 
RAPTOR ACES

by Brian Bakos

cover art: Rob Jones

interior art: Brian Bakos & Othoniel Ortiz

Copyright 2015 Brian Bakos / revised 07-2019

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

One: Squadron Home Base

Two: The Descent Begins

Three: Youth Answers the Call!

Four: The Battlefront

Five: Disillusion

Six: Flight

Seven: The Mission Commences

Eight: The Darkness

Nine: ZOD

Ten: Return

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#  One: Squadron Home Base

1. Descent from the Heavens

Here in my cockpit, I float with the gods – embraced by rushing air and the pulse of my engine. I am a Lord of the Universe. Beneath me sprawls the world of common beings, and running along its surface is a terrified slobe boy.

I sense his fear from my hundred-meter altitude. It excites me and spurs on my efforts. The slobe tries to flee as my airplane hunts him down, but the attack dogs force him back onto the landing strip. He looks toward my approaching aircraft. His terror vibrates up to me.

"Get down, you idiot!" I shout.

The slobe can't hear me, of course, but he does hit the pavement. He's flat on his belly now, hands covering his head. I close in on him.

Ground turbulence is severe, jostling me in unpredictable ways. Through it blows a strong cross wind. I maneuver into a crab angle, and the world whips by sideways. A mad joy seizes me.

I transition the plane into a sideslip, tweaking the stick and rudder pedal to keep my flight path straight. My port wing dips toward the boy. He hunkers down, pressing himself into the pavement. I hold my breath . . .

The wingtip misses him by a tight margin.

Excellent!

Then I am flying over empty pavement. I ease my plane out of its cross-controlled slip and bring the landing gear toward the surface. Turbulence buffets me. It's going to be a brutal landing. I know it, I know it.

I implore the gods. _Don't let me stumble now!_

They hear me. My upwind tire kisses the pavement, followed by an equally gentle contact from the downwind wheel, then the tail drops. A true greaser!

Raise flaps, adjust ailerons, light, balanced pressure on the brakes. I am at the turn off, then on the taxiway. I pull onto the grass and shut my engine down. The world becomes silent. A perfume of exhaust graces the air, then drifts away into the perfect morning.

2. Catastrophe

Parked in a neat row close by, the aircraft of my flight mates crouch like silver tigers aching to attack. Sunlight glints on their metal surfaces. I struggle to free myself from the restraining harness, as the hilt of my squadron leader's dagger is caught in the webbing.

My comrades rush toward me, their silk scarves fluttering like angel's wings. I love all ten of them and the eleventh one, as well – my rival who is soaring through the sky alone. He chose to be far off when I did my slobe dive so as not to affect his concentration, but now he's coming, a tiny spec in the distance.

The others are not yet aware. They call me "Eagle-eye" when I spot things before they can. Sometimes, only half jesting, they call me "Ghostie" when I see things they insist are not there.

Katella, my faithful wingman, arrives at the head of the pack. "Good work, Dytran! That was well inside a meter."

I grin, but am not altogether pleased. This is an excellent result, but it can still be beaten. Not that I'd ever expected to leave a skid mark on the target's back, as my brother had done four years ago.

The others arrive. Bezmir and Sipren hoist their little movie cameras.

"We've got it all here," Sipren says, "clear shots, from both sides of the runway."

"Glad to hear that, boys, because I'm sure not going to try it again."

They all laugh. It's an ideal moment. The ring of guys in their tan flight suits surrounding my plane, smiles on their faces and golden scarves tied around their necks, the wind tousling their hair. Everything captured in a day of brightness.

I get the restraints unfastened. Everyone makes way as I jump out of my plane. As always, I feel a shock when my feet touch the ground. I'm stepping out of a glorious reality into a lesser one. Helios must have felt this way when he exited his sun chariot.

"Beltran's coming!"

Off in the cloudless sky, an airplane approaches the landing strip. A thrill of trepidation runs up my spine.

"Better get back to your posts," I say.

We take off at a run. Then I drop back so as to observe the group I have commanded this past year. They dash on ahead, all of them fine and athletic. We are the best the Fatherland offers. We've been through so much together since we were chosen to form the Raptor Aces squadron of the National Youth League Air Corps.

Pride swells my chest. I exalt in the power of my body. I am tall and dramatic, with blond-haired good looks. Of all the world's racial types, I am the apex!

Then I think of _him_ , my rival bearing in from the sky. Beltran is neither fair-complexioned nor outstandingly tall. He lacks for masculine beauty. But the cold steel inside him awes me with its strength. Despite our differences, he is my brother of the air, in many ways closer to me than my real brother who is serving in the great Eastern conflict.

As I jog along, a single thought troubles my mind. _Will I still be squadron commander in the fall?_

When the officers pick next year's leader, they will look at various attributes, and the respect of one's comrades is key. Should I win today, I'll earn the admiration of my peers. The brewing restlessness in our ranks will be quelled, and I will emerge undisputed. The risks of this unauthorized game are worth it, in my mind.

Beltran turns onto final approach.

My squadron mates position themselves along the runway on opposite sides of the prone, quivering slobe boy. Sipren and Bezmir ready their cameras for the photo finish. The next moments will determine the future for us all.

Bel flew the aerobatic routine better than me, and the simulated bomb run went my way – but none of that is decisive. The death-defying 'slobe dive' will determine everything. Whoever comes closest to the target, without harming it, will win the day.

If I lose, there will be a shift of allegiance toward Beltran. All year he's chafed as my deputy commander, and it's clear he longs for my position. Well, now is his chance. The two dogs bark with excitement at his approach.

Bel's technique is awesome!

He is flying toward the runway in a crab angle, as I had done. He makes it look easy. I feel myself up in the plane with him, my hands on the controls contending with the crosswind and the ground turbulence.

Bel enters a flawless sideslip. As I stand in the grass beside the runway, I adjust my body to mirror his efforts, stick left, rudder pedal to the right . . .

I turn my gaze to the slobe boy sprawled along the pavement on his belly. He is about our age, seventeen or so, and he's whimpering with terror. An icy stab of contempt for the racial inferior pierces my heart.

Then an unwelcome thought intrudes. Just how brave would I be in the same situation? If I'd been kidnapped at dagger point and forced to endure airplanes buzzing down on me, could I be any more heroic than this sniveling lad?

This is an improper view. He is a slobe, while I am of the Master Nation. Pity for the lesser peoples is weakness. I square my shoulders. When this is over, I'll pay the boy a half dozen crowns from my allowance. That's a good day's wage for a slobe.

Then all considerations of the captive as a human being vanish. Beltran's port wingtip is knifing down the centerline, half a meter above the pavement. It'll clear the target by bare centimeters.

He's going to beat me!

The movie cameras whine at high speed to capture my opponent's triumph. The world pulls away from me as I tumble backwards into a void. Above the roar of Bel's engine, I can hear the commander's stripes being ripped from my uniform.

I twist my head toward the slobe. All our eyes are riveted on the target now. He isn't whimpering any longer. Then the unthinkable happens. The boy pushes himself upward.

"Get down!" I shout.

Everything seems to move in slow motion. In his final instant, a look of fierce triumph scorches across the boy's face. Then the wing strikes him, throwing him off the runway. A collective gasp explodes from my squadron mates.

Bel's starboard wing hits the pavement, sheering off the end. The plane slams onto its landing gear and enters a vicious, screeching ground loop. The tortured machine pitches forward, shattering its prop on the concrete, then it crashes back onto its wheels.

The engine dies with a belch of acrid smoke. The aircraft sprawls broken and lifeless, a slaughtered beast.

"Ahhhh!"

Katella writhes on the grass beside me, a splinter of debris jutting from his shoulder. Blood spreads on his jumpsuit. The rest of us are stunned into inaction. The earth has cracked open and revealed a vision of hell to our dumbfounded eyes.

3. Time of Decision

The explosion brings us back to our senses.

We cringe away from the fireball rising out of Beltran's airplane like an evil genie. A massive fist of hot air strikes us. Beltran runs our direction, leading a string of curses. His scarf blazes behind him.

The lads rush to help. Bezmir and Sipren unsling their first aid kits as they run. Even the dogs join the mad dash.

"Medics! One of you get over here."

Bezmir stops in his tracks. "Yes, Commander."

He jogs back and kneels beside Katella. "Hang on, friend. I'll get you fixed."

Bezmir tries to sound confident, but his face is ashen, almost as pale as Katella's – and mine, too, I'd suppose. I leave him to his work and join the crowd around Beltran.

"Everybody stand back! Give him room to breathe."

They all move away; only Sipren remains to tend a gash over Bel's left eye. I look my deputy commander over. He's taken a heavy blow to his face and should be lying down or at least sitting, but he stands defiantly amid the catastrophe, hands on hips. The fire did not embrace him.

I think to speak, but the expression of fury in Beltran's good eye silences me. His mouth is clamped shut, and a tight knot bulges at the jaw hinge. His dark hair bristles like a wild boar's. Now is not the time for discussion.

I turn my attention toward Bel's aircraft. Flames swirl above it sending aloft a foul-smelling tornado of smoke and ash, a torch lit by the Devil himself. A demonic face leers out of it, and a monstrous hand thrusts up through the pavement grasping the flaming carcass.

Now that the danger is over, the full realization of our predicament crushes me in a death grip. Two men injured, one airplane lost, damage to the runway – all valuable State assets. Everything my fault.

Wasn't it my inspired idea to hold these games today? Hadn't I disregarded all objections? I'd wanted to challenge Beltran, and he rose to the bait. The rest of the squadron just had to overcome their doubts. Katella, especially, spoke out against this madness.

Why didn't I listen to him? I am the worst kind of fool! Then there is the slobe boy.

Compelled by an unseen hand, I walk toward the grass alongside the runway where he has been thrown onto his back. As I shuffle along, a venomous wind snake hisses in my ears. I am preparing to cross a barrier. On one side is my whole previous life, on the far side crouches the terrifying future . . .

I gaze down at the lifeless boy. He seems very small and oddly undamaged. There is little blood, and a hint of the triumphant smile remains. Except for his unnatural stillness, he might be taking a nap.

For all the talk about glorious death and sacrifice for the Fatherland, I've never seen a corpse before, though I've shouted for blood louder than most. The reality is so different from the swaggering words.

"Why did you do it?"

Moments pass, just me and the slobe boy. The sun beats down and the wind noise retreats to the corners of my mind. A harsh voice intrudes.

"That little bastard tried to kill me!"

Beltran is at my side. A dressing covers his wound, and his face has been cleaned. Blood splatters the front of his flight suit. The others are joining us now, except for Katella who remains lying alone beside the runway.

"Can you see all right?" I ask. "Is your mind clear?"

"Good enough." Beltran gestures toward the dead boy. "No thanks to him."

He turns toward the others. "Can anybody tell me why he did that? Right this minute he could be walking around free. He'd have a story to tell his grandchildren, and there'd be plenty of them. These slobes breed like rabbits!"

His voice is shrill, with a note of hysteria. Beltran has made his own assessment of our situation and is as scared as I am. The others wear long faces. Impossible to believe they are the same lads who greeted me with such enthusiasm only minutes ago.

"How's Katella?" I ask.

"I took the splinter out and staunched the bleeding," Bezmir says. He should be all right til we can get him back."

We stand around awkwardly, everyone afraid to suggest any course of action. Finally, Albers speaks up.

"What are we going to do, Commander?"

"What else? We fly back to home base and report this incident."

"No!" Beltran cries. "That's the _worst_ thing we could do."

I gape at him, shocked. Even within the relaxed discipline of our squadron, his outburst crosses the line of insubordination.

"Forgive me, Commander," Beltran says. "I am understandably upset."

"Of course."

Beltran steps back a few paces, so as to address everyone as a group. "We all know it was stupid to come out here, but we can't change what's happened. We have to adjust to the situation."

"How can we do that?" Grushon asks.

Beltran draws in a deep breath. He looks toward me, then back to the others. "We hide the body and report to home base that I crashed on my own."

The lads all gasp with surprise. Some also nod agreement, including Grushon.

I can't allow this to continue. "Nobody will believe that you, of all people, crashed out while the rest of us landed safely."

"Why not? Anyone can make a mistake, and the wind is unpredictable."

I can only shake my head. Beltran's logic is sound, and it silences me.

"But the kid will be reported missing," Albers says. "Maybe some witnesses saw us pick him up."

"My cousin is in the secret police," Sipren says. "He'll make sure the slobes don't cause any trouble."

"There's the answer," Beltran says.

More heads nod approval. To my discredit, I find myself mulling over Beltran's proposition. Could we actually pull it off?

Possibly. If we all kept to the story, if Sipren's cousin proved efficient – if nobody got curious and started poking around this auxiliary airfield looking for bodies.

And then what?

The secret police would have something on me. To this point, I've avoided entanglements with them. The secret police have always been somebody else's problem; now they'd be my problem. How would I have to repay the 'favor' they did for me? And a lie would be at the center of my life. Even if everyone else forgot about today's events, I would always know.

How would Stilikan, my elder brother, handle this situation? Right this moment he is serving in the great Eastern War against the slobe empire. He is battling the toughest men the enemy can offer – not terrorizing unarmed civilians like I am. My brother is a true hero, while I am sliding downhill into moral cowardice.

I could never dishonor myself with such falsehood. I could never dishonor my victim like that.

"Well, what do you say, _Commander_?" Beltran asks.

His tone is borderline disrespectful, especially the way he pronounces "Commander," as if I've lost my right to hold the position. He fixes a hard glance on me with his good eye. The other eye is swelling shut, adding a grotesque aspect to his face.

The others rivet their attention upon me. It's obvious they support Beltran. Dead moments pass while I flounder in a sea of doubt. Then I shake my head.

"I'm reporting this incident to the wing commander. I'll take full responsibility. Perhaps things will go easier for the rest of you."

"Damn!" Beltran snarls. "So, now we lose everything."

He tears the charred remnant of scarf from around his neck and hurls it to the ground. He stalks away a few paces, then turns back toward me. A thunderbolt of hate shoots from him.

All discipline vanishes. Four of the lads, led by Grushon, close in on me. Rage twists their faces into ugly masks. Others stand by, uncertain. I can't see what Bel is doing. I brace myself for an attack. Then –

"Listen to me, you sons of bitches!" Katella shouts.

The violence just about to leap at me slithers back into its hole, for now. Everyone pivots toward Katella. He has propped himself up on his good arm and stares at us with tight-lipped anger.

We walk the several paces to where he is lying. Our movements seem absurd, like a bunch of kids off on a frolic. The sense of unreality makes my head spin.

"What is it?" Beltran demands.

"Dytran is our leader," Katella says, "and he's right. As soon as I'm recovered, I'll kick anybody's ass who says otherwise."

We are all astonished by the usually mild-mannered Katella. He thrusts out his chin defiantly.

"That includes you, Beltran." His voice is low and ominous. "One way or another, I'd get you. Believe it."

Bel clenches his teeth and fists. I fear he's going to attack our wounded comrade. I prepare to defend Katella, but the lethal moment passes.

"All right, have it your way, Katella," Beltran says. "You never were too smart."

Relief floods over me. The boys all sag, as if they are corpses dangling from the gallows. Beltran jabs a finger at Katella.

"And maybe I'll take you up on that 'ass kicking' sometime, when you're fit."

Katella nods, but says nothing further.

Beltran throws a furious glance around the squadron. "Let's get the hell out of here, boys."

He stomps off toward the airplanes. Most of the others follow him as an insubordinate group, without waiting for my order. As they pass the dead slobe boy, they utter various insults.

"Fool... bastard... subhuman scum!"

But I perceive the truth about him. We have witnessed the death of someone far stronger and braver than us. Albers remains, standing to the side. Bezmir has also stayed to assist Katella.

