The Last Holidays

by Grover Young

  He really didn't like me, and I think that was because of THAT change of mine. It made him very uncomfortable just because visual evidence confirmed he found THAT arousing.

  That very thought was beyond disgusting, but that was his problem. Taking 'his' problem out on me with all the harassment and petty crap he caused me was my problem. Just once he tried that strongman 'let's arm wrestle' thing on me.

  He couldn't budge my arm, and it ended in default when the table collapsed under the stress we had it under. For all of that, I'd feared he would challenge me to hand to hand 'training' next. Sure, THAT ‘me’ was one strong and tough bitch, but I was also untrained.

  Achilles on the other hand, was experienced and at the top of his game. However, he never even suggested it, which demonstrated his character amply. Once I showed him I could match, or even overcome him, he backed off the physical stuff.

  What I got instead was the worst food, the most uncomfortable sleeping arrangements and lots of other bullshit I neither wanted nor needed.

  My kill count was my only, not so subtle 'finger' at my fearless leader, although the C-130's load-master’s eyes as he saw the triple roll of icons hidden in the squiggly shapes of the camo were enjoyable. Even as my old everyday self, I no longer looked like the Pillsbury Dough Boy in a latex catsuit.

  Hell, I dare say I had a chance at completing the Special Ops training without resorting to using my Q-Box. I had changed that much, and yes, the Craig ‘me’ was in that good of shape. That was why I was able to get close to my objective before pushing the 'button' when on a mission. That really helped, given that time limit on my staying transformed.

  Then, we were descending for our landing at McDill. Fiddling with my suit controls saved my 'kill' markers and changed the color scheme back to the Skins version of Dress Blues, the Army's service uniform. Well, as close as a skin tight catsuit could come.

  Pulling out my black beret, I prepared to put it on after I got off the flight line. Slipping on the gloves I got the shivers as the softness enveloped my hands. Unluckily for me, since I was flying military I had to be in the right uniform. That meant my nice warm, concealing parka and mittens weren't allowed.

  I had however, learned a few tricks. Not all of Team Epsilon were assholes, but they did have to live with their 'fearless' leader. Athena had taken mercy on me and showed me some of the stuff that wasn't common knowledge. That is, after she saw I wasn't going to be just another faceless newbie bound for a body bag.

  The molten metal shininess of the Skins could be altered. What you do is take the material you wanted to copy and place it in the inner lining of your Batman belt. Then, the active camouflage system would project that 'texture' onto the suit, which the 'on-board' system wouldn't do.

  That also let me hide just how good my Skins were these days, since Tash gave me an 'upgrade' during Halloween. That was one more question that I didn't need right now.

  Sheila meeting me on the flight line with a big smile, however, was something I needed, badly. At least this time she didn't tackle me.

  “I've missed you!” She hugged me as we walked to the Air Force blue sedan. I really wished for a good old gas powered monster given those had a real heater. Electric cars? Not so much at least not in this kind of cold. Well, being out of that wind was a help.

  “You have no idea.” I returned her hug as soon as we shut the doors. She'd been my touchstone that had kept me sane. Without her, I would've been truly lost among those who were not my friends.

  “Hey we got you out of there for a little while anyways,” Her kiss shorted my brains out. All I could do was return her passion.

  “I wish you didn't have to go back,” She finally pulled away so we could both breathe.

  “I don't,” It was my turn to surprise her, “I managed a chain of command bypass. I'm to report to Prometheus at Camp MacKall after this is over.”

  “But you are leaving again,” she pouted.

  “Yeah, but I'm not being sent out on one suicide mission after another till I jig where I should've jived. General Benson isn't the most subtle of commanders. He's been using Pantheon and me as assault troops against these permanent landing site attempts. So far, it’s worked, but really this isn't costing them anything,” I pointed with my head to the sky.

