by A. J. Allan
“Motherfucker,” Lopez muttered under his breath as he took off. He could run much faster than Irons, but by the time he dove into the water, she already had him beat by about fifty meters.
Lopez could swim like an Olympic athlete—back when they had the Olympics—and had the stamina to swim for hours. He had developed the skill, always fearful that he would fight the neagala and would have to swim if his squad’s ship got shot down.
But after a year, the neagala had stopped coming. Lopez never got his chance to fight. And the war ended as humanity pressed on just a couple years later. But Lopez never believed in letting go of a survival skill.
Survival would serve him well during war, but not against the lead Irons had developed. Lopez managed to close the gap to just about ten meters on the tail leg of their competition, but by the time his knee collided with the sand at the bank of the lake, Irons stood over him with a triumphant gaze.
“Bam! Latrine duty! Private Matthew Lopez, reporting because I can’t beat a girl in a race, sir!”
Even Jordan let out a laugh that lasted longer than just one chuckle.
“You cheated,” Lopez said, his competitive streak making him annoyed, but the fact that he was on vacation preventing him from getting angry.
“I took advantage of an opportunity,” Irons said as she came over and offered her hand to help him out. “You think if we ever meet a species as nasty as the neagala, they’re going to fight fairly?”
“That’s true, they won’t get stuck in elevators.”
Irons shoved Lopez back into the lake. Lopez laughed as he took his fall, choosing to remain in the cool lake water for a few moments.
After all, one could never spend enough time at home, unburdened by societal concerns. Even if the definition of “home” had changed from the neighborhood of North Hollywood in Los Angeles to the planet Earth in the Milky Way Galaxy.
2
After Lopez pulled himself out of the cold water—and only because Irons told him they needed to make their way to Bozeman, Montana, so they wouldn’t have to wake up before 3 AM—the three of them headed toward their unmanned vehicle, a Tesla U.
The vehicle had directions programmed into it to take them to a small resort on the outskirts of the once-sparsely, now-unpopulated small town. The vehicle took them up Highway 89 before turning left on I-90.
Throughout the entire drive, not a single other vehicle, not even a military one, drove by.
In a place like Montana, Lopez felt the solitude added to the natural beauty of the place. A place like Yellowstone deserved to have a population of bison, wolves, eagles, and even bears, not humans, cameras, gas-guzzling archaic 20th century cars, and guns. But Lopez knew as soon as he got to Los Angeles tomorrow, and could see the warehouses—formerly office buildings—where millions upon millions of humans lived in biopods, it would feel anything but natural. It would remind him of how lucky he was, not only to not live in a virtual reality, but to have friends in the squad who would protect him from having to go into there.
“I was just starting to feel like I was getting comfortable with my Earth weight, too,” Irons mumbled in the front passenger’s seat. “One hundred and forty pounds. In space, I would have to go through BASTs for two months if I weighed that much.”
Basic Aeronautical Space Training, the mandatory boot camp required of anyone joining the UGM. Lopez’s squad leader had said they’d made it significantly easier with the advancements of space technology and the lack of manpower needed in war. Lopez didn’t think it was that easy.
“Damn, guess you’ll need to go clothes shopping for a new dress tomorrow, huh?”
“Funny, Mav,” Irons said with a snort. “I was also just starting to enjoy the scenery here. Starting to understand why people thought of this state as the last great place in the world.”
Lopez had joked with her, but he understood now what Irons was going through. She didn’t want to go back up to the Churchill. She didn’t want to have to answer to her uncle, the leader of their squad, especially since they couldn’t act like family while on the ship. As tough as she was, as fitting as her last name was, she had fears like everyone else did.
“You know, soon enough, they’ll have technology that can do all the fighting for us,” Lopez said. “And then we can stay here as long as we like. They won’t plug us in because we can fight. We’d be willing.”
Lopez, in the former driver’s seat, turned to Irons and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“We can even go to Glacier National Park with the time we’d have.”