"Are you all right to walk?" Bezmir asks.

Katella manages a grim smile. "Of course, never better."

His face twists with pain as we help him to his feet. I speak into his ear.

"Thanks, wingman."

"To hell with all that. Just get me a morphine shot."

He and Bezmir move slowly away.

"Put him in my plane!" I call after them.

I turn to Albers. "Run on ahead and bring me my flight jacket, will you?"

Albers looks surprised, but he obeys my order – doubtless the last one I will ever give. He trots off after the others.

I am alone, keeping vigil by the corpse with the sun and wind. The boy is dead while I still walk the earth, but who is really the superior being? Such things have never before entered my mind; now they are dark and swirling waters drawing me toward the abyss.

Albers returns.

"Go join the others," I say.

When Albers is a fair distance off, I place my flight jacket over the slobe boy's face and upper body. The garment mocks me with its squadron leader's badge.

I come to attention and salute my fallen adversary. Then I jog off toward my plane.

4. Grim Return

The flight back to home base is grim. We take off from the grass alongside the runway in no particular order. Once in the air, we do not keep formation. Everyone flies as he pleases. We are no longer a squadron, and I am no longer the leader.

Even from a great distance, I can still observe smoke rising from the airplane wreckage. My whole future burns on that funeral pyre.

Katella sits in my rear cockpit trying to appear brave and stoic, but I know he is suffering a great deal. Beltran pilots Katella's plane with an attack dog occupying the rear. He has no business getting behind the stick with only one good eye, but I did not admonish him. He would not have listened in any case.

The kilometers drone past as familiar landmarks slither beneath my wings. I experience none of my usual exhilaration, no sense that I am a god of the sky. For all the thrill it gives me, I could be flying a garbage lorry. I've always felt some contemptuous pity for those who are confined to the earth. Now I want to join them and bury myself away.

A disturbing thought takes hold. The other lads are clearly more of Beltran's persuasion than mine. Only Katella is on my side, and we occupy the same airplane. What if we were to crash and be killed? That would solve many problems for the others, wouldn't it?

As squadron leader, I possess the only radio. I use it to contact home base, informing them that we have two injured pilots. I don't mention the slobe boy. The news will keep, if I am alive to tell it.

My plane had stood unattended for some minutes while I'd kept vigil with the dead boy. Plenty of time for somebody to sabotage the controls or sneak an incendiary device under the cowling. I'd not bothered with a pre-flight inspection; any number of things could have been done to my aircraft.

The idea scares me at first. Actually, I wouldn't mind crashing out too much. By the time home base comes into view, I am positively hoping my plane will go up in a quick, surgical fireball.

A perfectly routine flight, even the nasty cross winds have died down. A smooth landing.

* * *

Medics hustle Katella off to the infirmary, but Beltran refuses to go with them. "I must report to the wing commander first."

I admire Bel's fortitude. His face looks terrible, and blood is seeping through the bandage. He could have retired to the hospital, leaving me to confront the music alone, but his sense of honor will not permit that.

Or maybe he just wants to make sure I keep my word about taking responsibility for the disaster. Who knows? I can't think very well anymore.

Everyone has landed now, and we all stand together in an uncertain knot alongside the runway, staring at the ground. Nobody says a word. The wing commander's adjutant arrives in a staff car. Bel and I climb into the back seat.

After a silent trip, we arrive at Headquarters. A troop of Junior Youth League members is marching about the nearby parade ground. They are the 10 to14-year-old set – all crisp and neat in their uniforms, waving flags and banging drums, just as we did a few years ago. When I was new to the League, I'd marched with as much enthusiasm as they're displaying. Now, their efforts seem tiresome, ridiculous, even.

Bel gives a sarcastic snort. "Bunch of little twerps."

A victory rally will take place here in ten days, one of several around the country, and preparations are under way. The 'little twerps' will probably be among the Youth League contingent. We were supposed to participate in the flyby, along with the other two squadrons of our training group. Well, the ceremonies will be doing without the Raptor Aces, I'm certain.

As we walk past the Junior Youth League members, they snap to attention and salute.

"They want to be just like us," Bel mutters.

We enter the HQ building, trailing the adjutant like a couple of whipped dogs, and walk by the awards case for past heroes of the Youth League Air Corps. My brother Stilikan's photo occupies a place of prominence – squadron leader, junior group commander, 1st place honors in numerous competitions.

I lower my eyes and quicken my pace.

5. Facing the Music

It couldn't have taken me long to give my report, but it seems as if hours have dragged by. Me ramrod straight, sweating under my flight suit, the red squadron leader's piping weighing it down like iron chains. Beltran standing beside me, motionless, his good eye staring at the portrait of the Magleiter on the wall behind the desk.

The wing commander is a going to pot. His gut bulges, and his face is turning jowly. A year ago he'd seemed much more trim and fit.

I keep nothing back from my report, except for the foiled conspiracy to hide the evidence. That unsavory detail is no longer important. Profound quiet grips the room when I finish speaking. A fly buzzes past my ear and lands on the wall, clambering up the Magleiter's portrait.

The commander's face is grim. He looks toward Beltran. "Do you concur with this report?"

"Yes, sir, except for one point."

"Oh?"

"Squadron Leader Dytran stated the games were entirely his idea. He implied that I was compelled to join."

"And such was not the case?"

"No, sir. I was anxious to participate. Had Squadron Leader Dytran not suggested the games, I would have done so myself."

"I see."

The commander is looking at his folded hands on the desk, gathering energy for his retort. I brace myself for a blast of anger, threats, curses.

He just sits there in his precise blue uniform. He's worked hard to gain his rank, and now two young idiots – from his top training squadron, no less – are putting it all in jeopardy with their indiscipline. His wrath promises to be monumental.

He looks up. Instead of the expected rage, his face is loaded with fatigue. I've never seen a more tired looking man in my life.

"You lads are a major disappointment," he says.

I feel as if struck by a physical blow. Of all the things he could have said, this is the worst.

Beltran does not appear to share my humiliation. "Permission to speak freely, sir."

The wing commander moves back in his chair, his hands slide off the desk into his lap. "Granted."

"I admit the error of our actions. We all knew such activities are not permitted. The killing was unintentional, however, and..."

Bel shoots me a glance, looks back to the commander.

"It was only a slobe, sir! He nearly killed me and Katella. The Fatherland could have lost two loyal national comrades because of him."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, sir."

The commander gets up and moves to the window, hands behind his back, peering out at the Junior Youth League troop exercising on the parade ground. Then he turns on us, red-faced. It's almost a relief to bear the full brunt of his anger.

"You two have disgraced the Air Corps and the entire Youth League!" he roars. "You've betrayed the trust placed in you and disobeyed _explicit_ orders."

He directs his wrath at me. "I'm particularly ashamed of you, Dytran, brother of the most highly honored Air Corps graduate. What the hell were you thinking when you set up those so-called 'games?'"

I expected all this, painful as it is, but then he opens a whole new vista of shame.

"News of your actions will be conveyed to the enemy along their spy network," he says in a measured but no less furious tone. "What vengeance will they take upon our prisoners of war and other national comrades isolated in their empire?"

I begin shrinking to the dimensions of the fly crawling on the wall. Stilikan flashes into my mind, along with our other brave soldiers and airmen serving the Fatherland in the war of national survival. My stupidity has added to their hardships! If someone fired a pistol into the back of my head at this moment, I wouldn't care too much.

"I regret we did not consider this adequately, Commander," Beltran says, "but the war will soon be over. After we have won, we can exact justice for any injury done to our national comrades."

Beltran's nerve astonishes me. He's got permission to speak freely, though, and since our cause is already doomed, he must figure we have nothing to lose.

When the dressing down is finally over, the adjutant returns with military policemen. They escort me to the barracks and take Bel to the infirmary.

6. Confinement

A week of chilly tension follows as Bel and I endure barracks confinement while awaiting our disciplinary hearing.

The Raptor Aces squadron has been deactivated and the other boys sent home. Our planes have been transferred to another air base where more trustworthy people will be flying them.

We keep to our cots reading or napping, with half the room sprawled between us. Trips to the bathroom are timed so we do not meet each other there. When our meals are delivered, we pick up our rations separately and retreat to our respective ends of the barracks.

So much camaraderie had enlivened this place during the school year. All the Raptor Aces shared the big room. Beltran had no other home. He's an orphan, raised by the State, and we Raptor Aces were the only family he knew.

We began each weekday morning with a 3-kilometer jog or bike ride to classes. Afternoons and weekends were for flying... in my former existence.

A recurring dream haunts my sleep:

We're chasing the slobe boy through the orchard where he'd been working. We've unsheathed our daggers and are demanding that he stop – just as everything happened in real life. Only this time, we don't catch him. He makes a sharp turn and disappears. We glance around, baffled.

"Oh well," I say, "we can't hold the games, after all."

I wake up to intense joy and relief, then reality sets in with redoubled fury.

Before the Great Leader banned such racial defilement, slobes and national comrades mixed for generations. This left a slobe minority here in our eastern province, and a community of national comrades is cut off in the slobe empire. I have endangered them, along with our brave POWs!

For a while, I suffer from paranoid fears that Beltran will slip over at night and smother me with a pillow. I think he might fly into a rage some dinner time and attack me with a fork. Finally, I resign myself to the tense standoff.

Through it all, I never doubt the rightness of my decision to make a truthful report.

* * *

One morning, Bel closes the book he'd been reading and breaks the silence. "I'm telling you, Dytran, the wing commander is going soft."

I scarcely know how to respond.

"What makes you think that?" I manage to say.

"All his talk about 'honor' and 'obedience' is misdirected. It applies only among ourselves, not to the inferior races. How can one act 'dishonorably' toward a subhuman?"

I glance around for prying ears, but the room is vacant, as it has been all week.

"You'd almost think he was half slobe himself," Bel says. "Have you noticed his profile? It's not exactly what you'd expect from a racial comrade, is it?"

"I'd be cautious about remarks like that. Determinations of racial purity are made by the Party. They must deem him to be acceptable."

"Ah, spoken like the blue-eyed golden boy. How'd you get so blond, anyway, too much time in the sun?"

"I'd remind you the Magleiter has dark hair, as do most of our people."

Bel rises from his bunk and saunters toward me with that easy, though aggressive style of his. I stand to meet him, uncertain if he is approaching as comrade or foe.

He stops, hands on hips, looking boldly up into my face. I am half a head taller, but this imparts no sense of physical superiority. I try to remain impassive.

Bel thrusts out a hand. "Friends again?"

After a moment's astonished hesitation, I take it. "Y-yes, always."

The thick cord of tension that has been choking us breaks. I resist the urge to flop down onto my cot with relief.

"You made an honorable decision," Bel says. "I respect it."

"I... thanks..."

Bel grins. His face is much improved from its injuries, and his eyes cut sharp. "Of course, we must deal with the consequences. Our butts are truly in the sling, aren't they?"

He turns and walks toward the main window, leaving me with my roiling emotions. The issue poisoning our relationship has been abruptly resolved. The speed of it makes my head spin. I know Bel will never mention it again, and I would rather die than do so myself. I collect my wits and join him at the window where he is observing the outside world through binoculars.

"Looks like they've pretty much finished the construction work," he says. "A film crew, or something, is out there now."

He hands over the binoculars. The gesture is casual, routine. More than anything else, it signifies the end of our estrangement. I train the binoculars on the main runway. Alongside it, a wooden review stand has been erected, flanked by tiers of bleachers.

"They got that up in record time," I say.

More bleachers have been built along the far side of the runway. There must be seating for thousands of people. Workmen hustle about. A movie camera grinds away atop the review stand, recording the preparations. The camp tents of the growing Youth League contingent appear in the distance, like pointy white mushrooms.

In my mind, I am out there under the bright sun, amid the scents of aviation fuel and fresh-cut grass. A breeze wafts by carrying the spirit of adventure. It tousles my hair.

I lower the binoculars, and the drab barracks comes back into focus. "Let's go outside."

"Sure."

We exit to the assembly ground. In happier times, the whole squadron stood at attention here for roll call, eyes focused on the promising future. This spot had seemed the gateway to the whole world.

Now Bel and I are forbidden to venture beyond its confines, although nothing tangible restrains us. We could slip away easily enough, particularly at night, but I would rather be shot than betray the trust which has been shown me.

The outdoor brightness hurts my eyes, and I shade them with my hand. The abrupt change of lighting does not seem to affect Bel, however. He walks to the far edge of the assembly ground and stands looking out toward the runway. He conveys a sense of barely restrained motion, a horse chomping at the bit.

"Anything new out there!" I yell.

"Naw."

The drone of airplane motors slices the morning air. The old thrill takes hold of me. We look skyward at the approach of the Blue Ice training squadron. The "Blue Eyes" squadron as Bel sarcastically calls it because of its disproportionate number of racial apex types. They are flying in parallel rows with a single aircraft on point. Toward the back of the formation, some planes form themselves into something like a hilt. The arrangement is meant to be a flying sword, apparently.

"Damned goof offs," Bel says. "Our formation was a lot better than that."

"Yes, it was."

We'd spent many hours practicing our own formation for the rally – the stylized eagle of the National Salvation Party, with me flying as the proud, right-cocked head. Nobody will see it now.

"I should be in command of that squadron." Bel jabs a finger at the Blue Ice. "I'd make sure they flew straight!"

"That would have been best," I say, too low for him to hear.

But he'd been ill with severe influenza when the three squadron leaders of our training group were picked last year. There'd been an epidemic at that time with numerous deaths around the country. He'd not been cleared to fly again until three weeks after we'd settled into our new posts, and it had taken him quite a while to get his edge back.

A flash of insight bursts upon me. Now I know why Bel remained standing while Sipren had tended his wound – why he came to stand before the wing commander rather than retreat to the hospital. Whatever might be coming, he is determined to confront it on his feet. He'd been lying down when his great opportunity came and went.

He walks back toward me. "Don't get me wrong, Dye, it's been an honor to serve as your deputy."

"Yes, but you hate me, too, right?"

Bel looks astonished, then a little smile creeps over his face. "You always were the smartest."

"Well, I don't know about that..."

"It's true. All your big, poetic words and fancy ideas. You must have been a philosopher in some past life, wandering the streets of Athens –"

He stops talking. I can almost hear the wheels turning in his head.

" _That's_ who we are," Bel smacks his palm, "Athens and Sparta! We should be helping each other from our own power bases – loyal rivals. You know, pushing each other to our best efforts."

"That's very interesting."

"Think about it. With a whole world to conquer, Athens and Sparta turned on each other. How dumb was that?"

For a supposed philosopher, I can't think of a reply.

7. Unscheduled Visitors

We spend the next hour outside doing calisthenics, observing the rally preparations and talking about our predicament.

Our disciplinary hearing would have already taken place were it not for the rally. Once the marching and speechifying are over, after the Party big shots drive away in their luxury automobiles, we'll face a panel of senior officers.

Then what?

At very least, our dream of becoming fighter pilots is over. We planned to join the Air Force next year as 'poolies.' We'd attend our last year of high school and fly with the Raptor Aces while receiving added military instruction. Once we graduated, we'd be fighter pilot trainees.

This is all a dead letter now. The Air Force has no use for insubordinate fools. Once we become of age, it will be the infantry for us – riflemen slogging in the mud instead of elite warriors soaring through the sky. The odds are good we'll spend the intervening time in a labor camp, only to receive draft notices the day we get out.

Then again, with the war dragging on longer than expected, there is talk of lowering the draft age. Perhaps the stay in the labor camp won't be quite so long.

"Hey, what's that?" Beltran says.

A powerful rumble is coming from the east, the sound of big airplane motors.

"Must be one of our bomber squadrons."

