The Glorious Becoming (Epic)

by Lee Stephen

  Tiffany remained silent.

  “You know what?” said Catalina, turning in a huff. “I do want to talk about it.” Tossing the pad in the trash, she folded her arms. “Why are men jerks?”

  “Mark, again, right?”

  “Mark, Tom, Major Tacker, men in general. Why are they all jerks?”

  Sighing wistfully, Tiffany answered, “If we knew, we could write a book, and we’d be rich.”

  Catalina collapsed into a chair. “Let’s start with Tacker. We organize this thing that’s supposed to be ‘training,’ and I’m using that term so loosely right now, and the guy doesn’t even make an effort to teach us anything. He just beats the crap out of us on a mock mission, and in a span of about fifteen minutes, he’s washed his hands of us.”

  Tiffany raised a finger. “In his defense, Tacker’s job isn’t to train us.”

  “His job is to keep us alive, and he can keep us alive by teaching us something.”

  “In his second defense, he is very hot.”

  The Canadian leered. “Just the same, how does he expect us to get better if he smacks us around on an exercise, then walks away like it was a waste of his time? Couldn’t he have taken ten minutes to talk to us, to tell us what we did wrong?”

  “Do you already know what you did wrong?”

  “That’s not the point, but yes. We know what we did wrong. But just listen for a minute.”

  The blonde produced a stick of gum. “I’m listening.”

  “So he abandons us without saying anything helpful. I understand, he was upset with our performance, but he still didn’t need to walk off like that.”

  “Walking off is definitely not cool.”

  “Exactly,” said Catalina. “So enter jerk number two.”

  “This must be Mark.”

  “Yes, it’s Mark.”

  Tiffany blew a gum bubble.

  “So I screwed up a bit during the exercise. I wasn’t checking my rear—”

  “I bet Mark was checking your rear.”

  Catalina eyed her warningly. “I wasn’t checking behind me, and Tacker came around and attacked my blind side.”

  “Where was he coming from?”

  “We were all in a building.”

  “He circled you in the building?”

  “No, actually, he had left the building.”

  “How’d he leave the building?”

  “He came down from the roof—let me get to the point.”

  Tiffany frowned. “Sensing hostility...”

  “So my guard is down, and Tacker kills us, and it’s all my fault, right? I screwed up, I can accept that. I’m a big girl.” She caught her breath. “So what does Mark do? He slams my helmet in my hands in a way that blatantly shows the world I was to blame.”

  “How’d he get your helmet?” asked the blonde.

  “I threw it away.”

  “In the garbage?”

  “On the ground!”

  Tiffany sighed. “I’m so confused.”

  “So then after Tacker leaves, me and Mark get in this huge fight, when in steps jerk number three.”

  “And that must be Tom.”

  The Canadian nodded. “Of course.”

  “He’s such a loser.”

  “Do you know what he called me?” Catalina asked rhetorically. “He called me a tramp.”

  Tiffany gasped. “He called you a tramp?”

  “He called me a tramp. So he and Mark start yelling at each other, then Tom starts accusing Mark of being a racist—”

  “Mark is not a racist.”

  “They start yelling back and forth, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, Tom hits me.”

  Tiffany’s eyes widened. “Get. Out!”

  “He actually hit me.”

  “I am so totally speechless.”

  Catalina moved her hands impassionedly, as if retelling the story before a classroom of children. “So Tom and his crew jump Mark, there’s a huge brawl, then Tacker runs over and breaks everything up. He was livid, but I don’t blame him.”

  “Good grief,” said Tiffany.

  “Oh, ha,” said Catalina, pointing to her face, “and I have a zit.”

  “Oh, Cat, I’m so sorry.”

  Leaning her head back, Catalina blew out a breath. Running her hand through her hair, she fell solemn. “You think Remington had days like this?”

  Tiffany smiled. “Like, yah. Who doesn’t?”

  “You never have days like this, Tiff.”

  The pilot laughed. “Whatever. I’ve totally had days like this. Remember the onion stain?”

