The Day the Earth Met the Sky

by Pat Ellis

  Now he was in the hospital, inexplicably. He hadn’t slept… wasn’t even sure how much time had passed since they were extracted. Must’ve sleep-walked all the way there, in fact. In front of him was Roth, not Roth anymore. Why was he here? To say goodbye? It was too late by now, wasn’t it?

  Kiddo leaned over what used to be Roth and gently removed the tubes from his face before kissing his swollen, chapped lips. Tristan’s lips, still warm with life. Kiddo lingered for a timeless moment.

  Suddenly, a hand was at the back of Kiddo’s head, fingers gently brushing up his scalp, lifting his hair from the base of his neck and giving him chills.

  Broken lips tentatively returned his kiss, softly, unsure, then suddenly urgent. Tristan’s tongue slipped between his lips, tasting like earth and blood, but so, so fucking sweet. Ren savored the flavor, falling deeper into the kiss, and refused to open his eyes to reality until the ECG monitor’s steady beeping became one long, obnoxious beep and he heard footsteps just outside the door. He reluctantly broke away to find Tristan’s blue-sky eyes looking up at him quizzically, just as the door swung open and doctor Jerraline and others barged in.

  “What the hell?” she exclaimed as her young nurse gasped, covering her mouth with her hands, all of them eyes unnaturally wide.

  “I think I just unplugged him,” Kiddo said sheepishly. “Sorry…”

  “He’s—”

  “Awake—”

  “Alive—”

  Too many voices. Captain Roth looked a bit dazed, but intelligence was apparent in his eyes. He was Captain Roth, after all. He sat up and started nonchalantly ripping off tubes and sensors and the doctors swarmed him with concern while security escorted Kiddo out of the room.

  “So, what were you doing in the hospital again?” Dolfo asked, for the third time, his thin eyebrows raising with the same unspoken accusation, though Kiddo wasn’t entirely sure what he was implying.

  It was lunchtime in the Galley, and Dolfo and Jericho were still silly with the news of Roth’s miraculous recovery. Dolfo’s broad jaw was especially apparent today with a large toothy grin, and Jericho was speaking too fast and high, smacking Kiddo on the back harder than necessary every time she made a joke. Her tall, muscular frame could do nothing to hide her girlish giddiness today. Kiddo supposed they must love Roth in their own way too.

  “I told you, man, I dunno. I was just there, ok?”

  “Some kind of magic, I bet,” Jericho said between mouthfuls of yogurt. “You did it, right? He was basically dead, it must’ve been your magic! That’s what everyone’s saying.”

  “I don’t have healing magic… it doesn’t work like that.”

  “Then… why were you there?” Dolfo grinned wolfishly from across the table and Jericho laughed, slapping Kiddo on the back again.

  “Fuck, maybe I just wanted to say goodbye, ok? He was fucking dying…” Kiddo choked and looked away, but they hadn’t missed the tears that welled in his eyes.

  Jericho let out a sympathetic “Aww, Kiddo,” before putting her heavy arm around his shoulder.

  Kiddo glimpsed the two sharing some knowing gaze between them and for a moment he stopped breathing. Could they know?

  It was so obvious.

  Fuck, of course they knew! Most everyone already had it in their heads that Kiddo was gay, thanks to Saravia and his tool bag gang, and if they already thought that much, it wasn’t too far a jump to deduce that Kiddo had it bad for the CNDI poster-boy. Hell, who wouldn’t fall for the one and only Captain of Squad 1, the Tristan Roth, Hero of Alvaron and Cedessa, who’d even gone so far as to take Kiddo under his wing… Fuck, fuck, how had he not considered that before? Sometimes Kiddo was truly surprised by his own stupidity. They’d fucking known this whole time! Did Roth know, then? Roth had a lot on his plate… maybe he’d never thought about it.

  But, Roth wasn’t stupid or oblivious.

  God, what if Roth knew? Fuck, what if Roth remembered the kiss? Fuck, that would ruin everything they had! He’d lose him for sure, he’d lose everything—

  His heart was racing.

  “Kiddo?” Jericho shook him playfully.

  He thought he might pass out.

  Suddenly, the Galley went silent, outside of a few whispering gasps.

