The Tetra War

by Michael Ryan

  I went through my allotted six thousand rounds in just over an hour.

  “Fall in!” DS Veelanzer shouted. “Take a knee and study your statistics. Find your weaknesses and recognize your strengths.”

  A message appeared on my display screen.

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  I’d become reasonably competent with my iris control. I eyed the line, and a table with results and statistics popped open.

  Course: Tango-Foxtrot-Golf

  Weapon: M73-APA

  Rounds Fired: 6000/6-R-SB

  Targets Presented: 3000

  Targets Engaged: 1017

  Accuracy: 52%

  Selection Rating: 42%

  Relative Position: 65%

  P/F: FAIL

  I had a long way to go, I knew, but landing at sixty-five percent was encouraging. Being above the mean had become my mantra years ago, when I realized that overachievers usually ended up getting stuck with extra work, extra duty, and extra attention. Graduating as a Specialized Drop Infantry armored soldier would put me into the elite one percent of all troops in the Guritain army, and I had no burning desire to become one of the elite of the elite.

  However, sometimes the universe, or Command, doesn’t give a shit about what you want.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  War made the nation. The nation made war. The nation shall bring peace.

  ~ Poems of Beelnt, Book of Truth, Index 12:8

  Three months into wearing armor twenty-four hours a day, I was ready to jump off a cliff so I could go to the medical unit and get relief. Apparently the ninety-day mark was a common milestone for going crazy, and we had a special morning session concerning mental health, in-field suicide actions, and the need to learn to meditate. We sat in a circle in the forest a little before dawn.

  “What do you miss most?” our DS asked.

  “Eating real food.”

  “Fucking.”

  “I’d just like to be able to jerk off.”

  “I’d be happy to be able to hold hands.”

  “Okay, hold hands, watch a movie, eat candy, and have sex.”

  “I’d like to be able to scratch my ass.”

  “I miss my shoes.”

  “I miss my dick.”

  “I’d like to feel something, anything…”

  “All right, we all understand,” DS Veelanzer said. “This morning we’re going to discuss how to cope. I’ve been wearing my armor right alongside you troops. I don’t go home, take a shower, and sleep with my wife. I have no life outside this armor for the same six months as you. Drills in this program only do this section of training once every two years. It’s a difficult assignment, and nobody here is feeling a single thing I haven’t felt myself.”

  He let that sink in. I’d never thought about his life after our training was done for the day, but his revelation put his dedication in a new light.

  “In-theater, an SDI is rarely suited up for longer than sixty days. Even that can wear on your mental state. Suicide by irresponsible action is not unheard of. Often the spiral into a breakdown is masked by what seem like heroic and brave actions. Be aware of this among your peers; heroism and bravery get you and your buddies killed. We fight smart. We make the other guys die.”

  He went on about ways to recognize the onset of confinement sickness, a mental condition that affected a small but numerous percentage of SDI troops in high-stress and long-running missions. I didn’t think I’d ever be in that category, but later when I was in the cold and darkness believing I was going to freeze to death, the temptation to de-suit for good was overwhelming. Nobody ever knows what limits they can endure. Surviving means a new limit is set; otherwise, it’s too late to do anything about it.

