The graders rolled out. The bent door on his machine still hadn’t been fixed. He’d banged at it with a hammer, but that had just made the problem worse. The wind outside was strong. Low, dark, roiling clouds moved with ferocious speed across the sky. Shafts of sunlight would occasionally pierce through them to stab at the ground like swords of light. It was even colder now than it had been during the blizzard. The hard-packed snow was tougher to deal with, but Amata almost preferred the relative warmth of the storm. He dazedly watched the patterns formed by the snow as it was whipped about by the wind.
The unit took advantage of the break in the weather to do a large-scale snow removal of the airfield ground facilities. In spaces where the graders couldn’t get in, waves of men were dispatched to do it by hand. It was only at times like these that the snow removal units had help, with every off-duty member of the division mobilized for the job.
Amata stopped his grader in front of the hut that stood next to the elevator egress of the Tactical Air Force’s SAF. He smiled faintly as he took in the scene of the SAF pilots shoveling snow. His teeth chattered as he watched. The cold air blowing in through the gap in the door caused his breath to fog up and obscure every part of the windshield not directly hit by the driver’s seat defroster. He could actually hear the moisture crackle as it froze on the glass.
The grader would plow away the snow shoveled off the elevator head by the men, but until they were finished, he had to wait. He rubbed his face with his gloves. It was so cold it hurt. Hurry up, he thought. I’ve got other work to do. After the next wave of scheduled sorties, he had the takeoff runway to clear.
As Lieutenant Amata sat in the driver’s seat, rubbing at his face and knocking his knees together to keep from freezing, a guy who looked like an SAF officer hand-signaled him to move. The SAF elevator platform was rising to reveal an enormous fighter plane. A Sylphid. Amata pressed down on his parka over the spot where the medal lay hanging against his stomach.
“Would you hurry up and move it?!” yelled the man outside his window. Amata backed his machine away.
The Sylph was towed out. It was an SAF reconnaissance plane. Not just a Sylphid, then. A Super Sylph. The twin vertical stabilizers bore a boomerang insignia. Beneath the cockpit, in a small calligraphic hand, was the plane’s personal name: Yukikaze. A cold-sounding name. But I’ll bet it’s warm inside that cockpit, Amata thought enviously. This was the first time he had seen a Super Sylph from this close up. It was an intimidating aircraft. His motor grader, designed for use on the enormous FAB runways, was the size of a house, but the fighter before him was even larger.
Yukikaze’s jet fuel starter broke the silence as it started up, making a noise like a low siren. The sound explosively increased in volume until it melted into the howl of the right engine turbine revving up. As the fan revolutions rose, the fine snow layer covering the runway was sucked into the air intake, and soon a small vortex of snow, solid as a pillar, bridged the space between the ground and the intake. The characteristic ear-splitting scream of the fan engine diminished as the pilot pulled the throttle to idle. Lieutenant Amata let out the breath he’d been unconsciously holding. Then the pilot started the left engine. The cold air rang again with the low-pitched siren of the jet fuel starter.
After another few minutes the ground crew gave the “go” sign, and the pilot waved his hand in acknowledgment. The grader shook with the roar of Yukikaze’s engines. The thunderous noise rose even higher, and then suddenly, as though pushed from behind, the huge plane moved forward. The exhaust from her engines whipped the snow behind her into a small storm. Amata turned on the grader’s windshield wipers.
Yukikaze taxied out onto the broad runway. Soon she was lifting off from it, her afterburners blowing long tails of flame, and in the blink of an eye she vanished into the thick cloud layer. The thunderous roar of her engines lingered for a moment before it, too, faded into the ringing silence that remained.
Lieutanant Amata couldn’t tell whether his ears felt numb more from the cold or from the sonic assault of the fighter’s start-up. He drank his whiskey, mentally comparing his motor grader to the fighter plane named Yukikaze, then sighed. They shared only one common feature: they both ran on liquid fuel. Aside from that Yukikaze excelled in every way. Loaded with bombs, she would weigh nearly thirty tons. The grader weighed only sixteen. The plane could generate nearly thirty tons of thrust, while he could just about manage 300 horsepower. The fighter was magnificent, while the plow was just lame. The same could probably be said of their operators as well.