Lopez’s eyes drifted toward Jordan, who had given the appearance of falling asleep but likely heard everything. Not that anything Lopez would say could annoy or concern Jordan. He turned back to Irons, who instead of responding with a laugh, smiled sweetly as she squeezed Lopez’s hand.
“You’re sweet. I want to believe you’re right. But I feel like we’re already there in war. Drones and machine dogs already fought much of the battle against the neagala. Even the marines who went to fight and finish the war had augmented tools. And here we are, still only with a week of leave, about to go back up.”
She cleared her throat and sat up in her chair. The time for vulnerability had ended.
“But I’m good. I’ll do my duty. Who knows? Maybe there’ll be some drama with Firestone and Monster.”
“Maybe? The two new fireballs in our squad? Frankly if we see Churchill blow up in space, we’re immediately going to know why.”
“Unless Loose can corral them with deep conversations about the meaning of fire and how it made humans, like, human.”
The day neared its end, and with it, the last sunset Lopez would see for at least six months, maybe more. At least he had gotten a goddamn good sunset to go out on, he thought.
The Montana skyline ensured that the sun was visible until the very end, and the sky glistened gold with splashes of pink near the sun. It was perhaps too much of a truism to say nothing was more beautiful, but at least of tangible, visible aesthetics, nothing was more beautiful.
They pulled into the Gallatin River Lodge, a hotel specifically reserved for the wealthy and the military. Lopez walked up to a machine at the front door and placed his hand on a panel. He kept his eyes wide for a retinal scan.
“Systems show I am speaking with Private Matthew Lopez of SLS Squad 7 in the 45th Company,” the computer said in a dainty feminine voice. “To confirm identity, please answer the following question. What was your favorite restaurant as a child?”
“Shepherd Dealers.”
There was no such restaurant, at least none that Lopez knew of. But it ensured no one would ever guess his password. Even so, it also depended on voice recognition to confirm access.
“Identity confirmed. Welcome, Private Lopez. How many for tonight?”
“Three total, please.”
“May I have the identities of those you are staying with?”
“Private Jenna Irons and Private Steve Jordan.”
A camera quickly scanned behind Lopez, locating Irons and Jordan, the latter of whom was waking from his rest and just now exiting the vehicle.
“Identity confirmed. Your room is 115. Please use this machine from the inside if you have any questions. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
“I always do,” Lopez said, though his voice did not quite match the words.
He couldn’t enjoy it as long as a key part of himself had to be kept away from the eyes of technology. It was another reason that he loved going to remote places with Irons and Jordan.
3
Lopez, Irons, and Jordan all made their way to room 115, on the same floor as the entrance. They each carried only a single small pack, with two days worth of clothing inside. They dumped those clothes in the washing machine in their room, designating Jordan to come back within ten minutes to pick up the washed and dried clothes. Lopez plopped down on his queen bed, with Irons on his left. Jordan took the other bed and opened up his most recent sci
-fi read, “Dune.” Irons commanded the TV to turn on and she began watching episodes of the longest-running show in TV history, The Simpsons, which finally stopped in 2042—only because cable companies went out of business because of fully immersive virtual reality.
Lopez grabbed a notebook and a pencil from his bag. Because of the number of eyes technology had, only in nature, living quarters, or buildings under construction did Lopez feel comfortable opening up his journal. The contents would not surprise anyone from his squadron, but it would wind up with him hooked up if the wrong eyes saw it. Or, worse. Genetic manipulation. He had to resort to pen and paper, lest electronic communication and writings end up in the wrong hands.
Ignoring the laughter from Irons, he flipped open his first page and read the brief contents he had written on the inside flap of his journal. It was titled “I Am.” He read:
I am Matt Lopez, a young man from North Hollywood, the grandson of immigrants who suffered through the Minority Purge of the late 2010’s.
I am a man without money, but a man with plenty of spirit, love, and fight.
