Obligations

by Kevin Ikenberry

  Bo had climbed a rocky embankment to peer across the waves of rolling terrain to the south and west of the base. Near the top of the exposed stone, a flash of movement caught his eye and he’d recoiled. His mind told him it was an angry snake, and Bo raced down the rocks, not expecting the slithering, black and green thing to chase him at a frightening speed. He looked over his shoulder, saw the creature racing toward him with a single bright white fang glinting in the sunlight—and ran into the leathery hide of a whinnie. It looked at him curiously and Bo’s mind raced to figure out why it seemed different, until he realized the whinnie had knelt.

  Knelt.

  He’d scrambled onto the back of the whinaalani as the slithering thing closed to strike. Bo kicked a leg over the whinnie’s back as naturally as he’d done on a horse. The whinnie pivoted, let out a throaty cry, and stomped down with one rear leg repeatedly until the snakelike thing lay trampled in the sandy ground.

  “Holy shit,” Bo had sighed as he patted the whinnie’s neck. It seemed natural, and the whinaalani seemed to like it. When the whinnie didn’t buck him off, Bo rode bareback for nearly two hours before heading home. He’d ridden into the compound that day to the shocked stares of his compadres.

  He got a similar, if more understated reaction, from Murphy during his brief uplink later that day. The major replied to Bo’s report with an unexpected, albeit thin, smile. “Seems like we’ve found something for you to do, Captain Moorefield,” Murphy had said. They identified a half-dozen of the Lost Soldiers with experience on horseback and found them mounts. One moment, Bo had nothing but daily hikes to clear his mind, and the next he had a squad of mounted soldiers. His very own cavalry.

  The whinaalani enabled longer searches for water sources and the local medicinal flora Murphy identified as a commander’s critical intelligence requirement. They hadn’t located any of the pharma plants, but they did come across several potable springs in the desiccating landscape as their search area widened. As the Sear approached, having a constant, reliable source of water morphed from a want to a critical need. Water, though, was only one of the unit’s problems.

  Bo glanced up at the clear night sky as he walked and tried to remember where Murphy told them to look for Earth. Nothing about the sky seemed correct. He knew it was a product of distance and perspective, but it made his mind swim in confusion.

  You always said you would be there for me, Bo. But you were there for the Army instead.

  Jaw clenched, Bo looked down at his feet as he made his way to the headquarters area. There was movement in the darkness off to his right and he turned that way to see a whinnie watching him intently. He smiled.

  “Hey, Scout. Hey, boy.”

  The whinnie padded toward him, strangely silent for something so large. Scout was the largest of the males in the herd which had now attached itself to the Lost Soldiers. As with terrestrial fauna, the female whinnies were slightly smaller, but no less exceptional. Most of his riders rode female mounts because each herd resembled a pride of lions with many females and only a few males. Bo reached up and patted its warm neck affectionately and smelled the big animal’s unique scent, like a slightly sweeter version of a burning tire. The odor never ceased to take his mind back to Somalia for a brief moment before he shook away the past. Except when he could not.

  “Always taking care of me, huh?” He ran a hand over the warm, rough skin.

  They stood there for a moment, and Bo felt an immense sense of pride and love for the big animal. From their appearance, he’d assumed them to be a reptile, but they were warm-blooded and exceptionally intelligent.

  Bo patted the whinnie’s neck again. “Get some rest, big guy. We’ll ride this morning.”

  Scout made a sound that was something between a purr and a growl and silently walked away. While he always enjoyed the company of friends, Bo felt better about being marooned in this perilous future because of his mount. He couldn’t explain it to anyone who’d never owned a horse, but those who had understood. The bond was something unspoken and true.

  He looked up into the strange, clear sky and drew a long, deep breath of the cool air to clear his mind. He looked forward to the daily mounted patrols, and the whinnies seemed to enjoy the exercise, too. This morning would be different. With a mission against hostile R’Baku forces to the north underway, his commander’s plan to lure them out relied not only on his mounted cavalry, but on Bo himself. He wanted to think he was ready.

