In the Valley

by Jason Lambright

  The effort had been a necessary, but colossal, pain for the three very tired soldiers. At 2300 local, they finished. Their chariot waited to take them back to the valley, whether they liked it or not.

  After morning chow the crew strapped into their ground-cars to return to the Baradna Valley, where they might get their dicks shot off. Paul was in his suit, parked back in his customary position as the gunner for the colonel’s ground-car.

  God, Paul thought, does it feel good to not be sticking up out of the top of the ground-car like some kind of dummy. He ran his halo through diagnostics and did an ammo check on the grenade launcher mounted above. Just thinking about it, he moved the turret back and forth through a firing arc. All systems checked green.

  He listened in on the halo freq to the other vehicles. Birthday was in command on the one ground-car; Green was in command on the other. It could have just been Paul’s imagination, but he thought he detected an excited note to Green’s voice. He must think it’s nice to get out of the office, Paul thought.

  Birthday, on the other hand, sounded anything but pleased to be going back. Paul fully sympathized. The last place he wanted to go back to was the Baradna Valley. Just thinking of the hellhole made Paul’s fun meter peg out.

  But they were going back. There was no doubt about it. The colonel got in and suited up. He did a comms check, and the little convoy left, heading back to the valley.

  The journey was much the same as other journeys in a mounted combat patrol. Paul was comfortable, seeing as how he was suited. He watched his sector. The other ground-cars watched theirs. It was a pretty routine trip, if you counted a trip toward combat as routine.

  On the way, they saw a new bomb crater; the thing was ten meters across and about two meters deep. The colonel whistled.

  “Wow,” he said, “that must have hurt.” Paul looked at the crater by slaving Z’s feed. Yep, it was a monster. Traffic had already made a road around the pustule. The Juneaus were nonchalant like that.

  Southbound they continued, past villages that were at most a hundred years old, but they already seemed as old as time. Onward they rolled, past beggars and donkey carts alike. Paul was continually amazed at how the colony worlds frequently looked like something out of Old Earth’s distant past, as opposed to the product of amazing technological progress.

  Mostly, he reflected, it was a mixture of the two. As if to prove his point, he saw a man on a donkey cart clicking off icons in the air, guiding electronic dreams around like clouds in the sky while riding a donkey cart that had been the height of technology at around 1000 BC.

  The sight brought a slight smile to Paul’s otherwise grim face. They were nearing the turnoff from the provincial highway onto the road that went straight to the heart of the Baradna.

  They turned off the highway, and Paul started looking at his sector just a little closer than he had been. About ten kilometers along the twisting road, he saw his first marijuana plant. It was a danger sign; he knew.

  It was crazy really. This whole province of Juneau was dangerous as hell. But there was danger, and then there was danger. The Baradna Valley, he thought, must be capital D dangerous. Experience had taught him so.

  Finally, around 1400 local, the little convoy reached the Chickenfoot. Firebase Atarab was dead ahead. Everything had gone smoothly on the way in this time, as opposed to last time he had ridden that way. Commander Mohammed, who was still on the loose, hadn’t chosen to place any bombs this time.

  The team rolled back into Firebase Atarab. They parked their trucks in the same old spots. No one had taken them when they had left. Paul felt like it was old home week. He even plopped back down on the same cot in the crater. No one had messed with that either.

  Mike came sauntering over. “Whew-wee, look at the squeaky-clean lieutenant! Welcome back, clown.”

  Paul smiled and laughed. “Good to be back, fuck nuts. When are you retards leaving?”

  Mike thought about it for a second, scratching his beard. “As soon as I’ve talked with the colonel. He’s with Fasi right now.”

  “What have you guys been up to? Did you catch the shithead who killed Lyek?”

  “Nah, we ran around like crazy while you guys were gone, knocking around a bunch of villages. But no one had seen him, or they wouldn’t tell us, in any case. That guy is gone.”

  “Shame.” There was not much else Paul could say on that score really.

