Infinity Wars

by Jonathan Strahan

  We warn’t friends. I shoulda said that, but I didn’t. I waited, ’cause it was clear she warn’t done. If she was trying to recruit me for something, I wanted to hear what.

  But all she said was, “This is big,” and her voice gleamed with satisfaction like a gun barrel with fresh oil.

  THE STAND-OFF WENT on for a day, and then a week, and then two weeks. We had more soldiers. We had army choppers to keep away the press choppers. We had drones in the air, thicker than mosquitos in July. We had more negotiators—not that I ever saw them. My unit kept getting pushed farther and farther away from the warehouse as the perimeter got wider. More people got evacuated. None of them liked it.

  But every night my unit moved back to the high school to sleep. I don’t know where the Special Forces guys slept, but I know they were antsy as hell, wanting to go in and take the objective. Which they couldn’t do because the T-bocs said they’d kill the kids.

  “An interstellar incident,” Drucker said. “Maybe that’s what we need to get the Likkies off our planet. Blow the place to smithereens and they’ll think it’s too dangerous to stay on Earth.”

  “Is that what you want?” I finally asked.

  She only smiled. Then after that I didn’t see her much, because she started fucking somebody in off-duty hours. I don’t know who or where, and I didn’t care.

  The whole thing couldn’t go on like that.

  And it didn’t.

  THE NIGHT WAS like home, only not really ’cause all the city lights blotted the stars and it smelled like a city and under my boots was concrete instead of switchgrass. But the air had that spring softness like I hadn’t felt up here before, and that little spring breeze that made you just ache inside.

  At home, Mama would be setting out tomato plants. Sarah would be picking wild strawberries. The fawns would be standing for the first time on spindly little legs. Last year me and Sarah got real close to one.

  Coming off guard duty on the perimeter, I warn’t sleepy. I put my rifle in its sling and walked, careful to stay in the middle of the street where it was allowed. I passed a bar and a V-R playroom, both closed and boarded up. At the end of the allowed section, a rope marked another perimeter, this time around the old hotel where brass and negotiators and them stayed. It looked nice, with a awning over the door and big pots of fake flowers. They warn’t sleeping on gym mats.

  Sarah’s letter was in my pocket. She didn’t send a second one, or I else didn’t get it. Was Jacob married yet? He—

  Gunfire someplace behind me.

  I hit the ground. Gunfire came from another place, off to my left. Then explosions, little ones, at a bunch of different places—pop pop pop. Somebody screamed.

  Soldiers poured out of buildings. The Marines guarding the hotel raised their weapons. An officer barked orders but I couldn’t hear him because a flashbang went off and everything was noise and blinding light and confusion and people running.

  I got to my feet and unslung my rifle, but then I didn’t know what to do with it, or myself. I warn’t even supposed to be here. I backed away, trying to make out what was happening, when another explosion went off, pretty close to the hotel.

  When I could see again, a Likkie was running out of the hotel door, yelling. One of the Marines at the door was down. I didn’t see the other one. The Likkie ran right past me, high-tailing it to the warehouse, and I didn’t need no translator to know why it was there or what it was screaming. I seen that look on Mama’s face the time Sarah fell into the pond and got fished out half drowned. I seen it on Daddy’s face when Seth got injured in the mine. That Likkie had a kid in the warehouse and it was going in after it.

  It was going to pass right by me. I already had my rifle raised. I wouldn’t even need to sight.

  If you shoot an alien I bet Daddy would forgive you. Seth too. DO IT!!!

  Then I saw Drucker.

  She was supposed to be asleep in the gym. But here she was in full kit, her top half popping up from inside a dumpster, M4 swinging around, cheek against the stock. She warn’t that good a marksman, but she was good enough. All I had to do was nothing—let her do it for me. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, but I never believed that horseshit. The Lord might have vengeance against tribes attacking Israel, but He ain’t interested in Likkies taking a living from people like us.

  Choppers roared above, heading for the warehouse. Whoever set off that gunfire and explosives and flashbangs, whether they were our diversionary tactic or T-boc’s, the raid was going to happen now. Special Forces were going in and Marines were laying down covering fire. The noise and confusion was like Armageddon. But I warn’t part of that neither, warn’t at the center of it. People like me never was.

