“That’s defeatist talk,” said one of PFCs from the corner.
“Defeatist talk?” said Powers in scorn. “Are you for real? Just read the fucking newspapers. You’ve seen the battle reports. You’ve read the stories. Any of them say we’re likely to win this little shindig? No, I don’t think so. And if you think that’s bad, you don’t know the half of it. I spend a lot of time in the signals office, you know? You wouldn’t believe the stuff that comes across my desk.”
“Like what?”
“Like stuff I can’t talk about. I’d love to tell you, I really would, but you’ll just have to take my word for it. I give us six months. Tops.”
“And if we lose, do you think you’ll be any better off under Combine rule?”
“Couldn’t be any worse, that’s for certain. They treat their soldiers with respect, and that’s a fact. I know – I’ve talked to Combine POWs. They know what they’re fighting for – all of them. People like me get looked after – not thrown on the scrap heap, not shunted around from one crap job to another until the discharge papers come along, and after that? A disability pension that’ll keep me half a cent above the poverty line for the rest of my days. That’s about the best I’ve got to look forward to.”
“Yeah, well some of us aren’t yet ready to give up the fight,” said the specialist.
“Saints preserve us,” exclaimed Powers. “As I live and breathe, I real, live hero! Good for you, soldier, that’s what I say. Go on, off you go and fight the good fight. I’m sure the high command has a nice little body bag all lined up and waiting for you, name, rank and serial number already printed out on the front. And you’ll be needing it as well, and if you’re really lucky, they might even find all your bits to put in it.” He made a show of pouring another shot of whisky into his glass, splashing a liberal amount over the counter as he did so.
“Well if that what it takes, that’s just the way it’ll be,” said the specialist with rising anger. “The same goes for all of us.” His colleagues nodded in agreement.
“Oh yeah? How to win the war in one piss-easy lesson. And exactly how much action have you greenhorns seen?” said Powers, eying up the servicemen. All wore brand new uniforms complete with regimental badges but no decorations, not even a campaign ribbon. “Fresh out of boot camp, aren’t you? Still wet behind the ears, the lot of you. You poor bastards. You have no idea what’s waiting for you. No idea at all.” He spat out the last word with venom.
“We know our duty!”
“Then more fool you!”
“One thing I won’t do is come back and sit whining in some bar while others are out doing the fighting.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” said Powers, swinging round angrily.
“I think you’ve had enough,” interrupted the barkeep.
“I’ve never had enough.”
“You have for tonight.” Reaching over, he swept up the whisky bottle and placed it at the back of the bar. “I’ll keep it for you,” he said. “On your way.”
Powers rolled up his left sleeve and thrust the prosthetic over the stump of his arm, twisting it into position. He jerked the sleeve back down and fastened the cuff. With a final scowl in the direction of the servicemen, he pushed himself off the stool and turned away.
The arm did look lifelike, thought the barkeep as the sergeant reeled off towards the exit. Nigh on impossible to tell from the real thing. That said, he wondered why the sergeant hadn’t been fixed up with one of those robotic prosthetics. They were common enough – he’d seen a few of them around. He almost felt sorry for the man. Almost, but not quite. Whatever his story, he was a god-damned pain in the butt. The Blue Goose was a place you came to drink and be merry, or at least attempt to drink away your troubles. It wasn’t the place to bore the hell out of your fellow drinkers with tales of doom, gloom and despondency. It was bad for business and just as bad for morale. Bad show all round. As the door closed behind the sergeant, the barkeep fetched a cloth and began wiping away the spilled liquor. He never noticed two other customers finish their drinks and follow the sergeant out of the door.
