by Marko Kloos
I chew my lip at that. What she says makes perfect sense, of course, and I feel like an idiot for not having thought about this before. There are no recent veterans in our PRC—people who leave for Basic never come back. I always figured it was because they didn’t want to come back, not because they couldn’t.
“No, we were all locked in the moment we signed that paperwork in Basic. You can’t go back home after five years, and you don’t have enough money to do anything else, so you sign for five more, and then five more. Before you know it, you’re a lifer. You go for the ten-year bonus, then the fifteen-year bonus, and then you figure you might as well stick it out for twenty.”
She looks at me and circles the rim of her coffee cup with one finger.
“They know that most of us are going to keep re-enlisting. And seriously, what the hell are we good for in civilian life? I spent the last eleven years as a combat grunt. I know small-unit tactics. I know how to blow up shit and kill people. Can you see me working as a commissary clerk somewhere?”
“No, I can’t,” I say. “You’d scare the fuck out of the civilians.”
“That’s no longer our world, Grayson.”
“Well,” I say. “Guess I better get used to the thought of becoming a lifer. Unless they court-martial me, and kick me out.”
“What do you want to get out of the military? What would you ask for if the President put that medal around your neck tomorrow?” Sergeant Fallon asks. She studies me with a slight smile, as if she already knows what I’ll say.
“Seriously?”
She nods in reply. “Seriously. Private Grayson, Medal of Honor. Sky’s the limit. What would you do with that ticket?”
I don’t want to answer, because I don’t want to sound like I’m not loyal to my unit, but I find it hard to be dishonest with Sergeant Fallon. So I tell her the truth.
“I’d ask for a slot in a space-going service. Navy, Marines, whatever, as long as I get to go into space.”
“No shit? Sergeant Fallon raises an eyebrow.
“No shit.”
“Well, that’s the only way people like us are ever going to get off this shitty rock. I should give you a speech about how the other services suck, but truth be told, I don’t blame you one fucking bit.”
When Corporal Miller takes me back to my room, I feel a little better. My recently fused internals are processing the solid food without complaint, and I’ve picked up a few spare donuts to carry back to the room, a reminder of Basic that’s almost making me nostalgic. All things considered, I’d gladly be back at NACRD Orem right now, trading jokes with Halley, and listening to Sergeant Burke drone on about the structure of the different military branches. We had to hit the quarterdeck several times a day, and I racked up a lot of miles on my running shoes, but things were decidedly simpler back then. Nobody was shooting at me, and I didn’t have the threat of a jail term and subsequent dishonorable discharge hanging over my head.
“Friend of yours?” Corporal Miller asks on the elevator ride up.
“She’s my squad leader,” I say. “Do you know where they quartered her?”
“Same floor, unit 3022. Hey, you guys can get together and play cards or something. You know how to work that chair now, and you don’t need me to baby-sit you, I suppose.”
“Am I allowed out?”
“Sure,” Corporal Miller shrugs. “This is not a jail, you know. You need to stay in this building, but you can go out for a stroll in the hallways any time you want. There’s a rec room on the top floor, and the chow lounge is open twenty-four hours.”
“Excellent,” I say. “So much luxury. I won’t want to leave, you know.”
“Hey, that’s just part of the Army’s generous benefits package. Every day a holiday, and all that.”
I laugh out loud.
“Yeah, and last Saturday was fucking Commonwealth Day, fireworks and all.”
Chapter 14
My PDP still won’t let me onto MilNet, but the document reader still works. Most troopers in my platoon only use the reader for field manuals and military reference materials, but I figured out a while ago that it works with any form of electronic text. There are plenty of public repositories for literature out there, and it takes me all of two hours to shovel a small library worth of classic books onto my PDP.
I’m a third of the way through “Heart of Darkness”, and halfway through my second donut, when the door opens, and Major Unwerth walks into my room.