  Drucker had her sight now. She stilled.

  All I had to do was wait.

  But—soldiers aren’t supposed to murder civilians, which that Likkie was. Soldiers in the US Army aren’t supposed to murder each other neither. It was all tangled up in my mind, only now it had to be one or the other. Or nothing.

  I always been real fast. I sighted and squeezed. I got Drucker just before she fired, right in the head. She fell backwards into the dumpster.

  A second later a Marine sort of surrounded the running Likkie and stopped it. A second after that, another Marine had me on the ground, M4 kicked away. “You move and I’ll blow your head off, motherfucker!” I didn’t move. He cuffed me and took my sidearm. When he yanked me to my feet, I somehow heard—over all the choppers, automatic fire, sirens, explosions—the rustle of Sarah’s letter in my pocket, louder than anything else.

  I WRITE SARAH from the brig at Fort Drum.

  Special Forces took the warehouse. Sixteen troops died, and thirty-eight T-bocs. Two of the kids were killed during the rescue. One of ours, Kayla Allison Howell, seven years old, black hair and blue eyes, pink tee-shirt with Hello Kitty on it. I seen pictures. One of the Likkie kids, a little bald purplish thing, whose name I can’t pronounce. They were shot in the head before a US Ranger shot the murderer. Later, my lawyer told me, some of the Special Forces who went into that room cried.

  A whole bunch of important people said the raid was wrong, the army shoulda waited. The army said that under the circumstances, it had no choice. The arguing is red hot and it don’t stop. Probably it will never stop.

  I don’t know if they shoulda gone in or not. But I know this, now: there is always a choice, even for people who will never be at the center of nothing. Changes and choices, they go together, bound up like sticks for a bonfire that’s going to be lit no matter what.

  Drucker made a choice when she joined the T-bocs, a choice to kill anything that made changes happen.

  That Likkie outside the hotel, it chose to risk its life trying to get to its kid. And the Likkies are choosing to stay here, in the United States, instead of avenging their dead kid or else packing up and going home. In fact, more are coming. They have more plans for helping us with technology and shit. Saving the planet, they say, and politicians agree with them.

  My family chose to give up.

  What I did is earning me a court martial. But I chose long before the night of the raid. In the locker room of the high school I saw Drucker’s T-boc patch, hidden under her uniform. I saw it ’cause she wanted me to see it, wanted me to join them. I coulda reported it then, and I didn’t.

  Did I choose wrong when I killed Drucker? Even now, even after all the thinking I do sitting here in my cell, even after my lawyer says I’ll get off because the evidence shows that Drucker was part of T-bocs, even after all that—I don’t know.

  But I do know this—things change. Even things that look set in stone. Maybe someday, years from now, jobs or people or aliens or something will change enough that I can go home.

  For now, I write a letter that might or might not get delivered.

  Dear Sarah—

  THE MOON IS NOT A BATTLEFIELD

  Indrapramit Das

  WE’RE RECORDING.

  I was born in the sky,
for war. This is what we were told.

  I think when people hear this, they think of ancient Earth stories. Of angels and superheroes and gods, leaving destruction between the stars. But I’m no superhero, no Kalel of America-Bygone with the flag of his dead planet flying behind him. I’m no angel Gabreel striking down Satan in the void or blowing the trumpet to end worlds. I’m no devi Durga bristling with arms and weapons, chasing down demons through the cosmos and vanquishing them, no Kali with a string of heads hanging over her breasts black as deep space, making even the other gods shake with terror at her righteous rampage.

  I was born in the sky, for war. What does it mean?

