Part-Time God

by E.W. Pierce



  PART-TIME GOD

  E.W. Pierce

 

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

 

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  It was during sixth hour that I first noticed her. I was slumped in my seat, pretending to listen as Mr. Neilson walked through the elements on the periodic table but really just watching the seconds tick past. It was a Tuesday, so no combat drills, no getting out of school early.

  She was fiddling with her shirt, a rough-looking, wool shawl that looked like a blanket with an opening for her head. It reminded me of something I had seen before on the net, but didn't look right on her.

  She happened to turn then, and her eyes locked with mine. She was pretty, in a plain kinda way, with bright, green eyes and a small, freckled nose. Caught staring, I felt my cheeks burn. I offered her a smile, but she scowled and turned back around.

  The bell rang.

  I was heading for my locker when Judy Tredo caught-up with me. "Jordan - wait a sec."

  I slowed and half-turned. There must have been a football game because she was in her cheerleading outfit- sleeveless blue top and a short, ruffled skirt. The effect was altogether too much bare skin for me to deal with.

  I didn't know where to look; my face started burning. I scratched the back of my head. "Hey Judy."

  "Everyone's saying that you're some kind of soldier now."

  "Ah... yeah. I guess so." I paused, waiting. Judy was one of the pretty, popular girls. Snotty, until they wanted something, then hideously sweet.

  Her eyes widened. "Aren't you scared?"

  I stammered for a moment. "No. It's not real. I mean, it is, but we're not really there. They call us the VCF - Virtual Combat Force."

  "It's pretty cool that you're fighting. My older brother is over there, you know."

  I knew about her brother. I knew a lot about Judy, more than I wanted her to realize. I played dumb. "I didn't know that. What's he there for?"

  "Counter intelligence or something like that." She shrugged. "Anyway, I just wanted to say I thought it was cool that someone from our school was picked. Later."

  Her skirt twirled, revealing a glimpse of firm, tanned thighs. I turned away, remembering how she used to tease me about my name, though my body seemed to have forgotten.

  I took a deep breath and hurried to catch the bus.

  *

  Dad drove us to the base three days a week. We'd been drilling for a few months, but today was our first real combat mission. And though we would not be in any physical danger, my stomach was clenched and I had to pee.

  People paced outside the base with signs. Words flashed passed the car's windows. The protestors wore hooded sweatshirts and angry expressions.

  Dad hunkered over the steering wheel, ignoring them. It was better, he said, not to encourage them. I couldn't help looking, though I averted my eyes when a thin, gray-bearded man looked at me. I felt guilty, though I wasn't really sure why.

  Josh had called shotgun and was sitting in the front. He flipped off the protesters and laughed.

  "Joshua." Dad gave him a look.

  "Sorry." He continued to stare. "Why do they hate us?"

  "They don't - they hate what we stand for." Dad sighed. "They only see a threat when it is right in front of them."

  We weren't necessarily pro-war before, when we were a normal family. Sure, we'd always been patriotic - a flag outside the door on the 4th, hats off at ballgames during the anthem - but things had changed since we were picked for the VCF.

  Dad had been a professional video game player, but had given it up when Josh and I had come along. Too much travel and not enough steady income, he said. Sometimes I think he resented us for it, but he put on a happy face.

  He had jumped at the opportunity when the Air Force had announced the program. Video games were huge in our house, so Josh and I had signed up too. The Air Force had sponsored an online tournament, weeding the potential candidates down from millions to about a thousand. More tests and drills had gotten the number down to the final dozen.

  The Air Force had suspected, rightly, that young men and women weaned on video games would perform better than their own pilots. No amount of training could stand-up to the years we had spent developing lightning-quick, hand-eye coordination.

  The biggest surprise for them had been how young most of us were. They capped the age at sixteen, but Josh had made the cut because he was hands-down the best, and because Dad was in the program too.

  Dad stopped the car outside the checkpoint. A pair of stern-looking soldiers in green stepped out from a small, brick building, their rifles slung low.

