Once A Hero

by Watson Davis

  He tilted his head. “You sure?”

  “Yes. You do not know me.”

  He straightened up, his voice rising like nothing had been said, like nothing had passed between us. “How you want that burger cooked?"

  "Heavy on the carbon."

  He touched his temple, accessing his onboard, turned, and stalked off back to the bar. He grabbed the mug he'd been wiping out, stuck it under a tap, and pulled it, filling it up with a frothy head.

  A guy stood up from one of the tables by the door, a young guy, well-muscled, square jaw, serious face, kinda cute. Another couple of guys stayed sitting at the table. They whispered to him, laughing, pushing at him when he looked back down at them, egging him on.

  A need to escape formed in the pit of my stomach. I stared at a bottle of tequila behind the bar, not wanting to look at the kid, not wanting to make eye contact, hoping he was just getting up to go to the little boys’ room, willing him to move past me.

  But, no.

  Chest puffed out, shoulders back, spread like he had swollen lats on the sides of his body, filling out a black Hellas United FC T-shirt, he moseyed over, swaggering, right up to my table. I couldn’t stop myself. I glanced over. When our eyes met, he nodded. “Hey. Mind if I sit down?”

  “Yeah, I mind,” I said. “Don’t.”

  “You’re looking really cute and really, really lonely.” He pulled the chair out, the one directly across from me, turned it around, and sat on it with his forearms resting across the back of the chair, flexing his biceps, a devilish twinkle in his gray eyes I’d normally find attractive. “I’ve got just the cure for that lonely part.”

  “I’m not looking for a companion right now.” I leaned back, crossing my legs, crossing my arms over my chest, hiding my hands, which had balled up into fists. “Go back to your buddies and leave me be.”

  “Wait.” He blinked, his eyes studying my features, his eyes narrowing. He raised his finger, pointing at me. “I know you from somewhere.”

  “No. You don’t. Run along.”

  He leaned forward, whispering. “Are you a holo-star? Or a porn star?”

  I shut my eyes, sighing, letting my forehead drop into my waiting fingers, massaging it.

  “That’s it, isn’t it? Listen. My friends and I would make it worth your while. Six hundred creds for the three of us for the night.”

  My eyes jerked open. My feet returned to the floor. I stared at him, unable to speak, unable to make my mouth move, to give voice to the rage inside me. I’d killed people for less, killed people I didn’t even dislike for less.

  My eyes darted over to the bartender, remembering my promise. I pushed myself back from the table, the chair legs grinding against the tile floor.

  He jumped to his feet, a surprised, stupid grin on his face. His two friends at the table near the door rose to their feet, watching. I stormed out the door, past all of them. They all followed.

  Outside, on the sidewalk, I looked up at the stars, partially obscured by the lights of the city reflecting on the dome above. Relaxing my shoulders, taking a deep breath, I tried to think of something to say.

  “Hey. How do you want to do this? Do you have a place somewhere around here?” the guy asked. He put his hand, warm and moist, on my arm.

  I turned, knocking his hand away, staring into their eyes. “Listen up, civs. I’m going to give you jerk-offs one warning. This body’s not for sale. My vagina is not for rent. I’ve already told you twice to leave me alone. This is the last time I’m warning you.”

  "I know where I've seen you before," one of them said, a tall, skinny kid with his brown hair in careful disarray. "You're that soldier girl, aren't you? That Major Dorothea Ohmie."

  Crap. Crap, crap, crap. I ignored what he’d said, pushing him aside on my way back to the door of the pub.

  He grabbed my arm as I passed. "You were all over the news. You almost single-handedly destroyed the alliance, attacking an innocent Meridani minister and his wives and children in their own home. You almost ruined us."

  I stopped, looking down at his hand on my arm, saying, “Take your hands off me.”

  “You’re right!” the third guy said, pressing up against me. “Where do you think you’re going, soldier girl? Running away? Not so tough without your blaster and your armor? Hah!”

  “Fine.” I raised my hands, pushing against them, gently, making a little space. “One last warning.”

