by James, Brett
“Good, now recite the alphabet.”
Peter did as he was told; Linda ignored him, typing on the monitor.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” she asked.
“Graduation,” Peter replied. “Basic Training.”
“Good,” she said. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” Peter said. “You.”
“Me?” she turned to him, confused.
“You,” he repeated.
“Be serious,” Linda said.
“I am,” Peter said. “Linda.”
She looked at the monitor. “No,” she said, shaking her head. Then she figured it out. “Ingenious,” she said sarcastically, tapping her nametag.
“Linda 75,” Peter insisted. “Because of the room number.”
“The room…?” she asked. Peter had meant to impress her, but she only looked concerned. She scrolled around the monitor, reading. “That’s impossible,” she mumbled. “How could he know—”
A door swung open behind Peter, and Linda started.
“Is everything okay, Linda?” a man asked.
“Everything is fine,” she replied evenly. She raised a hand to her temple, pressing against the hair, and turned to face the intruder.
“That’s good,” he said. His voice was unnaturally calm, like a psychiatrist’s. “Would you mind joining me in my office?”
“Yes. Of course, sir.”
“Now?” the man asked with a tinge of impatience.
“But he’s just—”
“It’s not going anywhere, Linda.”
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll start the epinephrine and be right there.” She gazed at the unseen man, staring him down. The door shut.
Linda yanked off her mask and tossed it on Peter’s chest. Her thin nose curved out over thick, dark lips. She was the one thing Peter had never expected; she was beautiful.
“Nice work, kid,” she growled. “You’ll get us both in trouble.” She spun Peter’s bed around and pointed at a camera on the ceiling. “He watches everything.”
She turned him back, unstrapped his arm, and jabbed in the needle.
“Just lie there quietly,” Linda ordered. “I won’t be a minute.”
— — —
Peter pumped his fist, curled his toes, and worked his jaw, doing everything he could to raise his temperature. Fifteen minutes later, he was ready. He stretched his free arm over his chest, reaching for the strap. He got the very tip of his middle finger under the clasp, angling it back and letting it loose.
Chest free, he twisted further, releasing his other arm. He probed under the bed and found the switch to raise it to a chair; then he leaned over, unstrapped his legs, and pushed to his feet.
Peter’s head went light. His knees buckled, and he teetered. He clutched the bed rails, crouched and panting, then slowly straightened up. He let go carefully, keeping his hands over the rails as he balanced on his feet. So far, so good.
At the back of the room was a wide roll-up door. He put his ear to it and listened, hearing nothing.
He eased the door open and peered out. A long hallway ran in both directions. It was wider than the one that Peter left by and completely empty. Roll-up doors lined both walls, each painted with a number. Peter went left; the doors counted up.
The hallway ended at door 96. Tucked in the corner, a frosted plastic door was labeled Supervisor. Peter padded softly up, his bare feet numb from the cold metal floor. He heard a familiar voice—the man who had called Linda away.
“If there’s something wrong with the memory unit,” he said, “then we kill the line. It’s as simple as that.”
“It’s not a line,” Linda retorted. “He’s a human being.”
“You’re a nurse, so you’re trained to feel that way. But this is different. Special circumstances.”
“I can’t see how.”
There was a pause, followed by a sigh. “Try to think in terms of assets,” the man said. “Take a broader view of our work. We can’t let ourselves be distracted by the problems of a single unit, because it will lower our—”
A rattle echoed down the hallway; a garage door rolled up not twenty yards away. Peter dashed across the hall and flattened into the recess of a doorway.
An empty bed slid into the hallway, guided from behind by a nurse. She had the same brown hair as Linda, but hers was shorter and twisted into a bun. She pushed the bed into the distance, and Peter crept back to the supervisor’s door.
“But there is nothing wrong with his memory,” Linda insisted. “I checked the imprint three times. This has to be part of the design.”
“You mean a flaw?” the man replied, incredulous. “A flaw in the design?”
“No, something else. Like an upgrade.”
“An upgrade?” the man snapped. “And they didn’t tell us?”
Peter winced—the man’s tone was violent. But then he was calm again: “No, they wouldn’t, would they?” he mused. “They like to keep us in the dark.”
Silence followed. Sweat tickled inside Peter’s ear.
“Well,” the man said finally, “we can’t call upstairs about every little thing, can we? We’ll keep on for the moment. Who knows? Maybe this flaw will simply disappear in the next the version.”
“I don’t—” Linda started.
“We’ll hope so,” the man cut in. “You should get back to your patient.”
“Yes, sir” was the last thing Peter heard as he sprinted up the hall. He slipped through door 75 and hopped onto the bed. He just had the straps back in place when Linda returned.
She ignored him at first, heading straight for the sink and violently scrubbing whatever was inside. Then she checked the clock on the wall and went to her desk. She sat down and stared at the wall, motionless.
She stood up ten minutes later, straightened her uniform, and pulled on a fresh mask. She walked to Peter, smiling as if nothing had happened.
