She sat on the seat next to me during takeoff, snuggled in a fluffy jumpsuit and clutching her towel—the same one she's had her whole life—strapped in her harness. The seats were a bit worn on this Earth-based craft, another indication that they'd be some time recovering and would never again have the political clout to push others around. We had done an amazingly thorough job. Sometimes I even scare myself.
Chelsea's shout of, "Dad! Shuttews!" brought me back from introspection, and I saw her pointing out the window at the row of similar shuttles from various lines. A warning sounded, and she gripped my hand and was momentarily wide-eyed and quaking as we lifted, but she didn't cry. Every other kid in the bay was screaming in terror, but she took it and dealt with it. When we reached orbit she kept me informed of events and asked questions all the way to our transport.
"Dad! Wazzat?"
"That's Earth from orbit, Little Girl. It's called a 'planet.'"
"P'anet," she said. Whirling around in my lap and squirming to reach other ports, she made a discovery. "Look! Dad! Sips!" she said, yanking my sleeve and pointing enthusiastically. She bounced away in emgee and laughed delightedly. Her long coils bounced around her head, and she laughed at that, also.
"Yes, those are ships. We're taking that one home."
She stared where I pointed and wiggled in glee. "Yes!" she agreed, with a single nod of her head. It was a quirk of hers.
We left the shuttle with the crew ready to adopt her. "Bye-bye, Jeri! Bye-bye, catpin! Bye-bye pi'ot!" she shouted at the purser and flight crew while waving over my shoulder as I swam out. There's few prouder feelings than knowing you're raising a good kid. I'm optimistic.
That's my next task. Chelsea may not grow up rich, and she may not have a mother, but I'll ensure she has a good upbringing and a happy childhood. Any person, entity, or government who tries to stop her from doing so will arouse my ire. They do not want to see me angry.
Remember, even retired, I'm still an Operative. We took a lot of casualties in the System Battle, Braided Bluff and here on Earth, but we are without question the best soldiers in human history.
Twelve hundred and eighty-seven Operatives have died in the line of duty. At the end of time, the forces of evil will form ranks and march to the last battle. When they reach the gates of Heaven, they will find those Operatives guarding it . . . Rowan, Tom, Frank, Neil, Tyler, Kimbo, all scarred and grubby and laden with Death . . . and Deni in front, a calm, imperturbable look on her face, hunched over her rifle and ready to deliver immortal wrath. And if the legions of evil have any brains at all, they will about face and leave.
And one little girl has her own personal Operative as bodyguard, teacher . . . and father.
Author's Afterword
Despite his misgivings, Captain Chinran is not a terrorist. He is a soldier following orders over a defined enemy, with a collateral casualty count that is truly horrific, but nevertheless an act of war, not terror. Obviously, he feels dreadful guilt over the event and its aftermath. This is one of many differences between him and cowardly terrorists, who cheer the deaths of innocents as an accomplishment.
Most of this novel was plotted and written before September 11, 2001. As horrific as those events were, they could have been a lot worse. I hope no one will attempt to draw parallels between the events of that day and this book.
Hopefully, we will learn from those events and not mistake repression for security.
THE END
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