  “Or what?” That third guy leaned in, a sneer on his lips. "You going to break down in tears like you did at your court martial?"

  I placed my left palm on his chest, gently, edging him back, twisting my right arm out of the other guy’s grasp.

  When I pushed on the third guy, he swung at me. I tilted my head a little, letting his hand graze past. I whirled, whipping my right elbow around, connecting with the side of his jaw. His eyes glazed over; his body stiffened and collapsed.

  Letting my momentum carry me around, I kicked the Hellas United fan low, slamming into the outside of his knee, ripping his MCL at the very least, although some ACL and PCL damage was likely considering how the knee disengaged. I skipped back, away from the third one, my hands up at the ready, shoulders hunched, bouncing on the balls of my feet.

  His face growing pale, the guy’s eyes went from his unconscious friend to his painfully conscious one writhing on the ground, holding his knee, blubbering and screaming like an infant.

  “You should take this opportunity to remain conscious so you can take your friends to the med-center,” I said, calm, clear.

  His face transformed, eyes widening, lips pulling back from his teeth, signaling his intention to attack. I darted forward before he even began to move, snap kicking him in the solar plexus, removing the air from his lungs, knocking him up into the air, driving him back a couple of feet. He landed with an uncomfortable thump face first onto the ground, gasping, one hand holding his stomach, the other grasping at his bleeding nose.

  A crowd gathered around us, regular people in regular clothes, staring at me, some recognizing me, judging me, fingers tapping their temples as they snapped pictures. I turned away from them and pushed my way back into the pub.

  I kept my eyes on the floor in front of me, ignoring the couples who'd been standing by the window watching the action.

  A frosty mug of beer and a cheeseburger and fries waited for me, smelling so good I could have fainted.

  "Hey." The bartender stood at the end of the bar, staring at me, a blaster in his hands. “I told you no trouble.”

  “You said take it outside.” My hands rose. I looked around shrugging. "I don't see anything broken in here. Everything that got broke got broke outside."

  Three police scooters pulled up, lights flashing, police jumping off.

  “Fuckitall.” I stared down at the cheeseburger, savory steam swirling up from it, devouring its scrumptious goodness with my eyes.

  “I knew I recognized you.” He smiled a weak, pained smile, "I’d appreciate it if you don’t come back here anymore."

  “Sure thing.”

  “Freeze.” The police piled in, pushing through the door, stunners drawn, pointing at me, more police scooters arriving out on the street behind them.

  My Handler -- Part I

  I relaxed in the chair in the interrogation room, a chair designed to be uncomfortable, designed to press into your back forcing you upright, to dig into the backs of your legs, the arms in the wrong places for your elbows. The cops called this an “interview cubicle,” at least that was what the sign on the door said, but an interrogation room by any other name is an interrogation room and stinks just as bad. No windows, a harsh light hanging down, a single table with two chairs, a comfy-looking chair for the interrogator, a single door, mirrors on the walls, cameras and sensors hidden everywhere, I relaxed in that uncomfortable chair, embracing the discomfort, manacles around my wrists, a chain connecting me to the table.

  The door creaked open, allowing the sounds of people talking outsid
e to slip in, letting a man in, a man wearing supermarket slacks and a thrift-store jacket, not the cop who’d been interrogating me, but a new guy. He glared at me with a nasty look like he’d tasted a sour donut on the way in, easing the door shut quickly behind him, like he was afraid to let me see out one last time, or afraid I was going to sneak out.

  Shaking his head of thinning black hair, he trudged over to the seat across from me, groaning as he lowered himself into it, glancing around, up toward a corner of the ceiling, to the mirror behind him, letting me know where at least a couple of the cameras were. There were more. I didn’t care where they were.

  He put his elbows on the table, leaning toward me, creases on his brow, frown lines at the corner of his mouth, his jowls drooping. In a deep voice, surprisingly deep and rough, he said, “Major Dorothea Ohmie.”

  “I am not in the military anymore.”