  Dad rolled down the window and handed out his ID. "Dave Anderson." He waved a hand at us. "My two boys - Jordan and Joshua. With the VCF."

  The soldier read the ID with his scanner. He nodded and held out a hand. "Pass them through."

  Josh and I handed our cards to Dad. While the soldier scanned them, his partner swept the undercarriage of the car for explosives.

  After the scanning and sweeping was complete, the steel gate opened, and Dad drove us onto the military base. Our destination was a dented metal building along the back side of the base. Dad sometimes complained to us about it, but didn't say anything today.

  Captain Philmore was waiting for us outside. Though it was cold, he didn't have a coat. Daylight gleamed off his insignia, and his breath gusted like gray smoke. He looked annoyed.

  Dad said that Philmore's panties were in a bunch because he got assigned to supervise a bunch of civilians, and he couldn't do anything about it - we could fly circles around the military's best. That part was true, at least. Some of the early drills had involved virtual combat versus the Air Force's best. We had dusted them with little effort.

  Dad nodded in greeting. "Captain."

  "The rest of the squadron is already locked in," Philmore said.

  "Great - let's get started." Dad motioned at the door.

  Philmore sidestepped. His lips curled as Josh and I walked past, then he followed us inside.

  Our mock cockpits were arranged along the far wall. Nearest the door was a wall-sized screen, displaying a zoomed-in map of the Middle East. A long table and half-dozen chairs faced the screen.

  We walked past the table and toward the cockpits. Two techs were checking the wiring on one of the terminals. Seeing us, one of them straightened and stepped forward.

  "Mr. Anderson," he said. "Birds are hot. Got the rest of your unit on comm."

  Dad nodded. He turned to look back at Josh and I. "Get loaded in, boys."

  I clambered into the cockpit and sank into the seat. The virtual terminals were designed for full-grown men, and despite the fact that only two of the twelve VFC pilots were adults, the terminals had not been adjusted to account for our smaller sizes. At least I was 16 and tall for my age - Josh was only 13 and hadn't hit puberty yet.

  The controls were simple - a pair of black levers to control yawn and pitch, with buttons on the vertical controls for firing weapons. The techs would monitor everything else, leaving us to focus on flying and shooting.

  I lifted the headset from the dash and eased it on. "UV3 checking in." We were to use call-signs over the radio, no names.

  Familiar voices greeted me. I'd never met any of the others, but had seen pictures of them on the net. The media loved the VCF, but not in a good way.

  Dad's voice cut into the line. "Look sharp. Lift in 90 seconds."

  I flicked the switch to shut the cockpit. As the lid eas
ed down, a flicker of anxiety surged through my chest. I watched the window of daylight shrink until, with a sucking sound, the lid sealed closed, cutting off all sound and light.

  A welcome puff of air tickled my face as the oxygen pumps came online. The monitors winked into life - front, back, sides and top. Digitalized daylight filled the cockpit. Green dials flashed onto the bottom right corner of the front screen - ammo, altitude, direction.

  I looked onto the digital scene. A fleet of drones were arranged in neat rows on a concrete airstrip. Jeeps and fuel trucks lined the airfield, and white brick buildings encircled the base. Beyond, a lifeless landscape of sand hills and valleys stretched to the horizon. The sun seemed especially bright, a low-hanging, pale sphere. Even as I shielded my eyes, the display dimmed.

  A man in desert camo walked along the drones, towering like a giant. He gave us a thumbs-up sign and a grin.

  "Lift off," Dad said. Sand swirled on the pavement as the ships rose vertically. When we reached thirty feet, I engaged the thrusters. The cockpit rocked as the drone leapt forward. Below, the air base raced past.

  "Target today is a convoy." Captain Philmore's voice was like gravel in my ears. "Sat scan shows a pair of trucks and a car. At least ten hostiles. Anticipate RPGs and shoulder-mounted missiles. Small weapons fire can damage and destroy the drones, so be careful." I was surprised he didn't tell us, again, how expensive the drones were.

