Space Soldiers

by Jack Dann

  “I remember that, sir. Absolutely.”

  Solomon was in the yard, panting. Grandpa had gotten here by driving slowly, letting the dog chase us all the way.

  Mr. Teeson opened his door and stepped out, and he said, “Colonel Sattis.” He said, “I can’t believe this . . . Jesus . . .!”

  Grandpa said, “Damned skunks.”

  “May I?” The farmer stuck out his hand, saying, “It’s an honor.”

  Grandpa seemed surprised, maybe even bothered. But he managed to say, “The honor’s mine.” He always said those words, and he always wiped both hands against his shirt before offering one of them. Then he sort of smiled and shook the farmer’s hand, asking, “Is there any way you might help? My stupid old dog ran into a skunk.”

  Mr. Teeson wrinkled up his nose and said, “I kind of figured that.”

  Then both men laughed. And Grandpa seemed more relaxed, saying, ‘This is my grandson. Sam, this is Mr. Teeson.”

  The farmer looked at me and said, “Hello, son.”

  I said, “Sir.”

  Then he winked at me, saying, “You know, I’ve admired your grandfather forever. I want you to know that.”

  Grandpa said, “Thank you.”

  “I had a cousin who was in the Service with you, sir.”

  “Perhaps I know him.” Grandpa was being polite, or interested. I couldn’t tell which. “In Alpha Division, perhaps?”

  “No. He was a lieutenant in Beta Division.”

  Alpha was my grandfather’s unit. Most of them lived, and all of the Betas died.

  But the farmer didn’t seem too sad, hunching over to explain, “Your grandpa’s a great man. Did you know that?”

  The man had awful breath. I swallowed and said, “I know, sir.”

  “I bet you do.” He looked at Grandpa again. “A fine boy.”

  “The best.”

  Solomon gave a big complaining howl.

  The farmer shook his head and started back into his house. “I don’t have any of that new skunk-gunk, Colonel. But I keep something almost as good.”

  Grandpa said, “Thank you. So much.”

  We waited on the porch. I could hear a television. I couldn’t make out what was being said, but it sounded like the news. It sounded important and angry, and I looked at Grandpa for a moment, then realized that he was deafer than his dog.

  The farmer came back smiling, carrying a couple of tall cans of tomato juice. When he saw my look, he winked and said, “This is the best cure we had for a lot of years, son.”

  “I hate that stuff,” I told him. “Do we have to drink it?”

  That made both men laugh. But Grandpa’s laugh was louder than normal, and the sound of it was wrong somehow.

  I kept my distance, watching. Grandpa got the dog by his neck. Solomon was moaning, saying, “Shit,” over and over again until Grandpa said, “That’s enough!” Then the farmer led us around back, and he actually held the dog while Grandpa peeled off his shirts and boots and finally his pants. It was still very cold outside, and just seeing him made me shiver. Grandpa took the dog back and said, “Okay.” The farmer opened the first can, and Grandpa poured it on the thick black fur, working it in as if it was soap. He was holding the dog by the loose skin of the neck, and Solomon twisted and kicked, and Grandpa was soon covered with the juice, and Solomon howled and complained and shook himself half-dry, little splashes of tomato juice sprinkled over both men.

  I was glad not to be helping.

  But I began to feel guilty, not having anything important to do.

  The farmer opened the second can, laughing hard about something. Out of guilt, I asked if there was anything I should do, and he wiped his dirty face with a dirtier arm, telling me, “I don’t think so, Sam.” Then he said, “Colonel Sattis,” with a big, crisp voice. “The boy looks sort of cold.”

  Just in my toes and fingers, I thought.

  But I didn’t say a word.

  I’d never seen Grandpa look that messy. He was the kind of person who wants his hair just so, even if there wasn’t much of it. He liked nice clothes, and he always tried to look younger than he was. But there he was, wearing nothing except underwear and the sticky juice. I could see his pale belly hanging forward, his arms smooth and soft. And the smooth skin of his body made his face look more wrinkly than ever, and tired, even when he tried very hard to smile.

