by Brian Bakos
“Don’t even think of running,” I say.
He nods again and holds up his hands, uttering something in the slobe language.
“I don’t know what you’re saying, so shut up.”
The lad appears to be around twelve with long, disheveled hair and clothes that are too small for him. What is he doing out here, anyway? Is he a homeless refugee, a vagabond? Is he a herding boy out looking for a lost goat?
And why the hell did I have to find him?
Well, I can either stand here all day asking unanswerable questions, or I can go. One thing is certain – I can’t leave him behind to inform on my whereabouts.
I gesture ahead with the pistol. “Get moving!”
The boy starts walking briskly.
“Not too far ahead,” I warn.
***
We trudge along through the next hours – the boy first, with me following a short distance behind trying to watch out in all directions. My pistol and knife are always close to hand.
Of all the useless complications! I’ll have to keep an eye on the lad all day, lest he run off. And come night, I’ll need to restrain him. Thank God for the various items in my emergency kit. These include a length of sturdy cord and a bandana, useful to bind and gag. Tomorrow, if I am still alive, I’ll free the lad when the airbase comes in sight.
I toy with the idea of bringing him in. If he has no family on the outside, he can be our servant – clean our barracks, do our laundry and so on. In return, we’ll make sure he has food and a decent place to live. He could survive. In a tiny way, this will help to make up for all the others, the burned ones ...
But the whole idea is ludicrous. Considerations of that sort have no place in this cauldron of brutality. The higher ups would never let us keep him, and if they did, the lad would only run off at the first opportunity to inform on us – or else slit our throats as we slept. It is kill or be killed here, or at least try to keep out of the way of the killing as much as possible.
The route takes us over high ground which offers frequent views of the road below. The road leads directly to the airbase, and I am sorely tempted to use it. No ... it is more prudent to stay up here, farther away from notice.
The lad’s back is constantly in my field of vision, the target I once considered stabbing. Now and then, he glances back over his shoulder, doubtlessly hoping that I’ve vanished into thin air. I toss him a strip of jerky and some dried fruit.
“Eat up!”
He needs no prompting, but wolfs the food down without delay.
I am weary and footsore, many hazardous kilometers remain to my destination. All sorts of random thoughts start playing through my mind.
For instance, who is this boy, and where did he come from? Is a mother anxiously awaiting his return? He is younger than the slobe boy who’d attacked Bel’s airplane, but I can’t help seeing them as one in the same. They blend into a single, universal, enemy lad – one Piotra.
Years seemed to have passed since the slobe diving incident, so many twists and turns bringing me here. And all because of one foolish decision. I’ve read that the most advanced reasoning portions of the human brain do not fully mature until a person reaches his early 20’s. I am yet seventeen, can I be blamed for being an ass?
Blame! Such concepts fade to insignificance in these alien surroundings. The very trees and grass seem unnatural. Human beings are snuffed out wholesale here – shot from the sky, blown up by artillery, burned in villages ...
My luck suddenly turns when I spot something down on the road.
“Hold it!” I command. “Get down!”
We crouch in the high grass and peer out toward an armored personnel carrier stopped on the road below. It is a stealthy, long-range model with eight wheels instead of clanking tracks, similar to the ones I’d seen at the victory rally. With its camouflage paint, it blends in well with the background, but my eyesight – more keen than ever – has picked it out.
It is one of ours, originally, but it might be in enemy hands now. The partisans are experts at using captured equipment and uniforms to bait traps for us. From this distance I can’t tell, even through the binoculars. There are no troops around it.
“Come on!” I beckon.
We make our way downhill, taking advantage of the high grass and every other bit of cover. The wind favors us, rustling through the grass and disguising our movements. The boy is very skilled at this subterfuge, moving along with the cunning of a snake. Maybe he has done this before, in service with the partisans.
