He pulled the suitcase he’d taken from the apartment’s closet out from under his seat again, set it on his lap and looked inside.
His passport was still there. His registration documents and employment contract from the Tajik Republic’s Private Military Contractor’s Liaison Office were still there, safe-burnt into a few sheets of smartpaper. His ID was still there, the plastic sealed bag containing a wad of Somoni bills to spend in Tajikistan was still there, his pad was still there, and so was the black stretchy hairband one of his mothers had accidently forgotten to take out of the suitcase after unpacking last vacation, almost invisible against the lining.
Everything still there, even if he had to rearrange it all because the case was so empty that his things rattled around inside. A smaller case would have been better, except the flight ticket to Tajikistan had specified the dimensions of carry-on luggage very clearly and he didn’t have enough to fill a suitcase that big.
Edane could have packed more clothes, but then when he came back the clothes might have to be delayed in quarantine.
If he came back. He didn’t know whether or not he’d want to.
He hadn’t been a soldier before. Not properly. He’d been in the barracks before the Emancipation, but that didn’t count, he’d never actually fought anybody. And Grandpa Jeff had always been very firm, saying that war was a bad thing, but that didn’t mean Edane was bad.
Edane had been made to be a soldier, and he wasn’t one. Because it was bad to be a soldier. It was good to be an office admin, or a lawyer, or a business manager.
Edane wasn’t any of those things, and he wasn’t a soldier, either. He wasn’t anything. He didn’t know what he was, except that nobody wanted him to be it.
He carefully took the hairband out of the suitcase, and looked at it. It could have been Cathy’s, it could have been Beth’s. It smelled a little bit like honeysuckle underneath the corridor closet’s mustiness, but Cathy and Beth went through phases of using different smells for their shampoo, and he couldn’t remember which of them had been using that kind of shampoo during the last vacation they took.
He just remembered the both of them slipping bands like the one in his palm over their wrists, holding back their hair and tugging the band over and around their hair into neat ponytails so they could run after him on the beach in Portobelo without getting their hair messed up by the wind.
Edane slipped the hair band over his wrist, with the same flex of the fingers his mothers had used. It sat black on his reddish fur. The more he rolled it back and forth the closer it got to his skin, vanishing under the hairs. At last he couldn’t even see it, just feel it around his wrist.
It pinched, a little, as he waited for his plane to arrive. The sensation faded, until the only way he knew it was there was if he checked, scratching at his wrist.
Being a soldier was important. It was the only important thing. Nobody else understood that, they all thought there were other things, but Edane knew different. Edane knew he’d been White-Six, and that once he’d had a place in the world, carrying the… the LAMW. The Light Anti-Materiel-Weapon. It’d been a long time, but he hadn’t forgotten the weight of it, even if he had a little trouble remembering the words.
He’d been White-Six. Part of White Pack, Fireteam One. Partnered with White-Five. Back then he’d known what he was for, and what he was supposed to be, and nobody had ever told him that he wasn’t who he thought he was.
Nervously, Edane picked at the hairband around his right wrist, scratching into his fur just to feel the soft flex of it under his clawish fingernail.
He was going to Tajikistan. He was going to be a soldier. He wasn’t a child anymore, he was a man. An adult. He just had to wait a little longer, for his plane to get there, and then everything would be better. He’d find out who he was.
Edane waited, though he wasn’t sure for what.
He scratched at his wrist, again, just to check for the hairband.
Edane kept waiting.
Sunrise was coming.
26. Stone Sparrow.
::/ Baku, Azerbaijan.
::/ June, 2106.
::/ Alice Stein.
“Savage debate continues, with allegations of ulterior motives being slung back and forth on the floor of Azerbaijan’s Transitionary Authority parliament. Sessions are currently being held on the front forecourt of the newly renamed Kurban Said building, also being called the poet’s parliament building, while reconstruction continues as part of Azerbaijan’s effort to reclaim its historic cultural heritage while mapping out a path towards its future.”
The reporter ducked, a gust of wind blowing in off the Caspian tearing at her hair, but she didn’t stop smiling manically at the camera, clutching at her earpiece. “With charges of corruption against both the Citizen’s Democracy Party and the Baku Worker’s Party, Vikram Khan’s own refugee-backed United People’s Front has been forced to submit to the same audit procedures — the Transitionary Authority’s parliament coming under heavy pressure from the public for transparency in its attempt to form a coalition government in the wake of the failure to find a clear leader in the election. Public political interest has never been this high — as you can see behind me the wind hasn’t been enough to scare off interested citizens who have plenty to say!”
She stepped to the side, gesturing — and there it was, the new parliament. Crowds surrounded the fenced off parliament steps, defense and public UAVs sharing the airspace overhead while clone Estian brothers and European PMC staff watched impassively. The crowds waved massive banners at their temporary government, lower parliament members walking around the fence’s border, reaching out between the clear armor-glass slats to shake hands with the public between debate sessions.
