I went back to thinking poetic thoughts.
And then it was over. The good part was over. The vibration stopped. I noticed I was sweating like a pinkie after fifty push-ups. Then all the weight that I’d worked so hard to put on simply disappeared. Free fall. Falling. Zero-g. Zero tolerance for zero-g. My stomach started a slow somersault while I remained immobile.
Marine training to the rescue again! That, and the fact I deliberately hadn’t eaten before playing space cadet. With applied willpower, I could put up with the rigors of space for the little week it would take to reach Mars.
Then the voice of Commander Taylor pronounced our fate. I heard it loud and clear. She wasn’t using the ship’s intercom. That was one of the luxuries we were giving up for this trip. But she had a loud voice, and everything was wide open so the sardines in the can wouldn’t be lonely. Her words traveled the length of the ship: “We made it, boys. Now hear this. Reaching Mars shouldn’t take longer than a month and a half.”
16
I wonder which star in the sky is their ship. I may not be able to see it from this position, hiding behind an old Dumpster and watching monsters play. Their play is the worst thing I’ve ever seen.
Fly would be especially angry if he knew I’d already thrown off Ken’s schedule for my return. He’d scold: “Jill, how could you be so stupid? Every minute counts when you’re using a timetable. That’s why it’s called a schedule, you stupid bitch.”
No, he wouldn’t call me a bitch. I like thinking he would. I’d like to think I bothered him enough he’d want to call me bad names. I’m calling myself a stupid bitch because I wanted to see the ship take off. I waited until it was out of sight. Then I went the wrong way.
I had a good excuse for going the wrong way. The monsters went ape when they realized the Bova wasn’t supposed to take off. The spider that was fried by the ship’s jets must have been important, because several other spiders showed up and wasted all the minotaurs in sight. They tried to waste a steam demon as well, but the thing was too fast for them. I never thought anything that big could run so fast.
While the monsters were busy killing each other I was able to slip away. Everything would have been fine if I’d been going in the right direction. As part of the plan, the navy guys left supplies for me along the return route. Ken planned the first leg of my trip to cover the same ground they followed on their last leg.
When I found myself at a convention of bonies and fire eaters, though, I realized I’d made a boo-boo. They didn’t notice me; but I could see them clear as day. I wished the moon would go out so I could do a better job of hiding!
Some of the monsters naturally fought each other, but the bonies and fire eaters had a truce going. The same couldn’t be said for the demon caught between them, one of the chubby pink ones Arlene likes to call pinkies. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the thing. The bonies—Dr. Ackerman called them revenants—were all lined up on one side in a semicircle. The fire eaters—also known by a really weird name, arch-viles—were lined up on the other side, completing the circle. A bonfire blazed between them.
The fire eaters could control their fire better than I realized. They’d send out thin lines of flame that would burn the pinkie’s butt. He’d squeal. Fly always said the pinkies made him think of pigs.
The pinkie would jump over the fire and run straight for the bonies. They made a sound that was half rattling bones and half choking laughter. They couldn’t use their rockets without spoiling the game. They seemed to have picked up a trick from human bullies on a playground. They used sticks to beat and prod their victim. One had an actual pitchfork he’d probably stolen from a farm. When the pinkie turned to run away from his tormentors the bony poked him in the ass with the pitchfork. If it hadn’t been so sick, I would have laughed. But there was nothing funny about the pink demon finally falling right into the center of the fire where he grunted and squealed and died. I wondered if the bonies and fire eaters would eat him.
I wondered if they ate.
As they gathered around their roasting pig, I snuck away. If I could retrace my steps to the base and work my way around the perimeter, I might be able to pick up the route that Ken had mapped out for me. If I believed any part of what Albert did, and God was looking down, my only prayer was to get back on track. If the monsters were going to kill me, I wanted to be doing what I was supposed to before they ripped out my guts.
When Arlene gave me the big lecture about growing up and taking responsibility, she didn’t say anything I hadn’t already figured out myself. I could have said it better than she did.
