by A. J. Allan
“I have no choice, do I, sir?” Lopez asked rhetorically.
“Private Lopez,” Lt. Andrews said. He let the silence hang for a second. His face did not contain anger or a warning. It instead carried compassion and empathy. But he was now speaking as his commander, and Lopez knew he would not let him off the hook. “You will carry out your duty as it is ordered. Do I make myself clear?”
The words said one thing, the face another. Lopez knew which was true.
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“Good. Now, with that out of the way, you are all released from duty until the military ball tonight. I expect you all to be there, dressed in a manner that represents the UGM in proper fashion. We may have some dignitaries there and I want you to act as I know you are capable of. Do you all understand?”
“Yes, sir,” the six privates said in unison.
“Good. Dismissed.”
7
Lopez left the room without a word. The rest of the crew said nothing as well either. Whatever happened to “freedom through service?” Whatever became of the idea of getting to explore the universe and a much less crowded Earth by potentially sacrificing their lives for the UGM?
It felt like betrayal. Of course, it might all prove for naught. If things truly were chosen at random, then there wasn’t a great chance they’d be picked. In fact, depending on how many or how few people they intended to send into Mass Media, no one on Apocalypse Squad might have to go to a biopod.
But if they did…
What if they know? What if they know that there’s more like me?
Lopez didn’t know anyone else like him, of course. But statistically, he was certain there were others. Others who had to live their lives in complete silence to avoid entrapment down below. Others who suffered the cruel, barely-understood fate of living a lie from the moment one woke up to the moment one went to bed. It was not so much an eradication as a quiet nudge out, a push through the promise of an ecstatic experience through virtual reality.
And what better way to get rid of the lot of them by saying they would conduct “random” drawings for soldiers for downsizing in the military? What could be more subtle and what could garner the most equal amounts of sympathy for the hooked up and understanding for the UGM? They’d won their only war since its creation with barely a fifth of their soldiers facing actual combat, and the military had only grown in the last five years.
“Irons, I’ll come to your room to prepare for the ball in a couple hours?” Lopez asked as the squad scattered to their respective quarters.
“As long as you don’t interrupt my prep,” she said. “I’m not going to have some pretty Hispanic boy chatting away while I make myself look half decent.”
“Did you lose your Earth makeup as well?” he teased.
Irons slung her arm around him and squeezed, a gesture meant both to taunt and to comfort at that moment. They took an elevator three floors down, with Lopez remaining mercifully quiet on the jokes about Irons. When they reached the hallway where they resided, Lopez went right and Irons went left.
Lopez placed his palm on the biomarker identifying his hand and was granted access a couple of seconds later. He ordered the door locked and lay on the bed. He still had a few hours before he needed to prepare for the ball. He considered his options. He always enjoyed a good workout when stressed, as he was now. He could watch a movie or read a book, although nothing burned at his soul to indulge in. Nothing was available to him that he could watch and truly connect with on the deepest of personal levels without drawing some attention—and if anything, Lopez needed to do everything he could to appear normal. What an ugly, terrible word. One person’s normal is just another’s curse.
Someone knocked. It sounded firm and precise, three quick, hard knocks in rhythm.
Lopez stood, walked to the door, took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and said “enter.”
The door opened and a woman stood there. Her brown hair barely went below her ears. Her green eyes presented a burning intensity, but one that also had a catalyst of pain and sorrow. Her mouth was drawn straight. A mark dotted her pale left cheek. Tattoos went from her sleeve cutoffs to her wrists, the left arm showing a multi-colored phoenix rising from blue flames, the right arm showing a fist raised with another first and stars around it. One fist was black, the other was barely whiter than her skin.
Lopez had only known her a couple of weeks, but this brief second of standing here for just a moment made him feel like he now knew more about her than all of his encounters before.
“Private Lopez, may I come in?”
Private Michelle “Monster” Lake. According to her official profile, she was adopted at a young age from Russia by a conservative Christian couple in Canada. She had become something of a delinquent as a teenager, arrested multiple times for petty crimes such as vandalism, theft, and public intoxication. But, Lopez thought, never for violence.
That was, until she enlisted in the UGM, refusing to get hooked up. Despite her slender, short frame, more petite than powerful, she packed a hard, hammer-like right punch. Officially, the report came down that she had retaliated for making fun of her nationality, but Lopez didn’t believe that. Nationality generally meant so little in the United Galactic Military that she’d probably actually gotten mocked for something like her tattoos.
Of course, that’s what they say. Like how the Pence Protocol isn’t really about LGBTQ, but just ensuring humanity is strong.
“Come on in, Monster,” Lopez said, cringing a bit at saying her call sign out loud.
She didn’t seem to mind, though. In fact, she even smiled when she got it. Lopez didn’t mind Mav, since at least that sounded cool. How could someone who hadn’t seen combat yet take up the mantle of “Monster” and feel pride in it?
“Thanks,” she said as she entered.
The door shut behind them. Lake looked up to Lopez, easily a foot taller than her, and her smile faded.
“I just wanted to say that I feel the same way that you did today at the news.”
That’s it? That’s—
“I have similar reasons and similar feelings regarding all of this.”