  “Ah, Roth! Captain, baby!” Jericho exclaimed and Kiddo couldn’t breathe.

  “Rothie! You shithead, I was scared sick!” Dolfo embraced Roth in a characteristic bear hug, though he was less aggressive than usual, being Roth still looked a bit like death standing there all bleary-eyed in hospital scrubs, face still scuffed up like he’d been mauled by a feral cat, though the swelling was mostly non-existent now.

  Roth smiled at Dolfo, patted him on the cheek, and then gave Jericho a quick hug and kiss on the cheek before turning to Kiddo, who didn’t remember standing up. Kiddo met his eyes and felt his own face heat up. Roth didn’t say anything though, he just pulled Kiddo into a hug. Kiddo buried his face against Roth’s neck and tried not to cry again. Jericho made another, “aww” noise, which was echoed by a few more girls in the galley. Roth gripped Kiddo’s hair at the back of his head and said, “Thank you for bringing me back.”

  “I didn’t do anything.” Kiddo’s voice was muffled, but he didn’t dare raise his head just yet.

  “Bullshit. You saved my life… one way or another.”

  “Yeah, well, you save me all the time.”

  Roth laughed weakly and gripped Kiddo harder just as the doctors arrived to haul him back to bed. Apparently, the hospital wing was as easy to escape as it was to infiltrate.

  The Boy Who Knew Everything

  (Included in: The Demon King and the Boy Who Hardly Knew Anything)

  It was early morning and raining in the jungle, but not for much longer. Concealed within the thick of trees, behind a curtain of green, Lance Corporal Aaron Waters caught sight of a small platoon of Morandians much closer than expected; which he suspected was the very platoon his squad was on orders to ambush at their recently discovered camp, supposedly about three clicks north of here. The only plausible reason they were out so far so early was obvious. He counted five snipers in the process of being distributed towards his squad’s position, and the rest would soon follow. Despite all the Sarge’s precautions, they’d somehow been spotted.

  Considering their armament shortages, which was a standing order from the Sarge, he made a mental note to collect those rifles when he was through. Not that it mattered much, being they had very few trained snipers left in Echo, but he wouldn’t mind getting his hands on a few regardless. These Morandians were clearly setting a trap; “death from above,” snipers waiting high in the trees while his squad was lured out by the others, focused on the ground. Morandian snipers were fond of climbing trees, he’d gathered, but so was he. At the very least, he’d make sure none of the snipers’ locations were unknown before he returned. At the most, he’d have them all dead.

  He had a trick; one of his favorites. It was only 30 seconds, but that was more than enough time to quickly get out of sight-range unnoticed, and get a head-start on the snipers. He sucked in his breath and stepped outside of time, running as fast as he could—which was faster than anyone he knew—through the jungle, before he was involuntarily snapped back. It hurt, made his nose bleed, and he could only do it once every few days, but it was cool as fuck and he’d never met anyone else with that kind of magic. He’d been discovering a lot of new tricks recently, and it seemed the more his sight was failing him the more his other tricks grew in strength and variety… or, maybe it was the other way around. He couldn’t be sure, but it wasn’t like he had much conscious control over the dilemma anyway, so there was no point getting all bent out of shape trying to figure it out.

  Sight, was somewhat of a misnomer, really. There was no seeing in the conventional sense to what Aaron did; or had done. It was more of a knowing. Not that anyone who’d never experienced it would be able to understand the reality of it, hence the term. He felt it, the other side, eterni
ty; the place where time and space didn’t exist because it wasn’t necessary. He’d step outside of himself, into eternity, and know. Then, he’d speak the truth, as it always was when he spoke outside of himself. He’d know, without really knowing, but once he began speaking and giving words to what he knew the majority of it was often lost. It was like defining a powerful, overwhelming emotion by calling it happy. Once you’ve given it a name it loses its enormity. More times than not, this caused the more complex knowledge to come out much too vague or cryptic to understand, even for him. But, he had understood it once, hadn’t he? Aaron could still feel eternity, same as ever, and he could still “speak the truth.” It was just far less generous with comprehendible knowledge nowadays…

  Safely away from the main body of the platoon, he stalked the snipers with nothing but his tactical knife.