  He said, “Sam. Why don’t you go sit in the car then.”

  “No, you don’t.” The farmer waved at me, saying, “We won’t be much longer. Wait inside my house, if you want.”

  “He smells,” Grandpa promised.

  “Who doesn’t?” Mr. Teeson was the only one laughing, telling me, “Just stay off the furniture. All right, Sam?”

  I felt like a coward, and I felt relieved.

  I walked back around and through the front door, sitting on the floor, Indian-style. They were showing the same digital on the old-fashioned TV. Again. And since nobody was there to tell me not to watch, I decided not to change networks.

  I decided to see it through. For once.

  The humongous king was wearing nothing but a thin web of black wires, and it was hanging in the air, facedown. Its body was pink and hairless, and I don’t care what some people say, it looked gross. It was huge and ugly, its thick legs kicking and its hands trying to grab one another, fingers big as my forearm curling and uncurling, the thin pink blood flowing from where the wires bit tight, then dripping fast to the glass floor.

  Soldiers were walking under the alien.

  Someone asked, “What next?” and another person—a woman—shouted, “Delta team’s still trying to dock! And Beta isn’t reporting!”

  “Earth status?” said a nearby voice. A voice I knew.

  The woman said, “Status unchanged, sir.”

  Someone else said, “Colonel.” Then, “Nantucket’s underwater now, sir.”

  The Colonel stepped into view. Not knowing that an alien camera was buried in the thick glass wall, he said, “Fuck,” with that strong voice. He looked mostly the same, except the hair was thick and brown, and the face was smoother. He was a handsome man, and that’s not me saying it. My history book called him, “The handsome colonel from the nation’s heartland.”

  He said, “Fuck,” a second time, his breath hanging in the cold air. “What about Beta?”

  “No news. Sir.”

  Beta Division had tried to attack the weapons arrays, which was suicide. I read that in my history books, too. Most of them were cooked by the radiation before they even got to their targets. Which was probably what happened to Mr. Teeson’s poor cousin.

  I felt a good little dose of anger.

  “Okay,” said Colonel Sattis. “Thank you.”

  Then he picked up a fat alien microphone, using both hands where the king would hold it with one. “No more patience,” he said. “I’m too fucking tired.”

  What he said went into a gray box, and the box spoke to the humongous in its own rumbling language.

  The humongous answered, and the box translated it as, “It is not we! We are blameless, friend!”

  “Quiet,” said the Colonel. He sighed and said, “We’ve already been here. You claim that some faction’s responsible. Some cult—”

  The humongous said several words.

  “Fanatics!” the box shouted. Over and over.

  The Colonel carried the microphone with him, walking up underneath the alien. “But there’s got to be some way,” he said. “Assuming that you’re telling the truth. These fanatics have control of your engines and your weapons, and you really can’t take those systems back. But you know things. Your ancestors built this damned ship! And you’re not going to be stupid. Not while your people are melting our ice caps . . . !”

  The Colonel stopped screaming, catching his breath.

  The humongous’s face was straight above. As big as an elephant’s face, it opened its black, black eyes, and the rubbery mouth said something.

  The translati
on box said, “Move your people. Flee the ocean. That is the best solution.”

  “No!” the Colonel roared.

  “They only want your cold landmass. A tiny part of your world—”

  “Bullshit.” The Colonel threw down the microphone and screamed, “Someone get me tools. And that map!”

  “Which map?” asked the woman soldier.

  He said, “Of their bodies. Their physiology. I want to know what I’m dealing with!” Then he started to pull off his uniform—this was where Mom sent me to bed last night—and that’s when I got up off the floor and turned the television off. It wasn’t that I couldn’t take it. It wasn’t that I wasn’t curious. It’s just that someone new was walking up on the front porch.

  ###

  The stranger said, “Hello.”

  I said, “Hi,” through the storm door.

  He was very tall and dark. All I remember about his face was that he looked as if he wanted to be somewhere else. Dressed in a suit, he looked strange. Maybe he was going to a wedding, I was guessing.

  Staring in at me, he asked, “Is your father home?”