"Yeah." Bel directs his binoculars skyward. "The flying barn guys are coming all right."

I look off toward the approaching formation, but cannot make out much detail, despite my "eagle eyes." The big planes are flying at perhaps 3,000 meters.

The old camaraderie returns – me and Beltran standing shoulder to shoulder, gazing at the sky which is our true home. How many times have we done this while observing our squadron mates flying aerobatics and simulated bomb runs? An unbearable ache for the heavens overwhelms me. Can I ever go back?

If, by some miracle, I am allowed to take a place in the sky again, I will never, _ever_ do anything to endanger my position there. I'll accept any role, even the humblest crewman on a transport plane. Just give me a chance to prove my worth! I imagine myself piloting one of the approaching airplanes, looking down at the mundane world, at the blond-haired boy admiring my progress.

Last year, about eight months after the war started, I witnessed the flyby of a heavy bomber squadron. I was thrilled by the power of the "flying barns." The roar of their massed engines spoke of unstoppable purpose.

These engines are different, however. There is more of a shrieking racket to them and less the bellowing tones of the sky gods. The bombers must be a new model, to be introduced at our air show. What better place to unveil a new element of national might?

But this explanation does not satisfy me. These aircraft have an alien feel, a quality of being _not right_. Of course, bombing planes are supposed to look hostile by nature, yet . . .

I watch with growing unease as the planes go into a shallow dive. Even without the binoculars, I can tell they are big, ugly brutes painted in camouflage with four engines apiece. They move fast and ominous, like Valkyries coming to choose the slain. Fear grips me, I recognize the aircraft model now.

"I don't believe it!" Beltran lowers the binoculars, his eyes wide with shock. "They're – "

The wail of air raid sirens cuts off his voice. I snatch the binoculars and jerk them to my face. We stand together, like roebucks gaping at the headlamps of an approaching lorry. The enemy aircraft close in – a full squadron. All other reality drops away. The world becomes mayhem and ear-splitting explosion.

They hit the main runway first, casting bombs down the concrete in a deadly row. The bleachers blow apart. The review stand remains, with the cameraman filming the destruction until he, too, is blasted to eternity. Shock waves rumble under our feet.

The binoculars lend an air of illusion, as if the hunk of metal and glass is protecting me from danger. The scene is horrible and sublime all at once. A gigantic explosion rips the air as the fuel storage tanks go up. I yank my eyes away from the flash.

"Where're our fighters!" Beltran shouts.

No resistance anywhere; the enemy owns the sky. The main hangar erupts into a fantastic ball of flame and debris. A foul, burning stench of death washes over us, then a vast suction, pulling the air from our lungs. The white Youth League tents rip apart and flutter into the chaos.

Beltran dashes into the adjoining field, shaking his fists at the sky. "Damn you!"

The enemy planes have exhausted their bomb loads. They are crisscrossing the base at low altitude, their belly gunners strafing the ground – obscene, giant insects mocking our impotence. A row of parked trainers blows apart under their machine guns.

One of the bombers is coming straight for us.

"Over here, Dye!"

Bel runs to an air raid trench and throws himself in. I think to follow but can't get my legs to carry me there. Besides, it's better where I am. I feel an odd serenity as the shrieking, pounding aircraft bears down on me, blotting out the world. This is how a warrior should meet his end – on his feet, facing the enemy – as that slobe boy did.

"Come on, you bastards!"

The belly gunner opens up. Bullets stitch along the ground toward me. The plane's vast shadow passes over an instant before the bullets arrive. I feel their heat and power . . .

The bomber is past, firing into the barracks. Fragments of glass shower over me.

The enemy squadron is regrouping and heading back the way it came, as if performing some leisurely, peacetime maneuver. The din of motors fades. All is quiet now, except for the hiss of fire and the screams coming from the Youth League encampment.

I am rising from this earth into the upper regions – freed from the confines of my physical body. Beltran rises, Lazarus-like, from the trench and drifts toward me through the haze. His mouth is slack, and his eyes glow.

He runs his hands over me, examines my uniform ripped by bullets and flying glass. "There's not a scratch on you."

The sensation of being touched by another human brings me back to earth.

I summon my power of speech. "Let's go!"

We run toward the chaos.

8. Bloody Aftermath

HQ is heavily damaged with many casualties lying about the rubble.

A choking combination of smoke and dust fills the air amid the wails of injured men. The ruined lobby is too difficult to navigate, so we run around to the shattered window of the wing commander's office.

We find him sitting in a chair, dazed and covered with plaster dust from the wrecked ceiling. Somebody is binding a wound on his arm. We rap our knuckles on the window frame.

"Wing Commander... sir!"

He rotates his head toward the window. The eyes staring from the plastered face are huge and bloodshot. They contain no recognition.

"He's not with us anymore," Beltran mutters.

"You lads go make yourself useful," the medic says.

"Is that a direct order on behalf of the wing commander?" I ask.

"Get going, dammit!"

"Yes, sir."

Our adherence to protocol is absurd, but we must hang onto something in this hideous situation.

The next hours pass in a nightmare blur – dragging bodies from the wreckage, giving first aid to the wounded, transporting them to hospital. I sorely miss Bezmir and Sipren with their advanced medic skills.

The corpses we handle are nothing like the slobe boy with his nearly unmarked appearance and defiant smirk. These dead are horribly maimed – charred, disemboweled, limbs and heads torn off, faces distorted with agony. Blood and stink is everywhere. My empty stomach heaves.

The Youth League encampment is the worst. The enemy struck it with anti-personnel bombs of a particularly vicious type. The boys had nowhere to hide and were cut to shreds by clouds of razor sharp fragments. We stack their bodies like cord wood and haul away the screaming, mangled wounded.

The flagstaffs which had festooned the encampment are mostly cut down, their once proud banners covered with gore. Here and there, a tattered flag still waves in useless defiance. A party of Youth League survivors assists in the ghastly work. Their eyes are haunted and their faces so pale they almost seem transparent. Many are crying at the sight of their slaughtered comrades.

"My God, Bel, we were like them a few years ago."

Beltran nods. His face is also waxen, like that of some avenging death god. His piercing eyes gleam with hate.

"Look at all this. And they're going to stick us in a labor camp?" He smacks a fist into a palm. "Let me at those slobe bastards!"

Thank heaven the infirmary has not been hit, but just about everything else has been. The enemy knew exactly what targets to strike and what ordnance to use. They'd known when to attack – right before the rally when large numbers of non-combatant personnel would be on base. Some lousy spy must have tipped them off.

Our air raid shelters and anti-aircraft protection have proved inadequate, and we've paid the price. Nobody ever thought this base would come under attack. Stupid, arrogant fools!

The sun is going down as we stumble back to our barracks. I am numb from all the horror I've witnessed. This is war? A far cry from the uplifting experience we'd been taught to anticipate. Where is all the glory and the cheering, the marching bands?

My whole consciousness narrows to a single point. _Please let the plumbing be intact!_

If I can discard my blood-soaked clothing and scrub myself under a hot shower, maybe I can get through this with part of my sanity. The fates decree otherwise.

Our barracks has been converted to a hospital overflow facility. The cots are all taken by the less severely wounded. The strafing has destroyed the hot water tank and damaged the plumbing. Bel and I have to content ourselves with a miserable cold water rinse taken out of buckets.

I haul some bedding outside and hunker down under a tree. Bel soon follows.

9. News

Three days pass, and things begin returning to normal – whatever that means any longer.

The barracks empties out as the walking wounded limp away, and hot water is restored. Bel and I seem to have been forgotten. At least I have plenty of time to reflect on our perilous new situation.

We are located in the eastern region of our country, closest to the battle front – but the front has advanced a great distance into enemy territory, beyond the range of bombers. Such planes require sophisticated bases behind the combat zone. I recognize the type from our studies of enemy models and know it does not possess extreme range capabilities.

Only one conclusion can be drawn from this: the enemy is getting closer.

Such is not the case, if you believe our war reports. In these dispatches, our troops are still advancing, pushing the enemy ever farther back into the remote, barren corners of his vast empire. We've already taken the most valuable areas, according to the official word, and soon the war will come to a triumphant conclusion.

The reports are wrong, obviously. Maybe they're outright lies. What else is our government lying to us about?

The victory rally is officially "postponed until further notice," along with others around the country. I feel a bitter, unworthy satisfaction that I will not be the only one missing the spectacle. Perhaps it's just another lie.

Morning of the fourth day since the raid, the wing commander's adjutant enters the barracks and stands beside the open door. His left arm is confined to a sling, and his face shows evidence of battering. Otherwise, he's his old spit-and-polish self.

"We're in for it now," Bel mutters.

We stand by our cots, awaiting the military policemen who will haul us before the panel of judges, but no police come. Instead, the adjutant looks directly at me and salutes.

Why'd he do that – is he mocking us?

The wing commander enters. His face is grim, and he bears a sheet of paper in his hand. Something about that paper terrifies me. He moves across the room, holding it out like a venomous snake.

My stomach becomes an icy lump as I pray the sheet is nothing more than a summons to the court martial; it's a radio message transcript. My hands tremble as I read it.

Next thing I know, I am flopped down on my cot with no idea how I got there. I must have blacked out momentarily... my legs gave way. Tears stream down my face.

"My God, what happened?" Bel says.

He wrenches the paper from my fingers and reads the evil message. Stilikan, my elder brother, has been killed in action.

# Two: The Descent Begins

10. Sad Journey

It is a day to encounter grief-stricken mothers. The first one approaches me on the train station platform where I stand waiting for transportation home to attend my brother's funeral.

_My brother's funeral_ – what terrible weight those words carry! All my life, Stilikan has been there for me. I never knew a time without him, and now he is gone. I'll never see him again in this world. The thought that he might not survive the war hadn't entered my head; it was simply too preposterous. He'd been like a basic law of the universe.

At moments like this, when the grief seems more than I can bear, I look for some diversion to take my mind off my suffering. I find it this time with a war poster stuck onto a column over layers of commercial advertisements.

The poster shows a heroic figure holding aloft a shield adorned with the National Salvation Party eagle. Behind him, visible between his strongly braced legs, reposes a peaceful little town with a church spire. Sharp lines of power accompany his bold stance. He is protecting the village, and by extension our whole country, from violent onslaught.

### Desist!

The artwork isn't bad, as far as such propaganda goes, but the tone seems wrong. It is overly defensive, as if the enemy is already pounding at our gates. It's a departure from the usual aggressive images of our troops surging ahead or of medieval warriors swinging swords from behind similarly emblazoned shields.

Maybe the enemy really is at our gates. Haven't I seen their aircraft raining destruction upon us? Haven't I carried away the mangled corpses? Or maybe I'm in such a gloomy state of mind that everything looks defeatist to me.

"Bastard!"

A shrill voice pulls me out of my musings. A small, gray-haired woman is striding my direction.

"Excuse me?"

"His name was Piotra, you swine!"

She slaps my face with surprising power for such a tiny woman. I stumble back, unable to comprehend the dreadful turn of events. The weight of my duffel bag nearly unbalances me.

"You murdered my son!"

She flutters toward me like an avenging harpy. I don't even think to defend myself. A railway police officer does that for me, grabbing the woman from behind. She fights hard, nearly breaking free. The policeman raps his billy club against her skull, and she goes limp.

"Don't worry about this one, lad," he says. "A stretch of forced labor will calm her down."

"No, let her go. Could you wait til I catch my train... please?"

The cop looks doubtful. "There's no problem with it. We need to keep her sort in line."

"It's all right." I rub my stinging face. "No real harm's been done."

Piotra's mother is conscious again. Her eyes blaze with hatred through their tears.

"We did not mean to harm your son," I say. "He chose to fight us. He was... a hero."

My train arrives. I do not look back as we pull away from the platform.

* * *

As I stare out the train window, the full weight of misery presses down again. I've already lost the sky, and now Stilikan. My mind brings both of them together in a single, aching memory from when we were kids.

It was a glorious day with fresh breezes. We were flying our toy glider plane in a meadow of spring flowers.

" _I'll be a real pilot someday," Stilikan said._

" _Me too!"_

I could hear the roar of planes overhead. The sky radiated possibility. A wonderful future seemed open to us.

Now the future has arrived, and it's not so wonderful.

The assault at the depot had been an almost welcome distraction. It took my mind off Stilikan, anyhow, and it had been a relief to endure some physical punishment for my stupidity and arrogance. If slapping me brought the poor woman a bit of peace, then the episode was worth it. I hope the cop is a decent sort and let her go as I'd requested.

So, the face of our victim has a name. Piotra is a common name among the slobes. In fact, we refer to enemy males generically as _Piotra_. Even their leader goes by it – Piotra, the so-called "man of iron."

In turn, they refer to us as the _Mag_ – short for Magleiter and, less flatteringly, for maggot.

Was Piotra his actual name, or was she using the generic version, telling me her son represented the fighting spirit of the entire slobe nation? Well, if all the enemy soldiers possess that boy's fortitude, we truly have the devil to pay.

How bright the world seemed only a short time ago. It's still bright, at least on the surface, as a glorious spring day passes outside my window – neat little towns, freshly planted fields, woods and hills. A scent of vitality penetrates the rattling old train car. It's difficult to believe a war is raging behind the peaceful facade.

The last time I took this train home was during Christmas break. That was supposed to be the Christmas our troops came marching back, grasping victory in their hands. The victory hadn't come, but hopes were still high we'd prevail by spring – this spring.

The army was so sure of an early triumph that no one thought to issue our men proper clothing, and they were left to the mercy of the harsh winter. Civilians were donating their winter coats to the war effort. People shivering in thin attire were a common sight on any street. I was proud to contribute, as well. The chill allowed me, in a small way, to share the hardships of our combat troops.

I was a proud _Yuliac_ back then, as we members of the Youth League Air Corps are known, half way through my second year at the elite Leadership High School which only the brightest and best could attend, regardless of financial status.

During this home visit, my old bedroom was a welcome change from the communal barracks life. Even so, I was glad to get back to the school routine and my comrades in the Raptor Aces.

How has everything gone so horribly wrong?

Exhaustion is catching up with me, and I close my eyes. The aisle seat next to me is empty, thank heaven, as I have no desire to talk with anyone. My sleep is untroubled by dreaming.

When I awake, the train car has filled up. Every seat is taken, including the one beside me which is occupied by a woman of perhaps forty. She'd been attractive once, you could tell, but now her face is creased and downcast. Her hair is graying, and her eyes have a hollow, tragic aspect. I try to smile.

She looks at me with understanding. "You've also lost somebody in the war, haven't you?"

* * *

And finally my own mother. The first thing she says as I enter our house is: "My God, Dytran, you look 10 years older!"

Then she is in my arms, weeping. I hold her there a long while, caressing her hair. It is thinner now and more streaked with gray than the last time I'd seen her. Was that only five months ago?

I glance around our comfortable living room. Everything is exactly as I remembered – the overstuffed chairs and sofa, coffee table, the floor lamp with the porcelain ball dangling from its chain. Mama does her crochet work under that lamp. With so much of my world coming unhinged, at least I can rest my eyes on familiar surroundings for a while.

My gaze turns toward the back parlor. The larger furnishings have been moved out of it, replaced by a narrow table. Chairs fill the rest of the room with a number of folded ones at standby for the overflow crowd. More than anything else, these empty chairs tell me that Stilikan is truly gone.

Mother stops crying and draws away. She pulls a handkerchief from her apron pocket to dab her eyes. I leave her to her private grief and walk alone into the back parlor.

The table is strewn with flowers. Amid them is an urn and a black-draped portrait of Stilikan. Inside the silver frame, my brother stands proud and smiling in his Air Force uniform, as if he were still alive and unafraid of anything the world could present. Tears well up, and I must divert my eyes. Mother joins me.