“Thanks for the help out here.”
Amata started. Outside the door, the superior officer who had signaled him before was looking up at the grader’s cabin. Amata kicked the door open and looked down.
The man from the SAF had a deep scar on his cheek. His rank insignia indicated that he was a major.
Amata’s throat closed up from the cold. His lungs seemed paralyzed for an instant. The freezing air stung his eyes. He blinked, inhaled even though it hurt to do so, and snapped, “How long are you going to make me wait? Sir...”
“Sorry,” the man replied. “Major Booker from the SAF.” He squinted up at Amata. “You been drinking?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you do your job?”
“Yeah, if you’d let me. If I don’t get to it soon, I won’t have any time to rest up before my next shift.”
“Can you plow the runway straight when you’re sotted?”
Plowing the runway involved several motor graders driving abreast, with rotary plows working on both sides to push the snow collected by the graders off to the side of the runway.
“Don’t worry. A beacon signal keeps the graders driving straight. I don’t even have to hold the wheel. Funny, huh? I don’t even need to be here.” His voice grew tight. “And for that, they made me a hero.”
“So, that’s who you are,” said Major Booker, staring at him. “You’re the famous Lieutenant Amata.”
“None other. What, are you shocked?”
“You reek of alcohol. How fitting for a hero.”
“Yeah,” the lieutenant answered. Then suddenly, he was moved to tears, tears he wasn’t even aware he was shedding. “I can’t help it. It’s all that medal’s fault... It’s cut me off from all my friends. If I keep quiet, they rag on me. If I speak, they resent me. No matter what I do or don’t do, I’m cut off from everyone else. It’s not like I was really close to any of ’em, but they’re all I had. And there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s all — ” He choked back the bile that rose in his throat, tasting blood. He tried washing it down with a slug of whiskey, gagged, and spat it outside the cabin. A reddish brown stain spread across the surface of the snow. Guess I really don’t have much longer, he thought.
“Hey, are you okay? That’s blood, isn’t it?”
For some reason, the concern in the major’s voice infuriated Amata.
“It’s none of your business. Even the doctor told me to just do whatever the hell I want to at this point. It’s just, I... I wish I could get that sonuvabitch who gave me that medal.”
“And who is that?”
“I’m a grunt, how the hell would I know?” he wheezed with his frozen breath. “You’re a major in the SAF, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” replied the man, taking his sunglasses from his pocket, obviously getting ready to leave.
“Well, I have a favor to ask,” Amata said desperately. “They say the SAF is so powerful that it’s practically a shadow of the FAF high command. You could find out who awarded me the medal, couldn’t you? Please, Major... I want to get rid of this thing.”
“Even I couldn’t do that.”
“Figures. Forget I even mentioned it. Just order those guys to finish up and move it.” Amata pointed at the ten or so soldiers who were struggling with heavy looking snow shovels. “It’s cold. I’m gonna freeze to death out here.”
“Sure,” the major said, putting his sunglasses on. He paused, then
looked up at the cabin and said, “I’ll see what I can do. Just don’t get your hopes up.”
“Then how about hurrying up and giving that order?”
“I was talking about the medal.”
“What?”
Amata switched the grader’s engine from idle to intermittent start mode. The warmed-up engine stopped. It grew quiet. The wind stabbed at his ears. He wasn’t wearing earmuffs, and they ached as though they were going to fall to pieces.
“What did you say?”
“I was talking about your medal. I’m a little interested in it myself. There’s definitely something odd about you being given that decoration. I’d also like to know what the general staff were thinking.”
Amata stared at Major Booker. There was no sign of mockery or jealousy or resentment in his expression. His tone of voice was indifferent. He wasn’t lying. He wasn’t sympathizing with him, but he didn’t despise him, either. Amata felt like he’d been saved.