  Paul’s halo pinged. He said to Mike, “Hey, the colonel is done with Fasi; he’s over by the mechanics’ tent.”

  Mike looked down on him and nodded. “Thanks, brother. As soon as I speak with him, we are gone.” With that, Mike turned and left. Ten minutes later, Paul heard the hum of heavy electric motors cranking. Shortly thereafter, he heard the gravel crunching under their wheels as the First Company advisors left with the mechanics.

  If the operation hadn’t wound down, they would be back after dropping off the casualty. The guy hadn’t been hurt bad enough for a shuttle medevac, and Mike’s team needed a break. Paul wished them luck.

  In the meantime, though, he was stuck back in the Baradna Valley, waiting for a mission. He reached into his sleeve pocket and pulled out a Fortunate. Home, sweet home, he thought and lit up.

  Later on, as he was sitting sentry go in his suit, his hand started to shake uncontrollably. He looked out over the valley with his suit-enhanced sight and saw nothing but Death, who he felt awaited him. In his suit, he felt OK. When he was out of it, which was more times than not, he trembled and felt naked beneath the uncaring, alien sky.

  He felt alone and vulnerable—a soldier a long way from home, waiting for the end.

  As Paul turned down the road to the north, toward the Baradna River from the firebase, he didn’t feel as if it was the end—not yet. Even though he was on a basic dismounted mission to deal with Commander Mohammed in Pashto Khel, he was feeling good, feeling alive. He kept checking all around him as he walked. He shifted the position of his rifle.

  He and Z were really the only guys in Second Company on this mission who had night-vision capability, thanks to their mil-grade halos. Therefore, Paul got to see a lot of guys stumble and run into each other. Paul helped one such unfortunate up, a young-looking rifleman.

  They pressed on toward Pashto Khel, sweating and swearing in the cool night air. Paul crossed over a flood embankment along the river. Then he passed with Z at his side down into its banks. The river made a cheery, gurgling noise beside them as they marched west. The Baradna ran right past Pashto Khel, so it made an ideal route for their nighttime movement. The banks concealed them, and it channeled the Juneau soldiers, so they didn’t go wandering off. The riverbank also canalized the battalion and made them possible candidates for an ambush, if the enemy was forewarned and so inclined. However, the walk through the river channel had been decided by higher, so Paul went with the call.

  The river channel, while an easy walk in the daylight, was less so by night. It was filled with melon-sized cobbles, and many a soldier tweaked his ankles and knees while he marched. Paul’s feet were soon soaked from the various puddles along the way. Fortunately, he was wearing a type of boot that let water in easily and shed the water just as fast.

  The Juneaus, in their moccasins, didn’t have that big of a problem wading either. The word came down the line—no talking, no light. Paul took that for granted during a night march, but he guessed someone was just being cautious.

  The walk through the river channel seemed to take forever. Sometimes Paul was on dry land; other times he was soaked to his crotch in icy water. Men strained to keep up with the fast pace set by the lead. Paul instinctively worried about his load. He checked his micro feed from time to time, just to make sure of Green and Z’s position relative to him. Everything looked good. The plan was simple and direct: apply maximum violence of action in the minimum amount of time.

  Finally, they reached the bridge where the battalion would split: Second Company to the west, First Company to the east. Th
is was where it started to get hairy for Paul. The movement along the riverbanks had been physically demanding; the part coming up was tough, as well as being in full sight of the village.

  If the bad guys had alert sentries or had placed listening posts, the battalion would be in for a hot reception. Plus, there was the small matter of a fifteen-meter cliff they had to climb. Paul had forgotten about the cliff. It hadn’t been mentioned in the briefings or been obvious on the halo maps of the village. The cliff hadn’t been visible on the micro coverage either. But there it was, on the other side of the bridge.

  Bashir wasn’t worried. “Ah, Paul, my friend, I have sent a man to find the path the women must take to take to get water from the river; we will wait here until he finds it.”

