by K. M. Herkes
FC: My sheets smell funny. They’re turning all dark. I think they’re burning, and I don’t understand. I don’t drink or do drugs or stay out late, I turn in my assignments, I only cheated once ever. Maybe twice. Those aren't sins that would make God this angry, are they? Why is this happening to me?
O: I wish I knew, baby. Help is coming. Stay right where you are.
FC: I will. I hate God. This isn’t my fault. I try so hard to be good.
O: Yes, you are. You are good. Try not to be angry, sweetie. Stay calm.
FC: They’ll come for me soon, won’t they?
O: Yes, baby. They’ll be there soon. I’ll stay with you on the phone. I'm here, baby. I won’t leave you. You aren’t alone. Just keep holding on.
FC: Oh. Oh, no. I’m so sorry.
(static)
(connection lost)
End Transcript
18 October 01:17
Containment: successful Fatalities: 0 Injuries: 3 Property loss: total
Preliminary subject assessment: Pyrokinetic Class 1, variant C
18 October 02:15
Mercury Command cedes incident control to Public Safety Unit 216. Target transferred to DPS supervision for initial Adaptation processing. Custodial rights successfully transferred to the Department without parental challenge. Subject transported immediately to DPS Camp Garfield for full evaluation and training pending Mercury Battalion intake.
End Incident Report
File Notation: Details redacted per Civilian Privacy Act 45 CFR 5b
Nightmares
Chapter 1: Owl’s Nest Saloon, Elgin Illinois
All eyes in the bar turned to Kris the instant she ducked inside the front door. Music with a thumping bass beat assaulted her ears, a flood of new scents washed over her with the shift in air pressure, and blinking lights dazzled her. Every muscle went tight, and fear buzzed along her nerves. Power surged though her flesh, pooling in the muscles, thickening her skin.
Her pacifier necklace beeped a sullen warning, responding to the pheromone release that accompanied the power flare. Then the chilly metal circlet vibrated a secondary alert, and needles emerged to prick her skin. She put one hand to her throat and struggled to calm herself. The device could penetrate her normal armoring, and her skin would never harden further while she was wearing the pacifier. The sedative would drop her before she could shift.
This did not look like a safe place to pass out. Most of the patrons were big-bellied, broad-shouldered men in plaid and denim. A few were partnered with women in plaid tops and short skirts. Ten gallon hats and feed caps went head to head with bandanas in a battle for hair-coverage supremacy, and frowns were the universal choice of expression.
A young woman behind the bar at the back of the room called out, “Hi, beautiful! You must be here for the party. C’mon over, grab some pitchers for your buddies.”
The sound of a friendly voice, female and cheerful, tipped Kris off the nervous edge of panic towards calm. She took a deep, cleansing breath, the way she’d been taught in therapy. The odors of stale beer and stale bodies filled her nose, but the familiar routine did the trick. Her nerves settled, the pacifier fell silent, and she dredged up the courage to move forward.
A promise was a promise. She couldn’t say no to a birthday girl, even if Amy was turning fifty-five. Besides, she couldn’t hide on base forever. She had at least thirty months left in her hitch.
The crowd silently stared as Kris passed by. She kept an eye on the light fixtures. She’d cleared ten feet before her rollover ended in a T-series designation and compulsory military training. The height came with metallic armored skin and massive musculature that still felt strange almost a year after the first changes hit. For this occasion, she wore the one tailored civilian outfit she owned, but she knew the clothes only accentuated her strangeness.
No one looking at her would guess that she’d suckled two children at her breasts, or that her hips had passed them into the world. The breasts were as flat as a boy’s, the pelvis so altered that learning to walk properly had taken weeks of practice. The other patrons were staring at the monster Kris saw when she looked in a mirror.
She tried to avoid mirrors. The one on the wall behind the bottles at the bar taunted her with glimpses of short black hair, shiny bronze skin and gold eyes full of worry. That was her new face. The red silky shirt below it hung loose on her chest. Some of the faces reflected behind her looked more than shocked. They looked hateful, and Kris wished she could sink through the floor and disappear.
The bartender said to the room at large, “Shut yer mouths before flies git in, people. Never seen a Marine before?”