Growing up was about dealing with fear. One night, when Arlene and Albert went to the supermarket in Zombie City to find rotten lemons and limes, Fly and I had a long talk. He asked me what I’d be willing to do in a war. He wanted to know if I’d be willing to torture the enemy, even if the enemy happened to be human.
I never stopped thinking about the questions he asked. When I disobeyed his orders about the plane and refused to fly to Hawaii without Fly and Arlene, I’d grown up. I wouldn’t let down my friends. That’s all there is to it. On the Bova, I felt they were letting me down. It was easier for Arlene to tell me she didn’t want me coming along because I’m not trained than for her to say she loved me.
Fly and Arlene just don’t know how to say they love somebody. Albert knows how. I’m learning how. I’ll bet all the ammo in the universe that Fly and Arlene will never learn. But it doesn’t matter. I love them. Even though they’re gone, I won’t let them down.
So as I look up at the night sky, wondering if they are one of the stars, I promise them that I won’t get myself killed until I’m back with the plan. I’ll be a good soldier. Just so long as I don’t have to do the really weird stuff.
17
“Back on Phobos again—where a zombie once was a man!”
“What the hell are you doing?” asked Arlene.
“I’m singing,” I said.
“That’s not singing,” she disagreed.
“It’s official Flynn Taggart caterwauling,” I said.
“No, it’s singing,” said Albert, venturing where angels feared to tread.
“Are you making a wise move?” Arlene asked her would-be fiancé.
“Probably not,” he agreed wisely. “But I recognize the song Fly has made his own. He’s doing a zombie version of ‘Back in the Saddle Again.’ ”
“Thank you, Albert,” I said. “When I invited you to join the Fabulous Four, I knew I was selecting a man of exquisite judgment.”
“That’s not exactly how I remember our little adventure in Salt Lake City,” Arlene corrected me.
I had the perfect answer for her: “Back on Phobos again . . .”
“Cease and desist, Flynn Taggart,” she said, putting her hands over her ears. “We’re not even on Phobos yet. Can’t you wait and sing it there, preferably without your space helmet?”
“You can’t fool me.” I was firm. Besides, I’d already waited close to a month and a half—a lot longer than I’d originally planned on spending in this rust bucket. That had something to do with the fact that fuel was in short supply these days, thanks to the aliens, and something to do with the kind of orbit we were using, which made the usual one-week jaunt to Mars six times longer, which had driven me to singing. “We did not leave Phobos in shambles, like Deimos. There may still be air in the pressurized areas.”
Arlene interrupted: “Along with pinkies, spinies, ghosts—”
“And a partridge in a pear tree.” I wouldn’t let her change the subject. “The point is that if the air’s on, I can sing.”
“The one weapon we didn’t think of,” Arlene agreed at last.
“Do we have any idea what the Phobos situation is like?” asked Albert, real serious all of a sudden.
“No,” I said, ready to postpone my performance. “But whatever it is, it will be more interesting than one more second inside this . . .” I stopped, stumped for a good obscenity.
“In th
e belly of the whale,” Arlene finished for me. She was getting biblical on me.
“I’m ready for battle,” Albert admitted, almost sadly.
I took inventory of our section of the deluxe space cruiser, letting my eyes come to rest on my last candy bar. I’d used up my quota of Eco bars, the ones with the best nuts.
“Know how you feel, marine,” I said to Albert. “We’re all getting antsy. That may be the secret of preparing a warrior to do his best. Drag ass while delivering him to the war and he’ll be ready to kill anything.”
“With a song if need be,” contributed Arlene. I’d found a new Achilles’ heel in my best buddy: my singing voice. Maybe she had a point. I could just see a pumpkin deliberately smashing itself against a wall to escape from my perfect pitch. An army of imps would blow up a barrel of sludge themselves and die in glop and slop rather than let me start a second verse. Yeah, Arlene might have something there.
