by Bill Roberts
I calmly reply: “Have you ever driven a tank?”
“What does that have to do with this?” Harkins shoots back, still angry.
I continue: “How about a crane? A powerboat?”
Lance chimes in: “Road grader?” Where did he come up with that? Awesome.
Harkins swells up a bit and says: “Listen, Major …”
“My point is they all have different controls.” I interrupt. “They have different controls because they are different machines. They have controls that maximize the operator’s ability to use the machine properly. The Kodiak is most assuredly not an aircraft. It should have different controls because it is different.” After a moment I add: “Sir.”
Art Murray had closely followed the conversation. He looks thoughtful as he says: “I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately.” He looks over at Harkins and continues: “We’ve spent the last couple of years making aircraft controls work, because you all asked for them. But, over the last six months or so I’ve begun to notice that there are a lot of different and perhaps better ways we could do this if we started over again.”
“You have any specific ideas?” Lance asks. For the tenth time in the last three days I thank God Lance is here with me.
“A few,” Art replies. “But the Colonel is right. You haven’t piloted one of these things yet. Let’s get you in there and see what we can come up with together.”
Harkins tries to regain control of the situation: “This is crazy. There is nothing wrong with the controls. Like you said we have perfected them over the last two years. Starting over again would be a waste of time.”
Art disagrees: “With the new design and production systems we could design something and retrofit it in just a couple of weeks. We have learned a lot about how to make a Kodiak work. I’m sure we could avoid a lot of the problems that plagued us early on.”
“You will do no such thing,” Harkins decrees.
I look him squarely in the face and reply coolly: “Sir, you are going to have to take it up with Colonel Langsdorf. Lance and I have very specific instructions.” I look over at Art: “Let’s get started.”
“I most certainly will. This is obviously a waste of time,” Harkins shoots back and storms away. His boots thunder on the concrete, he bangs open the door violently and the noise diminishes into the distance.
Art looks at us speculatively: “Somehow I think Harkins is going to lose, so we better get to work.”
I smile and reply: “We are at your disposal, Sir.” He waves us towards the simulators and Lance and I head over. I look at Art as he heads for the simulator control station and my smile turns into a grin. Two hours of real work and Lance and I have already pissed off a useless lieutenant colonel and invigorated an engineer. My good cheer I have felt all day thrills through me. Today is turning out even better than I expected.
CHAPTER 9
Leave
The sun shines brightly on Svetlana and me as we stroll arm in arm through Balboa Park. What a gorgeous day. Of course most days in San Diego are gorgeous. The gentle heat from the sun mixes with the cool air coming off the Pacific to keep this late summer day comfortably in the seventies. The perfection of the weather matches my mood. A beautiful woman who loves me is hanging on my arm. We are strolling through one of the world’s prettiest places. And we have nothing to do but soak in the sights and enjoy each other’s company. Throw in some perfect weather and it is a surefire recipe for contentment.
Svetlana and I are spending the day in the Park. It is the last day of our pre-deployment leave. In the year since the ambush on Awful our lives have been a whirlwind of activity. There was the Naval investigation into Commodore Smith’s activities. The process of replacing the Battalion’s losses. The rigorous training schedule of a unit in garrison culminating in the pre-deployment certification exercise we had completed a couple of weeks ago. Finally, there were the recent actions of the Tangul. We have certainly earned this vacation.
I imagine we make a striking couple walking through the park. We are both wearing our uniforms. Since the unification of humanity’s militaries we always wear uniforms, even when off duty. Sometimes I miss wearing civilian clothes, but the Unified Marine uniform looks great no matter what the occasion. The uniform retains the olive green and khaki of the old United States Marines. However, to make it more universal several changes were made. The patent leather shoes are gone, replaced with calf-length buff polished black leather boots. The old U.S. style rank pins have been replaced with epaulettes and shoulder boards, with a vaguely British style rank insignia. We have managed to avoid the ubiquitous berets used in the Army and Aerospace Force. Instead we wear the simple fore and aft cap of the old Corps. Still that has received changes as well. On the front right of the cap the eagle, globe, and anchor pin has been replaced by the United Humanity Marine Corps symbol, a phoenix, planet with rings and cocked anchor. The rank insignia is no longer worn on the left side of the cover, that is now blank. The cut of my uniform remains the same as the old United States Marine Corps uniform; however, the cut of Svetlana’s uniform is a complete redesign. The stupid skirt is long gone, and the shirt and pants have been recut so they fit far more gracefully. I swear the old Marine Corps woman’s uniform had been designed by a misogynist with the fashion sensibilities of a Southern Baptist preacher. Today we are wearing the short sleeved khaki shirts to comfortably enjoy the sun and all its glorious warmth.
I look over at Svetlana. The sun makes her chin length raven hair gleam. I admire the profile of her face. Her normal serious expression is gone, replaced with a relaxed happiness. She is generally less serious when we are alone than she normally is. However, since my near death experience on Awful she has become even more relaxed. I welcome this change wholeheartedly.
Svetlana would make sackcloth look good, but in the United Humanity Marine Corps uniform she projects an understated but alluring elegance. I decide a compliment is most definitely in order: “You are fantastically beautiful.”