  We flew in a loose formation, as was our wont. Somehow, even without verbalizing it, we all felt the need to do things just a little off-kilter. Philmore hated it, but he had already given up on the little things.

  I craned my neck to look below and thought I could see twelve tiny shadows, like black birds, cresting the sand dunes.

  "Targets are lit," Dad said.

  I checked the scope and saw a cluster of tiny red dots on a green, three-dimensional map. The dots crept across the landscape.

  "Now - just like we practiced," Dad said. "UVs three and four on me. Two - take the others west and come across after our first pass."

  Josh was designated UV4, and Chris Samuels, the squad's second-in-command, was UV2. Chris had not received the distinction because of his skill - Josh was the best pilot - but because at eighteen, he was the only other adult.

  Chris confirmed and then spun off. Eight drones trailed after him.

  "Okay boys," Dad said. "We're on a private channel. Nervous?"

  I was nervous. Not because I would be harmed in the coming battle - that was impossible, after all - but because I wanted to prove that we could do this, and I wanted to make Dad proud, too. "A little."

  "It's okay to be nervous or scared," Dad said. "But we'll pull through this."

  "I'm not scared," Josh said.

  I wasn't surprised. Of everyone, Josh was the most likely to fly out of this thing with his drone still intact. Besides, he didn't have anything to prove to Dad. He was the favorite.

  "All the same, be careful. Follow my lead and listen to what I say."

  We agreed and fell silent. Miles, represented as cascading numbers, trickled away on the display.

  When we were five miles out, Dad opened the group channel. "Ok - let's go to ground. Skim the surface."

  So low to the ground, the drones would be harder to target with missiles. Small weapons fire was more of a concern at such a low altitude but, comparatively, was a lesser risk.

  "Coming up now," Dad said. "I'll take the lead truck. Three and four - target the other. Two - pickup any stragglers."

  "Remember," Captain Philmore said, "take a pass and then get clear and regroup. This is a quick strike, not an open dogfight."

  The radar was emitting a slow, steady beep as we closed on the enemy. We rode the dunes like they were waves, up and down. And then we crested the last one.

  Below, on a dirt-packed road twisting through the desert, a trio of vehicles shimmered. I held my breath, expecting to fly into a hailstorm of bullets, but our arrival was unnoticed.

  "Ok," Dad said. "Weapons hot."

  As the drones started down the slope, I pictured a trio of metal pterodactyls, swooping down, razor teeth open to the sky.

  Plumes of orange-red fire flashed on my left. I squeezed the trigger, sending a pair of missiles after Dad's and Josh's. The vehicles continued to bounce down the road, oblivious.

  The lead truck vanished in a bright explosion as Dad's missiles struck home. A split-second later, Josh's, and then my, missiles hit the second truck. The staggered explosions sent the wreckage tumbling into the air. The truck crashed to the ground, splitting in the middle. Flaming men jumped out of the wreckage and fell to the ground, still.

  Smoke poured off of the vehicles, filling the naked sky with black clouds. Dad twisted up and away, gaining altitude. I followed, seeing flashes of light out of the corner of my eye as the rest of the drones attacked.

  *

  Our first mission was a success. Targets were completely destroyed, and none of the drones were even as much as shot at. Captain Philmore had greeted us when we had emerged from the faux cockpits with a congratulatory "well-done", though he had been quick to point out that their own pilots had been just as successful at similar raids.

  But, as Dad pointed out as we drove home, they hadn't created the program for dumb missions. That was just a test, an exercise to prove this concept. Soon, Dad said, we would get targets that would shoot back.

  That night, I dreamt of vast deserts and metal birds and orange, dancing men.

  *

  It didn't take long for the news to spread. Given the negative publicity the VCF was getting, the military seemed eager to get some positive press. And though it had been a cupcake mission, I felt like a rock star.

  I was relating the story - slightly embellished - to some kids on lunch hour when Kyle Stevens interrupted. The audience, a group of freshman and sophomores, leaned in, hanging on my every word. I was so engrossed that I didn't notice Kyle until he hauled me out of my seat by the collar.