  We hadn’t had any dropouts after the first couple of weeks until one day during a class on war theory, a human soldier from somewhere on the western coast of the Northern Guritain Continent stepped off the sanity train.

  ~~~

  “War theory is important for all soldiers, from generals to privates. Can anyone tell me why?” our instructor asked.

  “So we can understand why we’re fighting?”

  “Are you answering, asking a question, or guessing?” he snapped.

  “Um.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “I think she’s right. It’s so that a soldier can understand the reasons for being on the battlefield. It’s a morale thing, Sergeant. Troops with good feelings about why they’re in-country fight more efficiently and get better results.”

  “That’s basically a textbook answer,” he said. “So we’ll accept it and move on. Happy troops usually trump unhappy troops. Now, can anyone recite, without use of your DS, the ten reasons for war, as cited in Veltron’s War Theory and Application?”

  I gave it a stab. “Destiny. Colonizing. Imperialism. Defense. Reunification. Rebellion. Squashing rebellion. Revenge. Theft. Liberation.”

  “Correct. Examples, anyone?” he asked. “And to see how well you’ve been paying attention in class, please confine your answers to conflicts that have occurred here in the Georgia Region, Gurita.”

  “Destiny,” someone chimed in, “was the reason the first European explorers came here. They believed that a deity had guided them, and they axiomatically assumed resistance to their incursion was resistance against the god they worshipped.”

  “Next?”

  “Colonizing,” another soldier answered. “After the Europeans discovered these lands, colonists came under the same premise – that a deity had guided them here.”

  “And?”

  “Imperialism. The British Empire believed that all lands were better off under the Crown. Lands were taken and organized under the theory that the King was, by divine right, not only worthy to control territories, but that it was his responsibility.”

  “Defense. The native populations here fought wars of defense. They had no real choice except to flee. This was also the same situation several wars later in the history of the region when outside entities invaded.”

  “Reunification. This was the American president’s reason in the nineteenth century. He felt invading and conquering this region was justified because the citizens had no right to leave his rule and dominion. I think he used the same deity for justification, as did those who rebelled against his forces, but I can’t remember.”

  “Rebellion. The Americans against England, and the secessionist Americans against the northern states. Also in the American Troubles, this region was part of a separatist war.”

  “Squashing rebellion. This happened in various wars when occupying forces or citizens were attacked by former rulers. The previous example, I think King Lincoln invaded this area because he didn’t believe the rebels had just cause to leave.”

  “I don’t think Lincoln was a king,” someone injected.

  “Whatever. He ordered troops to march against their brothers. What’s the difference?”

  “Well, voters–”

  “You’re going off topic, soldiers,” our instructor interrupted. “Circle back. What’s next?”

  “Revenge. The Mexican-Central Powers incursion into this region was revenge. They seemed to have a desire for long-term occupation.”

  “Theft. I think this applies to the previous examples of kings and presidents. They didn’t like their powers reduced, and even though they justified war for other reasons, it was pure theft.”

  “No specific examples of straight-up thievery?”

  “I think Russia invaded once to steal–”

  “Wrong Georgia, although your example is probably appropriate. Next?”

  “Liberation. Our Guritain forces came to this region, and to Earth, to liberate humans.”

  The DI looked over the troops. It was impossible to tell what his expression was, but for some reason I thought he might be smiling.

  “Okay, class. Let’s break for today. Continue with your assigned readings. Dismissed!”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The main pr
inciple of waging warfare is to always be prepared to wage another battle.

  ~ General Floceez Goertezn

  We finished six months of training and were released from our twenty-four-hour-a-day confinement in TCI-Armor.

  “My own touch feels alien,” someone said.

  “I can’t walk right,” said another.

  “I need to get laid,” a female soldier announced. A dozen troops volunteered. The required sterility and constant medical testing of soldiers allowed carefree sexuality. While it wasn’t an official requirement to be single to join the military, it was a de facto one. Sometime after specialty training was completed, the psychology department would pair soldiers into couple-teams. Until death or retirement, they’d serve together. Prior to couple selections being made, sex among peers was as common as eating lunch.

  “Listen up!” DS Veelanzer shouted. “Your CO has generously granted a three-day weekend pass. You’ll have the next few days of light-duty training to get used to your un-suited bodies again before the weekend hits, so practice all the things you’re going to encounter out in the real world. Walking up and down stairs, going through doors, and eating with forks and knives. You don’t want to embarrass yourselves out there.”

  We were all so anxious by Thursday that our last period instructor dismissed us early, with a warning to get a good night’s sleep. When ten hundred hours hit Friday morning, the barracks emptied, and I found myself with a small group of friends – Lyndia, Visnaal, and Maaly – heading to Atlanta.

  ~~~

  “I’m dying for Chinese food,” Visnaal said.

  “Fine with me.” Lyndia grabbed my hand and asked me if I liked Chinese food.

  “Of course,” I said. I kept her hand in mine and realized I was aroused.

  Visnaal took Maaly’s hand. She smiled at him and said, “I never realized how much I took touch for granted.”

  “You and me both,” Lyndia said, squeezing my fingers as she spoke. “This, and real food.”

  After sharing too many dishes and eating more than we should have, we decided to find a club. Atlanta’s club scene was diverse and eclectic, everything from new electronic Gurt to old-school techno trash rock, and even stuff from the mid-2110s. There were churches, too, with clubs. On one street there was a First Church of Christ with a roller rink that was playing gospel techno, while across the street, a club called Rapper’s Cosmic Bar featured pole-dancing strippers and a special on synth-coke. We were restricted from using any substances other than alcohol, so we settled on a club playing all-pop with a drink special for anyone in the service.

  We were drinking, dancing, and minding our own business when a group of young men sat down in an adjoining booth. They kept to themselves for the first hour, but after a few rounds of drinks, they began to get aggressive.

  “Come dance with me,” one of them called to Lyndia.

  “No, thanks,” she answered.

  “You don’t mix with purebloods?” he asked.

  “I have nothing against humans,” she answered. “But I’m with friends tonight.”

  “They’re army,” another of the group said.

  “Is that so?” the first one asked.

  “Yes,” I said, getting to my feet. “Look, we’re here to have a good time. She politely turned you down. Now walk away.”

  “You’re a half-breed, aren’t you?” He eyed me with a sneer. Some humans seem to have a sixth sense about my heritage, or maybe it was a lucky guess. I wasn’t in the mood for arguing with a drunken fool, so I suggested that we leave.

  “I’m not leaving because of some asshole,” Visnaal said.

  “I agree,” Maaly seconded.

  “Maybe we should try another club,” Lyndia said. “There are tons of them on the strip. I’d love to hear some West Coast E-sound dance music.”

  “That’s fine,” Visnaal said. “We can go later. But I’m not leaving my drink and getting up because of some racist idiots with low IQs.”

  “Who are you calling low IQ?” one of the thugs demanded. He stood and glared. He was short but built like a fireplug. He flexed his arms and kept his eyes glued to Visnaal.