I didn’t elaborate on any of this because our fearless leader chose that moment to join us. All the marines were awake on the bus. That was what it felt like—a bus.
The little voice in the back of my head could be a real pain in another part of my anatomy. It reminded me that this situation was strangely similar to a time in high school when three of us were the only ones awake in the back of the band bus—I was in the band; I played clarinet.
I was interested in a certain girl who happened to prefer a friend of mine. Her name was Noelle; his name was Ron. Bummer. But we had a nice three-way conversation going when our teacher suddenly came to the back of the bus. Old man Crowder. We called him Clam Crowder because he looked like something you’d pull out of a shell, and you wouldn’t get a pearl, either. He just wanted to make sure that nothing was going on that was against the rules. The darkness of the spaceship, the kidding around of three friends, the arrival of the man with the rule book—all that was enough for me to be unfair to Captain Hidalgo. Time to snap out of it.
We no longer lived in a world of high school football games. Now the pigskin only covered ugly pink demons who didn’t need a rule book to spoil a day’s fun.
I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Arlene’s potential threat against Hidalgo, that she’d get rid of him if he got in the way of completing the mission. I’d never heard her talk like that before. I had known how daring she could be from the first time I met her, when she went at it with Gunny Goforth to prove she was enough of a “man” to wear her high-and-tight. I knew how smart she could be from Phobos where she left her initials on the walls for me, a la Arne Saknussen from Journey to the Center of the Earth, so I’d realize whose trail I was following.
Put smart and daring together and you have a combination that spells either patriot or traitor. I’d studied enough history to understand that it could be difficult to tell them apart. When your world is up against the wall, you have to make the tough choices. It’s priority time. No one ever likes that.
Even if Hidalgo happened to be a martinet butthead he was still our CO. Whatever chances we had for a successful mission rested on his shoulders. That’s what pissed off the dynamic duo of Arlene and me. I wanted Hidalgo to be good. I didn’t want him to screw up. I wanted him to be a man I could trust, a competent man.
As I sat with my back to the wall, and watched the captain’s profile as he chatted amiably with Arlene, I wondered what he would do if he realized how she felt about him. Maybe he’d shrug and just get back to doing his job. A man who does a good job doesn’t have to worry about his back unless treacherous skunks are around. There were none of those under his command.
“Do we know which Gate to use?” Albert asked Hidalgo.
I almost answered. Had to watch that—chain of command.
Hidalgo answered: “You remember the director gave us the access codes and teleportation coordinates for one of the Gates.” He smiled at Arlene and me. “You heroes need to work out among yourselves our best route to the right Gate once we land. Commander Taylor will get us as close to it as is humanly possible.”
For a brief second I thought he was being sarcastic when he called us heroes. Arlene and I could be telepathic at times like this. The same thought flickered in her eyes. The next second the feeling passed—for me, at least. Hidalgo had spoken straight from the heart.
“You men,” he said, and Arlene warmed up at that, “are the valuable cargo on the Bova.” Same as the way we treated Jill as a case for special handling on the road to Los Angeles. “When we hit Phobos, I’ll need the best intelligence you can provide.”
“Conditions may have changed,” said Arlene.
“Yes. Or they might be the same as when you left. Whatever they are, you two are better acquainted with the situation than any other humans alive.”
I was glad that Arlene was participating in this discussion. “When you came over, we were discussing whether there’d still be air on the different levels.”
“We’ll wear space suits regardless,” said Hidalgo. “If everything goes according to plan, we have no idea what’s waiting for us on the other side.”
“It’s a mission of faith,” Albert pointed out, and no one disagreed. “We must assume those on the other side will have the means to keep us alive. We can only pack so many hours of air. If we find ourselves under pressure we could save some of our own air for what’s on the other side of the Gate.”
“We’ll be under pressure even if there’s air,” Arlene joked, reminding us about the doom demons.
“Maybe not,” said Albert. “The devils may have abandoned Phobos Base.”
