Losing Love
Unheard but felt, the solid beating of the heart was a painful reminder that one still lived.
The craggy face of Thurisaz Mountain Range was just ahead. In the open plain southwest of the Devil’s Diadem, all hell had broken loose. The barrage of concussive munitions stunned the senses. Energy weapons raised the hair from the skin, giving a prickly sensation. Solid projectiles whizzed past. Soldiers ran all about, some screaming bravado as they charged the Enmen, some screaming pain and fear as they fled. Bodies to the left and right dropped suddenly to become obstacles on the battlefield. Unheard but felt, the solid beating of the heart was a painful reminder that one still lived.
Besh fell beneath the swinging fist of an Enman, and as he did, he kicked the legs from under his enemy, rolling aside and firing his Sandman simultaneously. He continued the roll to his feet, leaping for cover behind a large gray rock peppered with lichen. He timed it just under the wire; as he rolled to a crouch behind the rock, the air around him sang with the passing of an APE’s needle-like projectiles. Hundreds passed over his head while some struck the rock, chipping away lichen and stone alike. A zit exploded nearby, sending a shower of sand and fine pebbles through the air.
Besh stood and took down the Enman firing the APE, then ran, leaped, and rolled behind another rock. He was closer to the retreating Enmen; they were making for a cave in the craggy wall. Besh peeked over the rock and immediately ducked back to avoid an energy blast. Missile fire was raining down on the Enmen’s position; their detonations caused ears to pop. Besh could feel the vibrations through his boots. Comrades marched past him, laying down a constant pattern. Where was Heaven?
Besh rose to join his fellow soldiers, firing his Sandman with lethal accuracy. He was front and center in a wall of men who pushed the enemy back. Weapons were fired in anger to avenge fallen friends. Ragged voices howled grief and rage; Besh no less. The wall advanced. To their right was a long, low ridge of gray stone. Detonations broke the wall; men scattered, and those who remained standing ran for the meager cover of the ridge. Enmen ran from the other side, weapons unloading. Besh fired, ran, and rolled behind the ridge. As he came up on a knee and brought down three Enmen, a female soldier fell nearby. Thank God! It was not Heaven.
G Plat had been decimated, but the Enmen were on the run. Soldiers crouched beside him. Besh looked around to see Marques Musaid, his friend’s light brown face smeared with sweat and dirt. Sergeant Leo Dingovan skidded to a crouched stop beside Marq and took a quick look over the ridge. Tall and thin, Leo turned and sat, turning wide blue eyes on Marq and Besh.
“They’re on the run,” he said as he pulled the mic from his shoulder to call Support.
Besh took a peek over the ridge. What he saw distressed him. A dozen or more Enmen ran all out for the cave. Peripheral Enmen took fire and fell, but in the center ran a very large Enman, and over one shoulder he carried an unconscious female soldier, her helmet missing, and her long brown hair thrown about. It was Heaven.
Besh turned and clutched Leo’s hand, obstructing the call. “They have Annes!” Besh yelled.
Leo pulled away from Besh, stood, and faced the fleeing Enmen. “Fire! All Support!” Yelled the Sergeant.
Besh stood and reached beyond the ridge as missiles fell. Just inside the mouth of the cave, the image of Heaven draped across the shoulder of an Enman vanished in the white-hot blast of missile fire and falling rock face.
Sitting up in bed and reaching out his hands to the searing memory, Besh screamed, “No! No!” He howled in pain, a long and drawn-out, “Ah!”
His eyes were open to the dark room, but the image of Heaven being blown apart burned in front of him like a sun. His heart pounded in his chest as he continued to scream. Besh screamed in pain, the extended bellow at last turning into a howl of bitter rage. He didn’t even get to see her face, just swinging arms and tossed hair. He told the Sergeant to wait! Why didn’t the Sergeant wait? Besh tipped his head back and screamed with all of his pent-up anger; a seething blood-red anger. It flowed profusely from the memory of Dingovan’s smashed nose, and he would smash it again and again. Because of Leo, Heaven was dead.