“And how are you doing?” she asked. She grabbed his wrist, then dropped it, startled. “You’re sweating.”
“Squeezing,” Peter said, motioning with his hands. “Like you said.”
Linda inspected him suspiciously but found no other explanation. She checked the clock and then her monitor. “I guess you’re done early today,” she said with a shrug.
Peter kept his body limp as she helped him to his feet, then grabbed his duffel and lumbered out the door. He merged with the other naked men and headed for combat.
[14.08.2.23::3948.1938.834.2D]
After five successful missions in five successive days, Peter got his first R&R. He had been warned that things would move fast out here in the Drift, but he was still exhausted.
It wasn’t the physical exertion or the lack of sleep—he had had plenty of both back in Basic—but the sheer number of casualties he had witnessed. He had seen men shot out of the air and transports burn in dark space, and he had fought across a field littered with the bodies of an entire division. Of the twelve men in his original platoon, only Saul, Ramirez, and himself remained. The most shocking loss was Mickelson; their sergeant had always been so casual in combat, as if he didn’t even believe in death. He was shot by a Riel sniper who was too far away to see.
Peter knew that he should be upset by everything he had witnessed, but it just hadn’t sunk in. There just hadn’t been time.
Immediately after each battle, the survivors were re-org’d into new platoons, which meant new names, new drills, and new training. Then they were rushed through dinner, issued sleeping pills to ward off the nightmares common to active combatants, and marched to bed. Come morning they’d be hustled off to the docks again.
Now, when Peter finally had a break, all that was left was a jumble of images.
— — —
All missions had been suspended—word was they we
re waiting for reinforcements, but as privates, they didn’t even rate that level of information. What they knew was they had a few days off. Peter persuaded Saul to go exploring with him.
Peter wanted to meet someone from the navy, so they walked to the docks. In addition to the ninety-six divisions—twenty million marines—the base was home to tens of thousands of naval craft. Most were unmanned transports, but even those would require repair and maintenance. Peter figured there was a sizable navy somewhere on base.
There hadn’t been any navy recruiters back on Genesia, and Peter felt like he’d missed an opportunity. Flying a ship was far more exciting than just riding in one. Or at least that’s how he figured it. He wanted to ask what it took to be a pilot, but so far he’d only seen them over the communicators.
Saul’s interest was more practical. The navy had something that the marines didn’t: women.
“What do you think of the new sergeant?” Peter asked as they navigated the halls.
“Anyone’s better than Mickelson,” Saul said.
“He’s dead.”
“Yeah,” Saul said. “I was there too. Sarge wasn’t the sort to get teary about casualties, so I’ll return the favor.”
Peter wanted to be shocked but found himself nodding in agreement.
“I’m just glad they kept us together,” Saul continued. “You, me, and Ramirez. From what I hear, Command usually splits a platoon apart after the sergeant is killed.”
“Why didn’t they?”
“I don’t know,” Saul shrugged. “Maybe no one else wants us.”
“Or we’re too good to break up.”
“Ha,” Saul said. “I hate to think what that means for the other guys.”
— — —
The docks ringed the base in concentric circles. Their hallways were large and hexagonal, with a grated steel column running up the center. The column was squared off, a box tube with gravity generators inside that allowed marines to walk on all four sides to rapidly load into the transportships. The walls were transparent—triangular windows in metal framework—and would have provided a spectacular view if the docks weren’t encased by dormant transports. The little bit of space that Peter could see was tainted green by the base’s plasma shield.
They hadn’t gone far before Peter began to drag. He marveled at how quickly he’d become dependent on his combat suit.
Saul walked effortlessly, sighing as Peter steered him down yet another glass hallway. This one ended in a glass wall. Outside, a massive ship was parked in a wide gap in the docks. The ship was long and blocky, like a toppled building, and had an arched bottom, as if to sail on water. It was linked to the base by a dozen bridge cranes, and a continuous stream of containers poured out.
“Cargoship,” Saul said impatiently. “Comes every week.”
The UF base was deep in empty space, far from any habitable planet. Security by obscurity, but it also meant everything they needed—food, water, and weapons—had to be shipped in from a great distance.
“Could those be the new men?” Peter asked.
“Why not?” Saul replied.
“Not a very pleasant way to travel.”
“What do they care? They’re frozen solid. It’s what you wake up to that counts.”
“Your nurse?”
“Exactly. Beckie.” Saul whistled appreciatively. “A little old, but…”
“The same one every time?” Peter asked.
“What ‘every time’? I haven’t seen her since they thawed us out.”
“I…” Peter trailed off, not sure what he meant.
“Not that I would mind,” Saul said. “This base isn’t exactly full of excitement.”
“Better than out there.”
“Just go ahead and state the obvious,” Saul said, drumming his fingers impatiently on the glass.
The containers trailed off and the cranes folded up. Three ball-tipped spires rose off the base and punctured the shield, forming a dark triangle. The cargoship backed out of the gap, turned in a wide arc, then passed overhead as it headed for home.
