by Daniel Gibbs
“Oh, you got lucky, flyboy,” Feldstein immediately replied. “Stupid computer said my engine lost sixty percent thrust.” She sounded miserable. “Next time, I’ll take you.”
“I look forward to it,” Justin said as he evened out his fighter and slowed from combat speed.
“Sometimes, it’s better to be lucky than good,” Feldstein groused as her craft came back to life. “Be careful your luck doesn’t run out.”
“I’ll see what I can do there.” Justin grinned and toggled the comm channel over to Command. “Major, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear, Spencer. Quite a show you guys put on.”
“Thank you, sir. I still need to review the simulator holovids, but I feel pretty confident moving forward. The improved Ghosts function quite well.”
“Agreed. Bring them back to the barn.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Justin replied. Finally, we’re ready to hit the League.
After they’d completed the Ghost tests and a final set of recommendations to MacIntosh and the engineering teams from the CDF Special Projects division, the mood on the Zvika Greengold shifted from desperation to hope—especially among the pilots and the Red Tails. To celebrate, Whatley gave them the night off, which resulted in a card game hosted by Mateus after dinner.
Justin, Adeoye, Feldstein, and Mateus sat around the usual table in her quarters. Over the past few months, it had become routine, almost a habit, for Alpha element to gather there. Bantering the evening away, they consumed a few beers, kicked back, and relaxed to the point that Justin almost felt like a normal human being—not a warrior on a hair trigger, waiting for the next battle.
A dozen disastrous hands of poker and two pints of beer later, he tossed his cards onto the table. “You win again, Lieutenant.”
Mateus made a grand show of collecting the chips on the table and adding them to her massive pile. “I believe you’re all tapped out now.” She winked. “When are you boys going to learn not to mess with the Portuguese raider?”
“Sure you haven’t marked those cards?” Justin asked good-naturedly but with a stern expression. “Seriously, eleven out of twelve hands?”
She shrugged. “You all have tells. I’ve learned them after all this time. Three months is an eternity to play the same people in cards.”
“Hmmm.” Justin’s lips curled into a grin. “Put your money where your mouth is, and let’s play some blackjack.”
“You’re on, flyboy.”
As Mateus shuffled the cards and removed both the jokers, Feldstein spoke. “So, who’s looking forward to hitting the Leaguers at Earth?”
“Better question—what yellow-bellied coward isn’t, so we can throw them off the ship?” Mateus replied as she cut the deck. “I can’t wait to get there.” Her face contorted in anger. “And pay them back for what they’ve done to all our friends.”
Justin tilted his head. “No one’s worried it’s a jump too far?”
“You, of all people, ask us that?” Feldstein smirked. “The holovid hero himself, Justin Spencer, getting cold feet? Perish the thought.”
“Downtime gives way to introspection,” Justin replied with a frown. “Especially when I look at all the symbols on the side of my fighter.” What had begun as a way to honor the pilots lost on the Zvika Greengold had morphed into something of a shipwide memorial. Several other Red Tails had copied him, having religious symbols painted on the side of their craft instead of kill markings.
Mateus tossed a couple of cards faceup to each of them before putting a single card facedown in front of her and a second faceup. “It’s war.” Her tone was nonchalant but held an edge. “We all knew what we signed up for.”
“I’ll hit,” Justin said after examining his cards—a ten of spades and a three of diamonds.
The next card to land in front of him was a nine of clubs.
“Ha. It looks like your luck is holding, Spencer,” Mateus said.
The others played their hands before she continued, “Dealer has fourteen and will hit. Ah, look at that, a queen. Dealer busts.” Her eyes locked with his. “I think you’ll do just fine.”
“Everyone’s got an expiration date,” Justin replied.
“Wow, I thought we were supposed to be cheering ourselves up,” Feldstein interjected. “Keep this up, and I’ll want to visit an airlock.”
Chuckles swept through the room, but they seemed forced.