Despite the life and death circumstances, I find my thoughts wandering back to when I was twelve. Stilikan was home from school that summer, and we played a similar game, creeping down a hill to surprise the ‘enemy’ lurking below. The age difference between me and Stilikan was about the same as between me and this boy, come to think of it.
Suddenly, a realization of the war’s futility and waste slams into me like an armored fist. Here I am, five years later and half a continent away, still playing this game. Between then and now lies a vast killing field piled high with our best young men. And for what – so the slobes can teach us the limits of our arrogance?
Perhaps these bitter thoughts distract me too much, or maybe the wind rushing through the grass dulls my hearing. I do not notice the man sneaking up behind us until I hear the sharp cock of a gun. I spin around, groping for my pistol.
“Hold it, flyboy,” a harsh voice says.
A boot knocks the pistol out of my hand.
I squint up into the sun. A man dressed in camouflage is standing among its rays pointing a rifle at me. The barrel seems as big as a howitzer’s.
“W-who ...?” I say.
“I’m your fairy godmother,” the man says, “who else?”
He speaks our language with no trace of enemy accent. The coiled spring inside me loosens a tiny bit.
“We’ve got a live one, Captain,” the man calls out to somebody.
A second man, also dressed in camouflage, strides into view. His bulk obscures the glaring sun and I can make out his face clearly. It is hard and sharp with piercing blue eyes. Blond hair bristles on his skull.
“Good work, Eagle-eye,” he says.
For a moment, I think he is addressing me with my old squadron nickname. I almost utter some absurd reply.
The captain looks down at me. I must be a contemptible sight, sprawled helplessly in the grass, gaping up like an idiot.
“You going to lay there all day, sonny?” he says.
He offers me a hand. I take it and am yanked to my feet by an iron grip.
“Thank you, sir,” I say.
The captain is no taller than me, but he seems more powerful by an order of magnitude. Next to him, I feel about as strong as a rag doll. Perhaps my state of weariness contributes to the impression.
Now that I’m over my initial fear, I am struck by the captain’s resemblance to Stilikan. He could almost be related to us, but his face bears a cruel edge that my brother’s never had.
“What’s with the kid?” The captain asks.
He jabs his gun barrel toward the slobe lad, who is standing fearfully nearby with his hands above his head.
“Oh, I found him a way back,” I say. “I was keeping an eye on him.”
The captain nods. “Good move. Every one of these little snots is an informer.”
More men in camouflage are standing around now, all of them tough and hard as brass. Clearly they are one of our anti-terrorist commando units – men whose primary job is to track down and exterminate partisans. Men I need to know.
“We’ve been told to watch for a missing courier pilot,” the captain says. “Is that you?”
“Yes, sir. Youth League air squadron commander Dytran reporting, sir.”
My announcement is greeted by sarcastic chuckles from the men.
“Yuliac babies!” somebody sneers.
“What about the courier?” the captain asks.
“He was killed, sir. A
n enemy fighter jumped us.”
“And his dispatch?”
“... destroyed.”
The captain nods again. Thank heaven he does not question me further about the dispatch. He gestures to one of his men.
“Radio the airbase. Tell them we’ve got the prodigal, all safe and sound.”
“Yes, sir.”
The trooper runs ahead to the personnel carrier.
“All right, we can take you back,” the captain says. “Let’s go.”
I tromp down the hill beside him. My relief at my deliverance is so profound that I almost seem to be floating. The commandos tread around us like predator cats ready to pounce at an instant’s notice. Thank God they are our side!
I need to tell them about the partisan band, lead them back to the spot where I discovered it. I wonder what the protocol is. Should I speak directly to the captain or wait until I get back and submit my report through channels?
I determine to speak with the captain once we’re inside the APC and on our way. I don’t think my superiors will fault me for that. And what if they do? Anything that brings faster justice to Stilikan’s murderers is worth trying.
Eagle-eye nudges my arm. “Here, you forgot something.”
He returns my pistol to me butt first.
“Thanks, sir.”