"Look how they sent my boy back to me." She gestures toward the cremation urn. "I can never see his face again."

I put my arm around her shoulders. I want to utter comforting words, but nothing comes.

"Ah, my two young lions." Mama sighs. "How could you have gotten such a father?"

11. Stilikan

I pass the night keeping vigil by Stilikan's remains.

Candles offer dim illumination to the parlor. An electric bulb in the hallway provides the only other light on the ground floor. Our house settles around me, quiet except for Mama's soft weeping upstairs. Sometime after midnight, her crying ceases. I twist myself around in the easy chair I've dragged in from the living room. It is a night for disturbing thoughts and memories.

How did Piotra's mother know I would be on the train platform this morning? Some ghastly coincidence might have brought her there, but that didn't seem probable. A spy tracking my movements is the more likely explanation. Perhaps it's the same one who tipped off the enemy about our air base.

Lucky for me it was only her that showed up and not some suicidal terrorist with a knife concealed under his coat. I would have been stabbed right through, as Papa was.

Papa... I've scarcely given him a thought for years. I was only ten the last time I saw him.

He'd always terrified me – a big, burly man with angry eyes. There seemed to be a vast store of rage inside him ready to explode. He'd never struck me, though, and sometimes he almost doted on Stilikan, his obvious favorite – if a man like that could be thought to favor anyone. There was always this tension between him and my brother, as if things could get out of hand any moment.

I tried to go unnoticed, and Papa was usually content to ignore me, until toward the end. He'd begun pushing me and was verbally abusive more often. Maybe he thought I was getting big enough to start smacking around.

It was Mama who had to bear the brunt of his abuse, especially when he was drunk. He was gone much of the time, either working long hours at the mill or haunting the bars. Other women were doubtless involved. For all his shortcomings, he was a "handsome devil," as Mama put it.

* * *

On that particular day, Stilikan and I were out running with our gang – actually it was Stilikan's gang – and planning an attack on the local slobe boys. These alien kids were "trespassing on our territory," according to Stilikan, and he'd decided to push them out.

"We have to teach them a lesson now," he said, "or, next thing you know, they'll take over everything."

This hardly seemed likely, as there was only a small slobe community in our town. Mostly they'd come to do the dirtiest jobs in the mill where Papa worked. Papa hated them, and even the government said they were a lower race from us, so it only seemed natural we had to keep them in line.

Stilikan had already been accepted at the National Leadership High School for the next year, and he wanted to make sure things were in order before he journeyed to the eastern provinces.

"We have to let them know it's _our_ park," he told us. "They can use it only with our permission."

"When do we give them permission?" one of the boys asked.

"Never!"

Stilikan was rather small and wiry at that time, having not begun his growth spurt yet. Even so, he commanded the respect and loyalty of the other boys. They stood around in their crisp Youth League uniforms listening to his orders. I hadn't joined the first level of the Youth League yet, so I just wore civilian clothes.

We found the slobe kids playing football on one of the fields at the park. We could have used another field but decided we didn't want any company.

"Tear 'em up boys!" Stilikan shouted as he led the attack.

The battle was quickly over. They outnumbered us, but we had Stilikan on our side. Fists flew and tussles went to the ground. I got a puffy eye and skinned elbows for my trouble, but the outcome was never in doubt. The slobe kids took off at a run, with us close behind. When we reached the edge of the park, Stilikan halted our pursuit.

"Don't show your ugly faces here again!" he shouted after the retreating enemy.

The usual schoolboy nonsense followed, back slapping and congratulations. We all thought we were wonderful fellows. We played a triumphant round of football. As usual, I was a 'reserve player,' meaning I never got to take the field. Then we headed for home.

Stilikan and I turned down the lane to our house, leaving the others behind. I began to come down from my exhilaration. Was this really necessary, I wondered?

"They weren't bothering us," I said, "and there was plenty of room at the park for everyone."

Stilikan smacked the back of my head. "Twerp!"

"Stop that!"

"You're too young to remember how bad things used to be," Stilikan said, "before the Magleiter took over and all the riff raff was treated as good as any racial comrade. Back when there were no jobs and we were really poor."

That was true. The National Salvation party had been in power more than five years, and I scarcely remembered a time before them. Mostly I remembered Papa was home a lot more and there were many arguments about money. But now that our country was building up its defense forces, there were plenty of jobs. Even the slobes could find work.

"There'll be a war, sooner or later," Stilikan said. "Then we'll show this human garbage what's what. I hope I'm old enough to fight."

"Me too!" I said in an excess of patriotic fervor.

"You?" Stilikan tried to smack my head again, but I dodged out of the way. "What could you do against the slobe hoards? At the sound of the first shot you'd run home crying."

"I would not."

"The big hero, eh? I'll just leave you alone out here with the slobes. Then we'll see how brave you are."

Stilikan took off at a run and dodged down a narrow side street.

"Hey, come back!" I yelled.

He could take any number of alleys and lanes to our house. I'd never catch him, even if I could run faster. I looked nervously up and down the street. Everybody was inside now for dinner, and only a scary little wind shared the outdoors with me. It blew along bits of rubbish and howled around corners like the voices of lost ghosts.

What if the slobe kids were lurking about? Maybe they'd been following, waiting for us to split up so they could pick off the smallest and weakest. A whole world of danger pressed down on me.

I straightened my shoulders and began walking. Maybe I would get beat up; there didn't seem to be much I could do to prevent it, but at least they wouldn't find me cringing. I turned down the lane where Stilikan had gone, half expecting to see a gang of enemy kids there. But it was empty.

I walked for a minute or so, neither looking left nor right and especially not behind me, as much as I wanted to.

_Be brave_ , I told myself.

A figure leaped out of a doorway and grabbed me. "Boo!"

I practically jumped out of my skin – it was only Stilikan.

"Don't worry, Little Bro," he said. "I wouldn't leave you to the savages."

He wrapped an arm over my shoulders and led me off toward home. "As long as I'm around, you're safe as spades."

"Yes, but you're leaving in the fall."

"Hey, no problem. If anybody gives you a hard time, I'll come back and kick their butt right quick." He turned serious, and all the mischief went out of him. "Believe that. If anybody hurts you, I'll get them – no matter how far I have to go."

I felt safe and reassured with my big brother's arm around my shoulders.

"Me, too," I said. "If anybody ever hurts you, I'll chase them down and smash them."

I realized what a dumb thing this was to say. What could possibly happen to Stilikan that he'd need _me_ to handle? I expected him to smack my head again, instead he just squeezed my shoulder. A faraway look came into his eyes.

"On a day like this, I feel I can take on the world," he said.

Dinner was waiting when we got home. Papa sat at the table behind his heavy, stoneware beer mug. Mama poked her head in from the kitchen.

"Where have you boys been?" she demanded.

She strode toward us, a worried, scared expression on her face. She examined our dirty faces and skinned elbows.

"We're all right, Mama," I said, "really."

"What were you up to?"

"Shut your mouth, woman," Papa said. "What does it look like?"

He fixed his eyes on us. I could tell by the meanness in them he was well on the way toward being drunk. A nasty smile curled his lips.

"You were out fighting them slobe brats, weren't you?" he said.

"Right," Stilikan said.

Papa grinned, and that peculiar, joyless chuckle rumbled in his throat. "Glad to hear you're showing those little bastards what's what."

"Yes, sir," Stilikan said.

"Now go wash up," Papa said.

We retreated to the bathroom. Over the noise of the water taps, we could hear a fierce confrontation going on. Papa was roaring out his usual list of complaints – Mama was trying to 'cut his balls off' with her constant whining. He couldn't stand listening to her any longer. Without her around he'd be 'free as a bird.' And so on. We'd heard it all before.

Stilikan's eyes were cold and steely as he washed himself in the sink. His mouth was clamped shut, and tight bunches of muscle protruded from his jaw line. He said nothing.

When we returned to the dining room, things had calmed to a tense, angry silence. Mama was seated now in her usual spot, and a beef roast lay on the table, ready to be carved. Stilikan and I took our places. I hoped fervently the storm had passed, that Papa would eat quickly then leave for his customary night at the saloon.

Things seemed back to normal when suddenly, and without any provocation, Papa reached over and slapped Mama hard.

"Bitch! Don't ever tell me what to do."

Mama flinched away and covered her face. Papa turned his rage my direction. "What are you looking at?"

He thrust out a hand. I sat frozen with horror as the gigantic fingers reached for me.

In one violent motion, my brother jumped out of his chair, seized the heavy beer mug, and shattered it against Papa's skull. Papa fell, pulling the table cloth with him. Food and dishes scattered over the floor.

Stilikan grabbed the carving knife and shoved it under Papa's chin. "Touch them again, and I'll cut your filthy head off!"

I was paralyzed with shock. In an instant, the huge terrifying presence that had dominated our family was reduced to impotence.

"You little..." Papa tried to speak, but a jab with the knife shut him up. More blood oozed.

"I mean it, _old man_."

Stilikan's voice was low, measured, and it carried more threat than the loudest shout. He moved away, allowing Papa to wobble up.

Papa towered in the middle of the room, stunned, wiping his hands over his bleeding throat and forehead. He gaped at his smeared fingers with astonishment, as if the blood must belong to somebody else. He rolled his hand into a fist and took a menacing step. Stilikan held his ground, knife at the ready. I tried to join him, but Mama grabbed me and held fast.

Papa scanned the room, waves of anger radiating off him. He turned into a storm of hate and violence, swirling in the middle of our house like a dark tornado. Baleful eyes glared out of a skull face within that storm.

"Damn you all!"

Papa went out the door with a house rattling slam.

"Lousy coward." Stilikan turned toward Mama. Raw contempt etched his face. "Well... what now?"

She could only stare back at him with wide, frightened eyes.

Come morning, Mama found the courage to visit a lawyer and file a divorce petition. Then she swore out a complaint with the police. Stilikan and I went with her. The night before, Stilikan had sharpened his Youth League dagger to a razor edge and he kept it close. He also carried a sturdy bat, supposedly to play whacker ball later, but that had never been a favorite game.

I was never so scared in my life. Any moment I expected Papa to jump out of some doorway. There was no doubt in my mind that Stilikan would try to kill him if he showed up. I felt no loyalty for Papa, but I was terrified for my brother. Papa kept away, though. He was probably out drinking, or beating up somebody who was unable to fight back.

For the next weeks, Stilikan insisted Mama come to school with him. She sat crocheting on a courtyard bench where he and his friends could keep an eye on her during classes. Some of the other boys found this amusing, but Stilikan quickly silenced them. He gave one kid such a pounding that the school issued a 10-day suspension. That suited Stilikan fine, as he could guard Mama more easily that way.

One night, a rock crashed through an upstairs window. Wrapped around it was a note from Papa full of blood-curdling threats. Stilikan looked at it scornfully.

"We've seen the last of him," he said.

Sure enough, Papa quit his job and moved out of the province to avoid paying child support. Money became scarce. Stilikan and I took delivery boy jobs. Mama sold her crochet work, did laundry and cleaning. We got by.

As Stilikan was preparing to leave for high school, we learned that Papa had been killed in a barroom incident. Somebody stuck a knife into him while he was drinking a mug of beer. Soon afterward, a large cash settlement arrived. Papa had maintained a life insurance policy with Mama as beneficiary.

Give credit where it's due. This was a fine thing, but why did he have to wait until he was dead in order to be decent? Prosperity returned to our home.

* * *

I spend the night wandering the old pathways with Stilikan, until dawn pokes through the windows. My brother needn't have worried about missing the war. The evidence of that is right before me.

When I hear Mama coming down the stairs, I rouse myself and go to my room to catch some sleep before the funeral service.

12. Mournful Gathering

The memorial service is dignified and well-attended. Mama's relations are all here, and several of Papa's, too. Our neighbors and local friends are well represented. I regard them with nostalgic affection, especially those who tipped me and Stilikan so well when we were delivery boys.

They hunch together in the parlor chairs looking gray and much older than I'd remembered. Their conversation is woeful, in respect for Stilikan and in fear for themselves. Everyone speculates about the Death Angel coming for the young men in their own family. Some have received visitations already.

Just one of our former gang is able to come. He's had an arm blown off at the battle front and now holds an administrative post with a training regiment. The rest are on active duty or have been killed. The only other military person in attendance is Bekar, Stilikan's wingman and eyewitness to his heroic death.

Bekar was injured in that final battle, as evidenced by the plaster encasing his left leg. He sits in a wheelchair with the living room overflow crowd. His sister occupies a chair next to him. Her mouth is clamped into a tense line as if she is outraged by the whole situation. They will be leaving tomorrow for the victory rally in the capital.

I want to speak with him, to learn of Stilikan's last hours, but I can't leave Mama's side. She is in a state of near collapse, leaning against me in her chair. When she stands, I keep a tight hold on her arm.

I glance back while the clergyman drones his words of tribute. Bekar keeps his gaze fixed to the floor, mostly. When he looks up, his eyes bear a sunken, haunted look. He's keeping something to himself. It isn't until after the interment that I am able to approach. He invites me to call that evening at his hotel.

* * *

The sister answers my knock. She stands in the doorway, wordless, looking over my Yuliac dress uniform with obvious disapproval – but also a hint of interest. I'm used to getting such looks from girls. In a different situation, I'd also be interested.

"Let him in already, Gyn," Bekar says.

She steps aside, and I enter the main room of the suite. The open door to the sitting room reveals that a cot has been made up in there. I feel Gyn's eyes on my back as I approach Bekar, who is sprawled on the double bed. I offer a salute.

"Forget all that." Bekar extends a hand; I clasp it. "It's a pleasure to finally meet Stilikan's 'Little Bro.' Aren't you the spitting image?"

"Uh, thank you."

"He talked about you a lot, Dytran." Bekar reaches for a packet of cigarettes on the side table. "He was very proud. Every time one of your letters came, I got the full run down."

He offers me a cigarette. I manage to shake my head in refusal.

Bekar sighs. "I just wish the circumstances were better."

My mouth is trembling, and tears roll down my cheeks. I wipe them away with the back of my hand. A melancholy smile moves across Bekar's face. He strikes a match.

"Do you have to smoke in here?" Gyn says.

Bekar shakes out the flame. "All right, Sis, be that way."

"You shouldn't be smoking at all."

"Tell you what, Dytran," Bekar says, "let's go outside. There's a park nearby I'd like to visit and..." he shoots Gyn a gently mocking look, "have a cigarette."

I nod. "Yes, I'd like that."

Gyn assists him into the wheelchair.

"May I help?"

"I can manage," Gyn says. "I'm used to this."

"She's a volunteer nurse at our military hospital," Bekar says. "Don't you feel sorry for those poor blokes getting manhandled by her?"

An irritated frown creases Gyn's face.

"Just kidding, Sis." Bekar gives her a peck on the cheek. "You know I love you."

She smiles for the first time, showing a cute dimple on her cheek. She's quite attractive, actually. I can't help smiling a little myself. Bekar is settled into his wheelchair now.

"Lead on Dytran. Let's paint the town red."

"Don't stay out too long," Gyn says. "We have to get an early start tomorrow."

"Yes, mother."

Gyn opens the door for us, and I maneuver the wheelchair into the hallway.

"You watch yourself, Dytran," she says. "I see boys like you all the time at the hospital. They come back from the war..." Her voice trails off.

"I will, thank you."

She watches us from the doorway until we turn the corner to the hotel lobby.

"That's my sister for you," Bekar says, "always looking on the bright side. You know, she's been bossing me around since we were kids, and I'm two years older!"

The moment we leave the hotel, Bekar lights up a cigarette. He inhales deeply and blows out the smoke with satisfaction.