Marq burst through the adjoining door and ran through the semi-darkness of the room. “Rude! Rude!” he called. “It’s just a dream.”
Marq sat on the bed as Besh threw his legs over the side and reached for the water glass. Panting, Besh took a sip of warm water and coughed. He quickly recalled that his alias was Rudakh Yavle and that Heaven’s name had been Annes Talia. He turned and looked into Marq’s slightly Egyptian face as Marq massaged the nearest shoulder.
Marq yawned and said, “Man, I hate it when you have those nightmares.”
The hall door opened, and the stocky figure of Private Glover filled the frame, the ceiling light casting his shadow onto the bedroom floor. Knuckling a sleep-swollen eye, Glover peered into the darkened room and shouted, “Yavle! Damn it! How the hell are we supposed to sleep with you in here screeching like an owl hawk? Soldiers die. Get the fuck over it.”
Besh hurled the half-filled water glass at Glover and missed. It bounced from the wall to the floor, spilling its contents onto the carpet. Glover snorted and slammed the door. Marq dropped his hand from Besh’s shoulder and stood.
“Don’t mind that muscle head,” said Marq. “He’s never known the love of a good woman. Annes was a beautiful soul. You good now?”
Besh massaged his eyes and looked up at his friend. “Yeah. Thanks, Marq. Sorry, I woke you.”
Marq replied, asking in sleepy cheer, “What’s a friend for?”
Marq stretched, saying, “Well, reveille is close. We should hit the showers before all the dick-for-brains get in there and start having their sword fights.”
An hour later, Rude and Marq sat at a small corner table. Morning calisthenics had made them hungry. They wore the white uniform of kitchen personnel and ignored the din of incoming soldiers.
“Yeah, man,” said Marq. “Zero digit day. Free at last. Right?” He filled his mouth with dripping hotcakes, inserted the last slice of bacon, chewed loudly, and washed it down with hot chocolate. “What’s the first thing you’re going to do?”
Rude stirred in his cold biscuits and gravy, looked into his friend’s expectant face, and passed over his last two slices of bacon. “Look for my son,” he said. “What else?”
Marq took the windfall with a smile on his face. “With all the creds you’ve spent, it’s a wonder your PI hasn’t found him yet. It’ll be exceptionally fine to wear something other than kitchen whites.”
Rude shoved his cold plate away from him and said, “KP forever. Wait. You know about the PI?”
Marq ran his finger around his plate and transferred cold syrup to his mouth. Nodding, he answered, “I followed you once. Just out of curiosity. You were in a dark alley, but the man wore a fedora and a trench coat right out of the streams.”
Rude sighed. “I wonder if he’s even alive. Maybe he moved off-world.”
“So, what’s your next move?” asked Marq.
Rude shook his head thoughtfully before answering. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe, I’ll visit the Povre. Get myself together, and come back to search for Annes’ remains.”
Marq said in reply, “That whole area is, like, restricted. Armed guards with shoot-to-kill orders.”
Rude said, “She deserves a decent burial.”
Marq leaned toward Rude and said, “Right? You got a place in the Povre? I’ll come and help.”
Rude crossed his arms and studied his eager friend. “Don’t you have family?”
“Rude,” said Marq, a wounded look on his youthful face, “I was drafted right out of the orphanage. I told you.”
“Sorry,” Rude replied. “I forgot.”
Private Glover, with a group of friends, walked past in vociferous disarray. Glover, being the last in his group, smiled mischievously at Rude and said, “No holding hands in the mess.”
Rude, in a quick gesture, slid back his chair. Glover hurried on his way. Marq laughed and said, “Guess he knows who’s got the moves.”
Rude turned to look at the wall clock, then stretched out his legs and crossed his arms. “Still got a few minutes. Yeah. I’ll be glad for zero digit. These four years have changed me. I forgot the old man I used to be.”
Marq slid back his chair to mimic Rude’s relaxed pose, his hands behind his head, and replied, “You’re not that old.”