I am gay in a world that sees homosexuality as biologically inefficient and would reprogram those who are out of VR under the Pence Protocol. But I am proud of my identity, even if the upper thread of society believes my genes are ill fit to exist.
I am many things that those outside Mass Media would consider biologically poor.
But above all else, I am a friend. I am a son. I am a soldier.
I am human.
Lopez had read those six lines many times, including the day that the Pence Protocol declared that anyone living in the real world would need to be “biologically and genetically fit” to pass on their genes in order to ensure both the “smartest” (or, as Lopez saw it, the wealthiest) or the “strongest” (those most willing to fight) genes continued on through humanity. That protocol went into effect ten years ago, just as Lopez came to understand his identity. It crushed him.
But it did not break him. He knew he would, temporarily, have to mask who he was for the sake of staying outside of Mass Media. Irons, as his best friend, took on the role of girlfriend for him as they joined the military together. It was not a title that was a mere act at times. Five years ago, in fact, following the end of the war, they’d even made love in a drunken mess.
Since then, however, they had kept it up for appearances. Irons and Lopez loved each other and would die for each other, but as brother and sister would, not as husband and wife. If anything, Lopez liked it more this way. He didn’t have to ever deal with the kind of fallout that men who liked her and dated her did.
Like Jordan.
But at the moment, things were good for them. Good. Not great. Not the best. But not at the point that they needed to talk or have an existential moment.
With that in mind, Lopez turned to a blank page and began journaling.
July 26th, 2100.
Bozeman, Montana, Earth, Solar System.
It is about 11 p.m. at night. We just finished exploring Yellowstone as our one-week leave comes to a close. To my left is my best friend, Jenna. I have to call her Jenna here because I call her Irons or Lifts so much that I sometimes forget she’s not just a soldier. She’s a human. She’s Jenna. The beautiful brunette from Australia with brown eyes, competitive fire that could burn an entire race, and endearing playfulness that makes her wonderful.
Further left is Steve “Silencer” Jordan. He’s a human too. He’s dating Ir… no, Jenna now. It looks like its going well. Steve’s a stand-up, genuine guy. I assume he is, at least. Jenna hasn’t complained about him yet, so that’s saying something. Maybe I’ll talk to him on the plane to L.A. tomorrow.
Speaking of Los Angeles… it’s home. But it’s not. I feel like I’m going to the place that was home. Except my home’s been razed to the ground, at least metaphorically. A city that once had over 10 million people now might have a couple thousand who aren’t plugged in. If you’re not in the military in Los Angeles, you’re out of sight. And if anyone knew about this journal, I’d be in there in a second.
Sometimes I wonder why. What’s the fucking point? Am I waiting for the Pence Protocol to go the way of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” did for a few years, eliminated only to make an ugly and violent return? We saw how well that went. I appreciate all that Irons, Jordan, Li, Wallace, and Lake do—and even Lt. Andrews—but I can’t help but wonder how much of a burden it is for them. Especially Jenna. I can never express my thanks enough.
I know what my answer is now. My answer is that I want to defend humanity, even if it doesn’t need defending now that there’s no war. I want to stay alive and explore the real world, not a fake one. Even if the fake one would have me believe I’m surrounded by thousands of gorgeous men on a tropical beach all at once. But is that selfish? Whose cause am I really aiding? Humanity’s? Or my own?
I don’t know. I just know for right now, I’m about to go back onto Churchill. I’ll probably go back to doing system maintenance. I’ll go as Jenna’s date to the ball tomorrow. Jordan understands. As little as I know about him, he’s cool, and I’m grateful for that.
But after those six months end… Fuck. I’ll need to get Jenna alone somewhere. Hell, maybe the Andromeda galaxy at this rate.
Just focus. Focus on your duty. Focus on the ball. Treat her well. And when your six months are done and you get another week leave, take it. Go someplace even more remote than Yellowstone. And decide how you want to live.