It wasn’t all an idyll. Large warning signs about search procedures and red tape marked out the surveillance area and protection cordon, but other than invasive back-scatter radar scans for weaponry by UAVs, anti-ordnance laser installations, and particulate detection masts surrounding the surveillance area’s red tape, it was a public space.
“Wow, that’s… a very busy looking place,” the voice back in the studio said.
“It certainly is,” the reporter replied. “Anyone can come and watch — or even yell at their elected officials. Four petitions for ministers to stand down have already been circulated, and two of them have stood down as a result. The people of Azerbaijan have tasted self-rule, and they seem set on keeping it.”
“Nice to have some good news from the region for a change. Now then, coming up after the hour, we’ll have special guests from Andercom West in studio to talk with members of the United Nations Committee on Eurasian Stability about just what this people-powered crowdfunded revolution might mean for civic rights in the region…”
27. Wasted land.
::/ Ulytau, Central Asian Depopulated Zone
::/ July, 2106.
::/ Eversen Estian.
Eversen had no fucking idea why they were called rompers, but the bug-looking RVs ate up the terrain almost as easily as the jeeps and armored vehicles. What set the things apart, though, was that they had all this great anti-contamination gear the researchers working on biowar fallout could use to get in and out during duststorms and rain while everyone else in the convoy was stuck inside their vehicles.
Except for Eversen, but Eversen was immune to the fallout, so far as the researchers could figure. Except from the caustics. The facemask wrapped around Eversen’s muzzle still let gritty little particles of the shit into his mouth, foaming on his tongue and burning like some kind of rancid disinfectant until he had to lift the mask to spit it all out, and at the moment he was officially classed a level three biohazard to the rest of the convoy.
He loved it. Even the spitting blood part — burnt mucous membranes were a small price to pay in exchange for fighting through the howling wind, gun in hand while nature and fallout tried and failed to murder him.
One of the unmanned cargo jeeps had overturned
in the windstorm — a rock or something the driving system hadn’t seen. Its cargo was scattered everywhere.
“I can’t find the seedlings!” Subhi yelled, wrapped up in biohazard gear like the researchers scurrying back and forth.
“Get out’ve the wind!” Eversen grabbed the strap on the back of Subhi’s biohazard suit — a hauling strap, just like on body armor for dragging downed teammates around — and shoved him into the lee side of one of the rompers. “The fuck are we gonna do if you get sick, huh?”
“The seedlings were my responsibility!” Subhi clutched his head through the biohazard suit’s soft helmet. “I put money in for them!”
“So did I. Now stay out of the wind!”
“Okay, okay!”
Eversen stomped off into the roiling clouds. Siegen — or possibly Sieden — was running through the dust, a tire-jack in either hand. The jeep was still so laden with cargo that two brothers couldn’t get the thing flipped over by themselves.
Hopefully the roll hadn’t fucked the jeep up. They still had a long way to go to get to their unclaimed acres.
In the depths of the quarantined zones, there were places that the biowar contamination was so bad even the nomads didn’t go there. Several governments still tried to claim the land, of course, but none of them could do shit with it — some areas were still buzzing with nuclear fallout.
But Subhi, and a bunch of his friends in the Crowdfunded Democracy Movement — now disbanded — had wanted to give democracy by the dollar a try. A real try. And they’d crowdfunded enough money to set up a commune, but there was nowhere to put the damn thing. So they’d voted it over in a mixture between a debate and a gambling session, Eversen even chipping in a few cents here and there to support the arguments he liked the looks of.
Having made their decision to go into the wastes, the group applied for and received grant funding from an MACP charitable fund to buy twenty tons of gengineered anti-contamination seedlings. The plants were designed to suck up old biowarfare agents and the chemical caustics and isolate the shit deep in their root structures. Philanthropic crowdfunding had gotten them the jeeps. Eversen and the rest had submitted a proposal for security provision on a part-volunteer basis, because there were still warlord nutbags and criminal gangs and all sorts of violence out here, when the dust itself wasn’t trying to kill people.
Eversen spotted a steri-sealed plastic bag in the dust, a black hydroponics block sprouting a dozen fragile green stems visible inside, and hauled it up in one hand. He paused to sling his rifle over his back, and chased down another bag rolling along in the howling wind.
Was the commune gonna work? Were the seedlings going to clear out the contaminants? Could the endless late night discussions and microfunding sessions to figure out how to put the commune’s public works projects into place actually lead to a stable settlement?
Eversen had no fucking clue. But getting the seedlings back onto the jeep made a difference, and so did protecting the convoy, and he didn’t have to question a goddamn thing about it.
It was a purpose that would’ve made Ereli happy, Eversen thought. He knew he was.
28. Real Blue.
::/ San Iadras, Middle American Corporate Preserve.
::/ July, 2106.
::/ Edane Estian.