I take the gun. The thing has an odd, tingly feeling, as if it knows it’s been handled by a master who really appreciates its destructive powers.
“Don’t shoot yourself with it,” Eagle-eye says. “Ammo’s expensive.”
I tuck the gun inside my flight suit trying to keep a grin on my face about the supposed joke. I’m not certain he’s really joking, though.
We gain the road and walk up to the armored personnel carrier.
It is a fearsome brute, open at the top. Its armor juts in aggressive angles like that of some prehistoric monster. A small turret in front houses a machine gun while another heavy machine gun pokes out the back, blocking access to the doors. This second gun is a field addition, I reckon. At least the vehicle at the rally didn’t have one.
The vehicle is already sinister enough, but a logo painted on its flank adds to the effect. It shows a dark, whirling cyclone with a skull peering out from its interior. The skull sports ruby-red eyes. The words, Death Storm, appear beneath this illustration.
The whole thing is worked into the camouflage, and I don’t notice it until I’m right next to it. The effect is startling.
“You like the artwork?” Eagle-eye asks.
“Uh ... yes, sir,” I say, “very much so.”
More sarcastic chuckles from the men.
I glance off to the right where the road starts to bend. A second APC lurks against the trees. Its position is such that I wasn’t able to see it from the hill. It is even more highly camouflaged, with greenery attacked along its flanks, like a rolling tree.
The slobe lad is still with us, I notice with some surprise. He seems like an intruder from some other lifetime.
“Run along now!” the captain barks, gesturing down the road with his gun barrel.
The slobe boy looks toward me with soft, brown eyes that remind me of a puppy dog’s.
“Yes, go on!” I say. “You’re free.”
The lad takes off at a run.
Men are clambering up the side of the armored vehicle now. Then it is my turn to ascend. I hope that I can get up there without embarrassment. I seize the handholds and pull myself to the top. So far, so good; I feel a shred of dignity returning.
A shot rings out. I jerk my head around. Down the road, a tiny heap indicates where the slobe boy is lying.
“Nice shot, Eagle-eye!” somebody yells.
The scene has an unreal air. It does not involve me, does it? The boy is far away, dehumanized, while I am here safe.
Just climb aboard and keep your mouth shut.
But this is wrong! Honor demands that I take it personally. I drop to the ground and stride up to Eagle-eye.
“Why the hell’d you do that?” I shout.
He turns a look of amused contempt toward me, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. A swirl of wind envelops him, wafting away the smoke.
The captain grips my shoulder and roughly spins me around.
“It’s not all pretty blue, flyboy,” he says. “Down here, there’re no limits.”
Three: A New Reality
33. Hero’s Homecoming
The ride is tense and ugly. Although the vehicle is crowded, there remains a chilly vacuum around my corner. I’ve offended the squad’s code, and they are ostracizing me for it. Thank God they’ve already radioed ahead that I am “safe and sound.” Otherwise, I might be lying out in the road with the slobe boy.
I discard my original plan. I’d thought that I might be able to accompany them on a raid against Stilikan’s killers, but that idea seems beyond foolish now. I’ll save my report until I get back to the air field, if I get back.
I am reasonably confident of that. Still, I feel a sensation of fear and dread as never before in my life. Even the terror of the shoot down or the railway depot ambush does not match it. Those were military actions against legitimate targets. This murder is something quite different. It is the face of pure evil.
But I need these men in order to exact vengeance for Stilikan. Perhaps I can make it up with them, utter some cruel jest, apologize for being so unreasonable:
“Hey guys, you shot that damn kid before he could polish my boots!” I might say. “You know how it is with us ‘flyboys,’ we’re all a bit soft in the head from too much altitude.”
I even have a supply of Bekar’s premium cigarettes in my emergency kit. I can pass them around. They never fail to win friends.
But I can’t bring myself to do any of this. For the first time ever, I question my place in the world. What the hell am I doing here? How can any of this horror be considered devotion to the Fatherland?