"Ah, I needed that!" He takes another drag. "What I could really use is a drink."

"We can stop by a tavern."

"That's tempting... better not, though. Alcohol doesn't mix with my medications." Bekar raps his knuckles on his cast. "I'll be wearing this damn thing for a while yet. The doctors say I might be good to fly again, but my tap dancing days are over."

"You were a tap dancer?"

"No, but if I was, I wouldn't be anymore."

"Oh."

I suppress a chuckle. Somehow, it doesn't seem proper to laugh at Bekar's misfortune, however light he is trying to make of it.

"I heard you're in some trouble about a slobe dive," Bekar says. "There was a fatality?"

"Yes. They granted me a week's family leave, but as soon as I get back, it's a disciplinary hearing."

"Sorry about that."

"It's my own fault. I knew the activity was banned. I was trying to show up my deputy squadron leader." Another motivation occurs to me. "And I was trying to prove that, just maybe, I was as good as Stilikan. He's the unofficial Yuliac slobe diving champion, you know."

"He mentioned that."

"What did he say?"

"It was the stupidest thing he ever did," Bekar replies. "He said he should have saved his efforts for the real enemy, the ones who can fight back."

"Oh, they can fight back all right."

The mention of Stilikan casts a despondent pall over us. We wheel on in silence through the last long sun beams of the day. I can't see Bekar's eyes, but I'm pretty sure they have that haunted aspect again. He sags in his wheelchair. Even the smoke rising from his cigarette appears to sag.

We get to the park. It's the same one where our gang ran off the slobe kids all those years ago, on the day Stilikan overthrew Papa. A host of memories crowds up.

I try to push them away, but how is that possible when I can see them out in the shadows? Me, Stilikan, the other boys, friends and enemies. All of us are here again in our earlier versions.

This place has no ghosts for Bekar, however. The greenery and fresh air seem to perk him up.

"I have an idea," he says. "How about going to the victory rally with me tomorrow?"

"Don't participants need an invitation?"

"I've got an invitation," Bekar says. "Front section among the 'honored wounded,' and I can bring an attendant."

"What about Gyn?"

Bekar waves a dismissive hand. "That's the _last_ thing she wants to do. You heard how she was talking."

"Well..."

"It'll help us both," Bekar says. "We've been down in the dumps, haven't we? If all that excitement can't cheer us up, nothing can."

I struggle to shift mental gears. Up until this moment, the future seemed to be nothing more than a dark tunnel leading nowhere. Any thought of enjoyment had seemed alien, improper. Is it possible worthwhile things can still happen to me?

"You wouldn't have to do much," Bekar says. "Just wheel me around and make sure I don't fall on my face when I'm using my crutches."

"Very well, let's go."

Bekar claps my arm. "Capital fellow!"

He lights another cigarette. Dusk is settling in, making the tip glow more prominently. Bekar's face seems to glow as well. He is truly smiling for the first time since I've met him. He almost looks like a kid. We are all still kids.

"Ah, in this light... seeing you," he says, "it's almost as if Stilikan is with me again."

I like Bekar a lot. It's easy to see why my brother trusted and respected him so much. I think of Katella, my own loyal wingman, and how he'd backed me up against all odds, when it counted most.

This is a perfect moment of camaraderie. I can't bear ruining it, but it has to be done.

"I . . . need to know exactly what happened to Stilikan," I say.

Bekar tenses. The smile vanishes from his face. As much as I hate to do it, I press on.

"And I think you need to tell me, Bekar. I've seen that look in your eyes. Something terrible is eating at you."

A long pause as the world darkens around us. Bekar's arm flops onto the wheelchair armrest, the cigarette tumbles from his fingers. I am steeling myself to repeat the request when he speaks.

"Yes, you're right."

An enormous tension seizes me from the gathering darkness, balling my fists and clamping my jaw. I fight an impulse to run away.

"Promise me you won't tell your mother," Bekar says. "I couldn't stand it if she knew."

I jerk my head into a nod. "You have my word."

13. The Final Battle

"Tear 'em up boys!" Stilikan shouted over the radio.

The fighter squadron dove out of the sun onto the bomber formation like hawks after a gaggle of fat pigeons. The enemy fighter escort rose to meet them, while the bombers jettisoned their loads and turned back toward home. Machine guns and canons fired, the voice of war howled throughout the sky.

Stilikan blasted an enemy fighter. It exploded into a fireball. He shot up another one, then pulled away so that Bekar could finish it off. Bekar pressed the firing button on his stick – machine guns mounted in wings rattled his plane, the 20 millimeter canon in the nose jolted him with its recoil. The acrid perfume of burning cordite filled the cockpit.

The enemy fighter shuddered under the assault and caught fire. It flipped over and started going down. The pilot bailed out.

"Good work, number 2!" Stilikan's voice crackled over the radio.

Bekar grinned. Nothing could stop him today! These slobe pilots weren't bad, but no real match for Stilikan's aces. And Stilikan had let Bekar score the victory instead of taking it for himself. That was so much like him – share the glory, conserve ammo, keep fighting as long as possible.

With all the inflated egos around the Air Force, it was great to serve with a commander who led through sheer competence.

More enemy planes tumbled from the sky. Two parachutes bloomed. Number 10, one of the new guys in the squadron, dove after the parachutes, meaning to kill the men hanging from them.

"Disengage, number 10!" Stilikan shrieked. "Goddammit, disengage!"

Number 10 swooped away from the helpless men dangling under the silk. One could easily imagine the poor bastards' relief. All the squadron members knew of Stilikan's hard and fast rule against shooting bailed-out enemy pilots, but this idiot must have had his blood up.

"When we get back, your ass is mine," Stilikan said in his cold, measured voice.

It wouldn't be the first time Stilikan used his fists to 'reeducate' an insubordinate pilot, but after he'd knocked the guy down, that would be the end of it. Once they'd been reeducated, nobody ever committed a second offense.

The last few enemy fighter planes were hightailing it back home now, skimming low over the ground trying to shake off pursuit.

"Let's get the big ones," Stilikan said.

He closed in on the stern of a large, twin-engined bomber. But before he could shoot, a gun in the tail of the bomber opened fire, raking his aircraft with bullets.

Stilikan pulled away. "Watch it boys, these bandits have stingers!"

This was a worrying development. During his time at the front, Bekar had witnessed a steady improvement in enemy equipment and tactics. Now they had up-gunned their standard medium bomber.

But another development was of more pressing concern.

"You're trailing smoke, Number 1," Bekar said over the radio.

"I know, I'm losing oil pressure," Stilikan said. "Number 3, take command. I'm returning to base."

"Yes sir!" Number 3 replied.

The squadron was taking the measure of the bombers, altering tactics so as to avoid the new tail guns. Soon the big planes started to fall. One of them directly below Bekar had not been able to dump its full bomb load, and it went up in a gigantic explosion. A piece of wreckage punched through the fuselage of Bekar's aircraft, striking his leg.

Unimaginable pain erupted throughout his body. He was lost in a bright wilderness of agony.

This is it, I'm going down!

In the glare, he could see the faces of his mother and father, and sister Gyn. Then the girl he wanted to marry but had been too shy to ask. His plane was heading down. He wanted to give it full throttle, a death dive into the ground, anything to end the terrible pain.

"Pull up Number 2, pull up!" It was Stilikan shouting over the radio.

Instinctively, at the sound of the commander's voice, Bekar eased the stick back. His plane leveled out.

"How bad are you hit?" Stilikan said.

"It's my leg, sir."

Bekar struggled to remain conscious. Stilikan was flying beside him now.

"Stay with me," Stilikan said, "we're heading back."

"Aye sir ...."

"Don't pass out on me now! Use your medical kit."

Bekar fumbled out the morphine syringe and stabbed it through his flight suit into his injured leg. Sharp pain blasted through him, followed by blessed relief. The agony retreated into the puffy clouds, replaced by a glow of well being.

Wouldn't it be nice to go to sleep and forget this world of suffering?

"Take the inhalant!" Stilikan ordered.

It was like the voice of God coming over his headset. Bekar could never have disobeyed. He pulled a capsule out of the medical kit and broke it under his nose. He breathed in deeply.

A burst of awareness struck him, as if a mighty hand had slapped his face. He was fully alert to everything around him now, and his heart raced. His upper body was supercharged, while his lower portions were numb.

He looked to his left; Stilikan's plane flying quite nearby. Stilikan was staring at him intently. Bekar managed a feeble thumbs up, and his commander gave one back.

They flew on together until they'd crossed the battle lines into 'friendly' territory. Bekar noted his fuel consumption rate was higher than normal. A fuel line must have been damaged in the explosion.

All the while, the smoke streaming from Stilikan's plane was getting worse. Open flames began shooting from the engine.

"I'm bailing out," Stilikan radioed. "Return to base immediately – that's an order!"

He pulled his airplane into a graceful, slow-climbing left turn. Then he flung back the canopy and jumped out over the starboard wing. He made it look simple. As he floated beneath his parachute he waved jauntily, as if he was having a wonderful time. Bekar circled, taking careful note of the location, and radioed an 'airman down' report.

Despite Stilikan's order, Bekar loitered until his fuel became dangerously low. His engine quit near the base, forcing him to glide into a dead stick landing.

* * *

It's fully dark now, and the street lights are on. One of them casts gray illumination over Bekar's face. The face is pale, the eyes dead. Bekar fumbles a cigarette out of his pack, and I light it for him.

"What happened then?" I hear myself ask.

"One of our ground units found him two hours later, but a partisan band got to him first. Those bastards are thick as flies behind our lines, and..."

He swallows hard, takes a deep drag from his cigarette. Then his words come rushing out in a torrent.

"They killed him, Dytran. Tied him to a tree and butchered him like an animal. Thank God he was cremated – his mother couldn't stand seeing him the way he was."

He is crying freely now. I grip his shoulder and try to offer whatever comfort I can. My own tears have all been used up.

Bekar's story holds no surprises, as I'd already filled in the broad strokes earlier. All that remains in my heart is a black pit filled with hatred. I recall the face of the slobe boy lying in the grass, grinning up at me. I want to stomp my boot into it.

Bekar regains control of himself. "Well... that's the full story. I'd like that drink now, if you don't mind."

14. Rally for Victory

I occupy a position beside Bekar's wheelchair in the front rank of the section, the best possible place on the whole airfield.

Around us are many more of the honored wounded standing on crutches or sitting in wheelchairs. They are scarcely older than I am, but they seem of an entirely different generation.

None of these combat veterans look too badly hurt. In no way would I question their heroism or their right to attend the rally, but I can't help wondering how it would look to bring some of the most severely mangled Youth League members here. What would the cheering crowd make of it?

Last night, those shattered boys marched through my dreams on the stumps of amputated legs, trailing intestines behind. An endless stream. I fell in line with them, moving across the bloody plain toward a barren tree looming on the horizon. A howling wind swirled behind us, urging us on. As the tree drew closer, I could make out a figure tied to its trunk. . . .

Goddammit!

What am I doing here, idle and useless to my country? Any fool can push a wheelchair. My dear brother has been murdered, and I am doing nothing about it. I want to find some slobe and beat him to a pulp, but there are none here. That hag who attacked me at the railway station – I should have snapped her arm like kindling!

No, save it for the real enemy.

They are far to the east, prowling the woods in their partisan bands, seeking defenseless victims. Lousy cowards! I should be out there hunting them down, tying _them_ to trees, ripping _their_ guts out. I should be keeping the promise I made to Stilikan all those years ago.

Bekar notices my agitation. He reaches over and grips my arm.

"Pretty good show, eh?" he says over the blaring music and the roar of thousands.

I nod.

There are lots of healthy Youth League members here today, marching in their crisp uniforms, banners snapping and drums rolling. They believe they are immortal, just as I did when I was their age. Pack of young fools!

Army units rumble by in the latest tanks and in lorries towing artillery pieces. We all swell with pride at the display of military brawn. Soon these men will be reporting to the war front where the enemy will taste their steel.

Armored cars swarm by like a pack of wolves, then armored personnel carriers with open tops and eight large wheels instead of the usual clanking tracks – stealthy models designed for sneaking up on the enemy. A dozen infantrymen grin at us from each one.

I want to rush out to them and beg, "Take me with you!"

Fighter planes prowl overhead, circling the airfield like diligent hawks. No sneak attack will find us unprepared today. This rally would have taken place already were it not for the bombing raid at our airfield.

After these manly displays come rousing speeches by the Party big shots, exhorting the troops to "maximum effort," and "devotion to the Fatherland."

How many of these pot-bellied heroes have sons in combat? Precious few, I'd reckon. Fine for our best young men, like Stilikan, to make the ultimate sacrifice while their own kids get draft deferments or "serve" in cushy administrative jobs far back from the fighting. There is no blinking at the fact – rot had taken hold in our state.

Insulated at my school within the Raptor Aces, I'd scarcely noticed it. But out in the wider country I cannot avoid seeing and hearing about the rot. It is in the hushed voices of the mourners at Stilikan's funeral, in grim conversations on the street, in the smug appearance of Party leaders zipping by in their fancy cars.

The corruption and abuses of power are everywhere. Ordinary people survive on the slim calories from their food ration cards while the well-connected dine at fancy restaurants. People wear tattered outfits while the leaders strut about in tailored uniforms. On and on.

The grumbling comments almost always end with the lament, "Ah, if only the Great Leader knew!"

But the Magleiter can't know. He is too busy commanding our military effort from his headquarters far to the east, while those governing in his name corrupt our state. Well, one day this war will end, and he'll return to clean out the rats' nest. I want to help in that effort.

Why didn't I notice all this before? Because I was a stupid kid, that's why. But I've "aged ten years" over the past weeks, as Mama put it, and I no longer embrace idiotic fantasies.

Bekar sits in his wheelchair, glassy-eyed. It's easy to imagine what a fighting man like him must think of the heroic speeches issuing from the review stand. I look upon him with warm affection. In many ways, he seems to compensate for the elder brother I have lost, just as I serve as a kind of Stilikan replacement for him.

He is smoking quality cigarettes that few can afford these days. His family is well off, so he can purchase such luxuries on the black market. And he also possesses a generous heart. He brought along a supply of cigarettes and chocolate which he passed around to the other veterans. We gained our front row spot by these means, though I'm certain this was not Bekar's motive.

I owe so much of my recent education to him, as on the train yesterday . . .

* * *

We sat at the rear of the coach on a wooden bench. Not very luxurious, but it did offer extra room for Bekar to stretch out his leg. We'd brought some cushions, so we weren't too bad off. An elderly couple snoozed in the seat ahead of us, and across the aisle lay a rope coil piled over with luggage. This seemed as safe a place as any for a discussion.

You had to be careful about what you said and to whom you said it. Pretty much anyone could be an informer. Letters, phone calls, private conversations were all subject to intrusion. And forget about sending a telegram unless you had only the brightest, most mundane things to say. I felt a moment of hesitation. Could Bekar be trusted – how well did I know him, anyway?

I pushed the thought out of my mind. For months Bekar had covered Stilikan's back, protecting him from enemy fighters. He'd been with my brother near the end, still looking out for him despite severe injuries. If I couldn't trust Bekar, then the world was truly an evil place, and I was better off making a quick exit from it.

Ignoring the oath of silence I'd been forced to swear, I told him all about the air raid on our base. How had the enemy managed to reach us?

"Those bombers must have been stripped-down," Bekar said, "extra fuel, less armor plate, fewer guns and crewmen."

"They had the belly gunners, all right," I said. "One of them almost shot me."

Bekar grinned and slapped my leg. "Don't let that happen. Gyn would be really mad. You know, I think she likes you."

I felt my face redden. "Uh, well, that's nice."

