The Tetra War

by Michael Ryan

  “I suppose,” I said. “But we were just…I can’t describe the mission, it being classified and all, but we did attack a mining interest, I can say that. It’s common knowledge that both sides try to destroy infrastructure all the time.”

  Lines appeared on Rodger’s forehead. “Hold one,” he said. “I’ll give you a little insider tip.” He pulled an eTab from his shirt pocket and typed furiously. “Here,” he said. “A story from yesterday. Teeverstall Mining & Exploration Company signs deal with Guritain and Tedesconian governments, placing the mining interest’s board of directors under the jurisdiction of Errusiakos-controlled regulation agencies. Stock price immediately jumped seven percent and closed the day at a record high.” He gave Callie and me a penetrating look. “It’s pretty simple to figure out.”

  “Mineral and commodity producers are safest when stockholders come from multiple nations,” I said.

  “Exactly. Our company derives most of its value through intellectual property, so it’s completely Guritain held at the moment. We’re dispersed all over the place and reasonably well hidden, but you never know when a terrorist bomb will go off in a CT facility. It happens. Kill enough employees, bomb a few research centers, and all of a sudden twenty percent of your stock gets sold to Tedesconian funds. Then, suddenly, the terrorists or whatever move on.”

  “You don’t think the terrorists are real groups?” Callie asked.

  He shook his head. “No way. I think they’re false flags to put economic pressure on stubborn parties.”

  “Damn,” I said. “I feel dirty thinking about…”

  “Don’t go there,” Callie said.

  I squared my shoulders and eyed the surroundings through the window. Rodger looked like he was going to say something else, but I beat him to the punch and pointed at a grove of trees in the near distance. “Look! A giraffe!”

  “That has to be animatronic,” Rodger said. “Has to be. Real giraffes went extinct fifty years ago.”

  “Maybe they used stored DNA and made them,” Patricia said. “They sure look real to me.”

  “Me too,” Callie said. She took my hand and whispered in my ear, “Thank you.”

  I kissed her. “You’re welcome.”

  That evening we sat outside our tent and listened to the sounds of the African plain. Dusk had arrived an hour earlier, painting the sky with mocha and purple and magenta, and we’d reveled in the celestial show, the colors breathtaking. We’d dined on native fare, eating our fill of steaks and vegetables grilled over a wood fire, all washed down with tepid beer.

  It was one of the best meals I’d ever eaten.

  The guides assured everyone that all predators in the vicinity were accounted for and properly monitored, motion detectors encircled the camp should any get curious, and the camping area had been cleared of all noxious insects, toxic arachnids, and snakes.

  “You’ll hear many sounds and see more stars than you thought possible, unless of course you’ve been in space,” said Pato, the lead guide. “Enjoy your evening, travelers. Breakfast will be served at dawn.”

  “I almost feel guilty,” Callie whispered once Pato had gone.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “So much misery and poverty in the world,” she said. “And here we are, enjoying an African vacation.”

  “We earned it. You nearly died.”

  “I know. I guess. Have you ever wondered if we’re just part of a warmongering industrial machine that chews up human beings like zebras eat grass?”

  I gave her a sidelong glance. “Not in those exact words, but sure, the idea crosses my mind now and again.”

  Callie fell silent for a moment. When she spoke, her voice sounded small. “Do you think we’ll survive the war?”

  I gazed up at the stars and sighed. “You want me to answer with my mind or my heart?”

  “Tell me something hopeful,” she said.

  “We’ll both fight and survive. The war will end, and we’ll take teaching positions. Together. Maybe on a colony planet, or perhaps even on Purvas. We’ll have children and a vegetable garden.”

  “What about pets?”

  “We’ll have pets, sure. A couple of dogs and a mouser.”

  “What’s a mouser?”

  “A big tom cat that eats rodents.”

  “Oooh. I want two.”

  “Sure, baby. You can have an aquarium too, with colorful fish.”

  “Tetras?”

  “Of course.”

  Nearly seventy years ago, during a period of relative peace and growing prosperity, a crazy fad among aquarium enthusiasts had driven the price of tetras through the roof. While any hobbyist could afford a knock-off strain from the Chinese and Thai breeding stocks, only the wealthy could afford a genuine Colombian, Peruvian, or Brazilian species.

  This may seem insignificant. However, a Guritain animal-rights group with powerful political ties filed an international lawsuit to halt the harvesting and trading of the colorful – and at that time insanely expensive – little fish.

  This temporarily affected cocaine production.

  A Guritain senator, who had the rather unfortunate habit of telling the truth, was assassinated in 2240 HCE on the eve of an important parliamentary vote.

  Whether the so-called “fish vote” had been the catalyst for his murder, there was no debate among historians that Senator Veplantion’s death sparked the war that continued into the twenty-fourth century. Callie took my hand and I fell into her eyes. Her next question broke a part of my heart. “Do you really think we’ll both live that long?”

  I forced a grin. “Why not? We’re both good soldiers. I think the war will be winding down soon. Like Rodger said today, it’s not economically feasible to keep fighting.”