“I’m older than I look,” said Rude. Backtracking, Rude amended, “I mean, it feels that way. I used to be a nice person. I kind of lost track of who I really am.”
Marq smiled broadly and said, “The old you waits in the Povre.” Trying to stifle a yawn without success, Marq asked, “Should we go?”
Just then, Sergeant Leo Dingovan walked by alone. He stopped and turned to face Rude and Marq. He asked contemptuously, “You assholes made of lead? Everyone else knows they got a job.”
Rude jumped aggressively to his feet. Dingovan took a step back. “I’m not afraid of you,” said Leo. “I have cells with your names on them.” He spread his hands above his head as if in display. “Private Musaid. Loser. Private Yavle. Fuck up. So, go ahead. Make a mistake. You’ll be back for another four years.” Turning to walk away, Dingovan called over his shoulder, “Peel potatoes.”
Marq said with a scowl, “Man! Now, I want to sit here until noon.”
Besh exhaled explosively. “One more day,” he said, turning to Marq. “Help me keep my cool, and we’ll blow this hellhole.”
Marq responded, standing, “Yeah, man. Three sheets and a middle finger.”
Putting away their plates, Marq and Rude took buckets of soapy water and towels. The mess was one of the bigger buildings, and the dining area was large. It was their job to wipe all the tables and chairs, to set the chairs on the tables, and finally, to sweep and swab. They approached the last day of their menial chores with quiet determination. On the morrow, they would go to admin, where they would sit and wait. They would fill out their release forms in triplicate, sign three times, and race back to their rooms. Of course, they would have been cleaned the night before, but a last-minute inspection would be their final duty. Meager possessions in hand, they would catch the bus off base. As they passed under the front gate, they planned to turn in their seats and lift a solemn final finger.
“I won’t miss this,” said Marq as they made their way through the swinging doors.
Rude said, “Seeing it’s our last day, I hope they cut us some slack.”
Marq said, “You know, I even have dreams of potatoes. I’m lost, and all I can see in any direction is sacks of potatoes. It’s unreal. The trees are potato trees, and even the clouds are burlap bags.”
They stood in the doorway to the prep room. The usual three black trash cans sat to the left of the sinks. The storage containers were stacked high on the drainboard. An overhead light flickered as if an ill omen, and on the floor around their seats were twenty-five twenty-two-kilogram bags of russet potatoes.
Marq said, “Just as I thought. There’s only one kind of load, and that’s a shitload.”
Rude said, stepping first into the room, “Well, come on, Spud. Let’s do this.”
Marq returned with empty storage containers to fill and transport from sink to walk-in. Ten bags down, fifteen bags to go. He found his place at the sinks and stopped to sigh. Trying to sound optimistic, Marq said, “We’re getting there.”
Rude replied, “With great progress comes great boredom.”
Marq emptied the sinks and loaded the potatoes into the storage containers. As he refilled the sinks, he strained to set the containers on the floor; the handles bit into his hands. He took Rude’s filled containers and dumped them.
“I hear you,” said Marq. “When we get to town, I’m going to scrub the smell of potatoes and salutes from my skin, dress in all-new civvies, and go out and find a woman.”
Rude said, “There are women in the military. You’ve had four years.”
Marq replied, “I know. Right? But, they’re just a little too manly for my taste. What about you? Don’t you think it’s time to start looking around?”
“No,” said Rude, focused on the task at hand. “I think I’ll mourn a while longer.”
“Man,” said Marq. “You can’t do that forever. I hate to be the one to tell you, but you need to crawl out of that dark past. Live again. You know?”
Rude asked, looking up into his memories, “You know how many times I got to hug my wife? I was thinking about this while you were gone. We embraced one hundred times. We slept together nineteen times. We ate together fifty-four times. What I wouldn’t give for a plate of her spaghetti! Where’s the happy ever after?” Rude turned and looked up into Marq’s eyes, a hollow expression crossing his face. “I didn’t even get to die with her. I should have died in her place. The past is a heavy burden, but you can’t just drop it anywhere.”