  “Yeah,” Sheila nodded her understanding, “just more robots that the Tweeties can make by the gross. It is too bad you haven't been able to capture one of those automated factories of theirs.”

  “I know,” I sighed as she set us to moving, “and our Guests are getting smarter. There is some kind of failsafe that, when the command tank goes up, so does the autofac. Probably a kind of ‘dead-man switch’, but you have kill that damn tank first, because not only will it coordinate all the 'bots and drones in the area but it's bristling with its own weapons.”

  “It's like one Keith Laumer's Artificially Intelligent Bolo tanks or Steve Jackson's Games Ogre's.” I'd some time to think about this, “Think of a low tank-like chassis that has a high conning tower like structure, topped by a dome that houses the primary communications array. Because the tower prevents a single turret with a 360 degree traverse, it has two of them covering 270, one each in the fore and aft.

  “Because I took out the tower with its commo gear the first time I ran into one of the things, the latest version has backup com equipment on top of each of the turrets.” I shuddered thinking about how it'd hurt when I'd gotten nailed by both main batteries. The f'ing thing had pinned me down with its escort 'bots while their rail-guns chewed away the ruined concrete wall I'd covered behind. That gave the main guns time to swing around and lock on my ass.

  On the other hand, that same power that had vaporized the wall and everything around it only fueled that energy absorption thing THAT other ‘me’ had. My fist was incandescent as I'd fought through the fiery agony and punched the cause of my pain. The resulting explosion had tossed me ass over teakettle, as a not so small mushroom cloud rose above the battlefield.

  “Craig?” Sheila gently touched my arm, “are you alright?”

  Taking a deep breath and swallowing to relieve my dry mouth, I nodded. It was almost as if I could still feel that horrible burning even now.

  “You said the first time?” She had never been slow, “How many times have you been sent against those things? Only three have been sent here to North America.”

  “I know,” sighing, I knew she wasn't going to be happy, but then again, neither was I, “all three,” I answered. “Pittsburgh and twice in Detroit. About three other attempts per inhabited continent have been accounted for so far. China repelled their third, right before I got back to Eglin.”

  “And that cost them their 'Flying Dragon' unit and who knows how many others.” Her eyes narrowed, “They're still trying to count the dead.

  “That asshole,” her voice turned cold as she processed my words, “it wasn't Team Epsilon that took out those things out. It was you. I knew something about those reports didn't sound right, but I thought they were using you as a diversion so they could get close, but it wasn't was it?”

  “No,” I admitted, “they grabbed me by my britches and threw me into the deep end. I don't think the General likes me.”

  Despite the small car and our almost running off the road, she hugged me again.

  “Whoa!” I grasped, “Eyes on road and hands on steering wheel please!”

  “They were trying to kill you!” She cursed a stream of colorful metaphors that only a woman who'd lived as long as her could learn.

  “You're trying too!” I held on for dear life as we skidded on the icy access road.

  “Don't you believe it!” She merrily denied it, “I have more years of experience driving in these conditions than you've been alive.”

  “That's why I did my end-around,” I explained how I got out from under the General's thumb, “While I'd expected that first suicide mission, I'd proven that I'd gotten past what was keeping me from being able to train.” I held her h
and after we stopped. I made certain Sheila knew it was she who was responsible.

  “The only reasons why I survived was plain dumb luck and the fact I'm a hell of a lot tougher than any other Prometheus Gifted I've ever heard of,” I shook my head in disbelief, “I'm still essentially untrained, although I'm learning fast.

  Walking inside, I had to keep from chuckling at the security checkpoint. Our real enemies were our Visitors upstairs against whom the measure would be ineffective. Our own worst enemies had always been ourselves which was one of the reasons why China did not have Prometheus.

