Nightflyers & Other Stories

by George R. R. Martin

  The pilot takes us up. The faces around me are a little tense, but happy. A lot of smiles, some joking. What the hell are they so happy about? Don’t they know they might get killed? I feel slightly sick myself. This was a dumb idea.

  Stancato is one of the smilers. “You okay, Andy?” he says to me over the noise of the copter. “You don’t look so good.” He’s grinning so I know that he’s just kidding around. But he doesn’t fool me. He likes to put me down.

  “I’m all right.” I’m not going to throw up, no matter how much I want to. That would give Stancato too much pleasure. If I can’t hold back, I’ll throw up on him. “I’m just a little nervous,” I say.

  “Scared, you mean.” He laughs at me. “C’mon, Andy, admit it. We’re all scared. Nothing to be ashamed of. I’m terrified. You’d be stupid if you weren’t scared. The Concoms will be shooting real bullets at us.” Again that laugh. “But that’s what makes it interesting, right?”

  “Right.” Believe it.

  The Gut looks over. “You got it,” he says. Deep, gravelly voice, half his teeth missing. A real prole. “I been going out for ten years, scared every time. But that’s living.”

  “A man hasn’t lived until he’s seen death,” Stancato says, in his smooth, witty voice. It was one of Maneuver’s slogans.

  “A man ain’t a man till he’s maneuvered,” I say, providing the other catchphrase from the ads. Instantly I feel inane. Instantly I feel inane. Stancato’s quote somehow sounded appropriate to the conversation. Mine sounded stupid. Too late, though. I said it.

  Now the Gut laughs at me. “Yeah. And I bet you boys are just now getting to be men, hey?” He nods at his own pronouncement. “Yeah. You’re both green as hell. I can tell.”

  “A perceptive man,” Stancato says. Some perception. If we weren’t green, we’d be wearing vet marks.

  “Damn straight,” says the Gut. “I know my way around, too. Stick close to me. I’ll show you how it’s done. Make sure the Concoms don’t get any killpoints off my buddies.”

  I can’t think of anyone I’d want less as a buddy, unless it’s Stancato. But maybe I should do like the Gut says. He doesn’t seem to have any holes in him, and I don’t want any in me.

  There’s a loud thud, and the copter shakes around us. The rotors die whining. We’ve arrived. The middle of the war zone. We’ll be alone out here. The platoon we’re replacing was on a sweep through the forested countryside. Looking for Concoms. I hope the Concoms aren’t looking for us. What ever happened to old-fashioned wars where everybody met on a battlefield and shot at each other?

  We spill out of the chopper into a sea of mud. The sun is higher in the sky now, a corner of it peeking through the overcast. Most of the slush has dissolved. But the wind is still blowing, and it’s as cold as ever.

  We’re in a rocky, nondescript clearing, surrounded by evergreens, with barely enough room for the drop-chopper to set down. The other Maneuver platoon is all lined up, ready to board. They swear a lot, but most of them seem to be grinning. Dirt they have plenty of, but no blood. And I don’t see any wounded. Maybe this will be easier than I thought.

  The Gut waves to one of the others, gets a grin in return. “How’s it go?” the Gut shouts.

  “Oughta get our money back. Laying down good credit for a hike.” He shakes his head, looks towards his sarge, glances at me with disdain as his eyes sweep by. Smartass. Probably has money pouring out of his ears. Either that or enough killpoints to rate him a big discount. Otherwise how could he afford to buy a whole week of war at Maneuver’s rates? Probably looks down on us weekenders.

  Once we’re all out, they start piling in, then the chopper sets its rotors to whapping again and they’re off, home free. Back to the offices and the suburbs, or wherever. The Concoms don’t shoot at drop-choppers, thanks to the free substitution rule. But they’ve been known to wipe out a new platoon as soon as it’s landed. I recall that nervously, and look around.

  The sarge snaps an order, and we assemble like good little soldiers. He looks us over, obviously not pleased. “Awright,” he begins, in his best sarge-talk. Like something out of an old war movie. He doesn’t look the part though. He’s more like a misplaced accountant. He wears glasses and he’s too young and he smiles too damn much. Not a bit intimidating. I notice he isn’t wearing any vet marks either. Another strike against me. Andy Birch, you’re a real winner.