I can see her smile bashfully as she replies: “You are just saying that.” Her embarrassment thickens her lilting Russian accent.
Women. They never seem to think they are pretty enough. “You can think whatever you want, but it’s just the simple truth.”
“You are crazy,” she returns. “But I thank you anyway.”
We continue on our way through the park strolling past the reflecting pool and heading for the Japanese Friendship Garden. We are taking a slight risk walking together like this. But it is miniscule. Our relationship has always violated the Marine Corps’ strong regulations against fraternization. However, the rule does not forbid relationships between officers of similar grade. We are both field grade officers which means visually we do not look like we are breaking the rules. A general can walk by and he will not bat an eye at the two of us. But, if he knows us we will be in real trouble. As the massive military base that houses the United Humanity Marine Corps is half a world away I do not worry about that in the slightest.
The birds sing around us and the breeze carries the smells of hibiscus blooms. Our boots make a pleasant rhythm as we close in on the garden. At the top of the Japanese Garden the Japanese Tea House serves tea and food. I smell something delicious and my stomach growls. The nanites do for that. You practically have to eat all day long with those things buzzing inside you. I nod towards the restaurant and ask Svetlana: “Would you like to get something, at the Tea House?”
She replies: “Please. I am very hungry.”
We enter the quaint little tea house and order tea and yakisoba. The food and drink are ready in moments and we take them to a small cozy table underneath the awning outside. I take a sip of tea from the small porcelain cup then remark: “What a gorgeous day.”
Svetlana smiles: “I agree.”
We watch the people go by as we eat. With the near universal use of nanites everyone looks so you
ng and healthy. I savor a delicious noodle and try not to be bothered by the fact that many of the people walking by look at us curiously. Thirty years ago San Diego had been a military town. But with the coming of the Synti and the unification of Humanity’s forces those days are long gone. Svetlana and I are an oddity here now. We politely ignore their scrutiny until a young girl rushes up. She has long kinky hair, coffee colored skin and huge eyes. She rather breathlessly asks Svetlana: “Are you a soldier?” She does not even spare me a glance.
I smile as Svetlana replies: “I am a Marine. It is like being a soldier only better.”
“What’re all those ribbons for? There are a million of ‘em.” She points at the rack of ribbons on Svetlana’s left breast. The girl’s curiosity is charming.
Svetlana replies modestly: “If you fight in the Marines long enough they give you these pretty ribbons to thank you.” No need to mention that the blood red one in the upper left corner was the Medal of Valor, the highest award of the United Humanity military.
The girl, with the sincerity of youth, states: “I am gonna be a soldier when I grow up and fight just like you do.”
With a serious look Svetlana says: “You will make a great soldier.”
As the girl beams at Svetlana a man and a woman walk up rapidly. They must be her parents. They gently corral the girl and the father says: “I’m sorry if she bothered you.” They look slightly embarrassed by their daughter’s forthright behavior.
“She did not bother me. You have a wonderful daughter,” Svetlana replies. The sincerity in Svetlana’s voice soothes the girl’s parents and they relax slightly.
The father speaks again: “Thank you for your service.”
I never know how to respond to that statement. I do what I do because it needs doing. Thanks really are not necessary. Also, while I appreciate a civilian’s need to show appreciation to those that protect them, I do not feel they truly know what they are thanking me for. They do not drop on miserable planets far away. They do not feel the fear of heavy weapons chipping away at their Kodiak’s armor. They do not feel the sick thrill of killing an enemy. And they most assuredly do not watch their comrades die in smoke and flame. So I simply nod my head.
“You are welcome,” Svetlana replies diplomatically.
The mother looks at us seriously and asks: “What do you think of the Tangul fleet flying into the Elowynn Harmony?”
Oh great. We have gotten this question a lot over the last couple of weeks. I normally enjoy talking intergalactic politics with civilians. Because of the nature of my job I can usually offer a unique perspective. However, we had spent the week before our leave in endless classified briefings about it. It is always difficult to have one of these conversations without letting something slip. I shoot a quick glance over at Svetlana and see she is uncomfortable as well.
The father speaks: “If you can’t answer, that’s okay.” He looks slightly uncomfortable himself.
I respond quickly to that: “No, no. It’s fine. It’s just that it is a complicated question.” My turn to be diplomatic. “I would say that, although it was obviously not a mistake like they claim, I think our measured response was perfectly appropriate.” Ahh, the art of saying nothing. I certainly could not tell them that it was the MoD’s estimate that it is clearly another step in a dance certain to lead to all-out war with the Tangul Empire. The only real argument is when.
Svetlana provides amplifying nothingness: “The Tangul certainly seem to have acknowledged the seriousness of the situation.”
I feel almost guilty as I see the relief in their faces. The mother says: “I really do hope we can avoid war. We have all seen enough of that.”
“I can readily agree to that thought,” I reply. It just is not going to happen.
I imagine the conversation is over until I notice that the mother is now studying my face. Uh-Oh. I see the light bulb go off in her expression and cringe inwardly. “I saw you in the news. You’re that guy that knows the Queen aren’t you?” She says.