Adeoye leaned forward. “Friends, it would be wrong not to acknowledge the loss of so many of our number. But at least the four of us have survived. We are like brothers and sisters, except in arms rather than blood.” The deep timbre of his voice made the words sound even better. “And I believe we will avenge our fallen. I know it.”
“Thanks, Jackson.” Mateus swept a stray hair out of her right eye. “Okay, let’s dispense with the sappy and get back to playing cards.” She took a swig of beer. “Or do I need to order you all to take some shots?”
“You can’t order me,” Justin observed. “Seeing as I outrank you.”
Mateus grinned evilly. “But I am a woman, so I can bend any man to my will.”
“Keep dreaming.” Justin chuckled. “And please say that in front of my wife.”
They all laughed again before beginning another round of blackjack. Two hours later, nearly 0100 CMT, the game finally broke up, and they helped Mateus clean her quarters. Adeoye’s cabin was farther down the same deck, so he bid them all good night, leaving Justin and Feldstein to walk to the gravlift together.
“I think I had too much to drink,” she said, letting out a sigh. “Probably going to pay for it tomorrow.”
“We’re not twenty anymore,” Justin replied. He snorted. “I was never into drinking, anyway.”
“Yeah, I noticed you never have more than two beers.”
Justin shrugged and pressed the button to call the gravlift. “My father had a problem with the stuff. I know alcoholism can be genetic, so I’ve never actually been drunk.”
Feldstein stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Not even at your wetting down for getting flight wings?”
“Nope.” Justin shook his head and smiled. “I faked it.”
“Ha.”
The gravlift doors swooshed open, and both of them walked inside. Justin hit the button for the deck where the rest of the pilots’ quarters were housed. A moment later, it took off.
“You’re not the only one who thinks about the fallen,” Feldstein said, breaking the somewhat awkward silence. “I do too.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
Feldstein held up her hand. “Not meant as a rebuke, only a reminder you’re not alone. I’m here any time you want to talk or try to deal with what’s happened.” She smiled ruefully. “After all, we’re some of the only people who know what this”—she waved her arms in the air—“feels like.”
“True.” Justin closed his eyes briefly. “At least we get to see our families soon, right?”
“Yeah.” Her tone changed suddenly to one of mild annoyance. “Well, some of us, anyway.” The doors to the lift opened. “I’m going to get some rest.” She turned and walked down the passageway.
“Good night,” Justin called after her. His cabin was in the opposite direction, and while he thought about chasing her down and figuring out what was wrong, a strong desire to sleep before he collapsed onto the deck plating overtook him. Once he’d made it to his stateroom, Justin fell onto the bed, uniform still on, and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
5
The space-elevator complex in geosynchronous orbit around New Washington was a marvel of human engineering. It rivaled a similar installation at Canaan for complexity and size, though Canaan had separate civilian and military traffic centers. While shared, New Washington’s had primarily been used by the CDF since the outbreak of hostilities.
Justin settled along with a couple hundred other members of the Zvika Greengold’s crew into a large “car” that conveyed personnel and cargo from the
surface to space and back. He purposely avoided traveling with the rest of the pilots, hoping instead to clear his head during the thirty-minute trip down. More than anything, Justin craved some separation between his duties and seeing his family again.
As the elevator car landed on the surface, large crowds of family members were visible beyond the unloading area. I wonder how many there are. Justin did some quick mental math and realized that given the number of officers and enlisted personnel on the carrier, easily ten thousand family members could be waiting for them.
The external doors opened, and it seemed as if everyone charged the opening at once. It took a few minutes to get outside. Once Justin did, he took in the scene. A sea of humanity had been organized into rows based on last name. Large overhead signs indicated where they should queue, and he got in line under a giant S.