  "Hey - what wrong with you?" I tried to beat his hand off, but Kyle was a junior and on the football team.

  "What's wrong, tough guy?" He pushed me up against the wall.

  Standing behind him, grinning, were three more members of the football team. Through the gap in their letterman jackets, I could see my audience dissipating. Only Tommy Perteli, my best friend, remained.

  Tommy stepped toward us, but hesitated. "C'mon, Kyle - let him go."

  Kyle ignored him. He stared at me, his eyes black bullets. His forearm pressed down into my chest like a pile of bricks.

  I had experience with bullies, and knew that they thrived on fear. I tried to stay calm. "What do you want?"

  "I just had to see this war hero for myself." He shook his head. "You don't look like much." He pushed away, crushing me into the wall. I rebounded like a basketball but remained on my feet.

  "C'mon," he said, waving me forward. "Let's see what you got."

  I glanced around for help - a teacher or something, but didn't see any adults. "I don't want to fight you."

  He pretended not to hear me. "What did you say? Did the big, bad soldier say he's a pussy?" The football players laughed.

  "No."

  The bell rang, cutting of his reply. He jabbed a finger into my chest. "I don't want to hear any more about this hero bullshit. Understand?"

  The jocks shoved Tommy into a passing kid as they left. The kid, a willowy red-head with a face like the side of the moon, scowled, but then he brightened when he saw me. "Hey Jordan - I heard about your mission."

  My face reddened, but Kyle hadn't heard him. "Sorry - gotta go," I said, curtailing any questions.

  Tommy joined me, rubbing his arm. "Stevens is such a douche."

  I nodded.

  "What're you gonna do about it?"

  "What can I do? I don't want to quit the VCF, and I can't stop the stories. I sure as hell can't make Kyle leave me alone." I shrugged. "I'll just have to lie low and avoid attention."

 
Tommy snorted. "Good luck with that." He started toward the stairs. "See ya."

  I turned the corner and saw the strange girl from Chemistry approaching through the crowd. She was dressed in a drab gray shawl that contrasted sharply with her fire-red hair. Seeing me, she scowled.

  I don't know why I stepped her way. Maybe it's because I have this need for everyone to like me. Or maybe I felt sorry for her - she was obviously new, and it didn't look like she had any friends. As a fellow social reject, I felt responsible for introducing myself.

  She stopped short and fixed me with a look that made me take a step backward. "Well? Do you want something?"

  I managed to stammer out an introduction.

  "I know who you are." Her pink lips formed a hard line. "What do you want?"

  More stuttering. "I just noticed you were new here and wanted to say hi." My brain caught-up with my mouth. I smiled. "You know who I am?"

  She didn't look impressed. "Doesn't everybody? You're the big war hero."

  I shrugged. "Don't believe everything you hear on the 'net."

  "So you didn't fly in a mission?" She took a step forward. "You didn't kill some supposed terrorists?"

  "Supposed? They had weapons and everything."

  "Did they shoot at you?"

  "Ah…"

  "And if they had, would you have done any different, in their place?"

  I could feel my face reddening. I opened my mouth to argue her point, but every defense I could think of wilted under her hard stare. "I gotta go."

  I thought I heard her laughing as I walked away.

  *

  Her name was Alice McGalley. Josh had class with her brother Mike and said he was just as weird.

  We were talking about it at dinner. Dad looked like he wanted to spit, but Mom warned him with a look.

  He snorted. "Hypocrites. They'll salute the flag, but then complain about how we keep it on the pole."

  Mom was quietly supportive of our involvement in the VCF. After all, Josh and I were getting college paid for, and we were serving our country. Still, she didn't tolerate talk of it at the dinner table.

  "That's enough of that," she said. "Josh - how did your English test go?"

  Dad interrupted. He held up a finger at Mom's stare. "Just one thing, Maggie." He looked down the table at Josh and I. "I want you to stay away from these people. Understand?"