Svetlana looks pained. She knows how much I hate being recognized. I groan inwardly, I have managed to stay out of the news for the last couple of years. I had hoped events like this would die down. For the most part they have. While working with Marines it is easy. They all know, but they also all know I don’t talk about it. Ever. So they politely ignore it. I manage to maintain a calm voice and expression as I reply: “If you don’t mind I would prefer not to talk about it.” I could have lied and said she had the wrong guy, but that is something I just cannot do. I will never dishonor the Queen by lying about knowing her. Never.
The mother looks mortified as she responds: “Oh, I’m Sorry.”
The father looks uncomfortable again as he says: “Well, we better get going.”
He starts ushering his family away from us as they walk off I hear the little girl say “Mommy, who was that?” Then thankfully they disappear from view.
I feel no shame about my relationship with the Queen. But, I most definitely do not like to talk about it. It is an intense relationship, cemented with oaths and complicated with competing interest. On top of the uncomfortable conversation about the Tangul I am now thoroughly disturbed. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I work to settle myself back into the comfortable contentment the family had innocently disturbed. I open my eyes and see that Svetlana’s face has assumed an all too familiar serious expression. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I cannot allow that. I force a smile and ask: “What do you want to do next?”
“We could leave if you like.” She sounds concerned as she says it.
The conversation, how it made her feel, how it made me feel, has obviously bothered her as well. I will not allow that. We are on leave damn it all. I force more false happiness. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Let’s go walk through the garden.”
Sadly the serious look does not leave her face. We get up from the table and head for the path that winds through the Japanese Friendship Garden. Svetlana takes my arm and we walk slowly. The Garden is truly a beautiful place. The path snakes through cherry trees and traditional Japanese horticulture. The peace and serenity of the Garden seeps into your bones. I feel my contentment returning. I look over at Svetlana and see it is having the same effect on her. The serious look is gone, replaced with a simple serenity. As we enter a secluded spot I stop, gather her in my arms, and kiss her. The kiss sweeps away the last vestiges of discontent.
As we part she smiles at me and says: “What was that for?”
I smile back and reply: “You just happen to be eminently kissable. I just couldn’t resist any longer.”
“Oh, I do not believe that,” she replies. Thankfully, I see her face now glows with a contented happiness. She looks around while I hold her and says: “I love this place. The peace. The beauty.” She turns and I hug her to my chest. She continues: “With you here I feel perfectly content.”
I find comfort in how much Svetlana loves me. I know I am her first great love. She has told me so many times. I hope to never leave her side. A love like that is to be treasured for as long as one could hold on to it. But, I have my demons. I know I will probably never love her as much as she does me. I twist the simple gold band on my left hand, the physical reminder of those demons. Since Awful it really does feel like we have come a long way in our relationship. But as I feel the smooth band of metal around my finger I think about how the demons are definitely still there. Svetlana stills my hand gently then pulls it to her lips and kisses it gently. A reminder that she knows the hole in my heart has yet to fully heal. The touch is also a promise. A promise that she will be there to hold my hand until it does. The journey may take forever, but we are both content to make the journey together.
“Thank you.” I mean it down to the marrow of my bones as I say it.
“For what?” Svetlana asks quietly.
“For being you. For being everything that you are,” I re
ply.
“Do not thank me,” she replies. “You are a good man, Shawn Morris. I am the one who should be thanking you.” The last line is ludicrous, but it will be pointless to argue with her about it.
We slowly make our way through the rest of the Garden. The leaves on the cherry trees rustle gently in the breeze while birds flit through the branches. We move in silence, just soaking up the beauty around us. As we reach the end of the path I notice the sun is well past its zenith. Our day in the park has been fabulous, but it is drawing to a close. The temperature begins to drop. It is time to go. “Where would you like to go for dinner?” I ask.
Svetlana does not hesitate. She is, after all, a Marine. Decisiveness is ingrained into us. “I would like to walk through the Gas Lamp district and see where we end up.”
“A brilliant idea,” I reply. We head for the nearest tram stop.
In our hotel we prepare for our evening out. We will wear our full uniforms. The cool evenings in San Diego will make them quite comfortable indeed. Furthermore, we both like the idea of spending an evening on the town all dressed up. While I am tying my tie Svetlana reads her father’s latest e-mail from Mars. She reads parts of his e-mail out loud to me: “Business is good now. We have discovered a new vein of platinum near Olympus Mons.” Svetlana’s father is part owner of a large mining company that works the Red Planet for valuable minerals. She reads a few more lines to herself then looks at me smiling. “He sounds happy.” Svetlana adores her father. They had lost most of the rest of their family when the Synti came. This had made their already good relationship essential to both of them. I finish my work on my tie and put on my jacket and belt it. While I am doing so Svetlana reads out loud: “So, my daughter, you have spent enough time fighting in the Marines. When will you come work with me here? There is so much to be done and to have you at my side helping would bring me great joy.” She laughs happily and looks at me as she says: “He will just not stop pestering me to do this. I think he is secretly trying to get me away from you.”