  Sure, we only had that one malfunctioning quantum drive that made it possible, but we had sent it on 'tour' to some of our 'other' allies. The thing was running as much as we dared, given the Aliens would open up on us from orbit at the merest hint that it was operating. That first time it'd really been cranked up for use on that first bunch of volunteers, it'd only been luck and me, with a few others, who'd dragged the damn thing out of the blast zone. That was how I met Doc Schneider, but the point is, while we agreed trying to figure out what just went right with that one machine, we still had the only one and it was ours.

  Losing their cities of Tangshan and Shenzhen hurt China as bad, or worse, than the craters at Detroit and Pittsburgh hurt the US. With their high population density, their loss of life had been much higher. However, they had designed a clone of the Alien Quantum Drive that was smaller than the one in use by the Western World and they wouldn't share either.

  Just who acted like the only kid in the neighborhood with a ball first, was a little unclear. On one hand, we only had that one and only critical piece that made Prometheus possible, but they proved they had a somewhat better understanding of the technology. You would think we could work a deal given all of our lives were at stake, but sadly, no.

  It's not as if we were the only ones being childish. Russia had shown a disturbing tendency to all kinds of helpful 'after' our Guests had smashed the hell out of a neighbor. Then, their Army came thundering in, to help of course.

  Yeah, right.

  As Sheila shed her parka, I found her looking at me.

  “What?” I asked a little embarrassed.

  “You're really looking good,” she replied unabashedly, “You've lost a good what, 20 pounds?”

  “Something like that,” I smiled, “That's why Prometheus wants to see me. It's like I told you when I started freaking out two weeks ago. For me to change this much is very unusual. However, enough about me? Why am I here?”

  “Why, you've been invited to Thanksgiving dinner of course,” Sheila grinned, her blue eyes full of mischief.

  Chapter Four

  “Sheila, are you and Dean sure about this?” I had my doubts this was anywhere close to being a good idea, “This sounds more like the State Department's bailiwick or perhaps even the UN.”

  “And they've been doing such a good job at it, haven't they?” She replied as we drove through the snow covered countryside in the early morning, “Besides, they didn't ask to speak with the State or any other 'department'. It was us.

  “Or I should say the Quantum Warrior and her intrepid companions,” she grinned as she maneuvered her big Caddy into the icy drive.

  Florida was a little light on snowplows, but made up the lack with improvised vehicles, as well as many as could be salvaged from the war zones. Everyone had learned to adapt and make do, but really unless you were near one of the battlefields, life went on pretty much as usual.

  Kids went to school while their parents worked. Of course, some things had changed. With the internet being compromised, newspapers had made a comeback, so perhaps it was more like the 70's or 80's, since cell phones, too had fallen out of use.

  With the military switching to fusion power, the civilians had easy access to gas and fuel oil, although transportation in some areas was problematic due to the interstate system being cut by those battlefields.

  I've already talked about Soylent Blue, but most people had begun backyard greenhouses and relearning things that their grandparents took for granted. Canning, hunting for survival not sport and other activities had taken the place of much of not only America's pastimes, but the world's.

  That's what made what we had in the trunk a king's ransom.

  “So this is Dean's place?” I asked, slipping on my mittens. Thank Gawd it was close enough to drive to and yet far enough away from the base; I could cheat and get away with not being in full uniform. I still had on the 'pants and shirt' because there was a real chance this could turn sour. As much as THAT form made me uncomfortable, running around naked was even more of a bad thing if I had to change. At least, I got to wear normal clothes over the top of my Skins, even if my Batman belt was a dead giveaway.

  “His parents left it to him,” Sheila replied, as she bundled up too, “He had someone house sitting for him, but arranged for them to visit their own relatives so we could have the place for our dinner. It's perfect.”

  For once, the sky was relatively clear, and it was only a little below freezing. A veritable heat wave compared to the most recent weather. Even as fair complexioned as I am, the rising sun felt so good after so many weeks of constant gloomy overcasts.