Powers set off back the way he came, towards the exit that led to the junction of 31st and Brewer. On an impulse, he stopped and headed back the way he came, walking deeper along the underground concourse. There were a number of people around, several groups of evening revelers in various stages of intoxication, a few hookers – both male and female – and even a couple of police officers patrolling their beat. Powers ambled on until he came to a flight of stairs leading back up to 31st street. Up one level and a hundred meters to the right would take him to another bar he had recently begun to frequent. He paused at the entrance to the stairway and looked around; a simple but effective precaution. The stairway wasn’t long, but it was narrow and not very well lit. If there was anyone loitering at the bottom, they might well have accomplices loitering at the top. Halfway up a poorly lit stairway was not the place to be caught in an enemy pincer movement. In this case the enemy wouldn’t be a squad of Combine combat soldiers; more likely druggies looking for an easy mark; people with habits to fuel and no mood for taking prisoners.
Satisfied that there was no immediate danger, Powers hurried up the stairs as best he could. As he made the top, he heard the echo of footsteps from someone entering from below. He turned to see two men climb unhurriedly up the stairs, one seemingly laughing at the other’s joke. Paying them no heed, Powers strolled along 31st Street, the dark chill of the evening causing him to raise his one good arm to turn up his collar.
The attack was as sudden as it was violent. Someone grabbed his wrist in a vice like grip and propelled him into the wall, smashing his forehead into the masonry. As sparks danced before his eyes, another attacker slammed a foot into the back of his knees so that he collapsed to the floor, falling face down on the sidewalk. Still in a half daze, he forced himself to think. How many attackers? One, two? Two… yes, almost certainly two. Then his training kicked in and he attempted to twist up and away but he’d barely moved when a great weight fell across his shoulders, pinning him firmly to the ground.
“Still want to see the Combine come marching up Central Avenue?” snarled the attacker into his ear. “You fucking traitor!” A moment later, an iron fist began pounding him in the kidneys. Powers gasped in pain and lashed out backwards with his one good arm. His elbow met with flesh and a grunt escaped the lips of one of his assailants. The assault on his kidneys abated but his respite was short lived. A boot caught him in the side and he sensed the attacker pull back his foot for another blow.
“What’s going on there?” cried a voice from the dark.
“You lucky bastard,” growled the attacker. “Saved by the bell.” He cuffed Powers around the ear and was gone, disappearing swiftly into the night.
Released from the weight holding him down, Powers rolled over to see a large, middle aged man kneeling down at his side.
“You alright, friend?” said the man.
“Think so,” said Powers, sitting upright and rubbing his aching ribs. “Bastards came at me from behind.”
“It happens, around here especially. You need an ambulance? Maybe call the police?”
“No... No. I’ll be fine,” said Powers, flexing his limbs. “Nothing broken, I guess.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’ve had worse.”
“Then you must be used to collecting a few bruises,” said the man. “Guess I don’t need to ask what that was all about.”
“How do you figure that?” said Powers.
“I was in the Blue Goose. Maybe you didn’t see me but I heard your conversation with those jarheads. Saw those two bruisers follow you out as well. Didn’t take much to work out what they were planning. You didn’t make any friends in there, you know.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
“Well, you stand up for your principals, I’ll give you that,” laughed the man. “Which way you headed?”
“A bar just up ah
ead.”
“Lazy Sue’s?”
Powers nodded.
“I’m headed there myself. Buy you a drink?”
“Why not,” said Powers. “Best offer I’ve had all night.”
The stranger helped Powers to his feet and ten minutes later they were sitting in a corner booth in Lazy Sue’s. Powers’ side still ached but other than that he was none the worse for wear. If anything, the experience seemed to have sobered him up. A waitress appeared and Powers’ rescuer ordered a steak with fries and a beer to wash it down. “And the same for my friend.” The waitress made a note on her pad and left.
“Wasn’t planning on eating,” said Powers.
“Maybe not, but while answers sometimes can be found in the bottom of a glass – contrary to popular opinion – I think it’s best not done on an empty stomach. I know – I’ve tried.”
“Can’t argue with that,” said Powers.
“And by the way, the name’s Tom. Tom Brady.”
