by Peter Telep
"YOU FEEL THAT MARINE'S ASS? THAT'S YOUR ASS!"
"Ouch!" Shane looked back at the tank and scowled.
The bastard!
"You may fly in individual rockets, but you're a TEAM. If you risk your ass, you risk the team's. You people have been here six weeks and still ARE NOT gung ho. Have you already forgotten what that means?"
Damphousse raised her hand and spoke. "I remember, sir. It's Chinese—and it means working together."
"DO YOU KNOW WHAT A RHETORICAL QUESTION IS?" Bougus asked her.
"YES, SIR!"
"NO, YOU DON'T! SHUT UP!"
Nathan thought that when it included tanks like Cooper Hawkes, working together was not just an impossibility, it was a violation of natural laws. Hawkes was a reckless loner, a maverick, and dead weight. Bougus would do well to flunk him out of the academy, thus getting that weight off the wing's back.
"Now. If you Marines do not learn to work together, then that fatty clump of flesh in your hand will be blown to every speck of the galaxy—and yours will follow it."
Nathan sensed that everyone was letting the D.I.'s words sink in, but he thought the whole demonstration was a joke. What was sinking deeper into him was his hatred for the tank.
"Sir," Pags said, dropping a word into the silence, "maybe Coop would do better in a real plane, sir. I know I would."
The tank craned his neck to regard Pags with a quarter-smile.
Bougus crossed to Pags. "I'm afraid of you in a SIMULATOR! Now get back in your pits. We'll do it again 'til it's right! MOVE!"
Shane slapped away Hawkes's hand then shot Nathan an unreadable look. She headed for her cockpit.
Nathan paused a moment to stare down the tank, who, in turn, stared him down. His fists and arms trembled. Then, deciding that the weaker man would be the guy who turned away first, Nathan held his ground and his gaze, even after Bougus walked up from behind him and asked, "Problem with your feet?"
"Sir, no, sir."
The tank grinned sardonically, then marched away.
Nathan lowered his head and ambled back toward his simulator.
"I got both your numbers, West and Hawkes," the sergeant warned. "And anything but by the numbers from you two now and I'll be dining on both your livers."
"A nice White Zinfandel would go good with that, Sarge," Pags suggested.
"GET IN THAT PIT!"
nine
Neon stars twinkled behind a flashing rock.
"'Sthat an asteroid or a hemorrhoid?" Pags asked. "It does look more like a—"
"He asks that every time we come here," Shane moaned.
Though he'd seen it before, for the hell of it, Nathan casually inspected the sign above the bar.
Pags could be right.
He followed Shane, Wang, Mr. Hemorrhoid, and Damphousse into Asteroids, and was quickly enveloped in the sights, sounds, and smells of the place. Dimly lit, the club was a throng of humanity freshly squeezed from concentrate. Leathernecks from the base nursed drinks at nearly every table, and others gathered in cliques about the bar. Bottles flashed, liquor flowed, and music videos wailed from speakers and flickered from wide screen projectors. Wafting in the air was a trace mixture of potpourri, perfume, and cologne. The talk, Nathan guessed, was either about sex or flying, or, more interestingly, sex while flying.
Damphousse squinted and went up on her toes to see over the crowd. "There's a place over there. Let's grab it."
They crossed, seized, and immediately occupied the table. Pags signaled to the waitress, a cute blonde who winked at him and, in short order, returned with beers for everyone.
Nathan glanced perfunctorily at the empty stage behind their table, then sipped his beer.
Damphousse picked at the front of her pants. "You think I could ever talk the Marine Corps into pleats?"
Pags poured himself a mug of the frosty stuff, then used the rest of his bottle to fill Wang's mug. "See, if I were runnin' the Marine Corps, I'd give recruits planes on the first day."
Nathan chortled. "War's good business—but that idea ain't."
"He's right," Damphousse said, tipping her head toward Nathan. "The loss of fighters and lives would be tremendous—if today's a good indicator of—"
"Not in defense of Pags," Nathan said, cutting her off. "But today didn't mean jack. Actually, without Hawkes, we probably would've done all right."