Rude turned back to peeling with a sigh, leaving Marq to stand with an open mouth, who turned and quickly shut off the water. Lifting the two full containers, Marq staggered to the door, where he stopped briefly to speak over his shoulder before leaving. “Well, I’m getting a girl.”
Rude dropped his arms. He closed his eyes, searching for Heaven’s face. Her mouth was close to his skin; he could almost feel her warm breath. All too quickly, the face was gone, lost in a mist. Rude took a breath, opened his eyes, and continued his job. The pain would never cease. The hole in his heart would never heal. Rude dropped a potato in the container, and Besh lowered his face, speaking softly.
“Somehow,” he said, “I’ll find you. You know, I’m missing you really bad.”
Marq returned with empty containers and sat beside Rude to take up his peeler and a potato. He asked, “So, how are we getting to the Povre? I was thinking a Shock. We need a little class after this gig.”
Rude replied, “We don’t have the creds. We’ll probably take a Viper.”
“Man,” said Marq, “Those things make me queasy.”
It was Rude’s turn to transport. He lifted full containers with ease and walked through the busy kitchen. In the walk-in was a large vat partially filled with potatoes and icy water. Rude emptied his load and returned for a refill. He made a second trip and returned to change the water in the sinks. He sat beside Marq and quietly took up his peeler and a potato.
Marq said, “I’m thinking meatloaf for lunch.”
Rude asked, “Do you even know what they put in that?”
Marq exhaled exasperation. “Don’t say that,” said Marq. “Man. Well, how about the chicken? Again.”
Rude changed the topic. “You started cleaning your room yet?”
“Yeah,” said Marq. “I gave a lot of my stuff to the guys. Too much to carry. Don’t tell me you’re already done.”
Rude said between potatoes, “I’ve got nothing but dust.”
Marq stopped and looked up. He said, “I can imagine your new digs. Just as Spartan. We can pool our creds, you know, and get a sweet place with two rooms. My room will have a private entrance, or, at least, a fire escape.”
“Why?” asked Rude.
“For all the babes,” said Marq. “Or, maybe, a revolving door. Yeah.”
Rude said, “I have nothing saved back.” He turned to spear Marq with a knowing glance.
“Yeah, I know,” said Marq, his tone guilty. “I guess we’ll need jobs. Well, at least, we’ll be rid of Dingovan. That man. I don’t know. He’s like that character in the streams.”
“Which one?” asked Rude, caring not at all.
“Obsequious Maximus,” answered Marq. “Say. Look at us. We’re nearly done.”
Marq stood and dumped peeled potatoes into the sinks, tossed burlap bags into the trash cans, and kicked his seat aside. He chased the errant peel with a broom and dustpan.
Rude said, “If we get a place, we can eat at home. We’ll have to buy our own groceries. I wonder if they’ll let us keep a peeler?”
Marq stopped sweeping and stabbed Rude with accusing eyes. “Man,” he said, holding up his hand for view. “It’ll take a year for my fingers to straighten back out. No potatoes.”
Rude stood and dumped the last of the potatoes. He tossed the last burlap bag in the trash and began to move items for a final clean. He reached beneath the sinks to empty the water and lined up his containers when a voice from the door caused him to turn around.
“You fuck-ups think you’re through?” asked Sergeant Dingovan. “You may be out tomorrow, but today, you’re still mine.” He turned and whistled into the kitchen, stepping fully into the prep room.
Kitchen workers brought sacks of potatoes into the room and dumped them in front of Marq and Rude. Some sacks rode on burly shoulders, some were dragged. Dingovan leaned against the wall, arms folded, and smiled petulantly. Marq gasped in disbelief as sacks were piled high. Rude narrowed his eyes on the Sergeant, and touched the knuckles of his right hand; they itched to bend the Sergeant’s nose a little further out of shape. When the workers stopped bringing in bags, there were another twenty-five twenty-two-kilogram bags of russets on the floor.