Wait. She’s—
“Just between us, Mav, I want you to know that you’re not alone. I am aware of what you are going through and I share your pain. All of us do. But me especially.”
With that, she reached up and embraced him. Lopez held her in, his grip tightening as he thought he understood what Lake meant. She then slowly pulled back, but as she did so, she reached her hand into his pocket. Her fist came apart, and then she patted his hips.
“I just wanted to give you some support, Mav. I’ll see you at the ball.”
Without another word or even a head nod, she left. Lopez grimaced, wanting to say more, but Lake moved in a manner that left no room for compromise. If she was gone, no one of her rank could pull her back in.
Lopez sighed and put his hands in his pocket. That was when he realized she had placed a note in there. He paused just before pulling it out. Even in the “private” quarters, he didn’t trust that someone wasn’t watching him, or at least was capable of pulling video of him in his room if an investigation of any kind arose. He thus pretended to go to sleep, but when he’d positioned his covers properly, he pulled out the note from Lake. It was messy handwriting, as if written from an awkward position. It wasn’t particularly long, either. But it made Lopez smile.
I’m LGBTQ, emphasis on L. Like you. You’re not alone. I’m scared. But we’ll find a way. Don’t lose your identity to appeal to them.
-“Monster”
P.S. They don’t suspect us. Yet.
Lopez couldn’t quite believe the last line, but nothing in his interaction with Lake had told him she was nutty or paranoid. She was too certain, in fact.
He remained on guard, but also hopefully optimistic. As much as he appreciated the support of Irons and Jordan, they just couldn’t relate to him on the most personal, soul-baring levels.
8
After an actual nap, Lopez finally did prepare for the military ball. The uniform he would wear would resemble that of a traditional U.S.A. Marine’s “Dress Blues.” The time it took for him to throw his clothing on only took a couple of minutes, for he knew whatever he did not actually get perfect, Irons would straighten out for him. Still, he made sure it at least looked good from afar, lest he pass an officer on the less than one minute walk to Irons’ quarters.
No such event occurred, and after his customary double-knock, pause, and a hard knock, Irons opened the door for him. She was shimmying her skirt up, her jacket still needing buttoning.
“And here I thought that I would be the one needing help with my outfit.”
“Hilarious, Mav. The peanut gallery called, they’re hiring for new critics.”
“And Comedy Central called, they want more comedians who can’t handle the heat.”
Irons punched Lopez in the arm as he laughed teasingly, causing Irons to roll her eyes.
“Jordan’s good with you taking me still, I assume” he said.
Irons sighed.
“He’s as good as he can be at the moment,” she said. “I think we’re going to go on a break for a bit.”
“Why?” Because you can’t talk to a wall for that long? But Lopez kept his mouth shut. 90 percent of the time spent with Irons involved mocking and banter. But he knew whenever the serious 10 percent came around.
“He’s got a lot of issues from his past that he needs to deal with,” Irons said. “Stuff with opening up and such. He thought that going on leave with just the two of us would allow that to happen, but that clearly isn’t the case.”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know.”
Irons didn’t say anything at first.
“You couldn’t have known,” she said. “I barely knew myself. It took a lot to bring it out of him. But…”
But what? When she did, had she regretted it? Had she spent too much energy trying to get any semblance of history out of him? Was he himself too ashamed of his own history?
It’s not your place. She’ll tell you if she needs to.
“Is that going to affect things on the squad?”
As soon as Lopez asked, he felt ridiculous. Even the look that Irons gave him had lost all of the pain and grief, replaced with bemusement.
“It’s almost like you forgot we’re soldiers in the UGM, privates of Apocalypse Squad. Professionals. Not emotionally weak, work-weary cubicle dwellers of the 20th century.”
“I’m aware… Lifts.”
“Hey!” she said, pausing in the middle of applying make up. “Watch it or your ass is gonna be wedged in between a lift and an entrance before the night is done!”
Lopez and Irons continued to trade taunts as Irons finished preparing herself. When she felt satisfied, she took one last glance at her profile in the mirror.
“How do I look?”
Lopez stood and admired the woman in front of him. Even if he didn’t lust for her, he could still admire the aesthetic beauty and lithe hourglass figure that Irons kept through hours of training and weightlifting.
“Like you’d win prom queen.”
“Aww,” Irons said, putting her arm around his shoulder as they walked out. “You’re too sweet, Mav. I might have to keep you as my permanent pet.”
“Uh oh, but then how will I ever help Apocalypse Squad when war comes?”
“Hah!” Irons said. “I don’t think we’re going to run into war anytime soon. We haven’t detected any new life since we took down the neagala.”
Who said anything about war having to come against extraterrestrial life?
9
When Lopez and Irons entered, with Irons’ arm looped into Lopez’s, they made their way down the reception line, an archaic but necessary tradition. Lopez knew everyone in this line, the captains, the colonels, even the general, and their respective spouses. He played the part of overly-thrilled boyfriend to Irons well—all he had to do was be himself with a little bit more hands on the small of her back or a little bit more holding her hands. No one was any the wiser, and when people asked if they’d ever get married, Lopez just asked and pretended to let them in on a secret that he was thinking about it.