  “We’re gonna cover ground,” our green sarge tells us. “Those bastards were told to find the Concoms, and they farted around for a week. So we find ’em. Assholes and elbows time, kiddies. We’re gonna find out how you punks handle action. And it better be good, or I’ll give you more misery than the Concoms ever dreamed of. Remember, we get position-points if we find a camp, plus killpoints for every Concom we take care of. That means discounts next time around.”

  I find myself evaluating his performance. The first part sounded good, but maybe a little overdone. Rock Fury and all that. But those closing lines jarred. Wonder if he gets special training, or a manual, or what? Or do they just take his money and let him wing it?

  He’s giving us orders now. We split into smaller groups, and fan out into the forest. Why split up, I wonder? Why not just march along in a line, or something? I suppose there’s a reason. He must be going by the book, or by orders from some smartass who bought himself a weekend commission.

  I wind up with Stancato and the Gut. I stood close to the Gut when we got split up, so I’d be teamed with him. A vet can’t do me any harm, I figure, and he might make a difference. Stancato, damn him, figures the same way.

  So we’re scrambling through forest tangle, guns in hand. Heading upcountry, towards the mountains. The others are around us somewhere, but I can’t see them. The air is cold and the ground wet. I hope the sarge lets us stop for lunch.

  * * *

  I’m exhausted. This is worse than tennis, much worse, and I can’t take it. I’m sucking down icy air in great draughts, and that fucking Gut doesn’t let up. He just plows on ahead, pushing aside the greenery, tramping through the muck. He’s like a flabby mack truck, and he wants to run me into the ground. Stancato isn’t even breathing hard, but I’m going to collapse. The gun weighs a ton.

  We’ve covered a lot of territory. No doubt we’re in a war zone by now. I can hear firing in the distance, very dimly, big guns going boom-boom. And a Concom skimmer flight went overhead awhile ago. Way up, but the Gut told us to flatten ourselves in the mud all the same. The stuff soaked right through the uniform. I’m colder than ever, but luckily the wind’s died some.

  Near noon we stop to eat in a small clearing against the side of a cliff. Just the three of us. I don’t know where the others have got off to. I don’t understand any of this. Shouldn’t we be staying with the others? Where are they? Wouldn’t it be better if the whole platoon was together? I paid good money for this weekend. I wish I knew what was going on.

  We sit with our backs to the moss-slick stone, guns across our laps, eating rations from hotpaks. It’s good to get the load off my back and sit down for a while. And I’m hungry. But the food is terrible. You’d think Maneuver would do better for the prices we’re paying. How do they ever keep a customer?

  Stancato isn’t bothered, though. He eats quickly, almost ravenous, then smiles at me as I poke at my food. “Eat up, Andy,” he says. “We’ll need all our strength. Day’s just begun.” Then he stands and stretches, still smiling. “This is life,” he tells me. “This is exhilarating. Out beyond the city, with enemies around you and a gun in your hand. Yes, I do believe Maneuver’s right. Life is sweeter when death is close.”

  The Gut looks up from his pak, grimaces. “Sid down. And don’t talk so loud. You wanna bring the Concoms down on us? You won’t live long that way.”

  Stancato sits, grinning. “You know a lot about this, eh?”

  The Gut nods. “Damn straight. I could sarge if I wanted to, y’know. Even buy a weekend commission. I got lots of killpoints. But that isn’t for
me. This is better, out here. Before I go, I’m going to get more killpoints than anyone. That’s what I want, not to fight no war from an office, like the leadbutts with the big credit who sign on as weekend commanders.”

  I look at him, shoving aside my food half-eaten. An ugly man with an ugly nose and a huge pot and a small brain. Yet he’s killed men, better men than him probably, and he comes back when others die. Why? I start to ask the question.

  But Stancato talks first. “You like killing,” he says, eyes hard and eager. He’ll like it, I know. He likes hurting, likes to put people down, to humiliate them. Shooting holes in them is just his speed.

  “It’s war,” the Gut says. “Here, in the zone, yeah, but out there too. We just don’t call it war, but it still is. There are guys after you every minute, after your woman, after your job, pushing shit on your kids, trying to stick it to you. You have to fight back, and this is one way. Yeah, I like it. Why not? Those Concoms—” he jerks his head towards the shrubbery, savagely, “most of them are niggers, y’know. The Concoms do a lot of advertising down there where they live. They hate us anyway. Why shouldn’t I enjoy getting a few of them?” He looks belligerent, as if he dares us to challenge him. I’m certainly not going to. He’s a fool, but I might need him.