  “I believe this is a record for the great city of Massif and possibly for the entire nation of Hellas.” He spoke with the satisfaction of someone who loves to hear himself speak. I’d served with plenty of officers with the same affliction. “Hell, possibly for all of Mars or even all of humankind all the way back before Nemesis.”

  I sighed, raising my eyebrows, nodding toward the door. “I’d asked the last guy for a donut or something. I’m really hungry.”

  “Listen.” He smacked his lips, shaking his head, sadly. “This tough girl act of yours might work great for you when you’re trying to survive in prison, I get that, I’ve seen it before, but you’re out now and if you continue to act like this, you’ll be back in prison, quicker than spit. Is that what you want?”

  “This isn’t a tough girl act.” I pulled on the chain, pulling myself up, sitting up straight, setting my fingertips primly on the edge of the table. “This is a hungry girl with low blood sugar.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Do you want to go back to prison? I can arrange that, no problem. I’d prefer that rather than deal with the headache I suspect you’re going to be.”

  I bit my lip and shook my head rather than say something.

  “As I was saying,” he said, “I believe you’ve found yourself back in police custody in record time. That doesn’t bode well for your reintegration into Hellene society.”

  “I wasn’t looking for trouble.” I searched for a way to say what I wanted to say without treating him like he was an idiot. I came up blank. “I went to a pub to get something to eat. I was accosted, attacked. I defended myself. Check the tape.”

  “You were never threatened.” He stated that like it ended the conversation.

  “Not threatened? Three guys? They touch me first? They block my way? How was I not threatened?”

  “You are not just HART trained; you finished with some of the top scores ever.” He pressed his lips together, smirking. “You were never in jeopardy. Not even close. You should know better. You should have walked away and disengaged without resorting to violence.”

  “What?”

  “If we’re going to reintegrate you into civilized society, you’re going to have to make some changes in the way you deal with people and situations.” He lowered his forearms to the table, leaning even more heavily, more forward, a poorly disguised smile working its way onto his lips. “And the first is learning to control your damned temper.”

  “Walk away?” I shook my head, now sitting bolt upright. “Would you walk away in that situation? Seriously?”

  “Yes. Of course.” He nodded. “You’ve led a charmed life so far, a life where your violence actually benefited you, but you’re not in prison and you’re not in the military, as you reminded me. From now on, you’re like a dangerous weapon hidden in the back of a closet waiting for a toddler to find it, to point it, and to play with the trigger. You’re a howitzer waiting to go off into a child’s birthday party. You have to learn to live like a normal person.”

  “You’re telling me a normal person can’t fight back?” I wanted to wipe his smug little smile off his tired, old face.

  “A normal person doesn’t get into fights.”

  “A normal person hasn’t had their face plastered on the newsfeeds portrayed as a murderer and a traitor.” I shrugged. “People are going to recognize me and they’re going to have some things to say to me. And they’re not going to be all polite and civilized about it.”

  “And you’re going to walk away.”

  I blinked. “You are kidding, right?”

  “You’re going to walk away or you’re going to find yourself back in your cell in Calderone.” His smile was no longer disguised. He raised his eyebrows, a look of victory, of superiority. “At least in Calderone, you’re killing people no one gives a rat’s ass about.”

  “That’s awfully civilized of you.” I sighed, slumping over, staring down at the floor, rather than look at his face and want to push it in. “Could I at least get something to eat?”

  A click followed by the sound of metal sliding over metal, I looked up. The cop had put a key on the table, slid it over toward me.

  “Unlock yourself and I’ll take you to a joint I know.” He stood.

  I stared at the key, trying to comprehend the trick being played. I looked up at him. “What?”

  “I’m Edward Craft.”

  He looked like that was supposed to mean something, like I was supposed to be impressed or something.

  He sighed. “Your Mental Hygiene officer? The guy you were supposed to report to before you did anything else?”

  “I thought you were a cop.” I reached over, slowly, and grabbed the key from the desk, fitting it into the locks of the manacles.

  “Yeah, you seem to have a habit of thinking wrong. We’re going to have to fix that. You should have come straight to the halfway house for debriefing and to hear the new rules of your life.”