  I said, “No.”

  Dad hasn’t lived with us since I was three.

  The stranger looked past me, squinting. Thinking to himself. He seemed halfway confused until he looked back, noticing what I was wearing. “Christ,” he said. “You’re the grandson, aren’t you?”

  I didn’t say one word.

  “Where is he?” the stranger asked.

  Suddenly I felt sick, staring out at Grandpa’s truck and the brown car parked behind it. I wanted to say something. I meant to lie, if only I could have thought of a good one.

  But before I had one, a second man shouted, “I hear him! He’s around back somewhere.”

  The tall man gave me another look, something sorry in his face.

  Then he was gone.

  I ran through the house, finding my way out the back door. I caught Grandpa washing his arms and bare chest with a garden hose and a lump of yellow soap. He was smiling, almost. The farmer was standing with him. Saying something. The dog was rolling himself dry in the grass. I could barely smell the skunk, and it was probably what was still sticking to me.

  Grandpa said, “What is it, Sam?”

  “Some men,” I muttered.

  Then the tall man was with us. All at once he was there, talking as if he’d done nothing all morning but practice what he was going to say now.

  He said, “Sir.” With a hurried voice, he said, “I’ve been asked by Senator Lee to come here and warn you. In an hour, the UN issues a warrant for your arrest. And it would be best for everyone if you’ll surrender yourself as soon as possible—”

  “Just a minute,” someone snapped.

  It was Mr. Teeson. Where I thought my grandfather would cut the man off, it was the bald farmer who said, “You bastards. You stupid, stupid bastards . . . !”

  The strangers in suits blinked and straightened their backs.

  “This man,” said the farmer. “He’s a great man! Don’t you children understand that simple fact? If it wasn’t for Colonel Sattis, none of you pissy little ungratefuls would have ever been born . . . !”

  The tall man said, “Mr. Sattis.”

  Grandpa was shaking. From the cold, maybe. He turned and picked up his shirts and his pants off the ground, and with a weak hand, he tried brushing away bits of dried grass. But it was too much work, and he gave up trying. He put on his pants and shirts, one after another, and after a minute, the tall man repeated himself.

  “Mr. Sattis.”

  “Colonel Sattis,” the farmer told them.

  “Colonel,” said the tall man. “Your old friend’s doing you a considerable favor here. If it wasn’t for his personal intervention, a brigade of marshals would be coming for you . . . instead of us.”

  I remembered the Senator. I remembered him laughing, drinking beer, and eating catfish on my grandfather’s patio.

  “Naturally,” said the tall man, “you’ll be free to retain legal counsel.”

  The farmer said, “Jesus!”

  The second man growled, “This isn’t your concern, sir.”

  Grandpa held up a hand, asking everyone to be quiet. Then he said, “I’m enjoying the day with my grandson. My grandson. And you come here under these circumstances . . . and what am I supposed to do . . . ? Go quietly . . . ?”

  “We’re warning you,” said the second man. “We aren’t here to arrest you!”

  Grandpa looked at him, saying nothing. Then he looked upward as he finished buttoning his last shirt, asking, “What’s going to happen? A trial?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the tall man. “There’s got to be one now.”

  Grandpa said something under his breath. Then he looked in my direction, his face soft and white and very old. “So who finally filed charges against me?” he asked. “One of the humongoustarian groups?”

  “Actually,” said the tall man, “our own government is the plaintiff.”

  Again, the farmer said,” Jesus.”

  Grandpa just nodded, saying in a sour way, “Of course they would.”

  Mr. Teeson took a few steps, screaming, “If you don’t get off my land, boys . . . !”

  “Stop,” said Grandpa. To everyone. Then to the farmer, he said, “Thanks, Jim. For all your help, thank you very much.”

  “This is bullshit,” the farmer told him.

  Grandpa didn’t argue. He just turned to the others, asking, “May we finish our hunt? I promised this boy a pheasant, and we haven’t seen even one bird yet.”

  The tall man looked at his partner, then down at his shiny shoes. “We aren’t here to arrest anyone, Mr. Sattis. Like we told you.”

