muzzles. When at last they broke apart, their eyes met again. “If Providence wills,” the fox said. “Keep yourself safe.”
“I will, whether Providence wills it or not.” The flash of the coyote’s grin sparkled in the sun, and then he was gone in the woods, barely a crackle marking his passing.
Scarcely had John wiped the pork grease from his fur and fastened his breeches when the cry went up from the nearby camp. “Rebel army to the south!” He hurried back through the low brush to the clearing, paw to his breeches as though he’d just been relieving himself, but the rest of the company was busy gathering arms and coming to attention, and nobody took the least notice of him. Fortunate, he thought, for the smell of pork grease still came stronger than the dry summer grass to his nose. He hadn’t time to clean properly, but gunpowder and blood would overwhelm that scent soon enough.