  Maneuver must like men like him. They hate, they kill, and they come back weekend after weekend. Sure they get discounts. But they make money for the company all the same. Pile up those points, get enough of them, and finally Maneuver wins the war and Consolidated Combat has to hand over a big chunk of credit, instead of the other way around.

  War after war, the Gut is there, I bet. Says something about man, something disgusting. No real war for over fifty years, so we invent bloodgames so animals like the Gut can play them and get their rocks off.

  Stancato is going to be good at this, yes. Maybe he’ll turn into the Gut in time. That would be nice. He deserves a fate like that. Not me, though. I get out, after this weekend.

  The Gut gets to his feet and gestures. We pick up our guns and follow, back into the forest.

  * * *

  Late afternoon. The war is all around us and the mud has turned back to slush and snow. But there are rocks underfoot, so we’re making better time.

  There is a horrible smell in the woods. And noises, firing, somewhere close. We crouch low and head towards it, scrambling silent as we can. I breathe easier now. I’m scared, but I’ve gotten my second wind. And my muscles don’t ache anymore. I can’t feel them at all.

  Ahead, a fallen tree is rotting, with a dead body draped across it, face buried in bloody snow. Like a tableau from a movie. It doesn’t touch me until I realize that it’s real. Then I start.

  It’s been dead a while. The smell gets stronger as we approach. Near, I can see the swollen flesh, and choke on the decay. The visor on its helmet is down. It died at night, then. Its uniform is grayish, its skin black. A Concom. My first sight of the enemy. I hope all the Concoms I see are dead.

  The Gut goes by without comment, smiling just a little. Stancato walks around it, swiftly, barely looking, unmoved. Just another part of the scenery for calm, cool Stancato. I stop as they go on ahead.

  I can’t see the eyes through the visor. I realize I don’t want to. Who the hell was it? How much did he have to pay for the dubious privilege of rotting out here? I feel a sudden urge to touch the body, the dead flesh. Revolted at myself, I stifle it. Yet I stare.

  Something moves on the body. I watch in fascination. Then suddenly, with a rush, I’m sick. I turn away, retching, vomiting all over the ground. For some reason, I avoid throwing up on the body.

  When I stop, Stancato is there, smiling his tight little smile. “Take it easy, Andy,” he says. He puts an arm around me, the big man. “It’s only a maggot. It won’t hurt you.”

  Only a maggot. Only a maggot. God, but I hate him. I grit my teeth, wrench free of him violently, and stalk back into the forest.

  * * *

  We ran into three others from our platoon, and now we’re together. I hardly remember them from the chopper, but I’m sure they must have been there. Don’t know that we’ve gained much. Two beefy oafs and a gawk is what we’ve got now. But the gawk has vet marks.

  He talks with the Gut now, all low whispers, and he keeps looking around. They look absurd, like a military Mutt ’n Jeff. The Gawk and the Gut. These are the people I’m relying on to get me through? Shit. The Gawk looks like he’d have trouble getting across the street. A long pinched-in face and acne scars. He doesn’t look like a warrior. But maybe soldiers don’t look like in the movies. Maybe the ugly guys kill best. Hell. Stancato will be pissed when he finds that out. He wants to be best at everything.

  The Gut looks our way and gestures. “We got something,” he says. “Grenade blasts over on the east. Rifle fire. Jim says some of our boys are pinned down by the Concoms. Let’s go get ’em out.” He grins.

  We run, a jogging trot, shoving aside the branches and sloshing through patches of snow. The Gut looks eager. I’m terrified. What have I gotten myself into? Where are we going? I want out. This is madness. My hand trembles where I hold the gun. I’m going to throw up again.

  The war sweeps over us.

  One of the beef boys ahead of me stumbles suddenly, and the firing begins all around us. He falls, his head twisting grotesquely, his rifle spinning into a snowbank, a flower of blood blossoming from his chest. Dead, dead, I think. We don’t know where the shot came from.

