by W. C. Bauers
“A special pass? Why? Why now? Sir, we’re preparing to deploy.”
Colonel Halvorsen had called her into his office the morning after she testified before the Senate. He hadn’t looked happy to see her. “You need to disappear for a few days. Don’t ask questions and don’t make waves. Understood?”
“No, sir, I don’t understand. With all due respect, I have way too much to do before—”
“Stop! I don’t … want to hear it. Do you know what a pain in the ass you are?”
“Sir, I really don’t know how to take that. I asked for more time to train my company, not for special passes so they could take time off from training. Permission to speak freely?”
“Permission denied. Do you even know how to disappear, Lieutenant?” Halvorsen’s hand flew upward before she could answer. “Wait, don’t answer that. Look, Promise, a lot is going on,” he’d said, and rubbed his face hard, “and you are not in the need-to-know.”
It was the first time the colonel had used her first name, and hearing him use it now knocked her off-balance.
“General Granby was benched for her stunt on the island. The only reason you’re still in uniform is because she gave you a direct order. But ‘I was simply following orders, sir!’ only goes so far. Believe me. Matters could have turned out differently for you. Be grateful for how they did turn out differently. That’s why I want you off Hold and away from the newsies while this mess calms down. That’s all I’m going to say. Leave. Now. That’s an order.”
“For the record, I protest in the strongest possible terms.”
“Noted, now make yourself disappear. Dismissed.” Halvorsen grabbed a datapad and tried to look very interested in whatever was displayed on the screen.
“What about my unit?”
Halvorsen looked at the overhead and sighed. “Same song, different key. Every boot in Victor Company gets a special pass too. Yours is already in your queue. Enjoy the vacation because it’s the last one you’ll see for a very long time.”
Promise saluted and stormed out the door. She was halfway down the office corridor when the colonel barked at her to come back.
“Lieutenant, for what it’s worth, Sergeant Morris’s death was not your fault,” the colonel said, surprising her. “I barely knew the man but he was well liked and he’ll be missed.”
* * *
Seabag now slung over her shoulder, Promise consulted the map on her minicomp and looked up to get her bearings. The gray ferrocrete looked freshly poured. Rows of LACs lay in their cradles, hatches popped to ingest cargo. Mechanized Marines scurried about, doubling as stevedores, hefting enormous weights with ease. Promise watched a suited Marine deadlift an enormous crate of ordnance and head up a gangway. Then she turned toward her Mule.
“Come on. I don’t have all day.” Her Mule was still strapped to the side of the transport behind her, and it appeared to be stuck. “What have I told you? Don’t move until we come to a stop. Otherwise you’ll get twisted up. Honestly, Stevie, I should have you scrapped.”
The mech dropped its head and chirped an apology.
“Right. I’ll believe that when the sun goes nova. Here, hold still.”
Stevie bobbed to the ground before stabilizing on its own plane of countergrav. Promise held out her seabag. “Take this to the shuttle on Pad Three. I have a few stops to make first.” She glanced at her chrono. “We don’t lift off until sixteen hundred hours. I’ll see you at fifteen thirty.” She had plans to kill the remaining hours. Promise shoved the Mule with her boot. “Move out.”
The mech disappeared into a mixed crowd of Fleet Forces personnel: Marines wearing tan utilities; Sailors wearing greens; and civilian workers dressed in solid blue, gray, and black coveralls. A variety of Mules and other bots painted myriad colors darted among their human counterparts. Promise consulted her minicomp and pivoted around. The port’s control needle towered high above the other structures, and cast a long shadow across the tarmac. Afternoon showers were in the forecast. A good-sized thunderhead had already built in the east. Promise could see the haze in the distance and what appeared to be a warship, earthbound. Beached like a whale.
