After War

by Tim C. Taylor

  Then the moment was gone and the branch director was jovial once more.

  “Forgive me,” he said, stretching out a hand. “My name is… Holland Philby.”

  I shook his hand. “I’m NJ.”

  “I know who you are… and your wife.” His mention of Silky was more threat than welcome. “Now please return the bench where it belongs and we can begin. Believe me, you do not want to make the big boss angry.”

  I did as I was told and took a seat with my fellow recruits.

  Being something of a formal dinner, there were introductions. About sixty people were present and I pretty much knew everyone there already from my Aimee. This was going to be interminable and I was getting hungry. The only name of note I wasn’t expecting was a former space rat who turned out to be the big boss that Philby had referred to. She was the primary executive officer for Revenge Squad, here to inspect the new camp facility.

  Her name was Docking Tube. Yeah, you read that right. The convention in a lot of Navy squadrons was for little space rat boys to be named with verbs, and girls as nouns, in both cases referring to the things they saw around them on the ship. Guess this Docking Tube was lucky she didn’t get pegged with the name Hemorrhoid Ointment or Unwashed Laundry or something even more ghastly.

  Sometimes I think humans are the strangest aliens of all.

  Still, to his credit, Mutton Chop Philby didn’t waste more than a handful of minutes with his introductions before moving onto his pep talk.

  “Brothers and sisters to be,” he announced, “and some of you who won’t stay the course. You are the first batch to be recruited to this new branch. The first of many. You will look back in a year or so and be amazed that you were once new recruits and that this Great Hall was once so empty. We are changing and growing rapidly. If we are to take revenge on those who would destroy us, we have no choice but to grow stronger. In the light of today’s attacks, we shall accelerate your training. Hitherto we have focused on physical, combat and team-building exercises. We’ve done this as a pseudo-military boot camp to ease your transition into members as Revenge Squad, seeing as so many of you are veterans. As you should have worked out by now, we do need those skills, but there are highly valued positions at Revenge Squad for others.” He glared directly at me. “Even for those of us who are unable to fire a gun, for whatever reason.”

  Did you ever have the feeling that everyone in the room is watching you, judging you, finding you wanting?

  I didn’t have that feeling. I knew everyone was looking at me with faces that ranged from dismay to contempt.

  No one would trust me to have their back.

  Then, with a click of Philby’s fingers, the kitchen staff began to bring out the feast.

  And feast was the right word. Oh, man! With the sights and smells being brought to us on platters, no one was interested in a washed-up wreck of a soldier. For the moment, I was saved.

  There was roast pork, and lentil cakes surrounded by brightly colored sauces in silver dishes. Devilishly rich gravy teased my nostrils. Most glorious of all was the unmistakable aroma of freshly baked bread, something I hadn’t smelled since I left Earth.

  If you’ve never left your homeworld, you might not appreciate the challenges in supplying food to personnel of widely different biologies across supply lines decades long. The adaptations to our digestive tracts and to the food we ate prioritized keeping us alive, not exciting our taste buds.

  I don’t want to go into details, in case you’ve just eaten, but there was a reason we called universal foodstuffs ugly food.

  There was nothing ugly in the food tonight.

  The people around me were soon chatting away, lubricated by an array of intoxicating fluids. I barely said a word, and much of what I did was said to Bahati, describing the taste sensations to my foodaholic late wife.

  Silky gave me questioning glances from time to time, but she’d been around me long enough to know that that I preferred to be left without the burden of conversation. The others though… they left me alone because they didn’t care – which suited me perfectly.

  I idly wondered whether I would have been gabbing away with Magenta if she’d lived.

  After we’d eaten our fill, the assembly was brought to silence by a metal gong struck by Philby.

  “Colleagues,” he announced, raising a bejeweled metal skull-goblet. “First, a toast to our fallen number. Former Bombardier Leonov Tang, Claudette Walksi, and former Sergeant Magenta Tass. They died today in training.”

  We stood and raised our drinks in salute.

  “Let’s be honest with one another,” Philby said when we had settled. “We barely knew the three who died. Maybe they would have become friends, comrades. Lovers even. But they died as strangers to us, the same as hundreds of people murdered every day on this failing planet. That’s why Revenge Squad is so necessary if civilization is to assert its strength and for order to prevail. Today’s atrocities will not be forgotten. For the sake of our planet’s future, we must instill such fear in the hearts of our enemies that they dare not even speak the name of Revenge Squad. Brothers, sisters, and others, I promise you this, we shall be revenged. In blood.”

  Docking Tube threw her subordinate a glare.

  It was a subtle expression, but my eyesight is sharp. I saw both the narrowing of the primary executive officer’s eyes, and the way Holland Philby gulped in horror and quickly moved on. “The incident today is connected to a battle ongoing with the gang led by Volk. His killers are not strong enough to take our base, but they wear us down when we are vulnerable. Frankly, I am surprised they had the wit to locate us out in the woods. The possibility has not escaped my imagination that we have a traitor in our midst. We shall investigate this possibility thoroughly, and if one of you has betrayed us, then your head will be mounted on this wall. More likely they have acquired the discipline to observe and track us.”

