Into the Green

by J. L. Curtis

  He slowly opened his eyes, and picked out what he recognized as a typical Gal hospital room, and he sighed. Somehow he’d made it back, but of that, he had no memory. The last thing he remembered was Diez dying in his arms and…

  Locking his mind down, he thought, the cans! Where were the cans? Did I make it back with the cans of his teammates? Why the fuck can’t I remember? And what the hell is going on in my head? Am I truly crazy now?

  As these thoughts flickered through his mind, the door dilated and OneSvel, the Taurasian doctor symbiote, trundled through the opening squeaking a greeting which his Galtrans parsed into, “Fargo, you live. I saw your brain activity pick up as you regained natural consciousness and I knew you would spike momentarily.”

  As OneSvel bustled around it continued, “In answer to your questions, you are the sole survivor of your team. You brought all their remains back. Your emergency signal was picked up by a GalPat destroyer that was transiting the star system looking for a pirate they believed had dropped into that system. They arrived in time to take out the remaining Traders, two Dragoons and their ship, and got you aboard.”

  Fargo interrupted, “How long?” and coughed. OneSvel extruded a pseudopod, picked up a bulb and straw and held it for Fargo to drink. Fargo dropped his head back, “Thanks. How long have I been out?”

  OneSvel chittered again, “Almost three weeks, Fargo. There were problems when you were taken aboard the destroyer. And that’s not counting the 45 day transit.”

  Fargo rolled his head and looked at him, “Doc what are you talking about? Over two months? I…That’s not…”

  OneSvel continued, “Gently, Fargo. We are not sure what happened to you, but your brain scans are completely different. Also, it appears you would not go into cryo or stasis. Every time the ship’s doctor tried to take away the cans and put you under, apparently your mind refused to shut down, and you went into physical spasms fighting to hold onto the band with the cans attached. He said your response was unlike anything he’d ever seen. They put you in the medbox with the cans around your torso, but that also meant they couldn’t do any reconstructive work. They could only maintain you at the state you were recovered in. Unconscious and barely alive.”

  A grizzled Kepleran, showing white on his muzzle and barely five feet tall, came in and salaamed Fargo, his GalTrans saying, “I am MKwerts!. Thanks of the clan for the return of VMtersz! to us. The honor of the clan is awaiting the details of his death.” He gently released the straps holding Fargo on the hospital bed, and helped Fargo to sit up, holding him gently as Fargo’s equilibrium swam into a different alignment. Fargo once again marveled at the strength the little Kepleran had, as they all seemed to have. Fargo had called VMtersz! Pop, but thinking back, it seemed like all the Keplerans from 62E were called Pop. He filed that away and vowed to research where that naming convention came from.

  Once Fargo had his balance, the old Kepleran released him and Fargo rolled his shoulders, leaning back on his arms to stay stable. He turned to him and replied, “Pop, my Pop, died with valor, he was the first to see the Traders, and the first to fire. He gave his life to protect us, and he will be recommended for a Star award as soon as I can do that.”

  The old Kepleran salaamed again saying, “Then he fulfilled his duty to you and to the clan. Your word is enough.” Bustling around, he provided Fargo with a clean uniform, shined boots, his beret, and his personal data cube, which meant they’d accessed his billeting to get them. “The fresher is here,” the Kepleran said, sliding a panel aside.

  Fargo managed to stand after two attempts, and with Pop’s assistance made it to the fresher, realizing he really needed to go. As he sat in the fresher, he opened his mind and realized he was ‘hearing’ what might be fragments of thoughts from both Pop and OneSvel, but neither made any real sense. It seemed that OneSvel was conflicted as to whether to report the changes in Fargo’s brain pattern, and Pop seemed to be mentally composing a song about VMtersz!. Fargo tried and finally succeeded in tamping down his mind so that he was alone in his head, but it wasn’t easy. If he let his concentration slip, well, it wasn’t pretty.

  Duty Calls

  Fargo, cleaned up and feeling considerably better, stepped from the fresher and put on his uniform. OneSvel then directed him to lie back down as Pop scuttled out of the room with the old bedding and the hospital gown he’d worn. Fargo asked, “When am I going to debrief?”