“Now can we go get a drink?” Saul asked.
“Yeah,” Peter said, starting down the hall. He was disappointed not to have met anyone in the navy. Actually, they hadn’t seen anyone at all. Peter wondered if he was the only person on the entire base who was interested in anything beyond the canteen.
— — —
“Cumberland is the best,” Peter said to Saul, making his selection and sliding his mug into the autotap. Golden beer rose inside, filled from a valve at the bottom. A ring slid up the outside, frosting the glass.
“Cumberland?” Saul said with disgust. “You would like him. Smallest quarterback in the history of the draft.” Saul filled two mugs, making use of Ramirez’s, who hadn’t yet arrived.
“He’s smart,” Peter said. “He has a good sense of the field.”
“He’s a pushover,” Saul said, downing one beer while the other filled. “If he can’t make a pass, he’s screwed. He has to hand off just to make a one-yard push.”
Saul was right, but Peter still liked Cumberland. His off-the-cuff playing style had inspired Peter’s own tactics.
“You think they’re still playing?” he asked. “With the war and all?”
“Especially because of the war,” Saul replied. “People need distractions during tough times.”
The two men returned to their table just as Ramirez arrived. He spotted them and rushed over, waving a roll of paper. “That mine?” he asked as he took a full mug from Saul.
“What’s that,” Saul asked, pointing to the paper.
“My tat,” Ramirez replied. “You know how once you make sergeant you get to put a design on your suit?”
“I thought it was colonel,” Peter said.
“Some sergeants too. If they’re senior enough.”
“You get a sudden promotion?” Saul asked.
“Planning ahead,” Ramirez replied. “Check this out.”
The men raised their glasses as Ramirez unrolled the paper on the table. It was covered in blotches of orange, yellow, and black. Saul squinted at it, cocking his head.
“What do you think?” Ramirez asked.
“You’re going to paint vomit on your combat suit?” Saul asked.
“It’s a tiger,” Ramirez snapped. “Like my nickname.”
“You have a nickname?”
“When I’m a sergeant, my men will call me the Tiger.”
The other men stared at him, waiting for the punch line.
“They’ll see it in my eyes,” Ramirez said.
“They sure won’t see it in the drawing,” Saul countered.
Peter drained his glass and stood up.
“Where you rushing off to?” Ramirez asked.
“Gonna check my mail.”
“For a change,” Saul added. “I’m surprised you waited this long.”
— — —
Amber was pressed beneath Peter, her eyes closed, her back arched. Her lips parted, exposing the tips of her front teeth, and her naked breasts rolled up with every thrust. He wanted to touch them, to run his fingers over the supple pink skin around her nipples, but his hands were planted in the grass, keeping his hips raised and allowing them to move freely.
They breathed in unison, faster and faster, louder and louder.
Peter released with a shout and collapsed onto her. Amber trembled and let out a low squeal. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed—inside and out—her skin like warm silk.
Peter leaned in to kiss her, but her mouth retreated. She slipped backward, falling out of focus and dissolving to colored squares.
Peter’s eyes popped open. Hot water poured on his head and ran down his face. He sucked in water with each labored breath, dropping against the wall. He raised his hand t
o the showerhead, splashing water around the gray tiles, rinsing away the soap and scum.
— — —
Peter walked gingerly into the computer room, his head light and sore. After three days of drinking, the idea of combat was almost appealing.
The large room was empty, so Peter took the nearest terminal and pulled up his mail. There would be nothing new—for security reasons, radio transmission was restricted to official use, so electronic mail came aboard the weekly cargoship.
Peter scrolled back through his messages, all of which were from Amber, looking for something to read. None of them appealed to him. Just bland details of her life back home. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate her letters; he did. But what he really needed was her, here, in his arms.
He drew her locket from his shirt and fingered the hair inside. It was coarse and dry, and the smell had faded. He closed his eyes, calling her up. They were back at Benting’s base. She leaned over, watching him through the truck windows as he boarded the shuttle. It wasn’t his favorite memory, but it was the clearest.
“Thinking about home?”
Peter started, dropping the locket. Manzenze, his new sergeant, was at the door. He was a short, slight man with charcoal skin that rumpled as if made for someone larger. They had only just met at the last re-org.
“Yes, sir,” Peter said. He started to rise but Manzenze motioned him back down.
“In the still of the night,” Manzenze said, dropping into a seat opposite him, “home feels quite far away indeed.”
“You been out here long, sir?” Peter asked.
“Drop the formalities, private. I have no use for them.” The sergeant scratched his thin nose between two fingers. “And yes,” he said. “I have been here a long time. You’d be surprised.”
“Six months?” Peter asked. “That is the limit, isn’t it? Before they rotate you home.”
“Speaking of surprises,” Manzenze said, “I was reviewing the playback of your last mission. That idea of yours, splitting your platoon like you did, it was ingenious. Caught those Gyrines unaware.”
“Nothing to it, sir. Sergeant Mickelson used the same trick in the Peirescius Belt.”