  Bo walked down the gentle slope toward the headquarters enclosure. There were soft red lights on the exterior and Bo knew the staff manning the command post would set watches outside each of the entrances. Murphy wasn’t the type to let security get lax just because there appeared to be no close, imminent threat. Since he’d roused out of cold sleep, they’d been working with and sometimes against the local populations in their area. The pursuit of resources as the Searing approached presently defined life on R’Bak. The indigs’ enemies on Kulsis were preparing for war while their local allies were grabbing whatever they could scavenge. Stopping them was the only prayer the Lost Soldiers had of going home.

  Home. Bo shook his head. What’s that quote? You can’t go home again?

  At the west entrance to the headquarters, the two Lost Soldiers standing guard held their rifles at the low ready. In the darkness, they appeared almost the same, and yet Bo was certain that, back in their own world and time, neither one of them had ever learned to hold a rifle at the low ready, muzzle pointed at the ground and firing hand hugging the weapon’s grip tight to their stomach. Much had changed between the time when they’d been hijacked to when Bo himself was disappeared.

  But some things were timeless. He couldn’t help but smile as he heard the whispered conversation: “No. You’re talking about Chicago-style pizza, man. That’s called deep dish. No way. Too much bread. Give me a big New York thin crust with cheese and extra pepperoni any day. Nothing else. No salad on it. No fruit either. Cheese and pepperoni only, as the pizza gods ordained.”

  The other soldier grunted in a Russian accent. “Cheese and tomato sauce on cardboard is what you are describing, Devolo.”

  Bo chuckled as he walked around the corner. “Make mine thin crust, too, when you find it.”

  “Captain Moorefield.” The soldier on the left drawled with a sleepy New York accent. “Good morning. See? The captain has good taste.”

  Bo grinned. “Devolo? You staying awake out here?”

  “Too pretty a sky to fall asleep, sir. I’ve been telling Orlovski here all about Vietnam.”

  The Russian grunted. “I have listened to the same stories twice and now we argue about food. I am eager to end this watch and get some sleep.”

  Bo couldn’t hold back the laugh in his throat. “We all agree with you, Orlovski. Just wait until he tells you about that one special prostitute in Saigon.”

  Orlovski turned his head to Devolo. The smaller American’s face screwed up in discomfort. “You haven’t told me this story, Devolo.”

  Devolo shook his head. “Rude, sir. Just rude.”

  “You’re the one who shared it, Devolo.” Bo glanced at his G-Shock. “Besides, I’m guessing you still have about an hour on your watch. That story should help pass the time and keep pizza off your mind.”

  “I am very interested now, Devolo.” Orlovski nodded at Bo. “Thank you, sir. I trust Devolo does not like this story?”

  “Not at all.” Bo grinned. “Just try not to laugh too loud, okay?”

  Bo stepped through the tent flap and into the headquarters, hearing Devolo sigh and utter the words familiar to every soldier when a great story is starting: “No shit, there I was…”

  As his eyes adjusted to the red lights, Bo saw Staff Sergeant Yarbrough standing at a crude mapboard. Topographical maps were the backbone of ground operations, and while they had nothing precise regarding the ground they occupied and operated on, the renderings were good enough to show relative distance, key terrain features, and other points of interest. N
ext to him was a satellite communications terminal unlike anything Bo had known in his time. He was equally sure Sergeant Yarbrough had no clue what it was. The Vietnam veteran, like so many of the others in Bo’s little command, had a special term for the advanced technology they used alongside their more familiar weapons and gear: PFM.

  Pure fucking magic.

  “Home Plate, Oscar Papa One. Negative contact. Out.”

  Bo heard Yarbrough sigh before the older non-commissioned officer nodded at the indig radio operator. He spoke a mixture of English and other words from a local dialect that Bo did not understand. The indig RTO, radio telephone operator, did not reply but busily scribbled the time and message in a green, bound logbook.

  “Keeping records?” Bo asked as he approached from behind the sergeant’s right shoulder. “For posterity’s sake or to pass the time?”

  Yarbrough snorted. “A bit of both, sir. What are you doing up at this hour?”

  Bo shrugged. “The usual. There’s a mission underway. Even if they aren’t mine, I can’t sleep. You know how it is.”

