Solfleet: The Call of Duty

by Smith, Glenn

  As he had done every morning since coming home from the base hospital, he stood naked in front of the full-length mirror to examine his battered body. His left thigh was still slightly discolored, but at least it had finally shrunk down to near-normal size. His lower chest and sides, though still pretty tender, weren’t covered in bruises anymore. His shoulder still hurt when he flexed or stressed it—or rolled onto it in bed—but it, too, was healing nicely. In fact, except for some slight redness, it looked as if it hadn’t even been injured, let alone blown to dust.

  He leaned closer to the mirror and scrutinized his left eye, comparing it to his right. Except for a hint of redness and swelling along the outer edges of the socket where the shattered bone had been replaced, the bruising there had faded as well. His doctors had assured him that it was only temporary, and in fact he almost couldn’t see it now. That pleased him, because at the rate he was healing he’d be as good as new by the time he returned to duty. Physically at least.

  But what about psychologically? He stared deeply into his reflection’s eyes. He thought again of that mysterious demonic creature that came to him in his nightmares intent on bringing about his ultimate destruction. Dealing with the heavy losses that his squad had suffered in that battle was difficult enough, but the stubborn persistence of that demon haunting his subconscious mind? What could it possibly mean?

  He blinked, repeatedly, snapping himself out of it. Why the hell was he still so fixated on that creature? It was fast becoming less of a fixation and more of an obsession. The damn thing already lurked about at will in his subconscious, and that was enough. He wasn’t about to let it intrude on his conscious mind as well.

  He reached for the comb on top of his bureau and ran it through his hair, which had grown quite a bit longer since he was wounded than the regulations of his particular branch of Solfleet allowed. Of course it was longer. He hadn’t had a haircut in over a month and a half. Much longer and it might actually lay right, he thought with a grin.

  He tossed his comb back down on his bureau, but as he started turning away from the mirror he noticed something that, when he was just a few years younger, he’d thought he’d never have to worry about, and he quickly turned back. Growing quickly disappointed with the out-of-shape figure who stood before him, he reached up and gently pinched the beginnings of a most unwelcome pair of love handles. Never in his adult life had he ever let himself go, and yet there it was, a fatty belt of unwanted flesh. The beginnings of the proverbial spare tire. He sighed, knowing that any Marine Corps NCO worth his training, especially one who served in Special Operations, should never allow such a thing to happen.

  * * *

  He stood naked in front of the full-length mirror on the wall to look himself over. As usual, he felt generally pleased with what he saw. His muscles weren’t particularly large like Sergeant Running Horse’s—certainly nothing like a bodybuilder’s—but they were well defined, hard and strong, more like those of an accomplished martial artist.

  * * *

  The sooner he could get back to his strict workout regimen—the sooner he could look into the mirror and see that perfectly conditioned Ranger looking back at him again—the better.

  With one final glance into his reflection’s eyes, a hard glance that served to tell him just how disgusted he really felt about his appearance now as compared to then, he stepped over to his bureau and opened the top two drawers. He pulled on a comfortable pair of black hiking shorts and his favorite lounging around shirt—an old black, white, and orange hockey jersey that had been worn by #21, Steve Smith, first line centerman and captain of the once again two-time Stanley Cup Champion Philadelphia Flyers.

  Though he’d been born in Maine, Dylan had grown up in Philadelphia’s western suburbs, so he was a life-long Flyers fan. He’d followed them for as long as he could remember. Unlike baseball, which was only still played for nostalgia sake in a few small cities, professional hockey had withstood the test of time with relatively little change. Beyond Earth, of course, its popularity couldn’t hold a candle to that of the Coalition’s Professional Treece League or the Galactic Games, but it was still a great sport, his favorite by far, and he tried never to miss a game when the local Earth affiliated network happened to fit one into its programming schedule.

  He grabbed his watch and strapped it around his left wrist as he padded through the dimly lit living room and into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Compared to the soft aquamarine carpet that warmed the rest of his apartment, the kitchen’s bare white floor felt cold and hard beneath his feet.

  * * *

  After two weeks of spending every day and most of the nights in thick, sweat-absorbent field socks and heavy combat boots, the smooth, cool plasticrete steps that led from the basement gym and locker/shower facilities back up to the first floor felt like blocks of soothing ice beneath his bare feet. But regulations prohibited going barefoot in the barracks’ common areas, so as he reached the top of the staircase he paused to pull on his old, worn leather sandals.

  * * *

  No sandals, socks, or anything else would cover his feet this morning, old and worn or otherwise. He did have an old pair of wool-lined house slippers kicking around somewhere, but he never bothered to put them on anymore, now that Carolyn wasn’t around to nag him about it. He’d never liked them. They made his feet sweat. He preferred to go barefoot.

  He took out his favorite coffee mug—the Military Police/Security Forces black and gray ceramic one with the United Earth Federation banner emblazoned on one side and the royal blue, gold, and silver Solfleet insignia badge on the other, which he’d been given upon his first ever reenlistment as a token of his service—and filled it nearly to the brim with the rich dark brew that he preferred, then sauntered back into the living room. He threw open the curtains and had to shade his eyes against the bright sunlight that suddenly flooded the room. As usual, the faded house plants seemed to perk right up.