  Callie shook her head. “There’s a lot of money in producing hardware. I think what Rodger said was that it’s not economically sensible to blow up factories. But if you haven’t noticed, endless war seems to make a lot of people rich. I’m not as optimistic as you.”

  “Cynic.”

  “Realist.”

  “I love you,” I said, kissing her neck.

  She squeezed my hand, rose, and led me into our tent, which was large enough to host a dinner party. “Are you serious about having children someday?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I hope so,” she said as she disrobed. “Let’s practice making babies.”

  I watched Callie’s chest lift and fall as she slept, envying her peace of mind. I’d been unable to drift off, and now, around midnight, my mind was still racing. I wondered what our chances really were of surviving the war together, and concluded they probably weren’t good. Even with a survival rate as high as ninety percent, we’d still be dropping below a fifty percent life expectancy around the seventh mission. For two soldiers in a partnership to make it, the odds drop in half, to about twenty-four percent. Not impossible, but a seventy-six percent chance of at least one of the pair checking out for the big sleep didn’t engender a lot of optimism.

  And that was with seven missions. Retirement into a noncombat role required ten. Ten successful ops, and a soldier could opt for a logistical slot, a teaching role, or even drill instructor. But most veterans of ten missions couldn’t walk away from the excitement, and eventually the game ended the hard way.

  It’s the same reason most people leave all their money in New Vegas.

  The house always wins in the end.

  Armored drop soldiers had the highest rate of retention in combat roles. We just couldn’t exit the game, even if we knew the danger. Once you’ve survived a couple of drops, it’s nearly impossible to quit.

  Killing and destroying things is a thrill – I can attest to that firsthand.

  I’m not ashamed to admit it, but neither am I proud of killing others. I do my job, and I respect those who fight for the other side. It’s not personal for me. But anyone that tells you that putting an enemy down isn’t a euphoric high is lying.

  In addition, the army doesn�
��t count every action and mission toward the required ten. It’s a bizarre formula that nobody has ever coherently explained to me. I had five certified drops to my credit so far, and Callie had four. That effectively meant I had four as well, because I wouldn’t allow her to go on a tenth mission without me.

  When you flip a coin, and it comes up heads, the next flip is fifty-fifty between heads and tails, assuming a fair coin.

  Our past missions no longer counted in the odds making.

  Still, no good was served by being pessimistic. Hopelessness breeds despair, and despair on the battlefield leads to bad decisions.

  And bad decisions get you dead.

  That night, listening to insects and the occasional scavenger in the distance, I decided that if we made it, I’d propose a lifetime army marriage. We were both lifers, and I loved her, so why not? We’d go to a colony planet, do our required reserve training, and teach or be assigned simple maintenance jobs. You could find yourself doing a lot worse than that.

  I snuggled up against Callie’s warm skin, inhaled her seductive essence, and fell asleep.

  I was a boy again, maybe ten, and my father was yelling at my mother in the kitchen. He’d been drinking at a bar down by the highway, which had become a regular event after he got off work. Tonight was especially bad – his voice had the mean tone I hated but was too small to do anything about.

  The accusations and volume increased in pitch, and then the sound of a hand striking skin ended the altercation as I stood shivering in the dark to one side of the swinging door that led to the kitchen, tears streaming down my face, the shabby little tract house suddenly cold. My mother was crying when my father came storming through the door, his red eyes wild with a fury that came from the bottom of a bottle and a lifetime of hardship and petty slights, his big hands clenched tightly into fists by his sides. He was a man who wore his demons on his sleeve, as though suffering had tempered him and made him better than others; his face was weathered and prematurely old from the world’s abuse – and his own.

  He glared at me, fists trembling in rage, and then grunted like an animal before he brushed past me to the front door, leaving a trail of alcohol fumes, sour sweat, and anger in the air.

  I never saw him again.

  My mother, God rest her soul, passed on six years later. The Gurts had never outlawed any of the poisons that humans used to numb themselves. Even though my mother was of mixed blood, she’d fallen prey to human habits, and a combination of cigarettes, rough grain alcohol drunk straight from the jug, and single-hit pipes of meth-bang smoked after she thought I’d gone to sleep had hollowed her out like a rotting pumpkin, draining her of her soul until there was nothing left of the woman I remembered from my infancy.

  I started awake, my body covered with a sheen of sweat, and spent the rest of the night staring at the seams in the tent ceiling, willing the nightmare away in favor of an emptiness of thought I wanted more than anything in the world.

  In the middle of the night, our vacation orders were rescinded.

  Recalled back to Mexico City on a high-priority ticket, we bypassed normal BC&T procedures in Johannesburg and returned up the space elevator as a breathtaking gloaming colored the sky plum.

  “It’s really beautiful up here,” Callie said.

  I frowned and took her hand. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to the zoo.”

  “It’s okay. It was nice having a few days of peace.”

  I nodded and paused for an instant. “I did a lot of thinking last night,” I started.

  She shook her head. “Don’t say it,” she said. “You’ll jinx us.”

  I kissed her. “I like that you can read my mind.”

  “I like that you’re so predictable.”

  We boarded a high-altitude transport and got upgraded to first class.