  OneSvel answered, “You were brought out of rehab long enough to debrief the lieutenant, the captain, and the colonel right after the GalPat ship dropped you here. The colonel made the death notifications, but did not provide any details. Your personal debrief is complete, but the final team rites have not been completed, awaiting your return to life or death.”

  Fargo sagged back on the bed at this, hoping that the lieutenant had already done it, but knowing it really was his responsibility as team leader. Looking up at OneSvel, Fargo said, “If it needs doing, let’s get it done.”

  OneSvel replied, “We have a hover chair coming. You cannot manage the rites in your condition, but we must say we honor your desire to complete them.” Moments later a hover chair floated into the room, and OneSvel helped Fargo into it, saying, “Please do not hesitate to stop if your condition deteriorates. We do not want to lose you after all the work.”

  Fargo navigated the hover chair out of the hospital with OneSvel trailing behind him, and floated across to the team spaces. Entering their space brought tears to Fargo’s eyes as he looked at the familiar area and truly understood that he was the only survivor from his team. Moving slowly to the safe, he opened it and extracted the cookies containing each of the team members’ final wishes. As he turned back, he realized a number of people had crowded into the spaces, including the lieutenant, the captain, Pop and other team leaders that were on planet.

  Fargo levered himself out of the chair, determined to do this standing on his own two feet. He stepped to the data reader in the center of the room and said, “Before we start, I believe a prayer for the dead is in order. I will say the Christian prayer, please say a prayer to your own deity as I do this.” He bowed his head and continued,

  “Remember, O Deity,

  those whom we are remembering today,

  men of the true faith;

  do thou thyself give these men rest there in the land of the living,

  in thy kingdom,

  in the delight of your Paradise,

  where the light of thy countenance visiteth them and always shineth upon them.

  Let them know peace and honor in your house,

  Amen.”

  Breaking open the first cookie, he slipped VMtersz! final wishes into the reader. Fargo stood at attention as his wishes were played, then followed with the cookies of the other team members. Each had given 10% of their funds for a team party, with the exception of Diez, who’d said to take his shirts to Lee Fong’s laundry in sector D and spend that money on a party. All the rest had made the usual bequests, to their crèche, to their family in Hardt’s case, and to ship passage in VMtersz! case. Fargo remembered Pop talking about how the goal of all young Kepleran from 62E was to get off planet and go elsewhere due to crowding. Diez had also made a specific bequest to Fargo of what Diez called artifacts. Fargo figured he’d worry about that later.

  Lieutenant Walters and Captain Zmicas stepped over to Fargo as he sank back into the hover chair and OneSvel extruded a pseudopod to check Fargo’s condition. Captain Zmicas said, “Sergeant Fargo, I appreciate your prompt action on this. You know tradition is important and Walters and I will see that the monies are directed as specified. Where do you want the party money to go?”

  Fargo leaned back and looked up at the captain, “Just put it in the general fund sir. I’m not going to have a party. I might have a drink to them, but not a party. I’ll have to chase down Diez’s stuff but I’ll get that to you as soon as I can.”

  “Roger that Sergeant. You’ve got two weeks of rehab coming before you report ba
ck to us. I’d appreciate it if you can get that done by the time you report back in.”

  Fargo nodded, “Will do sir.”

  OneSvel interrupted, “Sorry Captain, but we are concerned that Sergeant Fargo’s vitals are spiking and we need to return him to the hospital now, if you please.”

  Walters and Zmicas stepped back hurriedly saying, “Do what you need to Doc. Remember sergeant, we’re only a comm link away if you need anything.”

  Fargo replied, “Yes sir,” as OneSvel keyed the chair into action.

  Back in the room, OneSvel and Pop fussed around getting Fargo back in the bed and Fargo reached over to his data cube, keyed it and said, “Home.” A holo of his cabin on Hunter popped into existence, and he drifted off to sleep staring at it. After a half hour, it automatically shut down and OneSvel noted it in the log in its office. Home, what a novel concept.