  Faded? Yes, he noted, inspecting a few of the plants nearest to him more closely. The colors in their leaves were substantially more faded then he’d ever seen them before. In fact, they were dull. Some were even turning brown and withering at the tips. He’d have to remember to water them soon. He hadn’t done that since...when? He couldn’t even remember. Oh well. What did it matter, anyway? Perhaps when he finished his coffee. Speaking of which...

  He sipped gingerly—it was still too hot to gulp—savoring its pure flavor and rich aroma. He didn’t care what the manufacturers of their field rations claimed regarding the quality of their product. In his opinion, even an average fresh-brewed coffee beat their instant concoction any day of the week. He swished it around in his mouth for several heavenly seconds before he finally swallowed.

  He opened the sliding glass door and walked out onto the deck, stepped up to the railing and gazed down into the garden.

  * * *

  Except for Marissa, it was the most beautiful sight that he had seen in the last two weeks.

  Short as it had been, the FTX had seemed like one of the longest, most grueling ones he’d ever been a part of. Two weeks, bivouacked high up on the barren, hard, dusty gray-faced slopes of the western range. The nights had been bitterly cold, the days almost oven-like. But now, finally, he was home, breathing in the minty, pine-scented air and gazing down at the lush, living garden, enjoying some much needed peace and quiet.

  “You’re home early,” Carolyn said as she stepped out onto the deck behind him, pulling her bathrobe on around her. She made it sound as if it were some kind of miracle.

  “We cleaned most of our gear in the field as soon as we broke camp last night,” he told her. “All we had to do when we got back to the base was put everything away. We knocked out our leadership debriefing and got released by about four-thirty this morning.”

  A kiss to greet her, failed.

  “In that case you should have been home over two hours ago, shouldn’t you?”

  Accusation. Another argument, about Marissa o
f course. Then...

  “Want some coffee?”

  Empathy? Surprising. Why?

  What had she just asked? Did he want some coffee? He nodded.

  She went inside. He stepped away from the railing and stretched out on a chaise lounge.

  He sat in silence and waited for his coffee.

  * * *

  Sounds of the world around him broke the silence and intruded on the realm of memory, pulling Dylan back to the here and now. One of those sounds, the wheels-on-rail squeal of a poorly maintained sliding door, briefly drowned the others out. He looked up to see who it was who’d inadvertently encroached on his solitude.

  Across the courtyard the young woman who had moved into the apartment directly opposite his about a week ago stepped out onto her deck and let the door slide closed behind her. She was wearing the tan utility jumpsuit of Solfleet’s naval personnel, which surprised him. He recalled catching a brief glimpse of her in the parking lot the day she arrived, but she’d been wearing civvies then and he’d thought she was a teenager—the daughter of colonists perhaps, or of a fellow service member newly stationed in the area, a high school senior at the oldest—even though he hadn’t seen anyone else with her at the time. He certainly hadn’t thought her old enough to be in the service herself.

  But she obviously was in the service, and that presented some interesting possibilities. Perhaps he hadn’t seen anyone with her that day because there was no one with her. Perhaps she was single and unattached and lived there by herself. And perhaps, if he played his cards right, she might just share his bed and give him the companionship he was yearning for.

  Curious, he ducked back inside, took his binocs from the shelf where he kept them, and held them to his eyes for a better look.

  Yes, she did look young, but not quite as young as he’d remembered. She had to be at least nineteen or twenty. Still barely more than a girl, but old enough to make a move on without having to worry about any moral or legal ramifications. And she was very pretty—a fact that had not escaped him that day in the parking lot—with long blond hair and sapphire blue eyes.

  She was wearing the insignia of Communications on her right collar and the chevrons of a crewman first class on her sleeves, but her hands looked soft, her nails manicured and polished to a high gloss. Certainly not the hands of someone who spent her duty hours setting up remote field-communications sites. Probably a clerk of some sort. Her belt hung unfastened and loose at her waist and her Solfleet insignia badge was noticeably absent. Apparently, she had a little time to kill before she had to leave for duty.

  Peering past her into that small portion of her apartment’s interior within his field of view, Dylan saw no signs of anyone else’s presence. Of course, that didn’t necessarily mean that she lived alone. She still might have a roommate or even a husband who simply wasn’t there at the moment. Or one who was there and was just somewhere out of view. He’d have to keep an eye on things for a while to be sure.

  She leaned forward and rested her elbows on the railing, then sipped from the tall ice-filled glass of dark amber drink that she was holding. She gazed down into the garden, just as Carolyn had so often done before.

  Carolyn again. How long was her lingering specter going to haunt him? Longer than the demon of his nightmares, he was willing to bet.

  A thought suddenly occurred to him, and as mean-spirited as the idea seemed on the surface, he had to wonder if there might not actually be some truth to it. Perhaps that creature was nothing more than a subconscious representation of his x-wife.

  * * *

  She was just standing there, leaning against the deck railing with the breeze blowing gently through her auburn hair and the early morning sun shining through her thin white nightgown, silhouetting her athletic body. She was a vision of beauty—a vision that served to remind him of what it was that had attracted him to her in the first place.