After another wait that seemed to take forever but was only ten minutes, Justin’s line started to move. He cleared the unloading area and walked out into a large, grassy park where throngs of civilians waited. Scanning the crowd, Justin saw Michelle standing toward the front with a large sign that proclaimed Welcome Home, Justin! Next to her was his daughter, Maggie, her face half-hidden by a rope strung between poles for maintaining order. Nearly overcome by emotion, he rushed forward.
When he was halfway there, Michelle saw him and started waving wildly, as did Maggie.
“Justin!” Michelle screamed at the top of her lungs and vaulted over the rope.
They met, and Justin wrapped his arms around her as tightly as he could. “Oh, baby. I’m so glad to see you.” Throwing all decorum to the wind, he kissed her passionately. “I’ve missed you so much.” Emotion overtook him as her lips met his.
“Daddy! Daddy!” Maggie screamed and jumped on him, holding on for dear life.
Justin turned, added her to his embrace, and held them tightly. Nothing he’d ever done in life was equal to how he felt at that moment. Elation, joy, and love washed through him like a roaring flood, leaving him at a loss for words.
All around them, throngs of family members reunited with their loved ones—mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, husbands, and wives. Emotion hummed in the air. The crowd embraced, cried, laughed, and engaged in enough public displays of affection to make anyone blush.
Taking a step back and finally breaking the family hug, Justin stared at his wife and daughter. They were wearing similar purple-and-white polka dot dresses.
“Uh, you two look, uh, coordinated.”
Michelle grinned, and her eyes twinkled. “They’re called mother-and-daughter dresses, silly.”
“We saved up our ration cards so we could surprise you,” Maggie confided in a stage whisper, like it was a state secret.
“You guys didn’t have to do that,” Justin replied, tears finally coming to his eyes. “Seeing you again was all I needed.” He bit his lip. “I don’t have to be back on the ship until oh-eight hundred tomorrow morning.
“Good, because I got us an apartment for the night. One of my uncle’s friends hooked me up with it.” Michelle took his hand. “We’ve already stocked up on some food, and I’m going to fix a family dinner.”
The thought of a meal with his wife and daughter and acting like normal was overwhelming. It was such a jarring disconnect from the life of constant combat, scramble drills, and engagements in which Justin fought for his life. Part of him felt oddly distant, as if he were dreaming, while the rest of him never wanted to let go of Michelle and Maggie. He forced the competing emotions beneath the surface and smiled at her. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard in six months.” He turned to Maggie. “And I want to see your report card.”
“Oh, come on, Dad. You’ve got to tell me about flying through space and fighting the Leaguers!” she replied with enthusiasm.
“One combat story for each A you’ve got in that report card, young lady.” Justin reached over and picked Maggie up, lifting her over his shoulders. “Now, how about we get out of here?”
“I got us a helicar to use too,” Michelle said with a smile.
“In that case, lead the way.”
As Michelle walked into the crowd, Justin followed closely behind her. For at least a few minutes, everything was right in his world, and he felt as if he could float away.
As the commanding officer of the Zvika Greengold, Tehrani hadn’t wanted to run down the gangway from her command shuttle—rank did have its privileges—and jump into her husband’s arms. Her job was to remain resolute and even stoic.
But that had gone out the window the moment she saw Ibrahim standing there waiting for her, a bouquet of orange and white roses in his arms. They were her favorite colors. He wore a tweed suit, looking very much the part of the rumpled and nerdy economics professor. She’d almost knocked down the Marine sentries with her in a rush to embrace him.
They sat side by side, like two teenagers madly in love for the first time, in a Persian restaurant named Taste of Barbari. Apparently, it was the only Persian restaurant in the city. That Ibrahim had taken the time to find it, get reservations, and book a helicar to get them there made her feel like a spoiled princess. He’d even brought appropriate clothes with him. Tehrani wasn’t used to the feeling, but it was nice, especially after six months of combat.
She rested her hand on his. “I didn’t realize how much I missed us.”
Ibrahim turned his head slightly and grinned. “At first, it was kind of nice to have the house to myself. Well, for a day or two.” He paused, and his expression turned somber. “Then I had to start thinking about what life would be like if you didn’t come home.”