She did a double take. It was unheard-of to see a warship sitting on the deck like that. RNS Pylon. A quick search revealed what had happened. Pylon had been in low-earth orbit, awaiting a new fusion engine. It had lost power and vented atmosphere out its port side, pushing the vessel out of its parking orbit and into Hold’s gravity. The Navy held a press conference as the vessel overflew the city of Cormandy. Miraculously, Pylon’s crew managed to restore partial power and set her down in one piece, in an open field close to Joint Spaceport Mo Cavinaugh. Scuttlebutt said BUPERS planned to retrofit her, to test the feasibility of an atmo-capable warship. That sounded to Promise like a very bad idea. A drop-capable battlecruiser could haul a lot of Marines and gear, true. But letting a jump-capable vessel inside a planet’s atmosphere was madness. What if something happened and the ship jumped?
Promise stood in disbelief. “That must have been some ride,” she said to no one. “I hope the Pylon gets topside soon, and stays there for good.”
A gust of wind pushed Promise off-kilter. The sky looked like she felt, troubled. It was time to do something about that. Time to get moving. She hiked a quarter of Mo Cavinaugh before she found the building.
The sign above the door was a rotating holo, shifting between the proprietor’s name and samples of his artwork. A red and gold rising phoenix burst from a pyre of flames, climbed on invisible currents, and then plummeted into a lake. Out of the water came a double-edged dagger. The dagger turned on itself. Other letters materialized to spell the word “Tullivan.” FATHER FRANCIS TULLIVAN, SPIRITUAL GUIDE AND TRADITIONAL AMERICAN TATTOOIST appeared in old-world script. Then the sequence reset itself.
She’d seen the word “American” in the histories. A constitutional republic. At one time it had been the only superpower on Holy Terra. Traditional American was a tattoo style popularized at American military bases during the 1930s and 1940s, and it was still alive and well in 92 A.E.
“Apparently he’s the best.” Promise squared her shoulders, removed her beret, and pushed through the door. The rough-hewn cross over the threshold was hard to miss. It made her think of her father, Morlyn Gration. He’d been so devout that Promise had found him nearly impossible to live with. Had it not been for the door chime she might have backed out then and there.
A choir of monks started chanting in a language she didn’t recognize. The music was soothing, and Promise figured it couldn’t hurt to at least meet the proprietor. If they didn’t click she could always make up an excuse and leave, or schedule an appointment for another time and then cancel it.
“I’ll be right with you,” said a low voice from an adjacent room.
Sample tattoos covered every centimeter of one wall. Some color, others black and gray. Another wall was stuffed full of printed books, all spine-out and in no particular order. The exit was to her right, and the door on her left led into a well-lit hallway. Several placards hung by the entrance to the hallway. Two were certificates from the Celeste Wei Canvas Academy on Hold, one for a journeyman’s course and another for advanced studies in the art of needle and laser tattoo work. Below them was a document from the Third Council of the Episcopal Church.
Father Francis H. Tullivan
On the Day of his Ordination
June 5th, 84 A.E.
Solo Deo Gloria
Signed: Mother Agatha Teresse
High Reverend Mother of the Order of Saint Thomas
A door creaked open and a woman stepped into the corridor and padded toward Promise in her bare feet. “Excuse me,” she said as she entered the room. She was in her undergarments but didn’t seem at all self-conscious. Clear bandages and ointment covered parts of her thighs, abdomen, and shoulders. Her body was nearly covered in ink except for her face and neckline, ankles and wrists.
She must have caught Promise’s expression, because s
he said, “Today is touch-up day. The father has been my artist for close to a decade. He let me off easy this time. Only ninety minutes in the chair. I won’t let anyone else touch this canvas.” She cocked her head at Promise. “First time?”
“Sorry?”
“It’s your first time, right? You look apprehensive … that’s all.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry—the father is good with ink. If needles bother you, the laser tats only take a few seconds. Don’t get me wrong. They hurt like no other. But, if I were you, I’d go old-school. Once your endorphins kick in you won’t want to stop. Trust me.”
“Thanks for the tip. A little pain never hurt anyone, right?”
“That’s the spirit,” the woman said. She reached for a pair of coveralls hanging on the wall, just off the exit. She turned toward Promise and started to zip up.
“Cute tattoo.”