Bekar's grin widened, then he turned serious. He lowered his voice. "And the slobes took back a lot of ground in the northern sector. You heard about that?"

"The information service mentioned a 'limited strategic withdrawal,'" I said.

Bekar grunted. "It was a lot worse than that. Piotra kicked our butts and strategically withdrew us hundreds of kilometers."

"I-I didn't know."

"Things have settled down, and the northern sector isn't all that crucial, anyway. The big issues will be determined in the south. There's a huge buildup taking place there on both sides. All hell is going to break out soon."

He lit a cigarette then cracked open the window which increased the noise level inside the car.

"It's like this, Dytran." He leaned in and lowered his voice further. "We win soon or we're finished. Either way, you can forget the 'conquering living space' talk. If we do well in the next campaign, we might be able to negotiate a peace deal. If we lose..."

I swallowed hard. Things were far worse than I'd imagined. Bekar's remarks were a direct contradiction to the official account, borderline sedition.

"And you can forget all the 'inferior race' crap, too," Bekar said. "Piotra is a tough, intelligent enemy worthy of respect. He doesn't quit. We still have the edge, but he's catching up fast – and we're badly outnumbered."

He took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out the window.

"We pilots understand this, but the foot soldiers still buy into the Party line. Can't say as I blame them, the poor devils have nothing else to hang onto."

"What about the slobes' eastern border?" I said. "There've been reports that a war might break out there."

"We're all counting on that. If they face a two-front war, they'll have to make peace with us. Or, at least we hope so."

That was the end of our conversation for quite a while. My thoughts turned toward the final letter I'd received from Stilikan.

His earliest letters from the front were loaded with typical banter, high spirited and teasing – the written equivalent of smacking the back of my head. But over time the letters became much more somber. The last one was downright depressing, filled with sarcastic commentary. I'm surprised it got past the military censors.

One remark was particularly striking: "As I told you before, Little Bro, everything is a pee cave."

At the time, I thought it was just a crude joke. It conjured up an image of a dark, smelly location where people went to urinate. But now I wasn't so sure. Could 'pee' actually be an initial? Was he trying to say, in coded language, that everything was a 'Plato cave?'

I remember him talking about Plato's cave during one summer break when he was home from school. I didn't pay much attention, as he was always trying to impress me with his far-ranging knowledge. But I do recall that Plato's cave was a realm of illusions where prisoners saw only the shadows of things while convinced they were viewing reality.

Is that where we are all living?

15. The Unimaginable

A spectacular air show climaxes the rally.

Dive bombers hurtle from the sky, sirens wailing, to drop their dummy loads with lethal precision. Medium bombers simulate ground attacks. Mock dogfights swirl overhead. Transport planes drop paratroopers. Once the men land, they take up battle positions around the airstrip. The crowd's roaring complements the mighty voice of aircraft engines.

I cheer my lungs out with all the others. It's impossible to believe anyone can beat us with such power at our disposal.

"That's what we need!" Bekar shouts. "Piotra will never know what hit him!"

A squadron of fighter planes scorches by at low level. Their noise is deafening. Their pulsating heat washes over us like the breath of warrior gods. The pilots inside the sleek, lustrous machines wave to us. I wave both my arms and yell my head off.

My heart leaps out toward my lost dream. If only I hadn't screwed up my life. If only I could earn a place among those heroes!

Bekar maneuvers his body in sync with the fighters. His hand grasps an imaginary control stick, his foot presses an invisible rudder pedal as his wheelchair becomes a fighting machine of the sky. His face is hard and determined, his eyes stab the distance like a bird of prey's. This is the face he showed the enemy. Thank heaven he's on our side.

All is throbbing airplane motors, heat, and exaltation.

Then everything abruptly calms. The fighters climb back to altitude and resume their patrol. The bigger planes land and taxi away. The paratroopers gather up their silk and trot off the airstrip. The crowd in the grandstands grows silent, and the men around me turn thoughtful. Time seems suspended in the bright, warm afternoon.

What will happen next? What could possibly top this magnificent display? The men around me exchange expectant glances, light cigarettes, munch the last of their chocolate bars.

Then a solitary transport plane appears in the east. It moves with stately, unhurried grace, demanding that the whole world adjust to its rhythm. Fighter planes take up position on its flanks.

We all watch with stunned disbelief as the aircraft draws nearer. I've seen the plane many times in newsreels, everybody has, but never did I expected to see it for real. A collective gasp shoots through the multitude.

"It can't be," Bekar murmurs.

But it is. The Magleiter's black and white personal aircraft is coming in for a landing! An electric thrill shoots through the crowd. People try to surge down from the bleachers, but a large contingent of security troops holds them back.

The Great Leader's plane is on final approach to the runway, descending from the sky like God himself. The fighter escort breaks off and heads back to altitude.

"This is incredible," Bekar says. "Help me stand, will you, Dytran?"

I assist him out of the wheelchair and give him his crutches. Around us, every man who can get to his feet is standing at attention with as much soldierly bearing as he can muster. I give my uniform tunic a hurried inspection, adjusting the belt and brushing away a piece of lint. I straighten my cap.

The Magleiter's plane is taxing to a stop now. A delegation of Party big shots and military brass rushes to greet him. The crowd in the grandstands holds its breath. The tension is unbearable . . .

Then the door of the airplane opens and the Great Leader emerges. A thunderous roar bursts from the crowd like a sexual climax.

HAIL! HAIL!

Growing in power, arms outthrust.

HAIL! HAIL!

A kind of madness takes hold of the people. They transform into something akin to wild animals. Nothing rational exists in their cries.

We in my group also yell at the top of our lungs. But our shouts are less hysterical, less like a primitive beast roaring for blood. Perhaps it is because we've already seen enough blood. The military band plays the national anthem but can scarcely be heard over the tumult.

Despite the lines of security troops standing shoulder to shoulder, each man gripping the belts of the ones beside him, a frenzied group of women breaks free and tries to charge onto the landing strip. Members of the brass band drop their instruments and rush to intercept them.

"Damn," Bekar says, "I wish the girls would chase after _me_ like that!"

The men around us laugh. This breaks the tension, preparing us for whatever is going to happen next.

The Magleiter is walking with his entourage now. Somebody presents him a large bouquet of roses. He cradles the flowers in one arm and raises the other in recognition of the thunderous ovation.

Binoculars appear in my hands, and I train them on the Magleiter's face. It is warm and smiling, brimming with confidence, the very spirit of our nation. The Magleiter drifts over the ground toward the review stand, borne along by the cheers of the multitude. The lesser men trail behind him like sparrows following a mighty eagle.

The binoculars fly from my hands and move down the line.

A burst of patriotic love seizes my heart, all my cares vanish. The Magleiter is going to mount the review stand and speak to us. I will hear his voice in person. If only Stilikan could be here!

Then an incredible thing happens. Suddenly, impossibly, the Great Leader veers away from the review stand and strides toward us. The flunkies jostle among themselves to keep up with him.

An astonished gasp shoots through our ranks. I wrench myself to attention with enough force to nearly dislocate my spine. On both sides of me range the honored wounded, their faces proud and hard.

The Magleiter arrives at the far end of our assemblage. He hands the flowers off to an aide and begins inspecting the honored wounded, looking into the eyes of each man as he moves slowly down the line. A pressure wave precedes him, heralding the approach of an unstoppable force. Camera men in National News Service blazers hover around, recording his progress.

I keep facing rigidly forward, but my eyes are glued to the Great Leader. As when I'd confronted the corpse of the slobe boy, I feel a huge turning point in my life approaching. My throat is dry, and my lips feel like paper. I fight the urge to run my tongue over them.

Then the Magleiter is standing before me. He appears smaller and older than in the newsreels, worn down in service to our people, but still powerful and unyielding. His eyes bore into mine, piercing all the way to my soul.

I am falling backwards into an abyss. Only the eyes hold me steady, offering salvation. They enlarge until they dominate the universe. The Magleiter's hand grips my shoulder.

"Stand fast, young man," he says. "The Fatherland needs you."

Then he is gone, moving down the line to the others. My body trembles; my hands are frigid. In moments I am going to pass out.

Bekar whispers harshly in my ear. "Breathe, for God's sake!"

How long have I been holding my breath? I blow out the suffocation and inhale deeply. Power surges through me. The fainting spell passes. I am a new person – reborn, cleansed of all my sins.

I am no longer afraid.

16. To the Reckoning

Once more, I sit inside a passenger coach gazing out the window as our beautiful country rolls by, listening to the clacking wheels.

This is the final train ride of my journey. At the end lies the reckoning before the military tribunal. The prospect had frightened me before, but now I feel serene. Whatever happens, I will not cower.

The Great Leader is in my dreams now, his stern, fatherly presence displacing the mutilated boys and the tree of execution. All night, I feel him watching over me. I sense the raging, swirling wind nearby, but he defends me from it. During the day, the knowledge of his existence gives me renewed purpose.

The past weeks have been a time of unbearable loss. I would have welcomed death many times, but now I possess the strength to keep going. It was no accident I was at the rally. There were too many 'coincidences' which brought me face to face with the Magleiter.

What if Bekar had been too ill to attend the funeral? What if Gyn had talked him out of going to the rally? He'd said there'd been a "battle royal" over the issue. What if the other men, delighted with the chocolate and cigarettes, hadn't pushed us into the front rank? Bekar had only been able to purchase the black market items at the last minute. What if he'd failed?

And why had the Great Leader put aside his heavy responsibilities and flown to the rally? What inspiration motivated him?

My rational mind tells me this is all just super-charged emotion, but the Magleiter did not speak to my rational mind. He probed deeper, to my very core. He knew my innermost fears and longings. He told me to stand fast, and, by God, I will!

He never did address the crowd. After reviewing the honored wounded, he entered an open car and left the airfield. Those in the grandstands had to content themselves with a glimpse of him driving past, acknowledging their salutes. He flew all the way from the war front just to speak words of encouragement to me.

And there is Gyn now, too.

* * *

I didn't really need to accompany Bekar to his home. He'd met some others from his town at the rally and planned to ride the train back with them. But it's not much out of my way, I'd insisted, and I'm in no great haste. So, I prevailed upon him to visit for a day with me and Mama before we headed to his town.

Naturally, I wanted to spend more time with him, but mostly I wanted to see Gyn. It might be a long time before I can look upon a pretty girl again. Bekar easily guessed my motivations. He approached the subject indirectly, using our mutual admiration for Stilikan as an opening. He's a fighter ace, so he knows all about stealthy approaches.

"Stilikan was the finest man I ever knew," Bekar said. "He was more like a brother to me than a commander. All of us felt that way about him."

"Yes, he was great..."

"And let me tell you this, Dytran, you're cut from the same cloth."

I couldn't have felt more honored if he'd presented me a gold medal. A melancholy smile moved onto my face. Bekar's grin was mischievous. He poked an elbow into my ribs.

"Who knows?" he said. "If things work out with Gyn, maybe _we'll_ be brothers, too, huh?"

He must have enjoyed watching me blush. My complexion is so fair it's quite easy to see the red.

* * *

We catch Gyn at a bad time, though. We've only been in the house long enough to drink a half glass of beer when she returns from her shift at the military hospital. She looks tense and exhausted. Drops of blood splatter her uniform.

"Did you boys enjoy your little romp?" she says by way of greeting. Her voice holds a sarcastic edge.

"That's right, Sis," Bekar replies.

She eyes me with the same odd mixture of reproach and interest she showed the first time we met. I chide myself for wearing my Yuliac uniform. It seems to be the focus of her disapproval.

"If you'll excuse me a minute," she says, "I need to clean up."

She leaves the room. Bekar rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

"All hail the conquering heroes, eh, Dytran?"

We finish our beer and begin another. I check my watch. The next train east will be leaving soon. I'd considered taking the later one so as to maximize my visit, but that doesn't seem like a good idea any longer.

Gyn returns wearing a lovely pastel summer dress. She's like a whole other woman now, someone you want to wrap your arms around and draw in close. Her face still bears its serious expression, though. She must have witnessed something very tragic at the hospital. I know how things like that can prey on a person's mind.

She tries to lighten up in the course of our discussion, but the atmosphere remains tense and awkward. I am glad when the time comes for me to leave. I grip Bekar's hand in farewell.

"Good luck at the hearing," he says. "You'll be in my thoughts, always."

"Thanks."

"I'll walk with you to the station," Gyn says.

She turns to fetch her handbag. Bekar grins and shoots me a thumbs up.

The train station is only a few blocks away, I wish it was much farther. I wish I could think of something to say to this beautiful girl, but we walk along in silence until we reach a tiny park near the station. The patch of green is bright and wholesome, accentuated by Gyn's summer dress. She pauses.

"So, what happened at the rally?"

I grope for words to describe my experience. "It was wonderful, Gyn. The Magleiter himself appeared. He reviewed the honored wounded. He spoke personally to _me_."

I expect some expression of amazement, or at least a bit of surprise. She only nods gravely.

"I don't think it's true."

"What's not true?"

"Any of it." Gyn busies herself smoothing her dress. "If we were really the 'master race,' we'd have won already, but the war's dragging on and on."

I am too stunned to reply.

She looks up into my face. "I'd rather not go inside the train station. I want to remember you out here."

"All right, Gyn. Thanks for coming with me."

She kisses me on the cheek. A tear runs down her own. I brush it away with my fingertips, then withdraw my hand, surprised at my boldness.

"I meant what I said last time, Dytran. Watch out for yourself."

"I will."

She presses her lips to mine. Her body flows up against me, a perfect fit. Impossible joy and longing surge in my heart . . .

Then I am alone, floating into the train station. I don't stop floating for a long time.

17. Brothers in Misfortune

The train arrives next morning a few hours before I have to report in. I occupy the time with desultory wandering.

First, a visit to my high school, which is closed until the fall. I should be returning then to complete my studies, but who knows where I'll be come autumn? The old building always seemed so dignified and stately. Now it's as bleak as my soul.

I stand in the courtyard gazing up at the third-floor dorm room I vacated to reside at the airbase barracks with my Raptor Ace comrades. Such a naïve, idealistic first year student who lived up there! He'd been so convinced he knew everything important about life.

Then a walk along the winding little streets, so much like the ones of my home town. A tavern for a glass of beer, a small café for lunch. Conversation in the tavern is boisterous, in the café quiet and subdued. The rhythm of everyday life. I've become a stranger to it.

Already I feel confined, as if I am in a labor camp working away the months until my draft notice arrives. Then again, it might not be too long a time. Perhaps I can arrange an early release to serve in an anti-partisan unit. I'll spend my days in the dark eastern forests stalking the bastards who murdered my brother.

I pass through the gate of the airbase with fifteen minutes to spare. Our barracks have been cleared of wounded men. Only Bel remains, sprawled on his cot amid a clutter of reading material, studying a book. He glances up as I enter.

"Dytran!" He bounds across the room and seizes my hand. "Good to see you, boy!"

"Thanks, Bel," I say with more than a little surprise. "It's good to see you again, too."

He steps back and places his hands on his hips. "You're a changed man, Dye. Something's happened to you – something good, I think."

I gesture noncommittally.

"Found a girlfriend, huh?"

"Well..."

Beltran laughs. "I get it. You can tell me about her later."

This is a Bel I've almost never seen before – relaxed and friendly, confident in himself. Gone is the sullen, resentful, borderline insolence of last year's deputy commander.

The moment passes. Bel turns somber. "You've got some time to get ready. We have to report to the new wing commander in an hour."

" _New_ wing commander? What happened to the old one?"

"He's out, along with many of the senior officers. Heads have rolled since the air raid."

"But he was only in charge of our training squadrons. He had nothing to do with base defense."

Bel shrugs. "Who can say? I told you he was going soft."