  As his specialty required, Aaron navigated the jungle like a silent predator. No, he was a silent predator; the wolves had taught him that. He could do more than his brothers though, moving high in the trees, easy as a panther. The wild was his domain, and the Morandians never saw him coming. He’d make the Sarge proud. He’d do anything for the Sarge. He was a predator, but the Sarge was the god of the jungle. The Sarge didn’t need to be silent, spy from the trees like him… The Sarge didn’t have to hide from anything. The Sarge was an invincible fucking god. It was crazy to think like that, and they all knew it, but they believed anyways. They believed in the Sarge more than anything. They needed something to believe in, after all…

  The Sarge and the rest of the squad were waiting for him beneath a ridge where the terrain dropped off just enough for a man to crouch behind after about 500 yards of open field. In the field, the enemy would have no cover, so it’d be cake to keep them at a distance when they approached. Aaron had 4 sniper rifles slung over his shoulder while he cautiously skirted the edge of the trees to avoid the field; taking a less timely route in order to keep himself as concealed as possible. The Sarge had seen him coming ages ago and was probably wondering what his little dance-around was about. Finally, he made a low, mad dash and took a dive behind the ridge in between PFC Higgs, the radio man, and little Bobby (Private Bill; a draftee). He somehow managed to make it look graceful despite his load.

  “Snipers?” the Sarge asked.

  “One now. Got the rest, see? Couldn’t find that last one quick enough. Wanted to get back in time to warn you… He’s out there somewhere right now, no doubt, and there’s a whole platoon on the march this way, 40 men, ‘bout 10min behind me. Think they know our position, yo,” Aaron said.

  “Hm.” the Sarge took the radio from Higgs. “Echo TOC, Echo 2/2 actual, over.”

  “Go ahead 2/2, over,” said the distorted voice of First Sergeant Banner.

  “Got 40 hostiles approaching our position.” He pulled the laminated map from his rucksack. “GL 12590331, ETA 7min, requesting back up, over.”

  The radio was silent for almost a minute. The Sarge raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

  “Copy that, Michaels. Looks like you’re on your own for at least 30min before 2/1 will be at your 6, over.”

  Fuck… it was a long time to be outnumbered 4 to 1, even with their advantageous position, only to receive one measly squad as reinforcements.

  “Copy, out,” the Sarge muttered into the radio before returning it to Higgs while little Bobby passed on the info.

  Him and the Sarge were positioned in the center, with a machine gunner, grenadier, and riflemen in each group spread out at their sides so that the Sarge had a clear view of all his men. When little Bobby returned, the Sarge peeked over the ridge with his binoculars. They were almost instantly thrown from his hands with the singular crack of a sniper round. He quickly took cover. “Found your man… also, the rest are already here. Guess you weren’t as fast as you thought.”

  Aaron cursed himself. He was never good at estimating time.

  “Fuck!” Higgs rolled his eyes to the sky and took up his rifle.

  “Prepare to engage, and watch out for the fucking sniper in the trees at 3 O’clock!”

  Aaron took up position on the other side of the Sarge, and a firefight ensued. The Morandians kept their distance in order to keep cover behind the trees, and any time they tried to circle around as Aaron had, the machine gunners kept them at bay. The sniper was becoming a real problem though, forcing them to fight mostly blind. The right machine gunner had already been hit in the arm while keeping an eye on their flank, and little Bobby took one in the hand making him practically useless. The Sarge, alternating fire with Aaron, was pissed off, he could tell; though he wore his usual mask of icy indifference, which Aaron had come to know as the Sarge’s “war face.” After reloading, the Sarge stood straight up, completely exposing himself, and fired like a madman into the trees while bullets rained on the ground in front of him and buzzed at his side, one skimming his thigh, but his eyes never left 3 O’clock. A sniper round grazed and ricocheted off his helmet and he took cover again, unfazed.

  “WHAT THE FUCK, MAN?” Aaron, heart pounding in fear, yelled over the noise. “You lose your shit?”

  “Shut up, I’m thinking.” The Sarge smiled and winked at him, then decided to act crazy again.

  While the men to the left held the ground’s attention with suppressing fire and grenades, he took one of the sniper rifles from Aaron, set off a smoke grenade directly in front of himself, and quickly stood, aimed for no more than 5 seconds, fired, then crouched back down just before the enemy riflemen began to blindly fire into the smoke, bullets pelting the ground and whistling through the air above their heads. “Well?” Higgs asked.