“As you were, Private,” he says as I wipe my mouth and dump donut, napkin, and PDP onto my night stand. I hate the fact that he’s in full Class A uniform, and I’m in flimsy hospital garb. The difference in dress makes me feel vulnerable, and the fact that I’m in bed only makes it worse. The only way I could feel more uncomfortable would be if he walked in on me in the bathroom while I’m taking a dump.
“Major,” I say. “Did you go all the way to Shughart and back since breakfast?”
“Yes,” he says. “I had a meeting with the battalion commander over lunch. I see they’re feeding you okay in here.”
“Yes, sir. All the luxuries of home.”
“Well, good. Do you feel up to a debriefing? I need to get your version of events on the official record.”
“I’m pretty sure I’m entitled to having a Legal Corps officer in the room, if you’re going to do that, sir.”
Major Unwerth makes a face as if he just caught a whiff of something unpleasant. His amiable demeanor evaporates in a blink.
“You’re entitled to nothing, Private. You’re about three nanometers away from a court-martial, and you can be damn glad I didn’t bring a pair of MPs with me to park outside your room and escort you every time you leave to take a piss. I’d keep a low profile if I were you. Now, you can give me your version of the events to record, or I can write down that you refused to give a statement. Come to think of it, I’d appreciate it if you just did that and saved me a bunch of paperwork. I’m getting a bit tired of your attitude.”
I’ve changed my mind about the disciplinary offense. I reach out to grab the major by the lapels of his Class A smock, but before I can get a hold of him, someone yanks him backward violently. I see the look of grim satisfaction on his face replaced by one of shocked surprise.
The major left the door open, and neither of us heard Sergeant Fallon come in. She is out of her powered chair, and even with a missing lower leg, she has the strength and leverage to haul Major Unwerth away from my bed as if he’s merely a moderately stuffed combat pack. He falls on his ass in a rather ungraceful fashion, and Sergeant Fallon is on top of him in a blink. She seizes him by the collar with one hand, and pins him to the floor. With the other hand, she snatches one of the pens the major carries in the breast pocket of his uniform jacket. She uncaps the pen with a flick of her thumb, and presses the pointy end right against the major’s throat. Then she brings her face close to Major Unwerth’s, until their noses almost touch.
“Listen up, fuckhead,” she says. Her voice is so infused with anger that it comes out as a hoarse growl.
“That man over there is one of mine. He dragged me through half a mile of hostile territory. If I ever hear you talking to him again like he’s some green recruit who overstayed his weekend leave, I will tear out your trachea and piss down your neck. Is that understood?”
I can see Major Unwerth’s throat move under the tip of the pen as he swallows. There’s naked fear in his eyes now, and the sight of it gives me intense satisfaction. Part of me wants Sergeant Fallon to drive the barrel of that pen right through his throat.
Finally, he gives an almost imperceptible nod. Sergeant Fallon releases him and drops the pen in front of him. Her face is contorted with disgust, as if she has just cleaned out a latrine with her bare hands.
“You are out of control, Sergeant,” Major Unwerth says. He tries to sound assertive, but his voice is unsteady. “Assaulting a superior officer, again. That’ll get you drummed out, Medal of Honor or not.”
�
�You can go back and report me,” Sergeant Fallon says. “They may even manage to lock me up before I get a hold of you again. In fact, you better hope they do. I’ll tell you one thing, though. Every last grunt in the battalion is going to know about the stunt you’re trying to pull with Grayson, and then your life won’t be worth a bucket of warm piss. Have fun checking the shitter for frag grenades.”
“You are out of your mind, Fallon,” Major Unwerth says. He stands up and straightens his jacket collar and tie. “You can’t threaten me like that. The CO is going to throw you into a cell and throw away the access code.”
“Yeah,” Sergeant Fallon says. “He might. And think about what lovely headlines that would make for the fucking Army Times. ‘Medal of Honor Winner Tries To Kill Officer’. There’s a morale booster for you. I’m sure the civilian press is going to be all over that one.”
She steps in front of him again, and he recoils.