  ***

  A week later, Fargo had progressed to the point that OneSvel felt comfortable letting him out on liberty. Fargo took the opportunity to take the keycard Diez left, and went to his apartment off base, surprised to find it was actually over Lee Fong’s laundry. When Fargo inserted the card, rather than the door dilating, a speaker said, “State name and reason for entry.”

  Fargo shrugged and said, “Sergeant Ethan Fargo, final rites execution.”

  The speaker said, “Insert card again.”

  Fargo did so and the door dilated this time. Fargo looked around curiously as he entered, realizing he’d never seen how Diez lived off base. The rooms were small, tastefully furnished, and clean. Diez had a small desk and work center in the corner, but no e-tainment suite in the main room, nor was there one in the bedroom. Just the normal comm link and nothing else. Fargo looked in the closet and saw the synsilk shirts Diez was so proud of hanging separately at the end of the closet and guessed these were the shirts Diez had been talking about. Loud and garish, they were Diez’ one eccentricity. Well, the one I know about anyway. Fargo sat on the bed thinking, I didn’t really know Diez, or Pop, or Hardt, or DenAfr. Twenty-five years, and other than work, and a party once a year, I didn’t really know a damn one of them outside of work. Shit. Tears rolled down Fargo’s face as he sat sobbing. He vowed to visit all the families somehow, some way. It wasn’t like he had any other place to go.

  Getting himself back under control, he used the fresher to wash his face, and picked up the shirts as he left the room. Locking the door, he went downstairs to Lee Fong’s and asked for Mr. Fong. An elderly ethnically Asian man came slowly from the back of the laundry. Seeing the shirts he visibly wilted asking, “Is this what I think it is?”

  Fargo replied, “Yes sir. Diez is dead, died on our last mission, and I’m fulfilling his final bequests. He asked that these be brought to you. He said you would know their value and…”

  Lee Fong took the shirts gingerly, rubbing his fingers over each of them, “Thirty thousand credit. You want now?”

  Fargo rocked back, “Thirty thousand? How?”

  Fong continued, “Not synsilk, real Earth silk, mebbe six hundred years old. Cannot be faked. These Thai silk. Hawaii party shirts from back before Great War. Only ones I ever see are in museums. They real. I clean for Mr. Diez for twenty-five year myself. Nobody else touch. How you want credit?”

  Fargo stuttered, “Ah, credit chip is fine. What do I do with the rest of the items?”

  Fong cut him off, “I own building, I will dispose of rest of belongings. All clothes and data module donated to help poor. All other Diez had on deposit at GalScout work.” Fong laid the shirts gently on the counter and ran a credit chip, then handed it to Fargo, “You go now. I would grieve in peace, please.”

  Fargo could only nod and leave. Returning to base, he stopped by Captain Zmicas’ office and dropped the credit chip on his desk. “Here is the remainder from Diez sir. Have the personnel trunks been cleared?”

  Zmicas looked up, “Sit. All except Diez: apparently, he left the contents of his trunk to you. So his and yours are still in the team space. Oh, while I’m thinking of it, be aware you are going before a med board when you get back.”

  “Sir?”

  “Your cryo and stasis fail, or whatever it was, and the ongoing nightmares you’re apparently experiencing.”

  “So what you’re telling me is I’m…”

  Zmicas nodded slightly, “You’re probably going to be retired. It’s not the end of the world. At least you survived it. Even if no one can explain what happened.”

  Fargo leaned back in the chair, “So for my good job of recovering the cans, bringing them back and surviving, I’m getting booted?”

  Well, better that than being a lab rat for the next ten years while the docs keep trying to discover what happened and trying to induce the failure again.”

  Fargo shuddered, “Out it is. Thank you sir.”

  Zmicas looked directly at him, “You will be missed, but it’s better for your sanity.”

  ***

  Fargo waited until everyone had left for the day before he drug the trunks out. He knew what his contained, but had no idea what was in Diez’ trunk. With some trepidation, he keyed the code in and heard the locks release. He sat staring at the trunk for a couple of minutes before he finally pushed the lid open.

  The first thing he saw was another of Diez’s garish synsilk shirts. Moving it, there were two more that Fargo had never seen Diez wear. Moving them, he saw five cases and a newer standalone datacomp. Pulling out one of the cases, he opened it and saw an antique knife. Searching his memory, he finally came up with the name: Bowie.