“Dan Powers. So, Tom Brady, what’s your story?”
“Me? Nothing very grand. I work in one of the steel plants here on the east side. I generally have a couple of drinks and get a bite to eat before heading off home, which is how I came to be in the Blue Goose.”
“Steel worker, eh?”
“Yep. Good, honest labor. Long hours but the pay’s not bad. And with the rearmament that’s going on, I’m not likely to be out of a job anytime soon.”
“At least the war’s good for someone, then.”
“Depends how you look at it,” said Brady. “Yeah, I have a steady income… which is a good thing, in as much as it pays the alimony and keeps my ex in the lifestyle to which she was accustomed…”
“Always a bonus.”
“True,” said Brady ruefully, “but to be honest, I’d be happy to be out of work tomorrow. Thrilled, as a matter of fact. And not just because of the alimony payments.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t take any pride in making stuff that ends up killing people, Dan. Or maiming them.” He looked pointedly at Powers’ artificial arm. “All the time, money and effort that goes into armaments… Couldn’t a peacetime government find something just as worthwhile for us to do?”
“Ah, I think I see the fatal flaw in your argument,” said Powers.
“Which is?”
“Can’t see us having a peacetime government anytime soon. If ever.”
“I came to the same conclusion a long time ago… which is why I joined the Peace Corps. I’m a fully paid up member.”
“The Peace Corps?” said Powers, shaking his head. “You have to be kidding me.”
“Not at all. I regard it as an honorable pursuit.”
“I’m sure you do, but exactly what do all you peace lovers hope to achieve?”
“Well, for a start, I just saved you from a beating. That’s enough to be going on with, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yeah, well thanks for that,” said Powers. “I mean it. But as for universal peace, what’s the plan? All join hands, wave a few banners and hope the whole damned lot will chuck away their weapons and live happily ever after?”
“Something like that,” said Brady. “Or maybe not.”
“I don’t want to rain on your parade, buddy, but I don’t see anyone in the mood for peace right now.”
“Well, there are different ways of bringing about peace.”
“Yeah, like killing the enemy.”
“I tried that once. I didn’t like it.”
“Who does?”
“Oh, quite a lot of people. You’d be surprised.”
“But not you?”
“No. I discovered the truth, or was it the lies?” He paused as the waitress returned with their order.
“Thanks,” said Powers as she put the platter in front of him. “Looks good.”
“Best steaks on the east side,” she replied with a smile. “Anything else I can get you?”
“No, we’re fine, thanks,” said Brady.
“OK, enjoy,” she said with a smile. And then she was gone.
“So, what lies did you discover?” said Powers.
“I haven’t always been in the Peace Corps, and I haven’t always worked in a factory either. I did my five years compulsory service before that. I could have stayed at home, being a steel worker and all, but I joined the fleet instead. Seemed the right thing to do. I had an elder brother on board a frigate – he was a weapons officer – and my younger brother was the navigator on a troop carrier. So there I was, doing my best for king and country and keeping the faith… There’s a good one for you… keeping the faith. I always wondered what they meant by that, apart from applying a religious fanaticism to the act of killing. As far as this particular war is concerned, I don’t think God is taking sides.”
“See any action?”
“A bit. No more or less than anyone else, I guess. Then just before the end of my tour, my brother Jack was killed when the breech of a plasma cannon blew up in his face. A few days after that, brother Nathan’s ship ran into a mine just an hour out of base. A Combine minelayer had stolen in and sown a field of attack mines on the approaches. You know the kind – the ones that stay inactive until something passes within range. Then they power up and bore straight in. Countermeasures missed it and that was that. I got my discharge papers a week later. Most of my crewmates couldn’t understand why I got out – they wondered why I didn’t stay on and kill as many of the murdering bastards as I could lay my hands on.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“What? Stay in the fleet and exact my revenge?”
“Something like that.”