  Paul decided that if Bashir wasn’t worried, he wouldn’t worry either. Second Company just kind of stood there until Bashir’s scout found the path. It took about fifteen minutes, but the scout came through. Bashir heard the halo report and then passed word to his men. Second Company was on the move again. To the west about three hundred meters away, behind some bushes, there was a single foot’s-width path that snaked up the side of the cliff. Bashir’s men climbed it one by one.

  Paul and Z eventually followed them and reached the top of the plateau. Pashto Khel was right in front of them, about five hundred meters away. The village was clear as a bell to Paul. He felt a brief moment of panic until he remembered he was looking at the village through the best night-vision and thermal equipment in the universe (as far as he knew), the mil-grade halo.

  Just to get an idea of what everyone else was seeing, he briefly turned his night vision off. It was still as dark as the inside of a mule’s ass. Phew, he thought. He turned up his magnification of the view of the village, and then he tried thermals. If anyone was waiting for them on this side of the village wall, they must either be really good at hiding or not present at the moment.

  “Bashir, my friend, I see nothing waiting on us,” Paul said in that low tone that was best used in the field. Whispers carried farther than speaking softly.

  Bashir nodded. His company moved out roughly parallel to a rice dike that had been carved out of the field. Fortunately for Paul and Second Company, at this time of the year, there was no rice. The fields had been drained, and the locals were growing pot, a cash crop, so at least the footing was sound.

  Every ten meters or so, though, soldiers had to stumble over low dikes. Eventually, a dike struck Z-man. He went down with a choked-off cry of pain.

  “Hey, Z, are you OK?”

  “No, I think I fucked up my knee.” He sounded like he was speaking through gritted teeth.

  “Z, you gotta get up and walk. I can’t carry you.”

  With an effort, Paul helped Z stand. Z tested his weight and sucked it up. The two men moved out. It was a good thing Z could move; Paul knew he couldn’t have left him there, no matter what.

  The village loomed closer and closer. The men continued to trip and fall. Paul’s mouth started to dry up; his heart rate went up out of proportion to his physical exertion. He knew Commander Mohammed was ahead, and Second Company’s job was to kill him.

  Paul adjusted his combat harness. The straps were digging hard into his shoulders. His rifle got heavier by the step; he expected shooting to start at any time. Every time he thought they would surely be seen, he turned his night vision off and was reassured by the darkness.

  The pungent smell of marijuana was everywhere. Paul was starting to hate its rank smell. Up ahead, he saw that the company had to cross a two-meter-high wall to approach the wall where Bashir wanted the company to start its enveloping movement.

  One by one the soldiers went over the obstacle; it seemed to Paul that a dead man could hear the noise. By the time he got there and a Juneau gave him a lift up, he expected the shooting to start at any time. He looked at his halo clock. It was 0441 hours local.

  According to the plan, they had to have the village encircled by 0500. It was going to be tight. He landed on the other side of the wall with a thud and moved to the side quickly. Z-man was the next guy over. As soon as he landed, the pair moved out. The village wall was only fifty meters away.

  Paul felt a wrenching pain in his gut. Ah shit, not now, he thought. Paul had been struggling with dysentery for six months now. It was the natural byproduct of bad food and harsh living conditions. He had learned oh too well the signs of an impending explosion by now, and this promised to be a mother lode of squalor.

  Very quietly, Paul called Z. “Hey, Z, you gotta pull security on me while I shit.”

  Z rolled his eyes. “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me, sir?”

  Paul understood, but there was nothing he could do, except let it roll in his pants. Seeing as how no one was shooting right that second, Paul wasn’t willing to go that hardcore. “Ain’t kidding, Z. I’ll be quick.”

  Paul dropped his drawers while men marched past him to the wall; he laid some fresh fertilizer next to a towering pot plant. He concluded the filthy business quickly, thinking the whole time, Please, God, don’t let me die with my pants around my ankles.

  When he was done, he and Z moved up to the village wall, where Bashir was waiting, calmly motioning his men in one direction or the other. Paul and Z took up station right next to him. It was 0500 hours local. They had made it.