  Yarbrough looked him over for a long moment and then turned to the map. “OP One should be tucking back in soon. The other forward observation posts haven’t seen anything yet. Soon as we have comms with them, we’ll update the board.”

  Bo studied the map. “The OPs won’t see anything for a while. Even from the top of the pass, there’s too much rolling terrain in the way. We could move OP One down to the bottom of the pass on the far side, but that puts them at risk if anything is out there.”

  The older sergeant frowned. “The real risk is if they are still out there come daylight. No matter how well planned or supported they are, something always goes wrong with night raids.”

  Bo didn’t say a thing. He’d learned as a second lieutenant when not to say anything. There was more behind Yarbrough’s comments than the sergeant let on, and while Bo suspected he knew the source of the veteran’s worries, he didn’t want to assume anything. Even though the sinking feeling in his own stomach said everything.

  Yarbrough turned to the PFM radio set and looked at his watch. “Glass Palace should be overhead in about two minutes, now. The window will be about a hundred seconds.”

  Bo nodded and kept his face as straight as possible. Either Major Murphy had already signaled a desire to talk to him directly, or Staff Sergeant Yarbrough, his operations NCO, thought it would be best for Bo and Murphy to speak at the earliest opportunity. Time to find out which. “Anything happen on their last orbit and comm check?”

  Yarbrough shook his head. “The mission team talked to Lieutenant Tapper after comm check with us. Just before Tapper initiated his raid.”

  Bo took a deep breath. Too much could happen in ninety minutes.

  A minute and a half later, the PFM radio squawked to life.

  “Starkpatch, this is Glass Palace, over.”

  Bo had to smile. Mississippi State University, his alma mater, was located in Starkville, Mississippi. The students had a myriad of names for the quaint, quiet town that dwindled in population when the semesters ended. He’d named their forward operating base Camp Stark, for other reasons, and the radio callsign worked well and brought some daily levity to his world.

  Bo picked up the microphone and pressed the transmit switch. “Glass Palace, this is Saber Six actual.”

  Ten seconds passed before Major Murphy’s voice replied. “Bo? You’re awake early. You ready for this?”

  Bo brightened. “Yes, sir.”

  “I want you to take the mounts out ahead of your main body. Just in case Tapper’s convoy runs into trouble,” Murphy replied. “Once those vehicles he’s grabbed have made it back up the pass and are on the way to Camp Stark, I’ll feel better about covering them with ground forces and what artillery we have. It’s their distance from your position I’m worried about. So I want you in the field, leaning in their direction. You can use your movement to search for water sources, but nothing that puts you out of position to provide immediate support to the convoy as it moves to the rendezvous.”

  “We expecting resistance? Pursuit?”

  “Yes, to resistance. As for pursuit? I’m hopeful,” Murphy replied with what sounded like a smile. “Once they’re here, you’re going to have to be ready for phase two.”

  Bo nodded. “You’re poking the bear.”

  “Exactly. How many can you mount?”

  Bo took a deep breath. “I can mount twelve, easy. There are another five or six leg infantry who are learning to ride the whinnies now. I can take them along, too.”

  “You can’t recon and teach riding at the same time.” It wasn’t a statement as much as an unasked question with something behind it.

  “It would slow us down a little, sure.”

  Murphy paused. “I want you to take Aliza Turan with you. Do you know who she is?”

  Bo’s stomach flopped and rolled on itself. “I do. She’s one of the Israelis.”

  “That’s her,” Murphy said. As he continued, his voice was firm and direct. “She’s also a trained equestrian. I know that’s not the same thing as a teacher, but she’s taken lessons and can keep an eye on your new riders while you keep an eye out for water.”

  “With respect, she ain’t the kind of rider we need.” Bo frowned, thinking of all the trained equestrians he’d known who were pure crap on even simple trails. “Plus, she’s a terrorist by her own admission, sir.”

  “She’s going with you. She has asked to be involved in operations, and we need everybody in the organization supporting the mission. This is a good place to start. As for what she was doing when she was captured? Read up on your history, Bo.”