Shane nodded. "At least he got his act together on the second run."
"And you've gotta admit," Pags began, then took a sip of his beer, "the son of a bitch is a crack shot."
Nathan rolled his eyes. "They probably rigged that into his genes."
"It was six on six and he got three, one off my tail, one off Wang's—and one off yours, Nathan," Damphousse reminded him. "Not in defense of him."
Nathan drew a line in the sweat on his glass. "I'll concede that he's good. But a team player? I don't think so." He connected the line with two others, forming the letter F: the tank's grade in the academy.
"I invited him to come with us," Damphousse confessed.
Wang set down his drink. "I told her not to."
"We can get him to play on our team," Damphousse said, leaning forward as if it was somehow important to her, "if we just try to understand him."
"Why do you care?" Nathan asked. "If he doesn't hack it, he doesn't hack it."
"I just think it's a shame that—"
"Speak of the devil," Shane said, then elbowed Nathan. The tank entered the bar, his gaze sweeping over it.
He spotted Nathan but acted as if he hadn't. After one more inspection of the place, Hawkes went to the bar and slid onto a stool. He signaled to the bartender, then shot a look back at Nathan, reacting to the fact that Nathan was still looking at him. He gave a slight nod of his head, then looked away.
Yeah, you'd better stay over there, tank.
Damphousse pushed her seat back. "I'm going to see—"
Nathan pointed an index finger at her. "He wants to be alone."
"How do you know?"
"Trust me."
"Didn't Hitler say that?"
"Don't bother him, Vanessa," Shane said. "Maybe later he'll soften up and come over."
Nathan raised his brow. "In which case I'll be gone."
Damphousse pushed her seat under the table. "All right. I won't get in the middle of this. But Nathan, you're going to have to stop this animosity. There's always one or two rogues in every group. Get used to it. You don't have to hate this guy."
She didn't know. He wanted to, at the moment, lapse into the fact that he had rallied for equal rights for In Vitroes, and those "equal rights" had resulted in a colonial quota system that had backfired in his face. The woman he loved was light-years away because of equal rights for In Vitroes. It had been easy to hate Hawkes, and then the tank had, by way of his attitude and actions, made it even easier.
But Damphousse saw only the surface.
A tall figure walked into the bar, backlit by the red neon glow from the sign outside. As he came closer, a face materialized from the shadows: it was the Angry Angel from the 127th, the one Nathan and Shane had seen from the bus window, the pilot with the stare.
Hawkes noticed the pilot's entrance and watched as the Angel found a lone seat away from everyone at the corner of the bar. The Marine fingercombed his hair, took a pretzel from a plate near him, then munched. Hawkes nodded to the Angel, who managed a slight nod in return. Then both men ignored each other.
"Does he know that guy?" Shane asked.
"Probably not," Nathan said, then looked at his empty beer mug. "I'm ready for another. Pags? Another round?"
"Oh, yeah."
He regarded Shane, who froze as she stared at something out of Nathan's view. "You chipping in for round two?"
"The Angry Angels..." was all that came out of her mouth.
The elite pilots of the 127th Airborne paraded into the bar as though it were enemy territory they had just conquered. Arrogant and humorless, the three men and one woman
moved to a table of their liking, and, without a word, the recruits drinking there fell over themselves to give up their seats. One young man even lingered behind to wipe off the table with a napkin.
"That's odd," Shane said.
"What, the fact that vets bully cherries? Been going on since we were grunting and fighting with clubs and stones."
"No." She looked at the Angel at the bar. "How come he isn't with them?"
Nathan studied the Angel at the bar. The pilot didn't even acknowledge his squadron. He seemed fascinated by the veneer of the counter top. Then Nathan looked at Hawkes. The tank studied his beer.
Without warning, Shane rose and steered herself toward the Angels' table.
"Hey, maybe you'd better—" Nathan cut himself off since she was already out of earshot. He adjusted his seat so that he could watch her.
Arriving before the table, and probably a little short of breath, Shane said, "Uh, 'scuse me."
They ignored her, the three men listening intently as the woman spoke.