  “I figured there wouldn’t be a problem with getting something to eat.” I stood up, dropping the manacles on the desk.

  “Is that how you followed orders in the military? It’s a wonder the alliance hasn’t been crushed already.”

  I tossed the key back to him. “I’m not in the military anymore.”

  Edward assigned one of the smaller rooms at the halfway house to me: a kitchenette with a small sink and a two burner cooktop, a table with a couple of chairs, a double bed, a rocking chair that gave up rocking decades ago, a hologram feed, an enviro unit that just seemed to whine and drip and had a thermometer that was off by several degrees. I counted myself lucky. I didn’t have to share and it was spacious compared to accommodations I’d had on some forward bases. Those were small even compared to my prison cell.

  Did I mention that I didn’t have to share?

  After a couple of days of furtive skulking and frantic jury-rigging, I had the place almost perfectly set up, almost secure.

  My system got its first test as I sat at that small table, huddled over in my pajamas, upper back starting to ache, feet covered by my bear-claw fuzzy slippers and curled up underneath me in the small chair. Parts I’d scavenged from junkyards and dumpsters carefully arranged on the table, tools I’d picked up in trade for the best stuff I’d found ready for use, I began to fit everything together, bending things here, twisting things there, making it fit, making it work.

  A yellow light flashed on the kitchenette, the sensors I’d placed at the far end of the hall leading to my door detecting human-sized motion. I turned from my current project, switched the holoscreen on, and watched a man walking down the hall, one of the other guests of the halfway house, golden-skinned and dark haired, a swaggering gait, obviously untrained. The yellow light turned off, replaced by a red light as he approached my door.

  He pressed his palm against the buzzer and then clasped his hands behind his back, bending his neck, looking down at the floor between his feet. Flicking the holo off, I set my tools down on the table, softly, not wanting to ruin the work I’d already put in, finding an empty spot and setting them there. I jogged the two steps to the door, pressed my palm on the
control, cracking it open just enough to see him. “What?”

  His eyes jumped up to meet mine, darted down to my feet and then back to my eyes. He smiled the charming smile of the naive or the deadly predator. “Hi, Dorothea, we haven’t met but I’m-”

  “You’re Dion Moros, the forger and identity thief.”

  He blinked, the smile fading into dumb confusion. “Yes. Exactly. I am.”

  The silence stretched out for too many seconds. “What?”

  “Sorry.” He shook his head like a dog drying itself. “You’re late for the group counseling session.”

  “Group counseling?” I rolled my eyes. “Tell Edward that I’m not feeling well and I’ve decided to hit the sack early.”

  “Yeah, no.” Dion winced, pursed his lips, and sucked in his breath. “That’s not going to go over. Especially for a noob.”

  “If you ever call me a noob again, I’ll break your shins.” I leaned my shoulder up against the door facing, sliding the door open a little bit more, and crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Edward said you had issues to work through.” His eyebrows rose up almost off his forehead. “He didn’t say anything about them being anger management related.”

  “I was joking.” I stared into his eyes, brown pools of dangerous lies.

  “Whew.” He wiped the back of his hand against his forehead, smiling, relaxing his breathing.

  I narrowed my eyes. “I wouldn’t stop at your shins.”

  He gulped, and laughed a hesitant, questioning laugh.

  I nodded, letting a hint of a smile find its way to the corners of my lips. “Why don’t you run along to Edward and tell him I’m exhausted and in bed, dealing with my ‘issues’ on my own.” I pushed myself off the door facing, raising my hand to the door control.

  “No, wait.” He put his hand in the door, his fingertips stopping a couple of centimeters from my hand.

  I moved my arm away; staring down at his hand like it was a live grenade about to go off.

  He edged his hand back. “If I’ve got to go to group, you’ve got to go to group. Seriously. You don’t want to get on Edward’s bad side. He can make your life hell, assign you to the crappiest jobs in Massif, give you bad write-ups, send you back to prison. I’ve seen him do it. You don’t want that, right?”