This news is unsettling. The old wing commander was a man with a reputation for fairness. This new commander could be just the opposite. If our prospects were dreary before, what are they now?

I glance at the jumble of reading material on Bel's cot. The usual things – aircraft manuals, flight instructions, tracts on racial theory – and a Youth League pamphlet: _Our Flag and Our Nation_.

"Where'd you get this?" I ask.

"Oh, a troop of the little snots marched past here yesterday. Their leader gave me that. He said I looked depressed and could use a 'positive message.'"

I open the pamphlet:

The black ground of the National Salvation Party banner represents the darkness of ignorance and racial defilement plaguing our nation when the Party was founded.

The red, stylized eagle represents courage, virtue, and the pure blood of the master race. The eagle spreads a white diamond of enlightenment and racial purity wherever it flies.

After seizing power, the Magleiter adapted the NSP banner for our national flag. The long stripe in the middle represents him.

The top stripe represents the original founder of the NSP, who was martyred by enemies of the Party.

The lower stripe represents the co-founder of the NSP who has retired from active service to become the Party's chief philosopher . . .

Bel chuckles. "I like that 'martyred by enemies of the Party' routine. The Magleiter knocked the guy off, all right, and a good job of it, too."

I glance uneasily about the room. "That's not the official line."

"Whatever. At least the 'chief philosopher' had enough sense to quit while he was ahead. Did you see that moron in the last newsreel? He looked like a fish with its guts pulled out."

I do not want to continue this discussion. My sensibilities have been elevated above such vulgarities.

"Yes, well, I'd better get ready," I say.

My rational mind knows that Bel's comments are most likely true. But the hidden part of me, the part the Magleiter touched, believes anything the Great Leader chooses to say. I do not try to explain this to Bel. He wouldn't understand.

18. Change of Fortune

We leave the barracks and head across the air base toward HQ.

It is a glorious spring afternoon perfect for a stroll with one's girlfriend, but not for the grim journey we are undertaking. Dank overcast would better suit our purposes. We trudge along quietly, as if to our execution.

The base no longer has a prison camp feel but seems the freest, most beautiful location on earth. Puffy clouds grace the sky, and a light breeze plays about. It's ideal flying weather. Grounds men mow the grass alongside the taxiways, releasing a fresh, green fragrance. A transport plane takes off from the main runway. If only I could climb aboard and escape my troubles!

Every step is taking me closer to my personal reckoning.

Much of the bomb damage to our HQ building has been repaired. As we enter the main door, workmen scurry about. I am struck by the bare appearance of the lobby. Furnishings destroyed in the air raid have not yet been replaced. Where the Yuliac awards case once stood, only a blank corner presents itself. The awards have been erased from this world, like my brother.

The new adjutant meets us. He is a hard and tight-lipped man who looks like he's keeping a bad temper in check. His demeanor foretells unfavorable events. The old adjutant was an officious sort, puffed up with a sense of his own importance. I'd never liked him much, but now I rather miss him.

The three of us walk together down a hallway to the wing commander's office, our steps echoing off the bare walls. The adjutant precedes us through the office door and takes a position to the side, arms behind his back, legs slightly spread. Bel and I enter the room and snap to attention, offering our best salutes.

"Squadron leader Dytran reporting, sir."

"Deputy squadron leader Beltran reporting, sir."

The wing commander rises slowly from his chair and acknowledges our salutes. His granite face indicates that he, too, is a hard man – quite different from our easy-going former commander. He is tall and ramrod straight. The look in his eyes is forceful, like that of the Magleiter in the portrait hanging behind him.

"At ease," he says.

We assume a more relaxed posture, though we are far from being 'at ease.' The wing commander steps from behind his desk and approaches us, limping slightly. He extends a hand to me.

"Please accept my personal condolences for the loss of your brother."

I take the hand with considerable astonishment. It is solid and powerful. The face looking into mine, while still handsome, is pocked with tiny indents, as if it has sustained injuries from an explosion. I'd seen such faces after the air raid.

"Thank you, sir."

The wing commander gestures toward a manila folder and some papers spread across his desk. "I was just going over Stilikan's records. He was one of our finest."

He moves back to his desk. Bel and I exchange confused glances. Things are not going the way we expected. Does a tiny smile flicker across Bel's face? The wing commander resumes his seat.

"You do recognize the gravity of the situation, don't you?" he says. "And the possible consequences?"

"Yes, sir," I say. "We are prepared to accept the judgment of the court."

The wing commander looks toward the adjutant. "That will be all, thank you. Close the door on your way out."

"Yes, sir."

The adjutant departs.

The wing commander shuffles the papers back inside the folder and moves it to the far reaches of his desk. He uses his good right hand to do this. His left hand is immobile; his entire left arm is withered.

"I was thinking of the overall situation of the Fatherland," he says, "and of the consequences should we lose this war."

"We shall not lose!" Beltran cries.

I can't keep the shock from my face. This is rank insubordination! The wing commander's eyes glisten.

"That's right." His voice is quiet and tinged with menace.

"Please forgive my outburst, sir," Beltran says. "I was out of line."

The wing commander nods, and the danger passes. "When I see young men like yourselves, my faith is renewed."

I cannot grasp where this situation is heading, so I blank my mind as much as possible and wait for whatever comes next. I'm instinctively drawn to the wing commander but cannot allow myself the luxury of thinking he is on our side.

"These are harsh times," the commander says. "There is no room for soft attitudes."

He glances at the closed door, then back towards us.

"Were it up to me, I'd drop the charges against you, but it's not my decision. Certain... traditional elements in the command structure want to make an example of you two." He strokes his chin with his good hand. His manner softens, as if he is recalling some youthful failures of his own. "Of course, what you did was stupid, but to be young is to be stupid. I think you've already learned a hard lesson."

"Yes sir, that's true," I say.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" Beltran says.

I try not to cringe. What will come out of Bel's mouth this time?

"Granted," the wing commander says.

"With the war entering a critical phase, isn't there some service we can render the Fatherland?" Bel says. "What good will it do to keep us in detention?"

"My own thinking exactly," the wing commander says. "So, myself and a few others have persuaded the authorities to offer you an alternative to a court martial."

He rises from his desk. Despite his disabilities, his presence is truly commanding.

"Here it is, lads. There is great need for support aviation in this war – artillery spotters, couriers, ammunition delivery – that sort of thing. Should you agree to a tour of duty at the front in this capacity, all charges against you will be dropped and your records will be expunged."

I can't believe what I am hearing. "What of the others, sir?"

"This offer applies to all members of the Raptor Aces squadron."

Stunned silence fills the room. Bel breaks it; his voice is almost a whisper.

"What about fighters, sir? Can we qualify for those, too, eventually?"

"Of course. Perform your duties honorably and fighter training can be your next step, along with promotion to officer rank. This bump in the road will be forgotten."

My whole life is flipping over. I am staring up from the bottom of a deep, open grave. High above, a rescuing hand reaches toward me.

"Perhaps you'd like to discuss this between yourselves," the commander says, "give me your answers tomorrow?"

"No time required, sir!" Beltran comes to attention and salutes. "I volunteer."

I give my own salute. "Reporting for duty, sir!"

# Three: Youth Answers the Call!

19. Feverish Preparations

The following weeks race by in hectic activity. The barracks fill up with returning squadron members, and our planes are flown back from the air base where they'd been transferred.

I can scarcely control my emotions when my airplane, #Y-47, is restored to me. Never had I expected to see her again. I run my hands over the gleaming metal fuselage, the wings, the shapely propeller. I know every rivet and curve.

Jealously takes hold as I think of another pilot flying my beautiful aircraft, as if he's defiled my fiancé. The guy left a wad of chewing gum stuck to the rim of the cockpit, some good-luck ritual, probably. I tear off the gum and fling it away.

"It's just you and me again, girl."

I embrace the cowling, its sheet metal radiates warmth from the engine, and kiss it with a passion equal to that I'd felt for Gyn.

There are eight of us now from the original Raptor Aces. Myself and Bel – then Sipren, Albers, and Bezmir, who all arrived on the same day. My heart leapt with joy when Katella turned up the following afternoon, recovered from his injury and in fine spirits. He reminds me so much of Bekar in his physical appearance and genial personality.

Grushon and Orpad arrived last. I was not pleased to see them, as they were part of the gang that threatened to attack me during the slobe diving incident. Grushon had been their leader, in fact. I'd liked him once, even though he was better at football than flying an airplane. Now all I see is a big, arrogant-looking guy with a mean streak.

I considered a "reeducation" session with these two. Katella offered to help, but I chose to let the sleeping dog lie. They both offered profuse statements of loyalty, and they observe exact discipline. We'll just have to see.

Four of the boys didn't make it. Maybe their parents intervened, or maybe they'd just had enough of the Raptor Aces. Their absence is a topic of speculation, but we soon move on to other things. Four volunteers from the Blue Ice training squadron take their spots. I don't know these new lads very well and don't really want to, as I have other plans for them.

Excitement and purpose fill our lives. Air Force instructors work us hard – advanced navigation training, emergency procedures, night flying, rough field take offs and landings. I love it all, no matter how exhausting.

Every moment I spend flying is a gift from heaven. Each time I step out of my plane onto solid ground, I feel diminished. I want to live in the sky. Thank God I've been allowed to return!

On a typically busy day, while I'm preflight inspecting Y-47's rudder, complications arise.

"How does it feel to lead the first squadron of youth volunteers?" a feminine voice asks from over my shoulder.

I spin around to see a young woman dressed in a National News Service blazer holding out a microphone and smiling. Behind her, a movie camera grinds away on a tripod attended by two guys in similar blazers. I hadn't noticed their approach.

"W-what?" I say.

I must look like an idiot. The girl laughs and signals to the cameramen, who shut off their infernal machine.

"Sorry to startle you," she says. "Didn't they tell you we were coming?"

"No, I... don't know."

A vague recollection arises from my memory – an instructor mentioning that some "pain in the ass" film crew would be coming to the base. I'd filed this away as useless info, but now I have to deal with the situation.

"We're doing a special feature on the Raptor Aces," the girl is saying. "We're naming it: _Youth Answers the Call!_ "

"Youth answers the call?"

I can't grasp what is going on. Am I supposed to be some sort of movie actor now?

"Yes," the girl says, "it has a good ring to it, don't you agree?"

"Well... "

"Please say you like it, Dytran. I thought it up myself, you know. This is my first big project."

Bel approaches, eyeing the movie camera suspiciously. "What's going on?"

"Uh, this is my deputy squadron commander, Beltran," I say. "This is..."

"Ket." The girl smiles and nods. "Pleased to meet you, Beltran."

They exchange a few commonplace expressions.

Now that my initial shock is over, and with attention turned away from me, I can observe things with a little detachment. Ket is a real knockout. She is tall and fair with a lovely, intelligent face. The dark blue NNS blazer cannot disguise her excellent figure. She is, maybe, 20 years old. Just enough to have learned some interesting things about life.

Odd, I've scarcely thought about women lately. And when I do, it's always about Gyn and our goodbye kiss in the park.

Bel is obviously swept away. The glower that so often covers his face is completely gone now. A radiant smile has shoved it aside. If there was ever love at first sight, this is it – at least on his part. Ket's manner is strictly professional. No doubt, she is used to being worshipped by every male she encounters, and Bel is only one of the crowd.

She turns back toward me. "So, Dytran, when can we do an interview?"

Her attitude seems to become warmer and more intimate. Is it possible she's coming on to me, just a little? Bel seems to think so, judging by the darkening expression on his face.

"We're pretty busy now," I say. "We'll be practicing rough field take offs and landings out by the auxiliary airstrip."

"I know. We've already placed cameras out there."

"You'd better take it up with the wing commander, as far as our availability for interviews."

"I'll do that."

She extends a hand. It is warm and firm, and it seems to remain in mine a tiny bit longer than necessary.

"Goodbye Dytran, I'll be in touch... goodbye Beltran."

She walks off. The cameramen fold up their tripod and follow her. Bel and I screw our eyeballs back into place.

Things need to be said. There are way too many competitive pressures between Bel and me already without adding Ket to the mix. We're heading into danger soon and cannot afford undue friction, especially not about an older woman who probably has a list of boyfriends longer than my arm.

"Look," I say, "as far as this movie thing is concerned, it's all propaganda. We'll just have to play along."

"Uh huh," Bel says.

"They've already assigned us roles, but that doesn't mean we have to stick with them afterwards."

Bel looks confused. "What are you driving at, Dye?"

"As soon as we leave for the front, I'm dividing the squadron into two flights. You'll be in charge of one."

"So, I'll be your deputy, like before."

I shake my head. "Not like before. The two flights will be completely independent. You run yours any way you see fit. You won't be taking orders from me."

Astonishment replaces the confusion on Bel's face. "Why would you do that?"

"Because I need you, and you need me. This is the only way it can work. Athens and Sparta, remember?"

Bel does not seem able to absorb what he's hearing. I try to smooth the way for him.

"I don't suppose it matters a whole lot," I say. "We'll be flying independently and getting orders from whoever's in charge out there, but why don't you take over the new lads and one of the medics, too?"

Finally Bel understands. A smile explodes over his face. His eyes flash with pride.

"By God, Dytran, you're the best!" He seizes my hand. "You're the... best!"

I try to shrug off the praise, but Bel won't allow it.

"I'll never forget this. You can count on me, always. You've got a friend for life."

"In it to the end, huh?"

"In it to the end!"

* * *

As Ket stated, cameras are out at the practice area, grinding away as we make treacherous landings on the open fields. At first I find this to be distracting, and my performance suffers. Ket distracts me, too. I keep seeing her face, and my hand on the controls still tingles from her touch. But I overcome all this.

I am flying in for a particularly dangerous landing, dropping over trees onto a small cultivated field. The wind does not favor this approach, but the furrows are running my direction. If I try to land against them, the result will be a catastrophic nose-over into the ground.

Only my objective matters, all other considerations vanish – who I am, thoughts about girls, the "pain in the ass" camera crew off to the side. My airplane wraps itself tight around me until we are one being. I drift down . . .

A real greaser! My plane rolls toward the camera and comes to a stop barely ten meters away. I smile at the camera crew and wave. They wave back. Maybe I'll get to like this movie star routine.

* * *

The others fall into an exhausted sleep immediately after lights out. Only I remain awake, and Bel. I can see the little pen light he uses for night reading glowing from his cot across the room.

We two are already 'blooded' war veterans. We are old men, almost, compared to the others. They seem like young children enjoying their rest without a care. Maybe this is why I feel such distance from them. This and the fact we're not performing as a coordinated unit any longer but as individual pilots.

And there is the harsh memory of the slobe diving incident. Distrust tinges my feelings now. Only Katella retains my highest regard – and Bel, too. He's come around to reveal himself as a person of courage and depth.

I tried to get him off the hook with the wing commander, but he voluntarily jumped back on, preferring to state the full truth rather than accept my whitewashed account. And it took great strength of character to overcome his bitterness and reconcile with me.

I respect him a lot, but mixed with this is a strong measure of wariness. I hope granting him his own power base will solve a lot of problems. Or maybe it will only make things worse.

Sleep is coming now. My thoughts drift to the partisan bands infesting the battle front, the blood of our heroes staining their cowardly hands. My airplane hovers above them like a bird of prey, directing an artillery barrage onto their heads. I can hear their screaming. The swirling wind begins to roar.

The Great Leader will watch over my dreams again tonight, Gyn too. And now Ket.

20. The Grind Continues

The last few weeks before our departure bring an almost unbearable work load down on us. Every day we manage to endure is its own triumph. Our instructors seem to delight in pushing us to near collapse.