  A feral growl rumbled from the tables, angry, suspicious and deadly.

  “The individuals you killed were of no consequence,” said Philby. “They were not expected to live, and their attack was as much about Volk sending a lesson to his own people by punishing those who have displeased him. Perhaps he simply needed to indulge his psychotic madness. This is why we will win. Volk fritters away his resources. He is more interested in playing dominance with his own people than winning our battle. Revenge Squad Inc. was set up by a group of accountants who decided there was more money to be made in vengeance than in avoiding tax. Our organization is run off a spreadsheet. I know that it is hard to feel passion or loyalty to a table of numbers, but that is not your concern because you are loyal to me.”

  Philby stumbled when Docking Tube flicked him a dangerous glare, but he quickly recovered. “The numbers in the spreadsheets are important,” he said, “because if I killed any one of you, I would have to explain to my superiors exactly how your death benefited the bottom line of our branch. That is your motivation. Contribute to our bottom line and you shall live like royalty.”

  He laughed, a thinly stretched rattle that sounded barely human.

  I didn’t join his laughter. Nor did any of the other recruits. This was no laughing matter and I expected most of us were too busy thinking that the difference between who lived and who died in the woods today came down to no more than the roll of a die. Odds you were with Revenge Squad, evens and you worked for Volk. From where I was sitting, each seemed as psychotic as the other.

  With that silent doubt still hanging over the recruits, the field agents penetrated our group, clearly under orders to introduce themselves and explain their roles with whatever passed for a smile on their faces according to their physiology.

  There was a confident swagger and sharp banter between them. I expected them to pour scorn on us maggots of recruits or ignore us as a matter of principle, but they greeted us as comrades and were at pains to point out that firing guns at people wasn’t an everyday part of the job description. Instead we learned about the combat accou
ntants and legal team. The disinterested witness introduced himself and demonstrated his party trick: ask him to tell lies, and if he did, or even if he stretched the truth, the federally installed device in his brain would fire up. He was guaranteed to report exactly what he saw, and even had the previous 48 hours of experience uploaded on a running basis to federal servers so dis-witnesses could even testify in court to their own violent deaths, the so-called death release. Seemed there was no limit to the way the basic human template could be adapted to the needs of those who rule us.

  More familiar were the combat engineers, who included Imelda, though the Hardit stalked the periphery of the group. The engineers even had their own motto: “If they can build it, we can destroy it. If they destroy, we shall rebuild.” I didn’t doubt it. In my experience, combat engineers were imbued with a magical ability to shape the physical world to their design. It was rumored they received arcane powers in return for selling their souls to the daemon lord of engineering.

  The old hands made no secret of their interest in Silky and the lilac-white stubby fingers glued to her head. I already knew my role – I was a grizzled old war dog only here to bring Silky with me.

  She loved the attention.

  I didn’t break my silence until one of the old hands sauntered over to me with a confident swagger, patted me on the back, and described himself as Nardok, the squad’s cyber warrior.

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed.

  “Space rats refer to us Marines as cyborgs,” I told Nardok. “If you’re a cyber warrior, you must have serious enhancements that make an Assault Marine look like a helpless infant. Let me guess – under your humanlike surface layer you’re basically a war robot but with an armored braincase over your original human brain. Does your arm transform into a glowing Fermi sword?”

  “No, you drellock. I’m a cybernetic specialist. Electronics, wetware, cyber security, surveillance systems, software coding.”

  “Oh,” I exclaimed, throwing my arms out wide as if I’d just discovered the secret of the universe, “you mean you’re the typist. Why didn’t you say?”

  This cyber warrior/typist gave me such a glare that the rest of his gang instantly fell about laughing. I relaxed. If Nardok the Typist’s friends thought I was funny, I’d get away with my loose mouth this time. I’d been around. I knew how this worked.

  It wasn’t long before the drink was casting its socially lubricating magic. I felt good. Borderline happy. No one was actively trying to kill me, and the teeth the people were flashing were from smiles not snarls. In fact, I began to suspect we’d been drugged because everyone was far too joyful. Well, nearly everyone.

  One exception was Docking Tube, who seemed to be above fraternizing with the enlisted ranks. I noticed the way that Philby seized every opportunity to defer to her with not-so subtle bows and lowered eyes, a beta reaffirming submission to his alpha. I began to think of our primary executive officer as a tiny, hairless Jotun, one of the alien officers who had held the power of life and death over me for most of my life. That was a scary thought.

  The other unhappy person was Chikune of all people.

  I would have expected him to be lording it up as the self-appointed senior recruit, but he’d been quiet from the start. Ever since Philby’s little speech, Chikune had been as pale as if he’d seen a ghost.

  In fact, I was becoming certain they’d spiked our feast, because the next thing I knew I had my arm around Silky and was whispering into her ear.

  “I need you,” I told her.

  “I know.”

  “I…” I frowned, but was only deflected momentarily by the certainty in her reply. “I want you to use that mind probe you’re wearing like a hat to figure out what’s eating Chikune.”