Later on, he knew, he would hate that he had stooped to such a level of acting to deflect attention. But in the moment, that didn’t matter. In fact, it was almost enjoyable. No one criticized him for not marrying her now, as marriage became rarer later in the 21st century. As long as he didn’t proclaim his LGBTQ status outside of Mass Media, he could lead whatever kind of sexual life he wanted. And since he carried out this charade with Irons, in a room full of high-quality drinks and formal food, he genuinely had fun in the moment.
When he’d finished his rounds of formal introductions, adding just enough spice to make him memorable to the spouses of the officers, he led Irons by the arm to their table, one reserved specifically for Apocalypse Squad. So far, the only other person who had made it was Private Eric “Loose” Li.
“Hey Loose,” Lopez said as he went over and embraced his friend. “I’m surprised you didn’t spend more time contemplating the meaning of your uniform.”
“Isn’t it deep, though?” Li said, and Lopez laughed with a slap on the arm when he saw his comrade was joking. “Jenna, looking beautiful.”
Irons thanked him as she hugged Li. Although Lopez owned the nickname “Mav,” by far the most unconventional of the group was Li. He always had his hair spiked, addressed people by their first name—even the officers, though that came through habit and not intention—openly questioned drills and actions and generally made life an annoying hell for his superiors. But, when he finally did execute his orders, he could carry them out like no other. No one on the squad fired more accurately, and no one on the squad escaped unharmed in combat simulations more often.
Which often forced Lt. Andrews to sigh, shake his head, and demand Li speak with respect knowing full well he would never get that from his young South Korean private.
“Where’s the rest of the crew?” Li asked.
“I dunno, I saw Lake earlier, I think she’s coming with Jordan,” Lopez said.
“Is she?” Irons said.
“Oh snap,” Li said. “That didn’t take long! Michelle comes in, little Monster latches her claws in!”
Li let out a dramatic laugh, but Lopez wasn’t laughing. He tried to convey that it meant nothing to Irons, that the girl they call signed Monster had the same orientation as him, but Irons did not look amused or understand what Lopez was saying.
“Gentleman, madam,” a deep, accented voice came.
The three turned to see Fred “Firestone” Kowalski approach the table. Of all of the members of the squad, “Firestone” took the badge as most likely to die by running straight into enemy lines. He had an intensity that felt like an atomic bomb—it didn’t just affect those around him, it spread through the room. When he wasn’t speaking, it felt like looking at a dormant volcano that could will itself into activity at any moment. The strong jaw line, the narrow eyes, and the perfect shave only super-sized the image he had.
Even in formal activities, the formality and intensity of the Pole never wavered.
“Fred, how are you?” Li asked.
“I am good, Private Li,” Kowalski said, emphasizing the name. “I am doing well. And you, Private Li?”
“Marvelous. Gonna get myself a rum and Coke, maybe some steak, find a nice single lady, you know the drill!”
“No, I don’t,” Kowalski said without any humor. “But thank you for elaborating. I truly appreciate it.”
A brief silence came following Li’s attempt to diffuse the situation with laughter. Finally, Irons ended it.
“I, for one, am going to get a cocktail,” she said. “A cocktail. Not cocktails. Y’all sorry asses can get your own drinks if you want one.”
She left without looking to see if anyone
else would join her. Not wanting to play the role of peace keeper, Lopez joined Irons. He figured if Kowalski truly got fed up with Li, he would just leave him and find an officer that he felt comfortable chatting with formally. When he looked back, mercifully, the two just sat in silence, appearing to people watch more than watch each other.
“You OK?” Lopez asked.
Irons’ look answered it all. The eye roll, the straight lips, the sullen expression.
“Listen, Irons, she’s—”
“It’s fine.”
“Jenna.”
He only used her first name when he needed to get her attention. She gave it immediately, ignoring the bartender placing her drink in front of her.
“She’s like me, OK? In every sense of the word.”
When Irons got it, to Lopez’s surprise, she did not immediately laugh or feel silly. Instead, she just nodded, as if allowing the notion to slowly enter her head.
“I hope you’re right,” she said. “Because they’ve just joined us at the table. Along with my uncle.”
10
Appearances had a funny way of affecting people, even when the spectators knew who wore a mask and who walked naked. Lopez knew Lake almost certainly wore a rather translucent mask. Irons could see it. Jordan, ironically, revealed everything about his intentions by saying nothing—he either knew Lake’s orientation and went with her to hide it, or he didn’t but took her as a friend. For all of the intensity the silent private had, none of it translated into cruelty.
And yet, Lopez felt sympathy for his best friend. How was Irons supposed to act seeing her on-and-off boyfriend with another woman, no matter who that woman liked? If she could put aside the weird feeling so easily, that would make her more sociopathic, not a better woman.
The two of them, Lake and Jordan, went through the reception line at a relatively slow pace, as if Lake wanted people to see her. A glance around the room for Lopez confirmed that more than a few people found this scene suspicious, though unlikely for the true reason. Why would Jordan jump from Irons to someone else on his own squad? Does he think Irons won’t care?