“Please, Major,” he said in a low, shaking voice.
“I’m in the SAF 5th. Boomerang Squadron. Just be aware that I probably won’t be able to unravel this on my own, and I have a feeling FAF military intelligence is going to get involved before it’s over.”
“All I’m asking is for you to try. I’m glad I ran into you, sir.”
“If I learn anything, I’ll let you know. Anyway, you look cold, so shut that door. You’re shaking.”
“Th-Thank you, sir.” It had been so long since he’d spoken those words that he’d nearly forgotten them.
Lieutenant Amata sniffed the mucus running from his nose. It hurt to do it. He wiped it with his glove, and it froze white instantly. He shut the door, stepped on the heavy clutch, and put the machine into gear.
Suddenly, the dead white winter landscape took on the hint of a golden hue. Was it the sunlight? Probably just the jaundice in his eyes. I should wear sunglasses too, he thought. He wasn’t going to give up and die like this. He was going to give that medal back. He’d speak directly to whomever it was, throw the medal in his face, and then deck him. Whatever happened, he had to stay alive until then.
Believing that Major Booker would somehow find out who was responsible for putting him in this living hell, Amata set off in the grader. He had found his one and only ally and felt an immense relief in finally having done so. So long as the major didn’t betray him, he would stay alive.
As usual, the wind was blowing in through the gap at the bottom of the door. Even if he cleared up the thing with the medal, there was probably nothing he could do about that. Amata sniffed and lowered the plow at the front of the grader. It was cold. Spring was still far away. It might never come. The plow tore through the clods of snow, the flakes fluttering through the air like flower petals in bloom.
MAJOR JAMES BOOKER (Tactical Air Force, Tactical Combat Group, Special Air Force) was attached to SAF-V, Boomerang Squadron, the unit said to be the most nihilistic in the entire air force. He himself was laconic, a tough officer, with a physical presence that inspired fear and aversion in most people. But in truth, he was possessed of a moderate nature.
After dismissing the grumbling Boomerang soldiers from their snow removal duty, the major thankfully returned to the warm underground of the base. He removed his fogged-up sunglasses, proceeded to the locker room, and quickly stripped off his cold-weather gear, which was now soaked from the melted snow and ice that had encrusted him during his work. His feet were cold almost beyond endurance.
He thought about Lieutenant Amata. Day in and day out, week after grinding week, the man had to deal with this unrelenting cold. He really does deserve a medal for it, the major thought. But even so, the Order of Mars was an entirely inappropriate decoration. The fact that it had been awarded to Amata was just bizarre.
Booker finished cleaning himself up, got dressed, and returned to his office in the squadron quarters. He had two hours until Rei and Yukikaze returned from their sortie. From the ground, he could do nothing to help them in their fight, aside from praying, as he always did, that they come back alive. Whatever happens, make sure you come back. He thought about Rei’s perpetually cool, calm nature. That expressionless look on his face never changed, no matter what chaos was happening all around him.
The major poured himself a hot cup from the coffee maker and took a sip, deriving a tiny pleasure from the way the cup warmed up his stiff fingers. How would Rei react if he’d been given the medal?
A corner of Booker’s mouth quirked up in a grin. He didn’t even have to ask. Even if he’d been adamant about not wanting it, Rei would have accepted it expressionlessly and then not given it another moment’s thought. Most likely it would have just ended up being used as a paperweight or a coaster, or be lost somewhere in a corner of his room. All Rei cared about was his beloved plane; he was indifferent to almost all other material objects.
And how would the other members of Boomerang Squadron react? Would they change their attitude toward the other pilot? No, he couldn’t see that happening. They were all lone wolves who stayed out of each other’s way.
But that was not what happened to Lieutenant Amata. Booker thought of the tears he’d seen falling from the corners of Amata’s eyes, the signs of a soul that was easily bruised. He was a man endowed with the rich, common humanity you hardly ever saw in Boomerang Squadron. Humans cannot live alone. Amata couldn’t live estranged from his friends.