“I don’t give a shit, Major. You want to turn me in? Fine. We’ll see if the CO is willing to deal with the bad press. But you let Grayson take the fall for Saturday, and I’ll make sure your ass is in a body bag before the end of the month.”
The major straightens out his tie and jacket. He shoots me a scowl, and then makes eye contact with Sergeant Fallon again. I can almost smell his fear, but he’s trying to maintain poise in front of a lowly private and his squad leader.
“The brass at Division is throwing fits over Detroit, Sergeant. The civvies are up in arms. They’re still putting out the fires, you know. That rocket took out twelve million adjusted dollars of government property, and thirty-seven civilians. You’re out of your mind if you think the battalion can sweep that one under the carpet.”
“Make it happen,” Sergeant Fallon says. “I don’t care how you do it. You sock Grayson with so much as a weekend curfew, you might as well just eat your gun.”
“And how the hell am I supposed to do that?”
“Transfer me,” I say.
Major Unwerth and Sergeant Fallon both look at me in surprise.
“Do what now?” the major asks.
“Transfer me,” I repeat. “Send me to a different service. You get to tell the division brass you’ve kicked me out, and they have something to tell the civvie press.”
“Not a chance,” Major Unwerth says. “You can’t transfer out of TA.”
“Sure he can,” Sergeant Fallon says. “They do inter-service transfers all the time. Get on the comms with your friends in S1, and make it happen.”
“The only way we ever do those is through Occupational Needs transfers. All I could get him would be a shit job. They’d put him in a slot they can’t fill with volunteers.”
“I don’t care,” I say. “I’ll take whatever they have, as long as it gets me off the planet.”
“Do it,” Sergeant Fallon says to the major. “Do it, or I’ll make sure the rest of the battalion knows why I slugged you the first time, before they busted me down to Corporal.”
Major Unwerth just glares at Sergeant Fallon. I have no idea what she has on him, but it must be excellent blackmailing currency, because he bends over, snatches his hat off the floor, and then walks out of the room without another word or glance. He pulls the door shut behind him with emphasis.
“He’ll come back with a dozen MPs and have us both thrown in the brig,” I say.
“No, he won’t,” Sergeant Fallon replies. “Trust me on that one. He’ll call his buddies and shake loose a few favors. You’ll get your transfer, you’ll see.”
“You must have some shit on him,” I say.
“You have no idea.”
She doesn’t share any more details, but I can see that she’s completely unconcerned about just having assaulted and blackmailed the battalion’s S2 staff officer.
“Let’s just say I had a one-time Get Out Of Jail card, and I just used it on your behalf. Now finish your food and take a nap. Don’t worry about Major Unwerth anymore. The next time he comes to see you, he’ll mind his manners.”
The next morning, I find that my PDP has network access again. I’m in the middle of breakfast—scrambled eggs and toast, with a bowl of rice cereal on the side—when I hear the faint chirp that indicates waiting messages in my mail queue. I pull the PDP out of the night stand drawer and check the screen to see eighty-nine messages waiting for me. More than half of them are official company or platoon announcements, schedule changes, and general bulletins, but the rest of my mail queue is personal stuff, messages from platoon mates checking on my well-being. I scan the incoming queue until I find what I had hoped to see—a message from HALLEY D/SBCFS/LUNA/NAVY. The subject line is “Halfway there”.
I open the message with the impatience of a pill head unscrewing the cap on a bottle of black market pain killers.
>Everything OK? Haven’t heard from you in days. Did you pull guard duty on the ass end of your base, or something? Anyway, drop me a note. We’re officially halfway through Flight School. If you think Sergeant Riley was a hard-ass, you should meet my flight instructor. Tomorrow is my first hands-off flight on the right seat. I’d send pictures if they’d let me take some. Check in, will you? That’s an order, Private. (I outrank you now. HA!) —D.
I read her message a few times, just to make sure I can recall it from memory at will if my MilNet access gets turned off again for some reason.