“Sorry to burst your bubble, Albert,” I said. “I’m surprised Arlene didn’t remind you of what we discovered about the Gates. No matter what you take with you, you wind up naked on the other side. So you’re dead right about having faith in the aliens on the other side.”
“True,” said Arlene. “That’s been our experience. But we’d feel foolish if we didn’t prepare and then found out for the first time that a Gate trip doesn’t mean a strip tease.” My buddy had a point.
“We’ve been lucky up until now,” said Hidalgo. “We know the enemy has ships going back and forth between Phobos and Earth. The Bova uses a TACAN system, beaming out a signal showing them the bearing and distance of the ship. We may be the low-budget special, energy-wise, but we’re not flying blind.”
I hate flying blind.
“Are they using Deimos for anything?” asked Arlene.
“Not so far as the director and his team have found out. You two did such a good job of wrecking it that they may have given up on it.”
“Outstanding,” said Albert. ’Course he was looking at Arlene instead of me.
“We’ve been fortunate not to run into the enemy, but space is big, isn’t it?” The way Hidalgo said that made me wonder if he was making a joke.
The next moment he did! “You know, Lieutenant Riley told me a funny one,” he began. I noticed that he’d been pretty chummy with the radar intercept officer, but why not? Same rank attracts, especially between services. I’d hit it off with Jennifer, the PO2. I rarely called her by her last name.
Whatever the reason, it was good to see Hidalgo being human, even if we had to listen to his joke: “How can you tell the difference between the offense and defense of a doom demon? Give up? You can’t tell any difference because even when we’re kicking their butts, they’re still offensive.”
Discipline and duty pay off. I made myself laugh. There should be medals for this kind of service.
After the officer joke, Hidalgo left us alone. I was all set to resume my song, figuring anything would go down well after that joke.
Arlene headed me off at the pass. “Albert,” she said quickly, “have you found any good books to read in the navy’s box?”
“Lots of old books,” he said. “The one I’ve read twice is Bureaucracy by Ludwig von Mises. He wrote about freedom when the only threat to it was other human beings. He said capitalism is good because it ‘automatically values every man acc
ording to the services he renders to . . . his fellow men.’ ”
“No friend of socialism, is he?” asked Arlene.
Albert didn’t hear the playfulness in her voice. He gave her a straight answer. “The book was written during World War II. He uses Hitler and Stalin as his two perfect models of socialism in practice.”
Arlene was up on the subject: “They didn’t kill as many people as the demons have, but not for lack of trying.”
I contributed my bit. “Back at Hawaii Base I overheard a female lab tech say what has happened is good for the human race because the extermination of billions of people has made the survivors give up their petty selfishness and band together for the common good.”
“Jesus Christ!” said Arlene.
I noticed Albert didn’t even wince any longer when she talked that way.
“Not everyone fights for the same things,” said Albert with a shrug. “We do.”
“Close enough,” I agreed.
“Let’s have a toast,” said Arlene. “Something better than water.”
“I have something,” said Albert. While he pushed off in the direction of his secret stash (Paul had given him some good stuff), Arlene went over to her couch and dug out a book she’d been reading from the box. She’d always been very adept at maneuvering in free fall. I stayed put.
When she got back, I admitted, “I wish they had more of those magnetic boots so they could spare me a pair.”
“The navy doesn’t have enough for its own personnel,” she reminded me. “Just be grateful we have a skeleton crew or there wouldn’t have been acceleration couches for us.”
“Yeah, tough marines don’t need luxuries like a place to park our butts. We don’t need internal organs, either. Just stack us up like cordwood in the back of the bus.”
“Bus?”
“You know what I mean. What do you have in your hand?”
“Cyrano de Bergerac,” she announced, holding a volume up. “I didn’t expect to find my favorite play in the navy’s box. Since I don’t have Albert’s memory, I want to read you the ideal passage for my toast.”
Infernal Sky Page 11