  Turning it over, he didn’t see any marks on it, but it had obviously been well used. The bone handle was comfortable in his hand, but he was surprised at the weight. Underneath it was a dark leather sheath, again well used, with what looked like small beads worked into it. Sliding the knife into the sheath, it fit like a glove. He turned the sheath over and saw de Perez carved roughly into it and the number eighteen, but the last two numbers were worn off.

  Setting it aside, he opened the next small case, and found an antique chemical pistol. He was surprised again by the weight of it. He looked at the side and it had a line of patent dates, then a graphic he guessed represented a horse, followed by Colt and Hartford, CT. Turning the pistol over, he saw Model of 1911 US Army. It was obviously an old steel chemical pistol, from his history lessons he came up with World War One or Two. That made this pistol over 800 years old!

  The third case was longer and heavier. Opening it, it found another antique, this one was an 1894 Winchester, again well used. Fargo placed it gently back in the case and wondered what Diez’ background had been, to have all these weapons that were that old. The other two cases were actual ammunition for the two guns, although Fargo wasn’t sure he’d actually shoot either one.

  He picked up the 1911 again, noticing how well it fit his hand, but the only thing that appeared to be a sight was a little bump by the muzzle and a notch on the back of the gun. He slipped it back in the case, vowing to research both of them to see how they actually operated.

  The trunk didn’t contain anything else, but it was almost brand new. Fargo shrugged and opened his battered trunk, moving everything he had into Diez’ newer one. There were the picture cubes of Cindy and Ike, his Terran Marine records, a few picture cubes from his childhood and his mess dress uniform from the Marines. At least they hadn’t taken that away from him.

  Sitting back he sighed, combining the contents of the two trunks didn’t even fill one. He figured he’d have room for all his shipsuits and probably everything else out of his room with no problem. Changing the codes, he pushed the new trunk back into a slot and moved the old trunk over to the door.

  Paying the Piper

  Fargo had finally been medically cleared by OneSvel and moved back into his quarters after three weeks. He awoke at the usual time, and started to put on his class one uniform, then stopped. Punching his wrist comp, he checked the plan of the day and saw it was number two or utility uniform
for other than official business.

  Fargo walked into the morning meeting fifteen minutes early as usual, coffee bulb in hand and datacomp under his arm. Sliding into his usual seat, he stopped suddenly. Crap, I don’t even know what to do. I don’t have a team anymore. Am I even supposed to be here? Ah damn, maybe I should…

  He sensed Lieutenant Lewis and Captain Zmicas coming down the hall, but sensed nothing unusual as they walked through the door. Zmicas said, “Morning Fargo, glad to see you up and about. Since your team is gone, I’m going to put you on training support for a bit until we get the results of the medical board.”

  Fargo replied, “Yes, sir. You want me to help NasTess?”

  Zmicas shook his head, “No, you’re going to be his boss. Ah shit, forget for now that I said that.”

  Fargo nodded, “Okay captain, whatever you say.” Fargo thought, that’s strange. NasTess ranks me. Unless he got busted, but if he did, that would be all over camp. Maybe I’m just jumpy.

  The room filled slowly, as other team leaders, officers, and support managers trickled in. Finally Colonel Zhang stumped through the door, and the meeting got underway. Two hours later it wrapped up, and Colonel Zhang said, “Fargo, front and center please.”

  Fargo got up gingerly and walked to the front, coming to attention in front of the Colonel and saluted, “Reporting as ordered, sir.”

  “NasTass, if you please.”

  Sergeant NasTess cleared his throat, or at least that’s what Fargo thought he did, then his GalTrans started the litany, “By orders from General Fox, as confirmed by HQ Galactic Scouts, eleven, twenty, Earth year twenty-eight twenty-three, Ethan NMN Fargo is promoted to the rank of lieutenant, Galactic Scouts. This promotion comes with the responsibilities, privileges and accoutrements of rank. Given this day, in accordance with GalScout Directive two-one-three-two, by Colonel Ching Zhang.”