  Caught off guard, Catalina cackled. “Right, the ‘onion’ stain. That was definitely an emergency.”

  The mirthful grin remained on Tiffany’s face before the corners of her lips slowly leveled, her bemused expression becoming heavier. “Some days can be worse than today,” she quietly said.

  Catalina’s brow arched curiously at the Valley Girl’s change in tone, before she too was struck by a new emotion. Sitting upright, she moaned remorsefully. “Oh, Tiff. I’m so sorry, I didn’t even...”

  “It’s okay.” Tiffany smiled through shimmering lids. “I know.” Silence prevailed as the pilot rolled to face the wall, her eyes hidden from view.

  Catalina chastised herself disgustedly under her breath. Failed missions, bickering comrades, and pimples were indeed all bad things. But she was living with a walking reminder that, in comparison to some things, they were the definition of trivial.

  The subject of Tiffany’s tears was never brought up. Catalina primped quietly in the mirror, donned her uniform, and excused herself from the room. There was no pressing matter at hand—only respect for the privacy of her friend.

  Little else happened that evening, save two small details. Shortly after leaving her room, Catalina knocked on Mark’s door. She apologized. So did he.

  Then the Canadian called home.

  * * *

  THAT NIGHT

  COLONEL LILAN settled into his living room chair. Propping his bare feet atop the coffee table in the center of the room, he leaned back.

  Lilan owned a house not far from Richmond base. He’d never been one for extravagancies, and the house confirmed it. It was simple—a neverending fixer upper located down the closest thing to a country road that the suburbs of Richmond could offer. But it served its purpose. It was a shelter; that was all he required. Glass of milk in hand, the dressed-down colonel took in the silence.

  His day with Strom Faerber had been, if not revealing, intense. Lilan had tried to break the young German during their training exercises—to push the soldier down as low as he could. To break his will in order to strengthen it. But it hadn’t turned out that way.

  Strom was a machine. He never slowed. He never tired. He never so much as placed his hands on his knees. And he had done everything with an aura of respectful professionalism that the colonel had never seen before from a private. Perhaps that was what amazed him so much. Strom didn’t act like a private. He acted like a ten-year veteran. By the end of the training session, the German had been covered from head to toe with mud—only his eyes had been visible where he’d wiped the mud away. Yet somehow, Lilan felt as if the soldier had wanted more. Strom seemed to actually like being physically uncomfortable. He liked the wear and tear of war. It had been such a positive and refreshing experience for Lilan, it was almost enough to make him forget about his conversation with Tacker.

  Almost.

  If you respect me, if you care at all about the loyalty I’ve shown you for years, sticking with you when others would have bailed out months ago, then send me somewhere where I can actually make a difference.

  Those were the words Tacker had spoken to him. Lilan had always valued the major for his honesty. This was the first time that it hurt. Strom had been a distraction, and a good one. But not even the son of Klaus Faerber could erase the inevitable truth Lilan was facing. He was too old to be useful.

  Throughout Lilan’s military career—one that
spanned over forty years—he had dedicated himself to his profession. He was one of the old-schoolers. The kind of man that forsook everything—family, friends, love—for his chosen path. There was a dark reality to the Alien War, in that if it ever ended, he’d have nowhere to go. Nowhere to belong. No wife or grandchildren to spend more time with, no hobby to take up in retirement. He had nothing. And for that reason, as much as he wanted to win the war, he needed it. It was his only reason to live.

  Setting down his half-empty milk glass, the colonel sat upright then bent forward, elbows over his knees as he held his head in his hands. He was tired, physically and emotionally. It wasn’t quite his bedtime yet, but it was close enough. Pushing up and groaning in the process, he rose to his feet.

  Then he heard the car door.

  To say Lilan rarely got visitors was an understatement. Hardly anyone even knew where he lived. But one person most certainly did, and he was the first person to come to Lilan’s mind. When Lilan looked out his side window, the civilian jeep in his driveway confirmed it—just in time for the knock at his door. It was Tacker.