“Well there’s the rub. Revenge on whom, exactly? Jack died because of a fault in one of our own weapons systems. Perhaps I should seek out the guy in quality control who passed off the cannon as fit for use and then put a bullet in the back of his head. And as for Nate, who do you blame there? The guy who tossed the mine overboard, the skipper of the minelayer who ordered him to do it, or his squadron commander, or his sector chief? How far up the ladder do you go? In the end who really is responsible? Who do you target?”
“What does it matter? They’re all the same aren’t they?”
“Not to me, they aren’t. At the end of basic training they give you that speech, don’t they? They tell you that our whole way of life – our very future – hangs in the balance, that you are the guardians of freedom and democracy, that you are fighting for the noblest of causes. Stirring stuff and great for working people up into a patriotic frenzy... but it’s just rhetoric. In fact it’s worse than that – it’s garbage. As soon as you go into action, all that freedom and democracy stuff goes straight out of the airlock. You’ve been there yourself. You know what it’s like. You fight to keep yourself alive, that’s all. Well, maybe you and the guy next to you.”
Powers nodded and sipped his beer. “Yeah, well, the promise of living just one more day is a pretty good incentive to keep on fighting.”
“Only thing is, the troops in the opposite trenches are thinking just the same, so it’s dog eat dog, destroy the enemy before he gets a chance to kill you, any way you can. There’s no such thing as a good, clean fight.”
Powers nodded again. “No argument there. A few years back I was on attack craft. The preferred tactic was to sneak up behind the enemy and shoot them the back before they knew we were there. That’s what they taught us in training. Make a run up their exhaust plume – where there sensors are at their weakest – and blow the hell out of them before they had a chance to react.” He paused and leaned back in his seat, a distant look on his face. “It worked.”
“You see, you understand. There’s nothing noble in what the Alliance is asking its soldiers to do. Quite the opposite. But it’s worse than that – a whole lot worse... You were right, you know.”
“About what?”
“In the Blue Goose, when you said that the men and women of the fleet were dying by the thousand while the fat cats stayed
home and got rich off the pickings. It’s not just rhetoric. It’s true. It’s more than that, even – it’s an undeniable fact.”
“Yeah, but like I said, what good does joining hands and waving a load of flags do? Nobody takes any notice. They just laugh at you.”
“That, or they get some ‘true’ patriots to come and bust up the meeting. Oh yes, they aren’t above using force to try and silence us. And that proves to me that they are afraid of what we might achieve. The movement is growing, and it’s not just made up of people with flags and a conscience. We also have people who can make a difference – a real difference. Listen, there’s a meeting at the Bootleg Club this coming Friday.”
“The Bootleg?”
“A working men’s club up on the corner of 1oth and Sachs. Why don’t you come along? You might find it enlightening.”
“I don’t know,” said Powers. “I’m an enlisted man, you know? Spouting off in a bar is one thing – it’s a soldiers right to moan...”
“But joining the peace movement is a step too far?”
Powers hesitated. “No…it’s not that. It’s just…”
“Look, I’ll be honest with you. Like I said, we have a lot of supporters, but someone with a military background, someone with experience in the field, someone who has made a visible sacrifice…” He gestured at Powers’ arm. “You could be one of those people who make a difference.”
Powers looked down at the prosthetic arm and then back up at Brady. “The Bootleg Club, you say?”
“That’s right,” said Brady. “Eight o’clock.”
Powers nodded. “OK. I’ll be there.”
“Good man,” said Brady with a grin. “Now eat that damn steak before it gets cold.”
It was nearly two in the morning by the time Powers made it back to his apartment on Loyola Field. The MPs had given him a look of disdain when he presented his ID card at the security checkpoint; his appearance and demeanor fell well below the standards normally expected of military personnel, even if he was returning from two days furlough. Powers said nothing as the MP handed back his ID, simply stuffing the card inside his jacket and then sauntering off towards the base’s bachelor quarters.
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