“Thanks.” She looked down and smiled. “Which one were you referring to? I have a catalog’s worth.”
“That one over your heart.” The feet were so small Promise would have missed them if she hadn’t been up close.
The woman froze.
“She … didn’t make it. I carry her prints to remember her … so she’s always near.”
You had to pick the one tattoo this woman doesn’t want to talk about. Perfect aim. Wrong target. Way to go, P.
“I’m sorry,” Promise said.
“Don’t be. I’m not. I’m glad you asked. Talking about her helps me keep going.”
Promise didn’t know what to say to that.
“Like you said, a little pain never hurt anyone. Losing her nearly undid me.” Her eyes looked faraway. “But life’s ahead. It has to be … or what’s the point, right?”
“That’s what I’m hoping,” Promise said.
The woman nodded like she understood, retied her hair, and brushed something off a sleeve. “Nice chatting with you. Enjoy your time with the father. And go old-school. You won’t regret it.” As she walked out the door, a heavyset man in a burgundy robe walked in.
Twenty-five
MAY 12TH, 92 A.E., STANDARD CALENDAR, 0928 HOURS
REPUBLIC OF ALIGNED WORLDS PLANETARY CAPITAL—HOLD
JOINT SPACEPORT MO CAVINAUGH
“You must be my next appointment. Lieutenant Paen, right? I’m Father Francis Tullivan. Please call me Father or Father Francis. It’s very nice to meet you.”
The father took Promise’s hand in both of his. They were the warmest hands she’d ever felt He was middle-aged and bald, and his speckled beard swallowed his mouth and chin. What little neck he had was ringed with a white collar.
“It’s nice to meet you too, Father.”
“What brings you to my house, Lieutenant? Art or faith?”
“A bit of both, I think.”
“Then you’ve come to the best possible place. Do you have a vid or a still I can look at?”
Promise pulled a small disk from her thigh pocket and handed it to the father. He set it on a small table, finger hovering over it. “May I?”
“Please, it’s not encrypted.”
A holographic montage filled the air above the table, stills of women and men and a few twos and threes. Many were relatively young. A middle-aged couple appeared with a little girl between them. A few stills showed the torso up; others were full-body. Most of the people wore RAW-MC uniforms. After a dozen or so, the father started stroking his beard. “Exactly what am I looking at, Lieutenant?”
“Some family and a lot of my company.”
“I see. Such wonderful faces. Why do I fear they are no longer with us?”
Promise’s throat went dry. She cleared it several times to get something out. “I wish things had turned out differently.” She was crying now. “I don’t really know what I’m after, Father. I can’t keep doing this.”
“Then don’t. You don’t have to, you know.” The father smiled and motioned to a couple of chairs. “Now, you were saying.”
“A week ago I lost one of my platoon sergeants. A year ago he helped me pull a toonmate out of harm’s way. We were taking heavy fire. We were so badly outnumbered, just a few of us survived. He made it out then, only to die during a training mission … all because of me.” The image cycled again and Promise cupped her mouth.
“That’s him, isn’t it?”
It was all she could do to nod.
The father laid a hand on Promise’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “Ah, I see. A brother of the close fight. God rest his soul.”
“Yes.” He was in every sense of the word. She took a moment to collect herself. “Are you former military?”
“I was in another lifetime.” The father looked up. “He enlisted me. You know, we have this silly little notion about death that’s definitely not from Him. We’ve had it for millennia, back to the dawn of time. We tell ourselves to say good-bye to our lost ones so we can move on. The truth is that’s the biggest bunch of nonsense, and it eats at the spirit. It’s impossible to let go. The human heart wasn’t designed for good-byes. We were designed for forever. Death wasn’t part of the original plan.”
“Then how do I keep going, Father? I feel like I’m coming unraveled. The flashbacks and nightmares won’t stop. I barely sleep anymore. I’m becoming afraid to try.”
“You don’t. At least not like you’re thinking.” The father folded his hands across his stomach and filled his chest with air. “Instead of moving on, think of making space in your life for your pain. You have to do life with it. Give it a place at the table. Tell it, ‘You’re welcome here.’ Only then can you begin to heal.