We are still a kilometer from the air field when the vehicle abruptly stops.
“Time to get out!” somebody says.
The captain grips my arm and speaks harshly in my ear. “Don’t ever let us find you again, kid.”
I am fairly heaved over the side, almost landing on my face in the gravel road. I straighten my flight suit and begin walking with as much dignity as possible. Every moment I expect to hear a shot ring out, feel a lethal impact against my spine.
But nothing happens. The armored personnel carriers turn around and go off the direction they had come.
***
I pass through the sentry posts and enter the air field. First order of business is a report to the wing commander, then a glorious hot shower and something to eat. A couple of nasty blisters have developed on feet grown unaccustomed to long treks, and I want to have the infirmary look at them. I pray that there will be no flying assignments for me today.
As I crunch along the gravel path toward HQ, a vast weariness is taking hold, only part of which is physical. My spirit is exhausted, too. After taking care of my immediate needs, I still have to face the brutal issue of the courier flights.
I don’t know what to do; my brain is hardly functioning any more. I wish I was back home curled up in my comfortable bed, with Mama downstairs baking pastries and brewing real coffee.
Something up ahead on the right catches my eye.
What the hell?
A movie camera, complete with a two-man crew, is grinding away on a tripod. Its long lens jabs at me like a rifle barrel.
“Don’t look into the lens!” a cameraman yells. “Look off toward the left.”
I am too astonished to react. Here is another scene of unreality, as if I’ve stepped from one mad house into another.
“Look off to the left!” the cameraman repeats urgently.
I swivel my head leftward to see a crowd approaching – Bel, Sipren, other pilots and ground crew, even the wing commander. A man with a portable movie camera on his shoulder strides among them; another man brandishes a
microphone like a club.
And near the back – crisp in her News Service blazer, tall in her platform shoes – is Ket.
“By one of war’s unpredictable turns, our film crew is on hand to witness a hero’s homecoming,” the man is saying into his microphone. “Youth League Air Squadron leader Dytran was given up for lost but has now returned safe and sound to the arms of his national comrades ...”
As the man drones on, my gaze turns toward Ket. I couldn’t look elsewhere if I wanted to, and I sure don’t want to. Her eyes direct an irresistible, electric-like current into mine; a broad smile creases her face. She purses her lips into a kiss. She seems like a fantastic visitor from some other universe.
Then the crowd surges around me, slapping my back, shaking my hands, saying what a helluva guy I am. For a moment, I fear they will hoist me upon their shoulders.
“You’re one lucky bastard,” Bel whispers in my ear.
He, too, is gazing off toward Ket.
“Tell us how it feels to be back,” the newsman says.
The microphone is shoved into my face.
“Uh ... it feels great,” I say. “I never thought this airfield was so beautiful.”
Everyone laughs and applauds. Apparently I’ve stumbled upon the right words. The newsman asks me more questions, and I mouth replies. I scarcely know what I am saying. Somebody thrusts a bottle of wine into my hand, I take a healthy swig to cheers and applause.
Then the little celebration breaks up and people return to their various duties. The movie cameras switch off.
“Report to me when you’re finished with ... them,” the wing commander says.
He gestures toward the newsreel people. His face wears a tired, sardonic little smile.
“Yes, sir.”
He drifts away with the others, leaving me alone in a temporary void. Then –
“Welcome back, Dytran.”
It’s Ket. She is standing close to me; her body gives off incredible warmth. She is bursting with vitality in this land of murder.
“Ket, what are you doing here?”
I can’t focus my eyes properly. Ket seems to give off an obscuring glow, and the wine has hit my famished system hard.
“Oh, Dytran ...”
Her hands reach for me, then drop to her sides. She looks toward her colleagues, who are avidly watching us. They begin to busy themselves with other things.
“We were in the area on another assignment,” she says. “I persuaded the director to divert here for a follow-up on the Raptor Aces.”