"Sorry to interrupt..."
The female Angel broke off and joined her fellow Marines in fixing their nervous fan with a cold, steely look.
"I just wanted to tell you all how much I admire and respect the 127th."
The men looked at one another, smirking.
The woman smiled condescendingly. "Thanks. Thanks a lot. We'll have four pitchers of draft and a couple of shooters."
The group immediately wounded Shane with their sniggers and laughs. She seemed to grow pale and glassy-eyed with the realization that her heroes were creeps.
Nathan slid out of his chair, regarding Pags as he did so. "Be there. If I need you."
Feeling a nerve thump in his neck, he went to the Angels' table, crossing in front of Shane. "She's not a waitress."
"I think we hurt her feelings," the tallest Angel said. "Come and sit in old papa Slayton's lap and tell him all—"
"She's a Marine. Now... apologize."
The tall Angel rose, knocking over his chair. He was six-feet plus, and from Nathan's angle, looked nearly seven. "Until she graduates... she's slime. Now..." he began, spacing his words for effect, "you... apologize. To me." He glanced in the woman's direction. "And to Collins."
Nathan considered the situation, which boiled down to mathematics. He was rather deft at the problems they had thrown at him in flight school, physics problems that dealt with aerodynamics, lift, vacuum maneuvering, what have you. Often, he'd click off his calculator and work out the problem long hand, the way a good pilot might switch off his NAV system or LIDAR and fly by the seat of his pants. One learned the true nature of the beast that way.
To get the present equation to balance required the addition of two more variables, variables who sat back at his table. He gave a subtle look to Pags, Wang, and Damphousse. They looked worried. They were not moving.
I'm about to get a beating.
Shane shifted in front of Nathan as the rest of the Angels stood. She was up to something; perhaps she had a few words that would dilute the tension. "Hey, what's the farthest you guys have flown?"
"Four-point-eight light-years," Collins said, without having to think about it.
Shane grinned, then her expression soured. "That's how far you can shove your apology."
The tall guy, Slayton, plowed through the table. He kicked a chair out of his way, threw Shane aside, then slapped away Nathan's fists in order to bring his beefy hands down on Nathan's shoulders. Slayton drew back his bereted head, then, gripping Nathan with what had to be all of his force, brought his forehead down onto Nathan's.
In a flash, Nathan was gazing at the ceiling, which became a starfield for a moment, then blurred back into wood and rafters. He rolled away, shot to his feet, and took a defensive stance as a surge of dizziness passed through him. Shane arrived at his side, her small but formidable fists raised and ready.
Collins came at Shane, releasing a high kick that Shane dodged. Shane's reply was a solid right into Collins's stomach, a punch that, astoundingly, had no effect. Collins smiled, then backhanded Shane across the face so hard that it sent her flat onto her back.
The other three Angels surrounded Nathan, Slayton assuming a position directly in front of him. "There's an interesting sound that a nose makes when it breaks," Slayton said. "Kind of a pop, as if you poked a hot sausage and let out some of the steam."
"YAAAAAAHHHHHH! "
Nathan looked back and saw that Pags had launched himself from a tabletop and now sailed through the air. Pags wore the look and sounded the cry of a pissed-off psychopath. Sergeant Bougus would have been proud.
Pags collided with Slayton and the Marine standing next to him. The two Angels crumpled under the human missile.
Exploiting Pags's move as an avenue for escape, Nathan delivered a roundhouse right to the standing Angel. The Marine fell back over his chair and hit his head on the leg of a table.
"Nathan!"
He spotted Shane being choked from behind by Collins. Running toward the two, readying his fists to do some pounding, he was caught off guard when Collins shoved Shane aside and sent a knee into his groin. Doubling over, he spun and collapsed onto his side.
"Come on, bitch! You gonna get some!"
"We're gonna get in a lot of trouble for this."