I activate the keypad to write a response. I want to tell her about everything: Saturday’s domestic call, the squad shot up, Stratton and Paterson killed, my injuries, the court martial hanging over my head. But as my fingers hover over the keys, I find that I can’t write it all out after all. No matter how I arrange the words and sentences in my head, the text does not even begin to convey what’s on my mind. The MilNet isn’t the right vehicle for that kind of conversation, and once again, I don’t want to burden Halley with bad news.
I start typing out a reply, this one as vague and non-specific as possible, despite all the stuff swirling in my head that feels like it will blow off the top of my skull if I don’t let off some pressure and share my troubles with someone who’s on my side. I tell Halley that I’ve been laid up in sick bay for a few days, but that I’ll be back at battalion soon, that she’s a brown-nosing little instructor pet for getting herself promoted ahead of me, and that it won’t matter because I’ll be a twenty-star general before the Navy abandons all judgment and makes her a genuine officer. They will do just that, of course—on graduation from flight school, they’ll promote her to Ensign and send her to her first fleet assignment. I may not even be in the TA anymore when that happens, and I’ll never know about it, since I won’t have access to the MilNet anymore. If they kick me out of the military, Halley will never be able to contact me again, even if she wanted to stay in touch with a washout who has a dishonorable discharge around his neck for the rest of his life.
The thought of being back in the PRC, forever pondering the opportunity I lost, and being cut off from the only friends I’ve made since getting out of public school, hits me harder than anything else I’ve experienced in the last week. The thought of my impending death back on the streets of Detroit-7 wasn’t half as bothersome. Even the knowledge of Stratton’s death, the squad mate I liked best, doesn’t quite shake me like the thought of being back in the place I left, and being doomed to stay there forever after getting a taste of life elsewhere. Everything in the PRC is bland and gray and hopeless, but I didn’t even know just how bland that life was until I got to be alive for a while. Half the things we do in the military are tedious, boring, or dangerous, but at least you’re alive enough to feel boredom or fear. In the PRC, you have no contrast in emotions. You just wake up every day and feel as inert as the bed you woke up in, just a chunk of public property that’ll be broken down and recycled once it falls into disrepair.
I send the message into the MilNet, up to the satellite and then across the quarter million mile stretch of space between my hospital room and the Spaceborne Combat Flight School on Luna. Then I sh
ut off the PDP, and stow it in the night stand drawer.
I feel like crying for the first time in many years, and there’s nobody in the room to witness it, so I give in to the urge and let the tears come freely.
In the afternoon, I go back down to the chow lounge, to see if Sergeant Fallon is around. I spot her in a corner by one of the projection windows, flexing her right knee and looking at her lower leg. When she sees me approaching, she smiles and raps her knuckles on her new shin, which has the dull gleam of anodized metal.
“Titanium alloy,” she says as I sit down in the chair across the table from her. “Feels weird, but it’s much stronger than the old leg. Maybe I should have the other one replaced, too.”
“That was fast. Didn’t they just fit you for that yesterday?”
“Day before yesterday. They bumped me to the top of the spare parts queue. I’ll have to suffer some dog-and-pony show with a few people from Army Times in return. They’re having me do a few weeks of rehab before I get to go back. As if I don’t know how to walk anymore all of a sudden.”
“Thank you for what you did, Sarge. You didn’t have to put your ass on the line for me. Shit, I’m just a Private with three months in the battalion. You have a whole lot more to lose than I do.”
“Don’t talk out of your ass, Grayson,” she says, and gives me a hard glare. “There’s nobody in the squad worth less than anyone else. You pick up a rifle and stand your watch, you’re one of us, and it doesn’t matter how many stripes you have on your sleeve. Shit, look at Unwerth—he’s a Major, and any of you grunts are worth ten of his kind.”
“Yeah, well, he still has lunch with the battalion commander, and we don’t.”
Sergeant Fallon laughs out loud.
“Let me tell you something about the boss,” she says. “He’s an Infantry grunt. He was actually a sergeant before he went to OCS. And he can’t fucking stand Major Unwerth. Thinks he’s just a ticket puncher, which is right on the money, of course.”