  He approached her from behind. He wrapped his arms around her slender waist and gently pressed against her as he kissed the nape of her neck. “Good morning,” he said as warmly and pleasantly as he could. To his surprise she responded in kind, resting her hands on his and welcoming his loving touch. But when he kissed her again, she grasped his wrists and gently freed herself.

  “Don’t get carried away,” she said as she stepped away from him. “Just because we had a nice dinner and I let you fuck me last night, doesn’t mean I’m not still upset.”

  He’d thought that he and Carolyn had gone a long way last night toward finally starting to heal their ailing relationship, and he’d decided then that no matter what, he was not going to say good-bye with another argument.

  “Besides,” she continued, staring down at the garden. “You don’t have time for that. You have to go.”

  “I still have a few minutes.”

  “You don’t want to be late.”

  “I’m not going to be late!”

  “Don’t you yell at me!” she snapped back, glaring at him. “I’m not one of your little tin soldiers you can scold whenever you want to!” She turned her back on him and said, as if to dismiss him from her world completely, “See you when you get back.” She sounded disappointed at the prospect.

  He shook his head in disgust again, waved her off, and went back inside without another word. He huffed at his own stupidity. He’d thought they’d made love last night. She obviously had her own way of looking at it. He grabbed his shirt and beret off the back of his chair and headed out.

  Minutes later, as he tore down the road in his sleek red sports car on his way to the base, he glanced at the bright gold band on his left ring finger and made a mental note to take it off and secure it in his locker when he arrived at the barracks.

  He sighed. Despite their problems, he’d never taken his wedding ring off before. Come to think of it, he’d never even thought about taking it off—at least not seriously. Not even in combat, when he probably should have. Did the fact that he’d decided to do so now necessarily mean anything significant? Had he also decided, perhaps, without even realizing it until this very moment, that Carolyn just wasn’t worth the effort anymore? Was his rocky marriage finally coming to an end after almost eight years?

  * * *

  Yes, it was. Or rather it had been at the time, although he’d had no idea then just how soon that end would come. Or under what circumstances. But it had come and now he was a single man again.

  A ring of skin so pale that it looked almost white by comparison still circled his finger where he had worn his wedding band. He stroked it with his thumb, unconsciously—a habit he’d formed without even realizing it, as thoughts of Carolyn slowly faded.

  He picked up his binocs again and looked back across the courtyard. The girl was still there, still leaning on her railing and sipping from her glass, which she had nearly emptied. She’d stripped off her uniform and had folded the bottom of her tight black tank top up nearly to her breast line, baring her slender midriff. When he’d spotted her a few minutes ago he’d figured that she was getting ready for duty. Obviously, he’d been wrong.

  He gazed longingly at her. Thoughts of Marissa and Carolyn might have faded to their place in the back of his mind, at least for now, but the mood they had invoked within him hadn’t faded at all. He felt anxious, filled with sexual tension, and the sight of this beautiful girl wearing nothing but her fleet-issue underwear only compounded that anxiety.

  She tossed back the last of her drink then grabbed up her clothes and went back inside. “Nice,” Dylan mumbled, staring at her backside until the door closed behind her.

  He lowered his binocs and wondered what her name might be, where she came from, and what her assignment was. Assuming that she did in fact live alone, should he go over there and introduce himself? Welcome her to the neighborhood? If he did, how would she react? Would she just smile and thank him politely or would she invite him into her apartment for a little while? Or would she tell him to get lost and leave her alone? That was always a possibility a
s well. But if the former, might he stand a chance of coaxing her into bed?

  He let his imagination wander for a few more moments, then scolded himself for doing so. Wanting to take a beautiful girl to bed was exactly how his relationship with Carolyn had begun, and he certainly didn’t need to end up in that situation again. Yet finding another woman to share his bed was the very thing that had occupied his mind—his conscious mind—for weeks. Might he have the one without risk of falling into the other?

  His stomach rumbled with hunger, so he set his binocs aside and went into the kitchen to fix something to eat. Minutes later, with his plate in one hand and a tall glass of iced tea in the other, he headed back out onto the deck and sat down. He gazed across the courtyard as he ate and thought some more about going over and introducing himself. After all, he stood little chance of ever seeing Marissa again and Carolyn was gone for good—may the bitch finally find happiness in her formerly adulterous relationship—so assuming the girl was in fact single and lived alone, what was there to stop him? If he handled it right, and if he decided that having someone to sleep with was worth the risk of another relationship after all, maybe he’d get lucky.

  One thing was for certain. He’d never know for sure unless he tried.

  He considered the possibilities, but by the time he finished eating he’d finally decided not to act on the impulses of his flesh, and he berated himself once more for allowing his mind to wander in that direction. If he was going to meet her, he would do so either by random chance or by God’s own design, which given his intentions was no doubt highly unlikely. Then, if the two of them did happen to hit it off—or at the very least get along well enough—he’d wait, take it slowly, and see how things developed.

  Yeah, sure he would. He knew himself better than that. More likely he’d take her to bed as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Either way, he wasn’t going to go running over to her apartment and make a fool of himself.