  Paul checked his micro feed and saw that First Company was moving into position in the north. Green was right smack in the middle of them.

  Things were looking good, when the fucking dog started to bark. Then things didn’t look so hot after all.

  Paul’s three-day pass on Canton 2 wasn’t looking so hot. He had wanted some time to himself, away from the team. So he went into the town by the force installation and was having some coffee. He figured he’d check out a halo book at the park and read it below the red-leaved trees. He was just settling on a plan when his halo pinged. It was Amy Brown!

  He just about jumped out of his skin. She was the last person he had figured on running into. Hell, he thought he would never see her again, so far from Earth. Very, very intrigued, he pulled up her icon. There she was, the same Amy Brown, just a little older. She had the same lightly freckled skin, the same brown hair, and the same beautiful hazel eyes. If anything, she looked better than his memories. No doubt she was making the same analysis of him in reverse.

  He was the first one to speak. “I still have your scarf.” He’d blurted it out.

  But it must have been the right thing to say because she blushed slightly, tilted her head a little to one side, and smiled. “After all these years, in the middle of space, and I find you again. Oh, Paul, it’s been a long time.”

  He didn’t know what to say. He just sat there in the coffee shop, tongue-tied.

  “Still the same elegant Paul, I see.”

  “Yeah, it’s still just me.” Paul had an idea. “Where are you, Amy? I mean, you must be on Canton 2, but where exactly?” Then he had another thought. Maybe she was here with a husband, as a settler; Paul’s presence might be a tad unwelcome.

  She beamed at him. “I’m doing some work here for my university, WVU. It’s pretty complicated, but let’s just say I’m looking for fossils. I see you are at the force installation; I’m actually not far away.” Then she answered his unspoken question. “If you have the time, we have to get together.”

  Paul felt himself stirring at the suggestion. Hell yeah, he would meet her. His pass was starting to take a distinct turn for the better.

  “I’ve got the time. Actually, I’m on a three-day pass right now. I can rent a ground-car and pick you up. Are you at the university in Tallahassee?” Tallahassee was one town over, an easy forty-minute drive. Like most worlds, Canton 2’s settled area was pretty small, with only a few towns and the capital, which was slightly larger.

  “Good guess. I always knew you were a smart fellow.”

  “Don’t know about that, Amy. I did sign up for the force,” he said with a self-deprecating smile.


  “Well, star-travelling soldier, I’m off at five o’clock tonight, so why don’t you pick me up. I can’t wait to catch up.”

  Paul couldn’t either. “Yeah, me too.”

  She shot him her location. The directions seemed straightforward. They said their good-byes, and Paul looked up the info for renting a ground-car in the little town by the base. A few halo calls later, and he’d ordered a vehicle to be brought to a retail store fairly close by. As it was only one thirty in the afternoon, he had some time to kill.

  A half hour later, Paul walked over to the parking lot where the ground-car waited. His halo unlocked the car with a code the company had sent, and he looked in it and checked it out; it seemed clean.

  Car in his possession, the next stop was to buy some civvies. Cams were OK for stewing around in a garrison town, but he had to wear something else to meet Amy. He walked into the retail store and went straight to menswear. He found a suit that he liked. He pinged the store’s inventory and ordered the correct size.

  A few bits and bobs later, he was ready for his date, if that’s what he wanted to call it.

  But he had to go back onto the base to pick up something first. He drove the ground-car onto the installation and carefully parked it by his barracks building. The barracks building was of drab construction; the building was also tinted a sickly yellow color. It was the typical force structure Paul had come to know all too well over the years.

  He went into his room and opened his wall locker. In the lower drawer lay his two treasured relics from Old Earth, the quilt and the scarf. Father’s switchblade was in his pocket. He had never parted with those three things in all his travels.

  Once upon a time, Darlene had mocked him for his special blanket and the scarf, and she was creeped out by the switchblade. The mocking had led to an argument that went on for days. She called him a sentimental fool. He guessed that maybe he was.