A football spiraled overhead and into the shrubbery. Not a proper round one — a Norteamericano football. Ellis laughed, chasing after it. He bailed into the foliage, and trudged back out grinning ear to ear.
“Don’t you fucking track mud onto the picnic blankets, knucklehead! I will shove this thing so far down your throat that every time you wag you’ll flip burgers!” Marianna yelled, shaking a metallic spatula threateningly from the barbecue.
“Are you sure the steak’s not—”
She efficiently swatted it across Svarstad’s ear. “Back off, knucklehead. I’m cooking, not you. Go sit down.”
“Sir, yes sir.” With exaggerated meekness and defeat, Svarstad trudged back to the picnic blankets and flopped down by the music player, thumbing its volume down.
Eberstetten started laughing at him, so did Louie, looking up from his pad and grinning. It was nice to see the kid around, today.
Hell, today was just nice. Marianna had decided to throw a barbecue at the park, celebrate the fact that the new MilSim league guidelines were in. The doping policy got rewritten to clarify its policy on genetic doping as allowing all declared genetweaks, genemods, and other gengineering related alterations that were certified as both legal and having existed for a minimum of five years prior to registration as a professional player. More recent alterations and those undeclared or acquired during the course of play would, as they always had, be reviewed on a case by case basis.
It had been a lot longer than five years since anyone’d tweaked Edane’s genes.
It didn’t stop there. There were new ranking modifiers, and a handicapping system, and a balancing clause that could theoretically force match organizers to keep high performing pro-level fireteams — like the newly pro Hallman Hairtrigger Hounds, or just Triple-H, and MA-Company sponsored by Mark Antony LLC — off the same faction, like they’d been asking for in the first place.
Janine came back from the barbecue, bearing a paper plate with two steaming, charred cans of meat on it. “Seriously?” she asked, squinting at them.
“Seriously. I still can’t believe you’ve never even tried real meat before.” Edane opened the lid on the cooler, took the plate from Janine, and dumped the cans into the left-over ice.
“Uh, Sweetie…” She smiled awkwardly. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t real meat.”
“Sure it is. Knitted on a spool right out of the vat, then compacted into cubes with preservatives and everything.” He grinned at her until she laughed — he was getting good at that, lately.
When the cans had cooled enough to touch, he went and sat with her on one of the benches, showed her how to use the key to peel open the metal, and snap it off after to use as a little eating utensil.
Janine tasted it, pulled a face at him — but a cute face — and this time he laughed.
After they’d finished eating they went and lay on a couple of sun loungers, since he’d gotten her to try one of his things — meat — she was going to get him to try one of her things — sunbathing.
Before long, though, she lifted her sunglasses and glanced over at him. “Something wrong?” Janine asked, softly.
He shook his head.
“You’re supposed to settle back and relax, Sweetie. Shut your eyes.”
“Do I have to?”
“Relax, or shut your eyes?” she laughed, dropping the sunglasses back over her face.
Edane squirmed uncomfortably back. “Shut my eyes.”
“Something wrong, Sweetie?”
“No, just…” Edane pointed up, at the sky.
Janine tensed, sitting up and glancing at him, the sky… him.
“Sky’s blue today,” he explained, carefully. “Real blue.”
She took off her sunglasses, and lifted her head, staring up at the blue sky above.
“Huh. So it is.” Janine smiled down at him. “Very blue.”
Edane smiled back at her.
Blue.
Note from the Author
Hi!
Thank you so much for choosing to support me by buying this book. I very much hope you enjoyed it!
Reviews are both the emotional and professional lifeblood of self published projects like this one. If you don’t think your opinion’s going to matter, trust me, it will. Even a review as short and simple as ‘I liked this book’ is very meaningful, both to me personally, and to other readers looking for something new to read.
You can find me on twitter (@foozzzball), and if you’d like to hear about my new work in the future, along with other exciting news, you can join my mailing list at: http://www.sinisbeautiful.com/MailingList
About the Author
Malcolm F. Cross, otherwise known by his inte
rnet handle 'foozzzball', lives in London and enjoys the personal space and privacy that the city is known for. When not misdirecting tourists to nonexistent landmarks and standing on the wrong side of escalators, Malcolm enjoys writing science fiction, fantasy, and erotica.
While Malcolm has yet to do any crowdfunding, he’s sure it’s perfectly safe, and is sure there are unlikely to be other consequences. Edane, Ereli, and Eversen disagree, particularly Ereli, and more of their brethren can be found in Malcolm’s short story collection ‘War Dog & Marginalized Populations’.
He can be found online at http://www.sinisbeautiful.com.
Acknowledgments
As ever, Tim, because we chose to walk a long road, and I’m glad for the company.
My friends, because headstands and quilts are important, because the small things (like conspiracies) matter, because adventures and Kellings, and because some rodents might really be the best.
And, perhaps most importantly, my readers and fans, because you make what I do worth doing.
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