Dingovan stepped forward and placed his hands on his hips. “Forget lunch. I want all these peeled and squared away by supper. Well?” He asked. “You need some time in the brig to think about it?”
“You’re a real pain in the ass,” said Rude.
“That’s pain in the ass, sir,” said Dingovan. “What? You feeling jumpy?”
Rude took a step forward, as did Leo. They faced one another over a small hill of burlap. Rude asked in a low, grating voice, “You need some help with that bent nose?”
“Just try something, jackoff,” said Leo, daring Rude with measured contempt. “No, really. Come over here and say that.”
Rude took another step, pressing his right fist into his left palm, when Marq took him by the elbow and pulled him back. “That’s not what Rude meant, Sergeant Derrière. He just wanted to bury the hatchet. To make amends. You know? Perhaps, we can all meet in town tomorrow afternoon for drinks. On us, of course.”
Dingovan squinted hatefully at Marq and said, “Losers don’t make it very far in the real world.”
Marq snapped back, “Oh, yeah? Well, at least, we got friends.”
“Ha!” laughed the Sergeant. It was a blunt and derisive noise.
“And straight noses,” added Rude. Lifting two sacks, one in each hand, and tossing them to the side, he said, “So, close the door. We’ll talk it out. Just you and me.” He tossed another two sacks with ease. “A two-day coma and a jaw wired shut; nobody hears problems that aren’t theirs.”
Seeing Rude toss two more sacks, and take a step between two piles; seeing Dingovan take a step back, Marq gripped his friend’s arm to pull him back. “No, Rude,” he pleaded. “I can’t do the brig again. We should rethink this whole thing. Can you do another four years? I sure as hell can’t.”
“Listen to your boyfriend, Yavle,” reasoned Leo, eyes a bit too wide. “Peel potatoes.” Dingovan’s mouth remained open to form another barb, but suddenly, the emergency lights flashed, and a siren wailed.
Command Sergeant Major Ethan Windsor, stocky, five-five, square-jawed, with bushy black brows, stood in the door frame and began barking orders. “You three!” he shouted over the noise of the siren. “Armor up. Troop dispatch in forty-five. Move it. We’ve got a full-scale Enman incursion in Terras Galles. This ain’t no drill, boys.” C.S.M. Windsor turned and sprang away.
There had not been a dust-out since the Bloodlands. Chaos reigned as soldiers and officers ran helter-skelter to the underground walkways that connected all buildings on the Thael Drylands Base. Men ran quickly to secure work and residence areas, hoping to make it in time to their assigned supply-armory buildings. G Plat was assigned to supply-armory Com-G, Div-nine.
As Rude and Marq ran through a chaotic kitchen, white work uniforms running in all directions, Rude pulled Marq close and shouted over the noise. “The walkways will be too slow. Let’s go topside.”
As they turned and made a hurried line toward the topside exit, a chef slammed into them, shouting, “Out of the way, scrubs!”
Rude and Marq ran through the exit into the bright desert sunlight and turned for the dorms. They ran past imported Joshua trees and Mesquites. Officer housing came next, with their neat rock gardens and cacti. The dorms were unadorned, but frantic soldiers ran in and out, adjusting their field clothing. Taking the stairs instead of the lift, Rude and Marq plowed through a confused traffic of flustered and anxious soldiers, each trying to find a way. The women seemed more direct, bullying and cursing a path through the press.
Rude left Marq, entering his room to quickly dress and secure the door. A quick knock on Marq’s hall door brought Marq from his room, hastily tucking in his shirt. His light brown face was screwed up into a panicked expression as he looked about the hallway to find he and Rude were the last.
“Take a breath,” said Rude. “Lock your door, and tie your boots.”
“Yeah. Right,” Marq replied in a breathless manner, crouching to tighten his boot laces. He jumped to his feet and took a panicked step, only to have Rude calmly pull him back by one arm.
“The door,” said Rude.
“Yeah. Right,” said Marq.
“Calm down,” said Rude, a hand on Marq’s shoulder, and eyes locked. “We’re good. All we have to do now is run really fast.”