As soon as Lopez finished his last sentence, he closed his notebook, his pencil wedged in between the pages, and tossed it to his bag. It landed inside, leaving Lopez satisfied. He closed his eyes as Irons cuddled up next to him, holding him tight and kissing him on the cheek.
She didn’t need to say anything. She knew what his world looked like as well as he did.
4
The alarm and automatic bed pulsator woke up all three soldiers at 4:34 AM. It took less than a minute for each soldier to get dressed and prepped for the Tesla U to drive them to the Gallatin Valley Airport.
Now that they were no longer on leave, but officially soldiers preparing to report to the Churchill, they had to arrive presentable. They all wore their combat fatigues, even though they would likely not face any combat for months, if ever. Irons put her hair in a ponytail. Lopez and Jordan both shaved in under a minute, years of practice enabling them to cut their facial hair down to nothing in a matter of seconds. Lopez nicked his right cheek but didn’t bandage it—he would have plenty of time in the car to take care of his cut.
With only a glass of water for each soldier—automatically placed by their beds by the hotel AI—the three Marines departed the hotel and made their way to their Tesla U. They spotted one other vehicle, a Ford A-150, in the parking lot. Such a vehicle was typically only used by military personnel, which led Lopez to believe either they were being monitored or someone else just happened to be taking leave in the same area. He wanted to believe it was the latter—Montana was a popular vacation spot for troops—but his mental wiring forced him to consider it was the former.
Lopez took the front driver’s seat and immediately began cleaning up his cut. Irons mumbled something about why the military needed to wake up so early when in peacetime, while Jordan got in the back in silence. The vehicle, sensing all three troops, turned on and began driving toward the airport.
Lopez hoped he would get a chance to see the sunrise. It would be close. The flight, which would leave at 5 AM sharp, would get to the Bob Hope Airport in Burbank at about 5:30 AM local time. Depending on how much time they needed to get to LAX, now a launch point for smaller transporter vessels to nearby battleships, he might be able to catch a glimpse of the sun rising over the mountains of California before shooting into space.
Or, more likely, he’d first see the sun when they’d broken through the atmosphere.
The ride to the first shuttle only took ten minutes. They boarded the shuttle, just big enough to fit eleven people, and sat i
n silence. Irons immediately fell asleep, her head rolling to the left side. Lopez turned to Jordan, who looked straight ahead with a stoic expression. Open up. Let’s talk.
“Where are you from, Silencer?”
Jordan turned, shocked to hear Lopez’s question this early in the day.
“Raleigh, North Carolina,” Jordan said.
His voice was unusually rough for this morning. Even by Jordan’s standards, in which he sounded like a baritone growler for a heavy metal rock band, his throat sounded as if it needed the rush of Niagara Falls to clear it out.
“How did you like it there?”
“It was fine.”
Once more, Silencer lived up to his name. Lopez opened his mouth to say more, but decided against it. He instead looked down at his bag, saw his journal for a fleeting second, decided against opening it in such a public area as this shuttle, and instead grabbed cordless ear buds that would play him some early 21st century hip-hop, his favorite music in existence.
But Lopez’s curiosity got the better of him. If, in theory, Jordan was someone he would go to war with someday, he wanted to see him as a brother—maybe not as much as Irons was a sister, but someone he would fiercely defend all the same. Title and position wasn’t enough.
“What made it fine?”
Jordan grimaced, took a prolonged breath through his nostrils, and then exhaled slowly.
“Sorry, I—”
“No, it’s fine,” Jordan said. “I will tell you some other time.”
Not here on the shuttle either. Fair enough. We all have our secrets, even with nearly constant surveillance.
“Deal,” Lopez said.
With that, he turned up music from Kanye West, “Monster,” and slowly drifted into a nap. Despite the heavy turbulence of the rickety shuttle, he would not awake until he got to Los Angeles, for he had made such a flight so often that he felt more at home in the uncertainty than in the tranquility.