Rei, however, was different. Impersonal, detached, it was as if he had no need for human contact at all. But Booker found himself instinctively defending the younger man, mainly, he supposed, because he understood where Rei was coming from. Back in the days when he’d been a pilot, he’d been the same. He’d been driven by the same directives, the ones that ruled the lives of all the SAF-V pilots: Even if your comrades are being shot down one by one, you cannot help them. Protect your plane, protect the data you’re carrying, and do whatever it takes to get back alive.
It was a cruel and lonely duty. The only things that stood between you and the possible death that awaited you on every takeoff were your skill, your gut instinct, and the capabilities of your plane. And you never, ever asked yourself whether the data that you gathered was worth the cost of abandoning your basic humanity.
Major Booker drained his coffee cup and then walked out of the room on his still numb and half-frozen legs.
Rei had Yukikaze, but Lieutenant Amata had nothing. Amata had been desperate, practically half-crazed by loneliness and his desire to be with other people. All he could do was drink. If nothing were done, that medal would end up killing him.
Booker knew he was butting in where he shouldn’t, and that he was probably about to create a whole world of trouble for himself, but he had resolved to help Amata. He was also curious to see just how much influence the SAF really had. And it would distract him from the indescribable unease he always felt until Yukikaze’s return. But more than anything else he couldn’t forget Lieutenant Amata’s tears. Booker tried not to involve himself with others, but he felt that ignoring Amata’s plight would mean that he had finally lost the last shreds of his own humanity.
THE FAF’S GENERAL Headquarters was located in the very deepest levels of the underground base. Major Booker took a high-velocity elevator down to the command staff section.
Security was very strict. Anti-explosive and anti-contamination security procedures required him to stop and present his ID at every block. In the end, he couldn’t get down into the command staff section proper. The public relations office on its periphery, which had no direct involvement in strategic or tactical matters, was as far as his clearance level could take him. Which wasn’t surprising. It was a bit of an accomplishment for him to have wandered this far in the first place. Lieutenant Amata wouldn’t even have been able to get on the elevator.
The office was busy. Looks more like a trading firm than a place conducting a war, the major thought. There were people compiling battle results to send back to Earth, others constructing the schedu
les of analysts and consultants coming to Faery, still others facing computer consoles, monitoring data readouts, talking into headsets, or handling piles of documents.
“Excuse me. I’d like to inquire about a medal.”
Booker addressed the question to a nearby male staffer. He was dressed in a shirt with no jacket and didn’t seem to be part of the group. The man looked up from his copies, eyed Booker, and asked who he was.
“Major Booker, Tactical Air Force, SAF.”
The man didn’t even glance at the ID proffered by the major. He simply shook his head and said, “I can’t take any questions about decorations.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not in my jurisdiction.”
“Where would I go, then? It’s about Lieutenant Amata.”
“Oh, that,” the man replied, shrugging his shoulders. “That makes it even harder. Nobody knows why he got it.”
“I know why,” the major said, putting on his friendliest smile. He’d worked out that this man was a talker. He brought his face closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “It was an SAF screwup.”
Just as the major expected, the guy took the bait.
“Huh?” he said. “According to what I heard, it was some sort of system breakdown. Medal recipients are determined by computer analysis of the data files of all air force personnel, so everyone figured his name must have gotten in there by mistake. But even after they did a full-bore investigation they couldn’t find an error. So it was the SAF, huh?”
“I think it may have been. Is there any way I can meet with a member of the decorations committee?”
“Well, in that case...” the man said as he picked up a headset. He keyed an extension, then briefly explained to whoever was on the other end what Major Booker had said.
“Looks like we can do it. Captain McGuire will meet with you. Just wait a couple of minutes, okay?”
Booker sat down in a chair the man indicated and glanced at his chronometer. Halfway there. Rei, come back in one piece. He was careful not to let the unease he felt show on his face.
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