  Opening the door, Lilan looked at his major. Tacker was in normal clothes, a long-sleeved green flannel shirt and blue jeans. In his hand was a six pack of beer. He smiled diffidently, holding the cans up. “Hey, colonel.”

  It didn’t take a psychologist to know what the visit was about. The colonel felt his heart grow a little warmer. “Come on in,” he said, pulling the screen door open.

  “Were you about to turn in?”

  Lilan glanced at his half-empty glass of milk. “Nah, not yet.” It was a lie he was comfortable telling.

  Tacker settled down on the sofa as Lilan claimed his recliner. Placing the six pack on the coffee table, Tacker slipped one out of its plastic lining and offered it to the colonel. After Lilan accepted, he took one for himself.

  Lilan cracked open the beer, covering the can’s mouth with his lips just in time to catch its carbonated hiss. Beer and milk wasn’t exactly a typical nighttime combination, but Lilan didn’t mind. Taking a sip, he exhaled and leaned back. “What brings you here tonight, major?”

  Tacker set his beer down. For several seconds, he didn’t say anything. Then he sheepishly looked away. “I’m sorry, sir. About today. I...” The sentence hung for several moments, only to end in a sigh.

  Try as he might, Lilan couldn’t stop a smile from emerging.

  “Did you put in that transfer request, yet?” Tacker asked, looking at Lilan again.

  “No, not yet.”

  “Toss it out.”

  Lilan raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure about that?”

  Tacker’s answer was immediate. “Yeah. Oh, yeah. I’m absolutely sure.”

  It was as genuine a response as Lilan could’ve hoped for, and no amount of posturing could restrain the grin that captured Lilan’s face. All of the bad feelings of the day—every ounce—was gone. Lilan set his beer down. “Right now, I am not your colonel, and you are not my major. We’re just two men having a drink. Now talk to me.”

  The younger man laughed a bit. “Just talk to you, huh?”

  “Yep. Just talk.”

  Blowing out a breath, Tacker leaned back. Silence followed for several seconds. “I hate this job.”

  Lilan looked at him strangely, the bluntness of the statement catching him off guard. Then, he laughed. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really,” Tacker said, sharing the amusement. “I’m not sure there’s a single thing I like. I used to not feel that way, but now...”

  “You getting ready to dust off the old resumé? Sell insurance? Fix cars?”

  “I wish.” Tacker shook his head in wonderment. “How can you stand it? With the scatload of garbage that’s been tossed at us, how in the world can you keep at it, day after day?”

  “Well,” Lilan said, drinking again, “I think I’m struggling as much as you are.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m telling you the truth. I’ve never seen anything that even remotely resembles what we’re dealing with right now in Falcon. For a whole EDEN platoon to be turned into a post-graduate course, it’s astounding to me.”

  The major huffed. “I wish you could have seen them today, in that exercise they set up. Terrible. It was terrible. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen something like that post-Philadelphia.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “If that had been a real mission today, they’d all have been dead. Pitiful planning, pitiful tactics. They were supposed to be doing a ship infiltration, and my team could literally hear every step they took. I don’t think there’s a door they didn’t kick in.”

  Lilan smiled. “Makes you appreciate what we had back in Chicago, doesn’t it?”

  “Unbelievable,” Tacker answered, shaking his head. “What those boys did, the potential they had. Do you realize what we could’ve been?”

  “I know it.”

  “What Remington did with those guys, you can’t teach that kind of stuff.”

  “I know it.”

  Tacker leaned forward. “Speaking of which, guess whose team worked with me today? John Donner’s.”

  “Get outta here,” Lilan said.

  “He’s got ’em trained, I tell ya. I wish you could have been there to see it.”

  “Well, he’s a lieutenant already, isn’t he?”

  Tacker nodded.

  “Pretty doggone fast.”

  “He’s gonna be somebody’s XO before we know it. He’s just got it.”

  Sipping his beer again, Lilan leaned back. “So who do we have to look forward to? Who’s our next Remington and Donner?” He already had a name in mind—Strom Faerber. But he’d save it until after Tacker’s input.