  “A sniper!” the Gut yells. “Cover! Take cover!”

  Then he’s gone, faded away, down somewhere. The others fade, too. Only I remain, standing over the body, blinking down at it, frozen, indecisive. Another shot rings out, a stream of shots. I hear them hiss around me, and I feel strangely safe. You never hear the bullet that kills you, they say.

  Then someone grabs me, pulls me, yanks me off my feet and knocks me into the trees. Stancato, of course. He falls down beside me, eyes sweeping alertly, rifle in hand, ready. I’ve dropped my rifle. It’s out there, near the body. And I’m crying. At least my cheeks are wet.

  Stancato ignores me. He lifts his gun and fires, and the black snout spits a rapid burst of death towards the trees. Was that where the shots were coming from? I don’t know. I didn’t notice. But he seems to. Other people are firing too. Our guys, I think. But not me. Not me. I lost my gun.

  Then, for a long time, breathless silence. Stancato waits, hands tight on gun, eyes moving all the time the others are waiting too. No one moves. No one fires.

  * * *

  It’s dusk now. That comes on me suddenly as I watch the twilight creep around the evergreens, and wrap the woods in folds of grayness. A lot of time is gone. But we don’t move. We don’t know if we’ve gotten the sniper, or if he’s gone, or if he’s waiting out there, lurking, gun hungry for one of us to move. So Stancato stays put. Me too. I’m not going to be the target. Besides, I can’t do much else. I lost my gun.

  Finally, with the darkness all but complete, someone moves. A quick dart from here to there in the trees. Then another. Then a sudden burst of fire raking over the sniper’s position, in the rocks upslope from us. At last a head pokes out of the black. Nightvisor down, half-crouched, the Gawk edges out into the open. Nothing happens. The Concom is dead, or gone.

  The Gut appears suddenly, a ponderous shadow in the dark. He bends over the body, touches it, shakes his head. Is he really sorry, I wonder? Or just pissed that the enemy got a killpoint off a buddy? The latter. He’s not the caring sort.

  Stancato stands, and strides back into the open, confident, smiling. I hesitate and follow. “You think we got him?” Stancato asks.

  The Gut shrugs. “Dunno. We gotta look. Maybe, maybe not. He might’ve just taken off.”

  They look, Stancato and the Gut, going over towards the place the shots had come from. The rest of us wait. The Gawk eyes me with distaste. I squirm under his gaze, look at the other man, look away quickly when I find him ignoring me. They both dislike me. I can t
ell. I froze. I’m a coward to them. I have to prove myself. But not Stancato, no, not him. He did everything right, as usual. I wipe my hands on my jacket, nervously. Then, flushing, I bend to pick up my gun. Why didn’t I do that sooner? Why didn’t I fight? Dammit, Birch, why do you always do everything wrong?

  Stancato and the Gut come back. Stancato slaps me on the back. Always hale and hearty, yes sir. Even nice to cowards, the patronizing bastard. He smiles at me. “Looks like he got away,” he says. “We must’ve scared him off.”

  “Look,” I say, falteringly, “I didn’t mean to drop—”

  Stancato cuts me off. “Don’t worry about it. Getting to cover was the important thing.” He gestures at the body. “He kept his gun. Didn’t do us much good, did it? Better to have you alive, we don’t need dead heroes, right?”

  The Gut had been listening. He nods now, reluctantly. “Yeah, maybe you got something.” Then he looks at me. “But watch it, kid. Freeze again, and you get us all wiped out. You could’ve got your buddy killed then, y’know.”

  I smiled faintly. I can’t do anything else. So they forgive me. How goddam fucking big of them. And it’s all Stancato’s doing, of course. He likes to do this to me. He knows how much I loathe him, and he knows it embarrasses me when I have to feel grateful to him. The bastard. Not enough showing me up all the time, making me feel like a fool, he wants me to be a thankful fool, happy over his interest in li’l ol’ me. Shit, shit, shit.

  Dark is draping the forest. The others have lowered their nightvisors. I pull mine down, and the trees turn to stiff black shadows outlined against a field of red. Only the branches show. The needles are invisible for some reason. I shiver briefly, or maybe just tremble. The forest has become a murky hell, full of charcoal skeletons and half-seen shapes. I think I preferred the darkness. But I keep the visor down.