  “I’m not a toy.”

  I gazed into those alien eyes, inscrutable within their black hollows. “I understand that. I’m not playing a game. I’ve got a hunch he’s important, may even be dangerous. If you can just–”

  She shushed me. “Don’t shout your concerns out loud. I can hear you’re genuine.”

  Then she stamped down hard on my foot.

  Ouch! The veck!

  “That’s for assuming I would do your bidding without question,” she explained calmly. Silky’s expression softened; she touched my cheek with her hand, simultaneously giving me a blast of appreciation through her empathy broadcaster. “And that’s for admitting you need me,” she added.

  Crazy alien!

  Grimacing in pain from my violated foot – which offended my sense of justice because it had been innocent of any wrongdoing – I watched with awed curiosity as my wife moved in to work her alien magic on Chikune.

  — CHAPTER 32 —

  I kept close enough to Silky to listen in as she approached Chikune. The former Army sub-lieutenant (or so he claimed to be) had a wound patch over one temple, an arm in a sling, and by the way he moved I was guessing a broken rib or two. None of that stopped him talking with César, the younger of our two Wolves who looked as if he’d been force fed growth hormone, because he was half as big again as any Wolf I’d seen previously.

  I bit my lip with worry as Silky walked up, bold as a battleship, and pushed between her target and the Wolf. Being rude to Chikune was a civic duty, but treating a Wolf like that was what you did when you were tired of life. Between my wounds and the drink, I wasn’t ready for a fight, but I mentally prepared myself to drop my drink and wade in on Silky’s side.

  My drink was safe, though, because César simply shrugged and walked away. I could buy the idea that he was glad for a chance to get away from Chikune, but to every other Wolf I had ever known, Silky’s insult was not something that could be walked away from.

  I tracked César in case he was feigning retreat but was actually looking for a weapon. Didn’t look like it. The young Wolf took a seat next to Nolog and began chatting with the Tallerman.

  Meanwhile, Silky stood in silence, staring straight into Chikune’s face.

  “You’re sucking at my mind, aren’t you?” he said after a while.

  “Yes,” Silky replied.

  Chikune shrugged, wincing as his wounds protested. “You’re welcome to it. Try not to choke.”

  The two of them were like a stasis bubble within the increasingly chaotic party. Neither spoke and the only movement I could see was a gentle pulsing of the appendages that stood in for Silky’s hair. They looked like snakes slowly digesting their prey. Perhaps she truly was consuming his mind. I hope she didn’t get indigestion.

  Without warning, their stasis bubble popped and they were back in the room. Actually, it was more as if there had been a thread connecting them that had suddenly severed, because they staggered, fighting to keep their balance.

  “Well?” I asked Silky when she returned to my side.

  Her gaze flicked sideways for a moment before replying. “Did you ever have a sense of doom, NJ? The idea that something bad was coming your way but no matter how hard you run or fight, your doom possesses an inevitability. In the end, your doom will catch you.”

  Every night I saw Silky die a thousand times over in my nightmares. I’d never breathed a word of this to my wife, never so much as told her I cared about her – if, in fact, I did care – but, boy, did I know all about a sense of doom. I didn’t need to put any this into words; I could tell by the way she gasped that she’d caught the gist of my thoughts.

  She swallowed hard and pressed out her hands to ward me away. “Don’t tell me. Whatever it is in your head, you must not tell me. It would only strengthen the power of your doom.”

  I wish Silky would shut up about this kind of thing. Stay alive today, let tomorrow take care of itself. That was my philosophy. The future was usually a bad place where you really didn’t want to look. Mind you, the past was even worse.

  She recovered her poise, adding, “Look, NJ, if you’re worried about me killing you, that could be years away, decades if you worked harder at impressing me.”

  “Well, thank
you, lady. That’s very generous of you. But we were talking about Chikune. Not your homicidal tendencies. This business in the woods, has it really shaken him up?”

  “Yes.”

  Frakk it! I’d hoped Chikune had been trying on his stupid mind games. This was far worse.

  “Why?” I asked Silky. “What’s bothering him so much?”

  “NJ, I cannot read thoughts. You already know this, so why do you ask?”

  I frowned because she was right. I rested my hand on her shoulder. “I’ve never told you this, Silky, but I’m in awe of how well you’re fitting into human society. I know you have the advantage of your head prongs, and your body is so mutable it must be made of plastic, but I couldn’t even dream of fitting in as well if I were the lone human among Kurlei. Even so, you’ve still got a lot to learn about humans. I wasn’t really asking that question. I was just stalling because I’d rather skinny dip in a pool of lava than talk with that man.”

  She ruined her human act by purring. If I was talking about a human, I’d mean they were making a happy sound of the back of the throat. Not my Silky. Her neck was rumbling with such power that I could feel her body vibrate through the touch of my hand on her shoulder.

  “Wow!” I said. “You really get off on praise. You ought to be careful about that. Someone might take advantage.”

  She punched me hard in the gut. It didn’t hurt much, but did bring up a brief echo into my throat of that last slice of cake.