  “You really want to know what I think? No one. Before today, I’d have said Peters or Quinton. That exercised cured me of that.” The major hesitated for a moment. “Today ruled Shivers out, too.”

  “Why the pause?”

  Tacker shook his head. “She gets tunnel vision. Easily distracted. She can fire a weapon, though. Every now and then she catches my eye.”

  Ever so slightly, Lilan smirked.

  The major caught it. “Not like that. Not that it wouldn’t be fun to go a round or two. Just a little too young for my taste.”

  “What happened to that girl you were seeing? I don’t remember her name.”

  “Alicia,” Tacker answered. “We split a few weeks ago.”

  “Mutual?”

  He took another drink. “For the most part. You know how women are.”

  “More trouble than they’re worth.”

  “Ain’t it the truth?” Tacker sighed. “Gave that woman every...” he cut off his own sentence, pausing for a moment before going on. “She just couldn’t deal with the callouts. That’s not her fault.”

  Lilan knew the emotions Tacker was feeling. Most civilian women had no concept of the level of obligation it took to be a part of EDEN. Birthdays, anniversaries, even weddings were secondary to that beeping comm that never left your side. It outranked everything.

  Tacker cracked open a second beer. “But to answer your question, no, I don’t think we have another Donner or Remington.”

  Lilan smiled a bit. “Well, we might now.” When Tacker raised an eyebrow, he continued. “Faerber’s for real.”

  “No joke.”

  “The kid’s for real. I worked him today harder than I’ve worked anyone else. I couldn’t make him slow down. So far as physical specimens go, I’ve never seen anyone like him.”

  “Attitude’s good?”

  The colonel nodded. “It’s outstanding. He’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of Philadelphia. Hates the media, hates the hype. Can’t wait to get working.”

  “That’s excellent.”

  “Only problem is,” Lilan went on, “Hutchin’s orders are to ‘keep him clean.’ He doesn’t want him seeing any action—scared of what might happen if he gets killed.”

  Tacker looked at him strangely.

&nb
sp; “So we need to find some kind of way to get use from this kid. I think he has potential, real potential. Orders are orders, but we’ll figure out something.”

  “Un-vecking-believable.”

  Lilan took another drink. “We’ll figure something out—write it down.”

  In the midst of the conversation, Tacker’s personal comm chimed. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled it out and examined the name on the display. “Speak of the devil. That’s Alicia.” He stood. “You mind if I...?”

  “No, no,” Lilan said, waving his hand, “take the back room.”

  “Thanks.” The major excused himself from the room. He shut the door to the back bedroom, his voice muffled by the wood.

  As Tacker carried on his private conversation, Lilan rose from his sofa and walked to the window. Looking out into his yard, past the driveway where he and Tacker’s vehicles sat, the old colonel released a long, tired sigh. He was glad that Tacker had come, the memory of the major’s earlier tirade already purged from his mind. He was glad for Strom Faerber. He was glad to have a soldier to look forward to and a friend in the major to help break him in. But even with all of that gladness, there was a new sense of disheartenment that struck Lilan. Outside of Tacker, and outside of the career he was married to, he was alone. At the very same time that he was staring into the emptiness, Tacker was in the back talking to someone who obviously cared for him, at least enough to call him postbreakup. Who did Lilan have?

  The negative emotions that had assaulted him recently were new for him. Throughout his career, he had been all business, all the time. No time for family. No time for a woman. No time for friends. Just get in, get the job done, and help humanity win the war. And that had always been fine.

  Until Cleveland. That was when everything began to fall apart. That was when Falcon Platoon turned from a symbol of veteran experience into a turnstile for Academy graduates. And if Cleveland was to blame, the buck stopped with Lilan. He failed in that mission. He didn’t get the job done. Had Falcon performed well enough under his leadership, the city would have been saved, Falcon wouldn’t have fallen back, and he’d still have his group of veterans. At the time, he had blamed the mission’s failure on bad information—underestimation by Richmond Command. But even then, he knew that line of thinking had been a cover. Cleveland was a failure because he’d failed. The situation he was in now was one he’d rightfully earned.