  I WAS ACTUALLY born on Earth, not far above sea level, in the Greater Kolkata Megapolis. My parents gave me away to the Government of India when I was still a small child, in exchange for enough money for them to live off frugally for a year—an unimaginable amount of wealth for two Dalit street-dwellers who scraped shit out of sewers for a living, and scavenged garbage for recycling— sewers sagging with centuries worth of shit, garbage heaps like mountains. There was another child I played with the most in our slum. The government took her as well. Of the few memories I have left of those early days on Earth, the ones of us playing are clearest, more than the ones of my parents, because they weren’t around much. But she was always there. She’d bring me hot jalebis snatched from the hands of hapless pedestrians, her hands covered in syrup, and we’d share them. We used to climb and run along the huge sea-wall that holds back the rising Bay of Bengal, and spit in the churning sea. I haven’t seen the sea since, except from space— that roiling mass of water feels like a dream. So do those days, with the child who would become the soldier most often by my side. The government told our parents that they would cleanse us of our names, our untouchability, give us a chance to lead noble lives as astral defenders of the Republic of India. Of course they gave us away. I don’t blame them. Aditi never blamed hers, either. That was the name my friend was given by the Army. You’ve met her. We were told our new names before training even began. Single-names, always. Usually from the Mahabharata or Ramayana, we realized later. I don’t remember the name my parents gave me. I never asked Aditi if she remembered hers.

  That, then, is when the life of asura Gita began.

  I was raised by the state to be a soldier, and borne into the sky in the hands of the Republic to be its protector, before I even hit puberty.

  The notion that there could be war on the Moon, or anywhere beyond Earth, was once a ridiculous dream.

  So are many things, until they come to pass.

  I’ve lived for thirty-six years as an infantry soldier stationed off-world. I was deployed and considered in active duty from eighteen in the Chandnipur Lunar Cantonment Area. I first arrived in Chandnipur at six, right after they took us off the streets. I grew up there. The Army raised us. Gave us a better education than we’d have ever gotten back on Earth. Right from childhood, me and my fellow asuras—Earth-bound Indian infantry soldiers were jawans, but we were always, always asuras, a mark of pride—we were told that we were stationed in Chandnipur to protect the intrasolar gateway of the Moon for the greatest country on that great blue planet in our black sky—India. India, which we could see below the clouds if we squinted during Earthrise on a surface patrol (if we were lucky, we could spot the white wrinkle of the Himalayas through telescopes). We learned the history of our home: after the United States of America and Russia, India was the third Earth nation to set foot on the Moon, and the first to settle a permanent base there. Chandnipur was open to scientists, astronauts, tourists and corporations of all countries, to do research, develop space travel, take expensive holidays and launch inter-system mining drones to asteroids. The generosity and benevolence of Bharat Mata, no? But we were to protect Chandnipur’s sovereignty as Indian territory at all costs, because other countries were beginning to develop their own lunar expeditions to start bases. Chandnipur, we were told, was a part of India. The only part of India not on Earth. We were to make sure it remained that way. This was our mission. Even though, we were told, the rest of the world didn’t officially recognize any land on the moon to belong to any country, back then. Especially because of that.

  Do you remember Chandnipur well?

  IT WAS WHERE I met you, asura Gita. Hard to forget that, even if it hadn’t been my first trip to the Moon. I was very nervous. The ride up the elevator was peaceful. Like... being up in the mountains, in the Himalayas, you know? Oh—I’m so sorry. Of course not. Just, the feeling of being high up—the silence of it, in a way, despite all the people in the elevator cabins. But then you start floating under the seat belts, and there are the safety instructions on how to move around the platform once you get to the top, and all you feel like doing is pissing. That’s when you feel untethered. The shuttle to the Moon from the top of the elevator wasn’t so peaceful. Every blast of the craft felt so powerful out there. The gs just raining down on you as you’re strapped in. I felt like a feather.

  Like a feather. Yes. I imagine so. There are no birds in Chandnipur, but us asuras always feel like feathers. Felt. Now I feel heavy all the time, like a stone, like a—hah—a moon, crashing into its world, so possessed by gravity, though I’m only skin and bones. A feather on a moon, a stone on a planet.

  You know, when our Havaldar, Chamling his name was, told me that asura Aditi and I were to greet and guide a reporter visiting the Cantonment Area, I can’t tell you how shocked we were. We were so excited. We would be on the feeds! We never got reporters up there. Well, to be honest, I wanted to show off our bravery, tell you horror stories of what happens if you wear your suit wrong outside the Cantonment Area on a walk, or get caught in warning shots from Chinese artillery klicks away, or what happens if the micro-atmosphere over Chandnipur malfunctions and becomes too thin while you’re out and about there (you burn or freeze or asphyxiate). Civilians like horror stories from soldiers. You see so many of them in the media feeds in the pods, all these war stories. I used to like seeing how different it is for soldiers on Earth, in the old wars, the recent ones. Sometimes it would get hard to watch, of course.