Nathan didn't have to look up to know that Damphousse and Wang had joined in what was now an all-out brawl. As the fire in his crotch subsided, he stretched out, got on all fours, then finally managed to rise. He noticed that Hawkes was eyeing him from the bar. The tank repositioned himself on his bar stool, as if he was considering whether or not to help. Then Nathan looked to the other end of the bar, at the Angel. He, too, appeared to be mulling over a decision to join, but just then, the Angel glanced at Hawkes, and there was a look that passed between them, a look Nathan read as: "You help your side, then I'm helping mine." Once that look was exchanged, neither man made a move.
At least the math problem has been solved.
Then again, as Nathan took in the sights of Shane getting thrown into a table of recruits, Wang taking an uppercut and then a kidney punch, and Damphousse getting her arm twisted so far behind her back that it looked about to snap off, he reasoned that even with good numbers they were still going to get the crap beaten out of them.
As least they'd go down as a team. A unit.
Seeing that Slayton was open and not looking in his direction, Nathan rushed to the gawk, pulled the guy's jacket up over his head, effectively blinding the Marine, then unleashed a triplet of punches.
Wang staggered away from the Angel who was clobbering him, then summoned what little strength he appeared to have to kidney-punch the Angel holding Damphousse.
"Ahhh!"
Free, Damphousse rubbed her sore arm a moment, but that moment was interrupted as Collins grabbed the back of the Damphousse's hair and drove her head into a table.
Slayton, jacket down and already recovered from Nathan's beating, seized Wang by his belt, lifted the pleading young man over his shoulder, then tossed him like a rag doll onto the empty stage.
Nathan drew back a fist, about to catch an unsuspecting Slayton in the cheek.
An emergency broadcast tone cut off the music videos, and then every wide screen in the bar displayed the bold letters:
SPECIAL REPORT
Lowering his fist, Nathan regarded the nearest screen. Everyone around began to do the same.
The seal of the United Nations flashed on the screen, then the logo dissolved into the image of a heavyset man behind a desk. He blotted sweat from his balding pate with a handkerchief, replaced the garment in the breast pocket of his suit, then leveled his bow tie. He looked to someone off-stage, nodded, and then faced the camera. Superimposed on the screen was the name:
SPENCER CHARTWELL
PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED NATIONS
An eerie, bone-chilling silence, save for the tone, slowly pervaded the bar. No one moved. The tone ceased. The bartender lifted a remote and thumbed
up the sound on the main tuner above the bar.
Shane threaded between Wang and Damphousse to stand next to Nathan. "What do you think—"
Nathan put an index finger to his lips.
"Not since the moment of creation has our universe changed so infinitely, so desperately, so quickly. Tonight—for the first time in the brief history of mankind—we are truly of one planet. Last evening, we confirmed that the landing party of the Tellus colony was massacred, unprovoked, by an alien civilization of tremendous force."
Nathan felt the word come crawling out of his throat, but barely heard himself utter it. "No." He gasped. "No." An invisible hand clenched his heart and shook it. Chills spidered up his spine. His ears rang. Then his senses shut down. The world became windswept ice, and it was hard to remain standing.
"Two hundred and twenty-five are dead," Chartwell added. "Twenty-five are unaccounted for."
Twenty-five. Kylen could be among them. He was back in the bar, the glacier behind him. He took a step toward the screen, and only a laser cannon could have severed his gaze from Chartwell.
"Because of destroyed communications, we have only now learned that the Vesta colony suffered the same fate. The alien civilization has not responded to any of our attempts at communication. Of this race we know nothing. The only clue to their people is the bloodshed they left behind.
"My fellow citizens of Earth, no matter where you stand on this planet, either beneath the sun's warmth or in the cold of night, storm clouds of war gather over our home. Soon, they may fall in unceasing thunderbolts. We must stand together against the deluge, for we cannot possibly retreat."
In the pause, the 127th gathered up then fallen berets and headed for the door. The lone Angel at the bar fell in behind them. Nathan saw Hawkes yawn, then turn apathetically away from the screen and pick up his beer.
Kylen might be dead!
Nathan now rode the loops and rolls of his emotions as if they were a simulator. One second he was on the enemy's twelve, coming dead-on, target locked, the next he was staring at Kylen, who lay in a pool of blood. Should he continue to hope? Or would that only make the truth more painful?