  “Thank you for your service,” a young blonde flight attendant said. “Can I bring you champagne?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Stop staring at her tits,” Callie whispered, and glanced up at the woman. “Bring two glasses of orange juice, as well, if it’s freshly squeezed.”

  “I wasn’t staring,” I objected under my breath. “I was only admiring.”

  “Of course,” the blonde said. “We have fresh juice and a complete menu. And thank you.” She winked at me.

  Neither of us realized at the time that it would be our last week on Earth for many years.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I am Truth and I decree Truth. Whatsoever opposes Me shall be damned.

  ~ Poems of Beelnt, Book of Truth, Index 14:5

  The weekly holocall briefing with General Bolfenter was two days overdue. Major Balestain had stalled the dreaded call as long as he dared, but had finally run out of excuses to put it off any longer. Now, in the command center, after a brusque greeting from his superior, his expression radiated incredulity.

  “I…I don’t think I heard you correctly. Repeat, please,” he managed.

  “You heard me. We need you back on Purvas,” General Bolfenter snapped.

  “But, General, I’m achieving great things here.”

  “You’re being accused of war crimes. There’s a generous bounty on your head.”

  “Distractions, General.”

  The general’s tone softened. “There’s a reason you’re needed back home, Abast. It’s important.”

  “My work here is important,” Balestain countered.

  “Your work on Earth is concluded. This isn’t a negotiation.”

  Balestain frowned. “I’ve scheduled an offensive advance in thirty-two hours, and I’ve spent the better part of a week preparing. General, I can see the war isn’t going our way. But we can hope for concessions in the armistice if I continue to apply pressure.”

  “What if we could do more?” the general asked.

  “I am doing more, sir. Each city I depopulate leaves an echo in the minds of those still living. They complain, and they vote. Pressure’s being felt in the Gurt parliament; I know this for a fact.”

  The general shook his head. “As your friend, I’m giving you my word that this is a necessary step. As your superior, I’m giving you a direct order. You will leap to Purvas. I’ll explain everything when you arrive.”

  “I’ll need time to complete the current offensive and ensure a proper transfer of authority. I’d like to recommend Captain Hallscontia for promotion.”

  “Done. I’ll ensure the proper forms are filed. I’ll give you three days to conclude your business.”

  “I need four,” the major said. “Give me four days. I’ll transfer authority to Hallscontia and get on the next shuttle off-planet.”

  The general sighed at his stubborn subordinate’s commitment. “Enjoy your last battle on Earth.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  ~~~

  Balestain had watched the offensive from the relative safety of his command center, but had grown impatient at the remote view as his troops had advanced and overrun the enemy. He pushed to his feet, marched to the armory, and donned his battle-scarred coveralls. Captain Hallscontia appeared in the doorway as he was finishing his inspection of the gear.

  “Captain,” Balestain announced, “I’m heading out with the armor.”

  Hallscontia eyed the major. “It isn’t safe on the field at present, sir.”

  “I haven’t died yet, Captain.” He left the command structure, stepped onto the ground, and felt the vibrations of distant detonations through his boots. The sensation brought a smile to his lips.

  “Sir,” the transport driver said over the close-range comm as he pulled into position.

  “I’m ready,” he answered. He entered the transport and strapped himself into the command chair. “Come in behind Third Platoon.”

  “Yes, sir,” the driver said. “Should I call in extra overwatch?”

  “Can’t hurt,” he answered.

  The vehicle followed a well-worn path toward the city. Of the three new mechas that had been in service that mor
ning, only one remained. Balestain watched on his helmet screen as its operator plodded along one of the city’s thoroughfares and flushed out the last enemy resistance, which was minimal.

  “Put us behind the mecha,” Balestain ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” the driver said.

  A missile streaked from the roof of a nine-story industrial building. The mecha operator trained the heavy centrifugal machine gun on it, and the ordnance exploded harmlessly in midair. The mecha lobbed two HE mortar rounds at the roof, and several upper floors collapsed when they detonated.

  Ted armored infantry entered the building at the street level. On the upper floors, workers trapped between the infantry’s Gauss bolts and the heat of the burning wreckage above them jumped to their deaths.

  When the report came over the comm that the building had been cleared, Balestain ordered the driver to navigate deeper into the city.

  A low-threat missile locked on the transport, but a Ted heli-jet destroyed it a second later.

  “Thank you, boys,” Balestain said, over the heli-jet crew comm.

  “Our pleasure, sir,” the pilot responded. “We’re going to miss you, sir.”

  The major coughed an acknowledgment. “Anything interesting from your vantage point?”

  “There’s nothing but the usual. Would you like us to do a sweep?”

  “See what you can find.” Balestain knew he wasn’t needed for the cleanup, but it was his last operation on Earth. “Driver, take us south,” he said. The transport barreled through the downtown district and entered one of the surrounding slums.

  “Continue, sir?” the driver asked.

  “Take that street to the left,” he ordered.

  The driver made the turn, and they could see that four blocks away the boulevard entered a tunnel. Signs indicated that the highway out of the city stretched beneath the ground for two kilometers. Balestain zoomed in enough to make out that the escape route was packed with humans trying to leave the city on foot.