“Someday, we will all come to the end of ourselves. It’s inevitable, even if the scientists say otherwise. I happen to believe in life after death, and if you ask me, the best stuff happens on the other side. On this side, we have the misfortune of outliving some of the people we love. More than I really care to think about, honestly.” The father closed his eyes. “I overheard a bit of your discussion with Katia, the woman who just left.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Don’t feel badly, Promise. Do you mind if I call you that?”
“No, not at all.”
“Katia has seen her share of loss too. A parent losing a child is one of the worst kinds of loss imaginable. For her the cycle of life was reversed. Your occupation guarantees you a double portion, probably more than that.” The father looked genuinely hurt for her. “I’m afraid it’s simply impossible to move on from death. You must learn to move with it.”
“I don’t know where to begin.”
Father Francis opened his arms wide and smiled. “That, my dear, is why you came to me.”
“And you believe a tattoo can make a difference.”
“Absolutely! I’ve staked my livelihood upon it. And His.”
“I suppose you have.” Promise’s eyes went to the disk. “You’ve seen my Marines. What do you suggest?”
“Script, possibly.” He frowned. “A lot of names get tricky. We’d have to make them small and the small ones don’t age as well … unless you want your body covered with janes and jacks, space will be an issue. What about a symbol? Maybe something you shared in common with your sisters and brothers.”
Promise raised her left shoulder. “How about my unit patch?”
“Hmm, it has possibilities. Snakes are a staple of the industry.”
Promise caught the edge of a memory. She was a child, sitting on her father’s lap. They were reading together from an old picture book. There were trees and animals, and a new sun was high in the sky. A snake and a man were talking to each other, and it wasn’t going well. The next spread showed them fighting. She hadn’t thought of it in years.
“What if I incorporate a field of stars into the background, one for every fallen soul?” Father Francis looked pleased.
“I think I’d like that.”
“What if I work them into a pattern of concentric circles, like this?”
Promise nodded.<
br />
“Good. Give me half an hour to draw it up. Help yourself to my library. I’ve always loved the printed word. Given the choice, I’ll choose carbonscreen every time. Room Two is down the hall, second door on the right. There’s fresh-brewed caf and a nice selection of iced beverages. Please take your pick.”
Room Two was an oasis. Soft blues and greens covered the walls. The holographic ceiling swelled with clouds, and a flight of birds passed overhead. A slight current stirred her bangs and fresh caf filled her nostrils. Stringed music played as she doctored a cup with heavy cream and sugar. It was strong. The good stuff, she thought. She sat and the chair reclined, and molded to her back and legs. The heated seat was an added bonus. As she relaxed she noted the piece of framed art on the wall. At first, Promise thought it was a holographic still. A closer look made her think twice.
The scene depicted two armies enjoined in battle. Not all the soldiers were human. And everything was slightly out of focus, as if an optic had rendered the entire piece from a real battle, or perhaps a reenactment, and the optic hadn’t known what detail to focus upon, so it ended up rendering the entire scene slightly out of phase. Even so, the details were as real as they were gruesome. Corpses were piled everywhere. Explosions and debris filled the air. The carnage was near-total, which made the man in the center of the painting seem at odds with his surroundings. He stood on a small hill, and his arms were outstretched and soaked with blood. Survivors on both sides were gazing up at him in shock. His face was a collage of browns, greens, blacks, and whites. His eyes were full of pain and they appeared to be looking straight at her. The plaque at the bottom said:
“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the daughters and sons of God.”
The great Mediator, Promise thought. One of the holy triumvirate. Promise’s father, Morlyn Gration, had believed in the Mediator, Maker, and Sustainer, what he’d called the three-in-one. “God is never alone, and because God is with us neither are we.” He’d taken that belief to the grave. Promise wondered if her father was now in the presence of some great spirit. Perhaps looking down upon her this moment. She’d certainly never sensed his presence. And right now she wished she could in the worst way.