She squeezed his hand tightly. “Don’t dwell on that. The League’s done its worst for six months. We’re still here.” Tehrani rested her head on his shoulder. “How has the university been going?”
“Oh, you know. Endless streams of bright young minds, with little in the way of common sense, needing a firm hand to guide them toward wisdom.” Ibrahim kissed the top of her head. “Thank Allah you are here.”
As they were talking, a waiter approached with a basket of fresh herbs, radishes, and scallions. He placed it on the table. “Good evening. Have you had a chance to look at the menu?”
Tehrani shook her head. “I’m afraid we haven’t yet. What would you recommend?” On a whim, she cut in before the man could reply. “Do you have khoresh-e bademjoon?” An eggplant-and-tomato stew, it had been a staple of her childhood and one of her favorite meals.
“We do, ma’am.”
“How is it?”
“As good as my mother used to make,” the waiter replied with a grin. “Our chefs are all Persian. Very authentic.”
“That’s what I’m having, then, with a side of polo ba tahdig.” No Persian meal was complete without rice.
“Make it two,” Ibrahim interjected. “Of each.”
“Thank you,” the waiter replied, scooping up their menus, then hurried away.
Tehrani kissed Ibrahim on the cheek and almost chuckled at how careful she was to be modest. “I can’t believe you did all this. It’s extraordinary.”
“Oh, is that a roundabout way of saying I’m not the romantic type?”
“Husband, neither one of us is the romantic type.”
Ibrahim laughed, the deep timbre of the sound making everything seem better for a few moments. “Back when I courted you, we were.” He shook his head. “Everything was so much simpler then.”
“Much like it was only a few months ago.” Tehrani closed her eyes. “I was ready to be done with my service, bring our children into the world, and seize the second part of my life.” She opened them again and smiled sadly. “Now, I hope to come home alive and see you again.”
“I wish… I wish I could protect you somehow, instead of sitting around all day grading papers and teaching classes on the finer points of Austrian versus Keynesian economics.”
“As long as you teach your students that communism leads to the League of Sol, you’ll be protecting all of us,” Te
hrani replied. She was shocked to see a different side of him. But why should it surprise me? My husband is a protector in his own way, like most men. The sentiment was endearing and brought a smile to her face. “Or you could record a lecture for me to play on the commlink for our Leaguer friends.”
“To bore them to death?”
Both of them laughed, and Tehrani grinned. “Exactly, my dear.”
The arrival of their food cut off further discussion. Tehrani stared at the dishes, in awe of how pretty they looked, heaped with things she remembered from childhood. Her mother had been a marvelous cook and ensured her family had a homecooked meal to come home to every night. Since she’d been raised in a traditional home, Tehrani’s path through life was something of an anomaly.
Little was said as both Tehrani and Ibrahim ate quickly—almost too quickly.
Polishing off the last of her plate of eggplant, she grinned. “You’d think we haven’t had a decent meal in months.”
“I’ve been surviving off frozen meal kits,” Ibrahim replied. “So this is the first decent meal I’ve had in a while.”
Tehrani playfully rolled her eyes. “Can’t take care of yourself without a woman around, eh?”
Ibrahim brought his cloth napkin from his lap up to his mouth and wiped it clean. “Perhaps not.” He chuckled then turned serious. “So, my dear, what’s really going on?” His gaze was piercing and his tone matter-of-fact.
Tehrani’s heart sank. Of course he’s smart enough to figure out something beyond a random health-and-wellness visit is going on. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He quirked his nose at her and stared over the rim of his glasses. “Don’t make me spell it out for you.”
“Husband, if you’ve figured out there’s… something more at work, then you must know I can’t speak of it.” Tehrani put her hand on his and squeezed it. “Please. Let’s enjoy our time together.” Left off was the thought that it might be the last night they spent with each other.