The tension broke with an intangible pop. People started talking again. Billiard balls hit one another with clacking sounds. Glasses and bottles clinked.
“Thanks for that,” Kris said to the bartender.
“You’re here for Corporal Goodall’s birthday, yeah? Here ya go. This is her favorite, and James doesn’t have it on tap back there.” She slid two pitchers of frothy amber liquid across the bar and pointed to a closed door near a hall marked RESTROOMS & PHONES. “That’s our accommodation zone. We’ve a big door around the side, too, if you want to go direct next time. Most of the grunts do.”
Kris glanced into the mirror again, caught sight of unfriendly eyes looking away fast. “I can see why. I’d say sorry, but—” But she wasn’t sorry. Angry, embarrassed, helpless and frustrated, all that, but not sorry.
The woman’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “No worries, honey. You’re welcome in my place any time. I’ve got a cousin out west with Empire Company. Eyes front, now. Forward, march.”
Inside the door, Kris went down steps to a sunken floor that brought the ceiling to sixteen feet high. Seats tailored to inhuman forms were the norm here: tables sat on a platform around the perimeter, equipped with chairs in all sizes, including backless stools for the winged and tailed. A concrete dance floor was the centerpiece, and hammocks for those who preferred perches to seats swung overhead in the corners. This room was as crowded as the front one. Many of the occupants looked just as human too, but fur and feathers were common, and Kris wasn’t the only rare T-series present. Amy was on the dance floor, and it looked like half the base had come out to cheer her on.
A second bar stood next to the door, tended by a long-limbed man who had a black chitinous exoskeleton and feathery antennae. Kris lifted the pitchers. “Where do I take these? For Amy Goodall.”
“For you, too.” He hung a mug off her pinkie finger and pointed at an unoccupied cluster of tables at the back. “Up there, honey.”
Kris maneuvered through the spectators lining the dance square and cleared a spot for the beer amidst a cluster of half-empty glasses. Then she sat down to watch the birthday girl work up a thirst.
Amy was a sight to behold as she danced solo across the empty floor. Twelve feet tall, gold and leathery from top to toe, she was dressed in a glitter-gold halter top and a short swirling skirt. Her dorsal spines went from nubs at her waist to a tall crest atop her skull. Fuzzy black hair surrounded the pair of gleaming polished horns that curved down to defend her cheekbones. Her eyes were warm gold, and her face was rapt with happiness.
She pirouetted once, twice, and a third time, then began a series of soaring leaps that took her around and around the floor. The maneuver ended with a bound to the center, where she came down hard enough to shake the walls. Just as the song ended, she struck a pose: back arched, one leg stretched behind, hands overhead, claws extended. The audience cheered, and a new song began. Amy left the floor with a laugh and a bow, and eager dancers quickly filled the space.
Amy pulled a stool up to the table and lifted lips over pointed teeth. “Hey, Stan! What’d you think? Be honest. You can tell me I look like a hippo in a tutu. Tonight, I don’t care. it’s my birthday, and I’ll dance if I want to.”
You were breathtaking, like a dragon in flight. That was what Kris wanted to say, but Amy’s words put a lump of
emotion in her throat. Her last name was Stanislav, but she hadn’t heard the shortened version since she transferred.
She’d hated her first squad leader for saddling her with the manly nickname, but coming from Amy now, it was a reminder of happier days. In her new unit she was called by rank, her full name, or nothing. Mostly nothing. Her fingers rose to fiddle with the pacifier, and she swallowed memories both good and bad.
“You make our ugliness beautiful when you move,” she said.
“Ha. I knew I could count on you for honest flattery.” Amy poured them each a drink. “I love being able to do leaps like that again. Here’s to having brand-new knees I can’t ruin—“ Her eyes fell to Kris's collar, and she froze mid-toast. “Shit on a stick. I forgot you were still restricted, from the—you know, that night. How are you doing, Stan? I’ve barely seen your grumpy face since the transfer.”