  “But we could escort you home again,” said the other man.

  Grandpa opened his pants and stuffed in his shirttails. He didn’t move quickly, but he knew what he was doing. He told them. “Thank you for the generous offer. But I don’t think so.”

  Then he looked at me, something in his eyes scaring me.

  ###

  Nobody knew that there was a camera inside the wall.

  The wall and camera were destroyed along with the rest of the king’s room. Melted away by the nuclear blast. My grandfather set the nuke himself. He did it because his team needed time and confusion to get where they needed to be. To do what had to be done. And for setting the bomb and killing at least a few thousand of the king’s followers, Grandpa won the first of three Medals of Honor.

  Grandpa never knew that he was being watched.

  He set off the bomb not to hide evidence, but to help.

  Everything seen by that camera—not just that day, but for the last ten thousand years—ended up inside a different part of the ship. Sitting, and waiting. The humongous had a thing about the past. A fat chunk of their starship was left to shrines and cemeteries and digital warehouses full of everything that had ever happened on board. Every tunnel and big room, and even their toilets, had cameras. It took our best scientists ten hard years just to learn how to pipe power into those warehouses. Then it took ten more to learn how to get anything out of them but random goop. And it’s still awfully tough working inside the starship. Without a breath of air in the place, every walk means space suits. And without one watt of power on board, every light and every machine need juice from human reactors strung clear out on the outermost hull.

  I’ve read plenty, and I’ve seen even more on television and in the movies. But what I knew best was what Mom told me. Not Grandpa. Nobody was supposed to ask him about the humongous. Mom always told me, “He doesn’t like to dwell on the war.” Then she would do it for me, telling what little she knew, telling the same handful of stories over and over again.

  Last night, after watching too much of the news, Mom told me her favorite one again. As if for the first time.

  She told me how she’d seen the war.

  “I was about your age,” she began. Which is how she always began, even when I was only five year
s old. “And you can’t imagine how scared I was,” she told me, sitting in the middle of the television with me, holding my hand with one of hers.

  “The world was being attacked,” she said, “which was one of the reasons I was scared. It was a totally unprovoked attack. You know what unprovoked means?”

  “Unfair,” I volunteered.

  She nodded, saying, “It was that, too. You’re right.”

  Then she swallowed some of her cocktail, and wiped her eyes, and she said, “But I was more scared because it was my father who was up there. Who was leading the counterattack.”

  I nodded, acting as if I didn’t know anything.

  “The aliens were talking to us with different voices,” she said. “Everyone knew it. Some of the voices were halfway friendly, and others just told us to get back from the ocean. And meanwhile, the South Pole was melting, and seas were rising, and Mom and I were hiding in the basement, knowing that it was just a matter of days or hours until those awful energy guns would be pointed at us.”

  She shook her head, saying, “You can’t imagine how it was!”

  I thought I could, but I didn’t say it.

  She took another swallow, then said, “I got tired of the basement.” As if she was afraid that I might tell someone, she said, “Against Grandma’s orders, I sneaked out into the yard, in the dark, when I knew that the starship would rise up in the south. If it fired at me, I was dead anyway. Outside or in the basement, or ten miles underground, I would die . . . and before that happened, I needed to see the starship for myself . . .”

  “You saw the starship die instead,” I said. I couldn’t help myself.

  She acted as if I’d done something wrong. Breaking a rule, maybe. But instead of saying so, she put her hands in her lap, saying, “I saw it happen. When every hatch and airlock and those . . . those dilation zones . . . when the reactors quit and they opened up, I saw all that air and cold water pouring out of the starship . . . !”

  Mom swallowed, telling me, “That was the worst moment, Sam. I didn’t know what was going on.”

  Then she squeezed my hand, telling me, “But I know better now. And now what I saw—what I remember so clearly—looks beautiful to me. What I remember . . . it was like some enormous comet was born right above me, milky and spreading all the way across the sky. Later I found out that the world was saved, and it was my own father who had done it. He did most of it himself. And I don’t think that there’s ever been a happier, prouder child than me.”