  “He’s dead.” The Sarge took the radio from him again, requesting tank support, though he knew it was probably in vain.

  The Sarge made good use of that sniper rifle for the rest of the night. Nobody had been able to see it happen, and no rational being would ever believe a man could shoot blind through a screen of smoke to hit his target at close to 600 yards simply using his memory of the enemy’s position… But, nobody questioned the Sarge, and the sniper never took another shot at them. There wasn’t much rationality going around the jungle these days anyway. The sniper was dead because the Sarge was the fucking god of the jungle.

  Aaron couldn’t help but feel a bit responsible for the Sarge’s foolhardy behavior. He often wondered if, on that day that seemed like forever ago, he might’ve thought better before telling the Sarge he wasn’t going to die in this place. It was true at the time, but he couldn’t help but wonder if by saying it he’d somehow changed things. He knew that was impossible, of course, because it didn’t work like that. If he’d said it, he was meant to say it, and it was always the truth. Time, or at least linear time, only existed in the mind, so technically he never changed anything, right? But, because of the linear organization of events in his mind, he couldn’t help the wondering, and he couldn’t see it anymore to put his mind at ease neither…

  Aaron hadn’t seen anything particularly useful in over a year. In the beginning, he’d used his sight to help the Sarge lead their squad into a decent amount of heroic fame—giving up enemy positions, numbers, artillery, supply units, etc.—but that was all over now. The most recent thing he could remember knowing for sure about the enemy was that a nearby company had eaten potato soup and beans for breakfast, which was also lunch and dinner. Not only was this knowledge useless, it wasn’t even news. It was all they ever ate. Of course, their squad still held a lofty, almost legendary reputation, but they definitely had to work at it more these days.

  The Sarge still expected Aaron to perform his duties, sight or no, so he’d been designated as their primary scout. He was real good too, maybe better at scouting than he ever was with the sight. Well, not ever. Before the war—before he’d met the Sarge—he’d seen things on a much larger scale, but that was all gone. If he still had what he’d had before the war, he might’ve singlehandedly ended the war by now. Too bad what little time he’d had it was wasted on pirates and
thugs. Live and learn, or whatever… Maybe it was the jungle. The magic of the jungle was thick like fog. Maybe the sight would return to its original glory when the war ended.

  In the bivouac, everyone in their squad and some others gathered around the Sarge while he played a few new songs he’d come up with during the night; cleaning and oiling their rifles or snacking on dehydrated apples and getting high. They’d spent the last night behind the ridge. Their reinforcements had eventually showed up, as did Morandian reinforcements, and they’d eventually returned to camp after the belated tank support had forced the enemy back just enough. It wasn’t much of a victory, since both sides had essentially retreated in the end, but at least no one in their squad got killed this time around. They were all exhausted—as they always were—but it wasn’t raining for once, so they sat outside in the sun, most of them shirtless, listening to the Sarge sing and play on the old, busted up guitar Higgs had found abandoned in a long ago evacuated Glenn village.

  The Sarge had recently been promoted to Staff Sergeant, taking over as 2nd Platoon Sergeant, though he still held his previous position as 2nd Squad Leader as well, which would have been unheard of a few years ago. On top of that, their Platoon Leader, 1st Lt. Dean Ryans, died last week of dysentery with apparently no one available to replace him as of yet, so the Sarge had been obliged to take on most of the extra burden himself. After all, he’d been an officer in the MDC before this, which made him the closest thing they had to higher ranking authority left. Besides, with all the training he’d received from the MDC, the Sarge was better than anyone, despite being spread a bit thin. All in all, he took it in stride.

  There was a time early on when the Glenn had been a bit apprehensive about working with the Morandian Rebels, especially a former MDC Officer who was also half Ankuuck—which probably wasn’t as much of an issue for the Glenn as for the Morandians themselves, but that sort of thing had still caused the occasional rift, especially with those from the east coast—but they’d been at it so long by now that most of them had completely forgotten, as well as stopped caring. Plus, a person in their situation couldn’t help idolizing, even worshiping someone as strong and charismatic as the Sarge.