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” Bo blurted and added a perfunctory “sir” at the end.

  Murphy’s voice was low and firm. “Take Miss Turan and your troops out at first light. Patrol sector four and be prepared to support the convoy as it approaches. Keep your eyes out for enemy pursuit of any kind and stay in contact with me through the relay at OP Two.” Murphy paused. “Plan to recover all forces back to the FOB by dark.”

  Bo nodded. The mission was as clear as any he’d run in his career. “If the enemy comes after the convoy? What do you want us to do?”

  “Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it,” Murphy said. “Find us a good watering hole if you can. Just stay ready.”

  “Always ready, sir.”

  The connection faded out, and Bo replaced the microphone on the top of the radio set. He turned to Yarbrough. “Who’s your relief?”

  “Lieutenant Meehan, sir. Takes over in an hour. Said he wanted to be on the comms when the recovery went down.” Yarbrough didn’t look happy, and it matched the return of a snarling feeling in Bo’s stomach.

  Great. Just great.

  * * *

  Aliza Turan woke at the first sounds of activity beyond the thin sides of the small tent. She clutched at the scratchy green wool blanket to her brow, fearing that the voices were finally coming for her. But…the voices she was hearing now were not those voices. Because this place was certainly not that place.

  She took a deep breath, lowered the blanket, and opened her eyes. The other women were not yet awake. They were still snug in their cots and makeshift beds. Their sense of security in this strange land, and under the circumstances, amazed her. Soldiers, she understood all too well, could make anyplace their home in a matter of hours, sometimes even less. All they needed was a cot and a blanket to feel as if they were meant to be there. For Aliza, a cot, and even a blanket, were luxuries. Trust and security were not.

  Fully awake, she forced herself to lay there for several minutes listening to the sounds of the morning. A mission was underway, that much they all knew, but it didn’t seem to faze her counterparts. They all had their jobs to do—even the ones who spent more time getting out of their work than what it would have taken them to actually do it. The hard labor projects, particularly filling sand bags, shuffled from one soldier to the next. I
n her frustration at seeing men and women gleefully shrug off their tasks, she’d ultimately taken up their shovels and gotten to work. Before long, the unrelenting heat forced her to shed her familiar outer blouse and work in a short-sleeved shirt. Surprise at what that revealed gave way to guilt, and the modern soldiers eventually began to work alongside her.

  Modern soldiers. She tossed that adjective around in her mind. They were certainly more modern than she, having been removed from battlefields in the later years of the twentieth century. But here on R’Bak, they were all antiques, long confirmed as missing and presumed dead. She snorted softly. When they told her that not only was it 2125, but that she was far from Earth, she’d laughed in their faces.

  You sound like the Nazis, she’d said only to watch them recoil in shock. You want us to believe whatever you tell us. To believe your lies. So you can cut into us. Experiment. Never again. The recovery technicians blanched and covered their mouths with nervous hands as she showed them her left forearm and the blue numbers that would forever adorn her skin.

  Grey-uniformed soldiers had taken her from her home, a small village named Tegernsee south of Munich, five days after her seventeenth birthday. At gunpoint, the Nazis loaded her and her family into squalid railcars and moved them toward a place she’d remembered as a vibrant city that was now only mentioned in whispers: Dachau.

  Aliza fought tears remembering her parents’ faces as the Nazis separated them. In the first few weeks, they saw each other often enough that the camp seemed a hardship and not a prison. But as the tide of war changed, there were fewer people in the camp from those early days. Time blurred into months and then a year. The Nazis marched her father off to the gas chamber when she was eighteen. Her mother disappeared three months after that. Her siblings…all of them in the last days, mostly to typhus.

  Somehow, she was spared. Food became so scarce that, when the Americans approached the gates, Aliza and the others didn’t have the strength to cheer. She saw the revulsion and horror in the soldiers’ faces as they tried to help her and the others. Even as she started to heal and her strength returned, she knew she could not trust them. Free and supposedly able to return home, she couldn’t bear to go back to her village and see the same people who’d given her family up on the street. She couldn’t forgive them, but more importantly, she couldn’t trust them. Trust would never come easily again, if at all.