That night, she called it. Kris closed her eyes as memory made her gasp for breath that wouldn’t come. She fought for air against fingers pressing her lips so hard against her own teeth that the flesh tore and bled, her shoulder popped out of joint with an crunch of bone and sinew, and all around there was raucous laughter—
Her heart pounded. She couldn’t blame Amy for avoiding the word rape. She didn’t want to use it either, or think about it, or remember it. Too bad she didn’t have the choice. She kicked, but her feet were caught and held, and she pedaled furiously against air, twisting her body without moving it at all. Her legs were pulled apart, and weight slammed down on her, into her—
She stepped back inside her head the way her therapist had taught her, and the memory eased. The pacifier stayed quiet, and she said with pride, “I re-test for active duty in a week. I’m going to pass.” During the first few weeks she’d needed the thing to prevent her from wreaking havoc every time she flashed into a panic. Now it was an annoyance. She’d been automatically assigned to a new squad, no one talked about that night, and life went on. It wasn’t easy, but it was all she could do.
“Of course you’ll pass. You’re tough as nails and smart as a—shit.” Amy’s eyes went wide. “I just realized. You came in through the bar, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I didn’t know there was a back door.” Kris pushed away her mug as her stomach lurched with worry. “Why?”
“A few local assholes love this place too much to leave it to monsters and monster-lovers. We try to keep anyone on restricted duty out of their sight. Fuck.”
“I’m sorry.” She was always doing something wrong. Why hadn’t she screamed for help that night? Why hadn’t she fought harder? “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“Nah, I should’ve warned you.” Amy stood up. “Sarge! Up here!”
The music was loud. Amy was louder. One of the few other Tees in the room turned around, and when Kris saw his face, she wanted to either die on the spot or kill Amy. Maybe both. Sergeant Jack Coby was the last person on the planet she ever wanted to see again, here or anywhere.
"You invited him?" she asked. "If you'd told me he was here, I would've stayed home.
"That's why I didn't tell you," Amy said. "It’s also a bar, Stan. Kind of public. Hush, now. I want his help."
“Whassup, Goodie?” Sergeant Coby asked as he came up the steps. His voice was an emotionless bass drone, and reflective glasses hid his expression. He made Kris’s skin crawl with nervousness, even though she had two feet of height on him. He might be so thin-skinned that the plating didn’t show unless he went into rampage, but he had an air of authority even when he was swaying on his feet. He nodded at Kris. “Stan. Good’ta seeya out an’ about.”
“You are drunk, Sergeant Jackass,” Amy said.
He grinned. “I am. Is’sa party, righ’? So, whassup?”
Amy pointed at the pacifier. “That. The barflies saw it, and you know how they get about ambushing ironheads. Can we get a PSA?”
“Sure can.” Coby broke into another toothy grin and swung to face the crowd. “Attention on deck, Marines!” His basso shout made Amy’s earlier yell sound like a whisper. Someone cut the music, and he continued, “Word is, we might have to fight our way home tonight. How do you feel about that?”
A cheer went up, and Jack laughed. “Mission objective: everyone hauling iron gets home vertical. Buddy up. Rules of engagement: no biting, no cocoons, no poisons, no transformations, no illusions. Start nothing, safety first. Got it?”
“Aw, Sarge,” someone said plaintively, and laughter rose.
“There,” Jack said to Amy. “S’all good. Happy fucking birthday.”
He wobbled back to the dance floor. The music started up again. Kris swallowed hard. “I didn’t think we could get drunk,” she said.
“It takes work. Swallow a bottle of cough syrup, toss back a handful of allergy pills, and stick to 180 proof shit. Jackass is becoming an artist at it.” Amy filled her own glass and nudged Kris’s mug with the pitcher. “I’d rather enjoy all the beer I can afford without powering up to burn it off.”
Then she raised her glass. “Happy fucking birthday to me, happy fucking night out for you. Happy fucking anti-hangover rampage for Sarge.”
Kris took a sip of the beer. It was bitter and bubbly, a lot like her feelings about Coby. “I don’t grasp why boys love booze so much. Little Matt drinks himself sick with his frat brothers every weekend and leaves me slobbery messages. The therapist says he does it to relieve stress. I guess that makes sense. All these changes have been hard on him.”