  “Your gym muscles aren’t impressive,” Visnaal said. “I don’t want trouble, but if you don’t sit down and shut the fuck up, there’s going to be a problem.”

  The short man took a step toward us. Visnaal, who towered over him, moved into his path and stared him down.

  I was mentally preparing myself for a fight when three huge bouncers with tree-trunk arms showed up and told us we’d all have to leave. This started a round of shouting and arguing, but it ended quickly once a fourth security guard appeared with a concussion baton and waggled it at us with an unpleasant grin.

  “Who wants to be the first to leave here in an ambulance?” he asked, his steel front teeth gleaming in the strobing dance floor lights. Nobody volunteered on either side. The bouncers formed a human wall between us and the punks who’d started it and escorted us out. “We’ll hold that other group back ten minutes. I’d suggest you get in a cab and find something in a different neighborhood,” one of the bouncers said.

  I bristled at being ordered out of the club when all we’d done was stand up for ourselves, but Lyndia’s touch on my arm cooled me down and we set off down the street.

  “I see them again, I’ll flatten them,” I grumbled.

  “You’ll have to stand in line,” Visnaal said.

  “Well, I’m not letting a bunch of mouth-breathers ruin my night,” Lyndia said. “After six months in a suit, no way that’s going to get to me.”

  The West Coast E-sound club we ended up at wasn’t half bad. It was three-quarters full, the music thumped from oversized speakers, and scantily clad waitresses with provocative smiles and darting eyes carried trays of drinks through the crowd. Lyndia and I exchanged a glance, and she winked at me.

  “What do you think? Better than that last dump?” she asked, yelling over the booming bass.

  “Hopefully the drinks are stronger, too.”

  We reserved a private booth and ordered a bottle of Guritain whiskey. The stuff was aged for fifty years on Purvas before being exported, so it was expensive, but we’d all accrued nice war chests while being trapped in our suits for six months. Spending money scratched an itch.

  So did kissing.

  When Lyndia first kissed me, her mouth tasted like whiskey, and the sensation of her tongue sent my mind into a state of blissful euphoria. I lost track of time until Visnaal tapped me on the shoulder. “What?” I said, resentful of the interruption.

  “We’re going. I just reserved a two-room suite at the Vestional Hotel. I’ll give your name to the front desk. Let’s meet for breakfast – but not too early,” he said.

  I looked at Lyndia.

  “Let’s go,” she whispered in my ear. “We can continue this in private.”

  We paid our tab and walked hand in hand to the street.

  “What’s taking the Flexi so long?” Maaly asked.

  “Yeah, who ordered it?” Lyndia asked, looking at me and Visnaal.

  “I thought you did,” he said.

  “I thought – oh shit!” I pointed across the street. Seven figures were making their way toward us in the shadows – the gang from the first club, with a couple of new faces.

  “I’m so not in the mood for a fight,” Lyndia said.

  “I’m ordering a car right now,” I said. Before I could get my Mini-Z out of my pocket, the group was standing in a circle around us.

  “Time to settle accounts,” the short man with the muscles said.

  “We don’t want trouble,” Maaly said.

  “Too fucking bad,” he growled. He took a step toward her.

  My instincts took over.

  I think, in retrospect, I’d stored up my frustrations. Years of being subjected to the bullshit of bigots had tightened a spring in my soul that unwound in one sudden explosion. I drove my shoulder into the thug’s midsection, and my momentum carried us into the s
treet. I felt his fists slamming against my back, but there was no pain, only rage. I dropped my arms to his legs and lifted him at the knees, causing him to lose balance. I fell on top of him and pounded his face with my fists until he was limp and bloody.

  It was over in moments, and then multiple pairs of hands were pulling me off him.

  I nearly punched Visnaal in the face.

  “Hold one, Avery!” he shouted. “You ended it.” He looked up at the other thugs. “Unless one of you other punks wants to join your friend here?”

  Maaly and Lyndia displayed long black blades. I hadn’t realized they were carrying weapons.

  “Jesus, Avery,” Maaly said. “I didn’t know you had such good fist work. But for the record, I’m not some frail princess who needs to be rescued. I was about to fill the bastard with holes.”

  “You two have knives,” I said.

  “You’re super observant,” Visnaal said. “Of course they have blades. They’re women, and this is Atlanta. You grow up in the woods or something?”

  “Don’t be hard on him, Vis,” Lyndia said. “He’s all pumped up on adrenalin.”

  “What about these fools?” Maaly asked. “Do we call the cops?”

  “I’m calling a Flexi,” Lyndia said. “This display of raw aggression has me craving something-something.”

  “You morons want to try your luck, or you had enough?” Visnaal taunted the gang. They were administering first aid to their unconscious companion.

  “Fuck you,” one of the women in the group yelled.

  “Yeah, fuck us,” Maaly said. “Bitch, you want to call it? Or does someone else need a lesson?”

  Apparently none of the others wanted to test themselves. Our car arrived, and we checked into the Vestional twenty minutes later.

  By the time we made it to the room, my fists were throbbing. The skin had split and was crusted with dried blood, and Lyndia gave me a pain-tab from her purse. I dry swallowed it and managed a crooked grin.