  “I'll check the place out.” Walking round the house, I looked for signs of obvious break-ins and to get an idea of the lay of the land. With the situation in the cities, places like this were vulnerable to squatters and vandals, even if left for a short time. Everything appeared to be well, and I appreciated what Sheila had said about this place being perfect. Being out in the country as part of an old farm, its cropland was normally leased out. The unused barn would be an ideal 'parking garage' for our dinner Guest's vehicle. Taking a look inside, enough room had cleared out for their buggy, and I noticed some hay that the locals probably wouldn't mind having, as farmers did their best to keep at least some of their livestock alive.

  Using the key, I went in though the backdoor, doing a walk-though of the house. Leaving out the front door, I waved to Sheila, giving the all clear.

  Then came lugging the food into the kitchen. I honestly had no idea of how they had come by this bounty. Just thinking about how all of this would taste after it was cooked had me salivating.

  It was fortunate for us that Dean's place had a large, moderately up to date kitchen, and Sheila was no stranger to preparing large holiday feasts. I suppose it was good too, that I could play escort for our chef and wasn't a stranger to cooking either. After spending most of my life as a lonely bachelor, I knew how to do more than just feed myself. I could chop and peel with the best of them.

  We were here first, getting a start on the cooking, but the others were due later – particularly our Guests of honor. Turkey Day or not, there were reports to be filed and briefings to prepare.

  Some of the more traditional Holiday activities like big parades and ball games, that often had huge numbers of people attending, had stopped. It was judged too dangerous for so many to be gathered in such a small place. With our Visitors being so unpredictable, I could see the point.

  On the other hand, the lack had generally been made up by smaller local events that, in my opinion, were much better, lacking the commercialization that had overtaken the Holiday. But hey, that was me. I rather suspect that very few football fans agreed with me.

  I did have to sigh as the smells of cooking began to seep throughout the house. It really bought back childhood memories. I'd grown up in a place much like this one. However, like so many others, I'd left the country life for opportunities elsewhere.

  “You guys!” she stopped his cohorts as Dean walked in the door, “get started on the decorations.”

  “There's a bale or two of hay that's not too badly moldy in that barn of yours,” I helpfully added, “Maybe after dragging it out for décor, the locals might appreciate it.”

  “Indeed!” Dean, without his Mentat eyebrows, still managed to put on the same expression, “I had no idea that there was anything useable out there. I'm not much of a
farmer, I'll willingly admit.”

  Handling a ladle like a field marshal’s baton, Sheila chased them outside.

  “More decorating,” She ordered, “less talking!”

  I couldn't help laughing at all of five foot six of her having all those much larger guys on the run.

  “You!” She turned to me, waving her 'baton', “more peeling, less mirth!”

  “As you wish, my Lady,” I graciously rejoined with a bow.

  “Make it so!” She imperiously crossed her arms, striking a pose.

  We finally broke into laughter. That was one of the things I loved about her. We shared a love of old films and the culture of a bygone time.

  “You!” She gave me a peck on the cheek, “we still have a lot to do if we're to serve on time, chop, chop!”

  Like an assembly line, Sheila had everything planned. What needed to be cooked first and what needed to go where. It went pretty well and the time passed quickly with the two of us staying busy.

  We did get some help in the form of Dean and his friend Stewart's ‘dates’. Two of the newcomers, Stewart and his date Tisha, were somewhat familiar to me, since they were members of the Away Team.

  Dean's 'date', however, was our one claim to legitimacy in this, this … I didn't know what to call it. I did know that we were stretching certain conventions to the breaking point. Nothing we were doing was illegal, from a certain point of view.

  Tamara Lee was from the State Department, technically here as an observer. From our brief introduction, I got the feeling that she thought we'd cooked up this whole 'event', a scam, to chow down on the food that had at least been partially provided by her bosses.

  So sorta kinda, our back channel arrangements had official sanctions.

  “So, you two are the ones the Tweeties want to meet?” Ms. Lee's voice had that well educated and schooled delivery of a professional speaker or diplomat.