“Right, and it’s been so easy for you.” Amy sighed. “I don’t know how you do this with a family, Stan. Me, I’m starting to love this life—turns out unarmed combat is a lot like dancing—but I didn’t even have a dog to leave behind. You, though—well. What a nightmare. How is Big Matt handling things these days?”
“I got my Dear Jane papers yesterday.” Confessing the pain was easier than Kris expected. “I signed. I’m officially divorced.”
Amy rubbed at one of her horns in an embarrassed gesture. “Well that’s a kick in the ass. Damn, woman.”
Guilt stabbed at her. “Sorry to ruin the mood.”
“You’re joking, right?” Amy took a deep swallow of beer. “It’s another reason to celebrate. You’re well rid of the asshole. I met him once, remember? After the—you know. You want to talk about it?”
Kris spoke before she thought. “No, I don’t want to talk about it. Do you want to talk about being old enough to get senior discounts? What good would talking do either of us?”
Amy inhaled enough beer to choke herself. Once she stopped coughing and laughing, she said, “Damn, I love it when you use that sassy Mom-voice. Drink up. We’ll drown our sorrows together.
The second beer tasted better than the first, and Amy kept pouring. People came and went, delivering good wishes, hugs, and more beer, but no one stayed long. Kris relaxed and tried to keep her self-pity in check.
Matheus had cut out her heart and crushed it, but he never meant to do it. She drank to keep her hands occupied and to keep herself from crying. She couldn’t wish him ill even now.
She’d known in her head for months that their marriage was over, since the day she’d looked at her new body in a barracks mirror and thought, well, at least the stretch marks are gone before bursting into tears. She’d known it the instant she finished her first rollover rampage, standing in the clinic with torn muscles healing under skin as hard as an alligator’s back, staring down at tiles that were four feet farther from eye level than they’d been a few minutes earlier.
She’d known her husband would never look at her as a woman again, but she believed him when he insisted that they shared more than a bed as man and wife. She’d wanted so much to believe that love did conquer all.
She’d lied to herself until Matheus visited sick bay after that night, when his scent betrayed his revulsion even before Kris opened her eyes to see him at her bedside. He flinched when she said his name. That was the beginning of the end.
Turning into a monster didn
’t destroy her marriage. Being raped did. Of all the cruel tricks God had played on Kris, that was the cruelest. Matheus was willing to stay married to a monster, but he couldn’t love a victim. The space in her chest where love had lived was an ache that begged to be filled with anger.
She and Amy were working on the fifth pitcher when Amy said, “You know, when you said boys like him, earlier, it made me stop and think. I always forget how young Coby is, because he’s so damned good. Sergeant Hansen has thirty-five years on him, but he’s twice the Marine she is. I hate to say it, her being your new squad leader and all, but she’s a fuckin’ Gomer. You heard we had to bail her ass out of a literal fire yesterday?”
“Yes. I sat in the office and wrote the incident reports today. Don’t be mean.” Sergeant Hansen might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but she was patient, and she was kind. “Anyone could’ve made the same mistake. Who would expect a bystander to throw a rolling pyro into a car and drive off?”
“Anyone who can read a mission brief. The family’s religious affiliation was on page one, for fuck’s sake. Don’t defend her, Stan. She went in soft. You’re so new you’re shiny, and you’re already more professional than she’ll ever be. What’s SOP for a hostile high-risk retrieval, huh? I bet you know.”
Plans and puzzles were the fun part of the job. Kris didn’t even have to think hard. “Command confirms location. Access teleporters bring in the team. Kickers clear the site, brutes engage, exit porters bungee everyone back to containment.”
She frowned at her empty mug. She hadn’t practiced that scenario since transferring. Her new unit did not drill, or keep up with procedural developments, or care the way Sergeant Coby had. She’d thought, when she arrived at Camp Butler to join Gateway Company, that all platoons were the same. She’d believed her instructors when they’d said the Corps was about discipline and honor and pride in service. The last couple of months had been an unwelcome lesson about the depths to which reality could sink below the ideal.
Even thinking about it felt disloyal. She said, “My solution leaves at least one Tee in sickbay for days with target damage, and it puts two porter teams out of commission for recovery leave too. Can’t blame Hansen for trying to minimize Corps casualties.”