  Anyway, asura Aditi said to me, “Gita, they aren’t coming here to be excited by a war movie. We aren’t even at war. We’re in territorial conflict. You use the word war and it’ll look like we’re boasting. We need to make them feel at home, not scare the shit out of them. We need to show them the hospitality of asuras on our own turf.”

  Couldn’t disagree with that. We wanted people on Earth to see how well we do our jobs, so that we’d be welcomed with open arms when it was time for the big trip back—the promised pension, retirement, and that big old heaven in the sky where we all came from, Earth. We wanted every Indian up there to know we were protecting their piece of the Moon. Your piece of the Moon.

  I thought soldiers would be frustrated having to babysit a journalist following them around. But you and asura Aditi made me feel welcome.

  I felt bad for you. We met civilians in Chandnipur proper, when we got time off, in the Underground Markets, the bars. But you were my first fresh one, Earth-fresh. Like the imported fish in the Markets. Earth-creatures, you know, always delicate, expensive, mouth open gawping, big eyes. Out of water, they say.

  Did I look 'expensive’? I was just wearing the standard issue jumpsuits they give visitors.

  Arre, you know what I mean. In the Markets we soldiers couldn’t buy Earth-fish or Earth-lamb or any Earth-meat, when they showed up every six months. We only ever tasted the printed stuff. Little packets; in the stalls they heat up the synthi for you in the machine. Nothing but salt and heat and protein. Imported Earth-meat was too expensive. Same for Earth-people, expensive. Fish out of water. Earth meant paradise. You came from heaven. No offense.

  None taken. You and asura Aditi were very good to me. That’s what I remember.

  After Aditi reminded me that you were going to show every Indian on their feeds our lives, we were afraid of looking bad. You looked scare
d, at first. Did we scare you?

  I wouldn’t say scared. Intimidated. You know, everything you were saying earlier, about gods and superheroes from the old Earth stories. The stuff they let you watch and read in the pods. That’s what I saw, when you welcomed us in full regalia, out on the surface, in your combat suits, at the parade. You gleamed like gods. Like devis, asuras, like your namesakes. Those weapon limbs, when they came out of the backs of your suit during the demonstration, they looked like the arms of the goddesses in the epics, or the wings of angels, reflecting the sunlight coming over the horizon—the light was so white, after Earth, not shifted yellow by atmosphere. It was blinding, looking at you all. I couldn’t imagine having to face that, as a soldier, as your enemy. Having to face you. I couldn’t imagine having to patrol for hours, and fight, in those suits—just my civilian surface suit was so hot inside, so claustrophobic. I was shaking in there, watching you all.

  Do you remember, the Governor of Chandnipur Lunar Area came out to greet you, and shake the hands of all the COs. A surface parade like that, on airless ground, that never happened—it was all for you and the rest of the reporters, for the show back on Earth. We had never before even seen the Governor in real life, let alone in a surface suit. The rumours came back that he was trembling and sweating when he shook their hands—that he couldn’t even pronounce the words to thank them for their service. So you weren’t alone, at least.

  Then when we went inside the Cantonment Area, and we were allowed to take off our helmets right out in the open—I waited for you and Aditi to do it first. I didn’t believe I wouldn’t die, that my face wouldn’t freeze. We were on that rover, such a bumpy ride, but open air like those vehicles in the earliest pictures of people on the Moon—just bigger. We went through the Cantonment airlock gate, past the big yellow sign that reads'‘Chandnipur, Gateway to the Stars,’ and when we emerged from the other side Aditi told me to look up and see for myself, the different sky. From deep black to that deep, dusky blue, it was amazing, like crossing over into another world. The sunlight still felt different, blue-white instead of yellow, filtered by the nanobot haze, shimmering in that lunar dawn coming in over the hilly rim of Daedalus crater. The sun felt tingly, raw, like it burned even though the temperature was cool. The Earth was half in shadow—it looked fake, a rendered backdrop in a veeyar sim. And sometimes the micro-atmosphere would move just right and the bots would be visible for a few seconds in a wave across that low sky, the famous flocks of 'lunar fireflies. The rover went down the suddenly smooth lunarcrete road, down the main road of the Cantonment—