Marq swallowed hard and said, “I really don’t want another fight. I almost bit it the last time. If it hadn’t been for you,” Marq inhaled deeply, leaving the sentence unfinished.
Rude gave Marq’s shoulder a squeeze. “Just stay close,” said Rude. “I’ve got your back.”
Rude led the way at a racer’s sprint, and Marq had difficulty matching. They ran across a road that ended in the Calvary Training Grounds, beyond which could be seen the endless white sands. They merged with a river of men and women flowing into the business end of the base. Buildings were basic warehouses of red brick and paneled metal sliding doors. Com-G, Div-nine was a construct of joined warehouses near the dust-off fields. As Marq followed Rude into the press around the open doors, he strained to catch his breath. Rude pulled Marq into a line at the fourth door and gave his back a pat.
“You alright?” asked Rude.
Marq could not answer but held up a pleading hand in response.
Base sirens continued to sound as supply officers barked orders at passing troops. Rude looked ahead and saw the newbies in his infantry platoon. Private Glover was one of a handful who had survived the Bloodlands. Mixed in his line were the men and women of the support troops in F Plat. The fighting men and women of Thael Drylands Base numbered in the tens of thousands. Several hundred crowded through Com-G, Div-nine. Stations were arranged for basic camouflaged cryolite armor, donning areas, and weapons assignment.
G Plat and F Plat were in SupArm A, a narrow line due to minimal armament. The ranged assault specialists of E Plat occupied two full lines in the center of the warehouse, while the heavy weapons specialists of D Plat occupied a full three lines at the far end. A sandy wind blew through the warehouse from the landing tarmac beyond Com-G, Div-nine. Rude could see past the raised doors as gray transports flew in from hangars at the other end of the desert. The rumbling noise all but overpowered the shouted commands of the supply officers. The increased air pressure from the transport engines was ear-popping. At the farthest end of the tarmac sat the massive Tranks receiving heavy tanks into their side bays.
The lines moved forward in fits and starts. Progress seemed eternally stalled. Rude turned to look at Marq. Having caught his breath, he nodded his improved condition, but his face was still openly fearful. Rude turned and filled in behind Private Kessler of F Plat, a young woman of dark skin and short, tight curls. She stepped into her cryolite overshoes and stamped her feet to lock them in place. As she moved forward, the supply officer called for Rude.
“Hurry up,” snapped the elder with a crew cut and eye cap.
Rude jammed his boots into the overshoes and stomped, taking a step forward. Two junior supply officers, crouching, fastened on his greaves and knee rotaries. “Next!” they called. Again, Rude took a step, and two junior officers attached the GAP and upper leg shielding. Attaching the ENV lines took a moment, whereupon, Rude got a slap on his leg and stepped forward. Next came the chest, shoulders, arms, and hands. With each of those came the top-down attachments of the ENV lines to keep his body from overheating beneath the armor.
“Sit!” commanded an older and partially armored supply officer. Rude sat and glanced into the seasoned eyes of a lifetime Consortium veteran. “Chin up!” snapped the officer, and Rude lifted his chin.
The helmet came in layers, beginning with the collar and ENV rotatory. Next came the chin guard, breathing filters, and mic. Over that was fitted the internal helmet, comm, navigation, and tracking enhancements. The ocular relays were snapped in, and the over-helm was placed overall. The final attachments were the retractable face shield and the personal ID tracker on the chest. A slap to his back signaled Rude that his fitting was complete. He stood and stepped into the donning area.
Rude gave the internal command, “Top back,” and his face shield and oculars slid back.
He milled with suited soldiers as arming specialists checked IDs and issued weapons. Turning, Rude spotted Marq approaching with his top back, and stretching to get a feel for the armor. His eyes seemed relaxed and alert; Rude gave an encouraging smile. The ranks thinned as soldiers filed past arming. Rude and Marq received the standard Sandman over their right gloves, an arm blade attached to their left forearms, and a 3CC-MGS charge pack attached to the back, giving them three charges for personal protection shields.