"Pansy" is the worst of the lot. He's received this nickname because of his frequent references to that flower. As in:

"Where do you pansies think you're going, a tea party? Every slobe wants to shoot your butt out of the sky!"

or:

"I wouldn't pay half a crown for the whole bunch of you pansies!"

or:

"What's the matter, pansy, feeling tired? The enemy's not gonna give you any beauty rest, don't expect me to."

Like the wing commander, he's a combat veteran and has the scars to prove it. The face he presents to us is stern and unyielding, but he has another face, too. I saw it once as he was observing us preflight the aircraft. He stood on the grass looking thoughtful and reserved, his eyes tinged with sadness. He noticed me watching him, and the steel came back.

"Hurry up, pansy! Get the lead out!"

We fly every day, and many nights, too, regardless of weather conditions. We march in formation shouting patriotic slogans, we learn advanced first aid techniques, we do calisthenics. On and on.

Through it all, the filming of our docudrama continues. The cameras are always grinding – when we fly, when we eat, when we stand at attention with Pansy bellowing at us. I half expect to see cameramen in the lavatory. The production crew sets up a dark room and editing lab in one of HQ's vacant office suites, and they work there all hours.

I take one of the movie cameras aloft in my rear cockpit. The operator refuses to wear his safety harness and constantly jostles around, maneuvering his camera like a machine gun. This throws off Y-47's weight and balance, forcing me to make constant trim adjustments. I feel a demonic temptation to invert the plane and pitch the guy out.

After this experience, I pull rank to make sure somebody else takes up the cameras.

There are compensations, though. Ket does all the personal interviews herself. I have the pleasure of being interviewed twice. The first one is brief, but the second is longer and less hurried.

I scarcely remember the questions. They were all just propaganda claptrap, but when the camera switches off, Ket tarries for some private conversation. This movie is her big break, she says. Her father has Party connections and got her in at the NNS, but now she's on her own in a male-dominated industry.

Nobody wanted to bother with the Raptor Aces project. Her male colleagues are interested in war reporting, industrial documentary, and the real plum: reports on the Great Leader. Our story fell to her by default, and she intends to make the most of it.

She knows about the slobe diving incident but assures me it will not be mentioned in the documentary. I tell her about the air raid, keeping my remarks within the bounds of my secrecy oath. She does not seem particularly interested.

Then, very casual like, I mention the victory rally and my encounter with the Magleiter. Her mouth drops open, and her eyes widen. It would be a comical expression on a less beautiful face.

"You met the Magleiter? He actually _spoke_ to you?"

I bask in her astonishment. "Yes, it was a high point of my life."

"I should say so, Dytran! What an amazing experience that must have been."

Of course, I feel proud to tell her about this. It distinguishes me from the rest of her male admirers. She gets over her amazement and resumes her professional demeanor.

"Thanks for your time, Dytran. This has been most interesting." She glances at her watch. "I've got another interview scheduled, have to go."

"Good luck with it."

She strides away, granting me a quick backward glance. There is a hard, driving edge to Ket, a sense she doesn't mind stepping over people to get what she wants. But I am too enraptured to pay much attention to that. I'm in love with her, like all the others.

* * *

Then there are the physical exams along with a whole slew of inoculations.

"Why so many needles?" Albers complains as we stand in line for yet another injection.

"I just got a physical a few months ago," Bezmir says, "why do I need another one?"

"They want to make sure you're healthy enough to get shot," Beltran says.

The comment is lost on the others, but I think it's hilarious. I am developing the dark humor necessary to get through the coming ordeal. The babies among us who still think our service at the front is going to be a lark are in for a rude awakening. As I look down our line, I recall the procession of mutilated Youth League members who used to haunt my dreams, until the Magleiter expelled them.

The official news outlets have dropped their hollow cheeriness. Gone are the stories about nonstop victories and the inherent superiority of our fighting men – how any one of them is worth ten of the racially-degraded enemy soldiers. There is no more talk of triumphant returns by Christmas.

The propaganda themes are now about honor and sacrifice for the Fatherland. We are defending civilization from barbarian hoards. Our cause is just. The road ahead is fraught with peril, but we are destined to succeed. The alternative to victory is annihilation and a new dark age.

How difficult it must be for the heroes at the propaganda ministry to shift gears like this. But our casualty rate is too enormous to conceal. The flood of wounded men cramming into every hospital speaks a different language than that of continuous triumph. It is a rare family that does not count dead and injured among its own.

How does Mama feel about all this? She'll never get over Stilikan's death, and now her only remaining son is going off to the war. I'd reported for duty without giving her a moment's thought. My only regret was that Bel had beaten me to volunteering first.

Mama is in my thoughts now, though. I can see the tired face, the premature gray hair – like the other bereaved mothers, like Piotra's mother. I want to embrace her and say that everything will be fine.

She'll be proud of me. I'll exact justice for Stilikan.

* * *

Three days before our scheduled departure, we assemble on the parade ground – along with a batch of regular recruits – to take the soldiers' oath. The cameras roll as we raise our right hands and repeat after a senior officer:

I swear by God this sacred oath: That I shall render loyal service to the Magleiter, leader of our nation and supreme commander of the armed forces. As a brave soldier, I shall always be ready to give my life for this oath.

An eerie silence follows. The ground is perfectly still, and the sky has taken on a dark hue. Clouds rush past. We all know we've crossed a point of no return.

The frenzy of activity stops now. Our instructors move off to abuse new batches of trainees. Pansy softens enough to wish us all good luck. Our airplanes receive well-earned maintenance, and we enjoy the luxury of sufficient rest.

We move into the calm before the storm.

21. Private Showing

The camera crews run off to other assignments, and the film editors return to the capital to finish their work. Soon, theaters across the nation will be showing _Youth Answers the Call!_

Ket and a couple others remain. She invites me to a special preview before she departs for the capital city, too. "It's only a rough cut, but you'll get an idea of what the final production is going to be like."

"Sure." I try to conceal my excitement – not about the movie, but about Ket.

* * *

It's getting dark when I arrive at HQ. The place is largely deserted, and an NNS car is parked out front with the driver snoozing behind the wheel. I enter the lobby and make my way toward the production company office suite. As always, I feel a jolt at the sight of the blank corner where the Yuliac awards case once stood.

The suite is cleared out, except for some folding chairs and an old camouflage-painted projector we used to watch training films on. A bed sheet on the wall serves as a movie screen.

Somebody is threading a reel of film into the projector while Ket looks over his shoulder. She is dressed in loose-fitting blouse and slacks. She turns toward me; her hair and makeup are perfect.

"Dytran!" she says, a bit too brightly. "How good of you to come."

How good of me to come? I'd have walked here barefoot over broken glass to see her. She looks genuinely pleased, though, in an almost childish way.

"Sit down, Dytran. We'll only be a minute."

This is a Ket I've never seen before, nervous and unsure of herself. The strong, take-charge woman has left on holiday. She is showing her pet project to its first audience and must be feeling a lot of pressure, as indicated by her strained smile and fidgeting hands. I felt the same way climbing into my cockpit under the stern eyes of the instructor for my first solo flight.

Even if the movie is horrible, I will praise her efforts to the skies, as it were. I sit on one of the folding chairs and scan the vacant room with approval. My concern had been that Ket would invite others to the screening, a whole room full of us ogling her like kids at a toy shop window. I'd not told anyone where I was going tonight so as to avoid any jealousy knives coming out.

The projectionist finishes threading the film, and things get better yet.

"That's fine, thank you," Ket tells him. "Why don't you go rest in the car? We've got a long drive ahead of us."

"Sure Ket."

He glances my direction. Do I detect a little smirk on his face? Then he is out the door.

"Well, I guess we should get started," Ket says. "The finished movie is going to be longer than this, of course – we're cutting in some stock footage. And there're the shots we took yesterday – some really good stuff. And your wing commander gave the most extraordinary interview this afternoon. I haven't decided yet how to work it in..."

Her voice drones on, nervous and edgy. If anyone else talked like this, I'd be annoyed. But anything Ket says is all right with me. She switches on the projector and turns out the overhead light.

My fears that she'd remain standing in the back of the room prove unfounded as she takes a chair right next to me. I settle in, leaning a bit her direction.

A magnificent aerial vista appears – our squadron maneuvering among towering cumulus. I edge forward, momentarily forgetting Ket's presence. I recognize the scene. It was filmed from the back of my own airplane.

"This is fantastic!"

"Y-you like it, then?"

"I love it."

On the screen, we continue our stately progress among the clouds, glorious knights of the air. Then other flying scenes cut in, including a close up of me in left profile.

I remember this shot. I'd turned and yelled at the cameraman in the back of Sipren's plane to get away from me. That part has been deleted. There's no sound, aside from the rattling old projector, but in my mind I hear a thunderous musical score.

"The sound track goes in later," Ket says. "And there'll be voice-over narration, too."

We've landed now and are taxiing our airplanes into a neat row. Then a low-angle shot of us running. We assemble in line and snap to attention, eyes right. There's me at the end, looking direct into the camera. I recall being bothered by a pimple on my cheek that day, but from this angle it isn't visible.

"Here's where the title fades in," Ket says. " _Youth Answers the Call!_ "

She and her crew really know their stuff. They've transformed the daily grind of our training regimen into something dramatic and exciting. I am almost nostalgic for those long days of physical exhaustion and verbal abuse.

Our various interviews are cut in among the action sequences – complete with voices. All of us brim with enthusiasm and bravado. I know why. We're talking to Ket.

As the movie progresses, she draws closer to me. Then her hand is in my lap, her fingers interlace with mine. Then my arm is around her shoulders. It's all excellent and natural, a proper accompaniment to the images flashing on the sheet.

Time seems suspended in a perfect world. I hope the movie will never end, but it does. Only blank light shows against the bed sheet now. I turn toward her.

"You did great – "

She lunges at me. Her mouth crushes against mine, her tongue probes. I rocket into an impossible realm of erotic ecstasy. She seizes my crotch and grinds hard. Unbearable pain and pleasure shoot though me.

Then she pulls away, giving my lip a hard bite.

"Ow!"

Ket rises into the glaring projector beam, towering above me like a warrior goddess. The film stock has run its course and is flapping around in the spinning reel.

"Just a little something to remember me by." Her tone is sharp, like her teeth.

She moves to the projector and switches it off. After a moment of darkness, the overhead light comes on. I remain in my chair, shell shocked. I move a finger to my lower lip, it comes back smeared with blood. Ket packs up the reel.

"I know how you boys feel about me. You all think I'm some big 'woman of the world,' don't you?"

Her gaze is bold and direct, every trace of the insecure little girl has vanished.

"Well... we... I..."

She gives a small, tinkling laugh. Lots of men would kill to hear it.

"Let me tell you, Dytran, I've never been with a man before. Nobody seemed worthy – until now." A wicked little smile crosses her lips. "Don't look so surprised. You're a virgin, too, right?"

My face burns. I must look like a human beet.

Ket laughs again. "We could learn a lot from each other."

She shoves the reel into its can and replaces the lid. I want to say something worldly and sophisticated, but I just sit rooted in my chair.

"Uh, don't you have to rewind that film?" I say.

"I'll do that later."

She places something on the projector stand. "Here's my business card. My home address and phone are on the other side. Write when you have a chance, and call me when you get back?"

"I-I will."

She's at the open door. "Goodbye, Dytran, best of luck ."

Her rapid foot steps fade down the hall. I move to the projector on legs that are not quite as strong as they should be. I pick up the card and study it reverently, like a piece of holy scripture.

When I stumble out of HQ, automobile tail lights are disappearing down the road toward the main gate. The night is turning windy, and a storm is brewing up; but to me, everything is gloriously perfect. I return to the barracks on autopilot, scarcely paying attention to the route.

Beltran is the first one I encounter. "Where have you been? You're grinning like that slobe kid that tried to kill me."

I grin wider. Even Bel looks beautiful tonight.

"Nice busted lip you've got. It's a real improvement."

22. Final Day

We have little to do but loaf during our last day on base. Our kit bags are packed, and our final letters home have been written. My squadron mates are well-rested and anxious to leave at first light tomorrow.

As for myself, I'm consumed by thoughts of Ket. Memories of her bold advance torture every moment. I feel ready to kill in order to be at her side again. I find myself wondering how I could desert and chase after her. This is madness, of course. Deserters get the firing squad. But maybe that wouldn't be so bad, if only I could be with her again.

I meander to the maintenance area. Perhaps the sight of airplanes can take my mind off Ket for a while.

A vast, curved ceiling arches overhead as I walk into the hangar. I have the sense of entering a cathedral as I approach the aircraft inner sanctum. Everything is new, rebuilt since the raid. The air carries the scent of machinery and lubricant, the fragrance of adventure.

The mechanics are off in a corner, enjoying their lunch break. Our airplanes stand about the hangar, resting uneasily on their landing gear. They seem anxious to get moving, too. All of them sport radios now, along with fresh coats of camouflage paint. One is minus its engine, which would be in the workshop receiving final overhaul.

I pause by Y-47. My airplane looks proud and aggressive in its new livery, yet oddly reserved as well. I lay my hand upon her flank. It is a moment of almost religious significance.

"What's the trouble, lad?" someone asks.

The crew chief strides toward me. He is a squat, muscular man of about 40 dressed in coveralls.

"No trouble," I say.

He pauses and looks up into my face. "You're the squadron leader, ain't you?"

His manner becomes less defensive, but not quite friendly. I'm stomping on his turf uninvited, after all.

"Yes," I say. "Just thought I'd stop by to thank you guys for all your good work, keeping our butts in the air."

I've struck exactly the right cord. The crew chief's eyes gleam with pride. "Just doing our job."

"Will you be going with us tomorrow?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." He indicates the airplanes. "You don't think I'd leave my babies at the mercy of you hotshots?"

We enjoy a good laugh. Like crew chiefs everywhere, he believes the planes actually belong to him and that we fly them only with his indulgence. The pilots would disagree, but whatever works.

The mechanics judge me to be an all right fellow, and they treat me to lunch from the vendor wagon. Afterwards, I watch them prep our "babies" for the long eastward journey.

* * *

I return to a wonderful surprise at the barracks. Bekar is sitting in the chair beside my cot, thumbing a magazine. I fairly run to him from the doorway.

"Bekar! When did you get in?"

He rolls up the magazine and sets it on my night table.

"About fifteen minutes ago." He shakes my extended hand. "Good timing, Dytran."

He grasps a cane and thrusts himself up out of the chair. His leg is covered with a less bulky walking cast now.

"Ah, you're getting better."

"Slow but sure," Bekar says. "I've still got to wear this damn cast for a while, though."

"What does the doctor say?"

"One of Father's surgeon friends checked me out. He's some big shot medical school instructor."

"And?"

"He said the military doc did good work under the circumstances, but with some extra surgery I can get back pretty much full use of my leg."

A burst of joy shoots through me. "Great!"

"Yes. I asked if I could tap dance afterwards, and he said 'possibly,' and I said – "

"'Good, because I could never tap dance before.'"

Bekar laughs. "Guess I've worn that one out, huh?"

I grip his arm.

"You've made my day, Bekar." Then I ask the big question. "Did Gyn come with you?"

"Glad you asked. She's in your lavatory freshening up."

I nod. Bekar puts on his mischievous smile. I brace myself for some innuendo type comment, but he only gestures to the wider room.

"I wish she'd hurry and clear out. We've got some almost exploding bladders here that need to be taken care of."

I look toward the lads sprawled on their cots. I haven't even noticed them before in my excitement. Katella and Beltran are not among them, which had made the group easier to overlook.

"Do you guys know who this is?" I say.

"I've already made their acquaintance," Bekar says. "They were suitably impressed."

Everyone is munching chocolate bars. Bekar places one in my hand.

"Eat up, Dytran. You've lost weight."

"Thanks."

I tear off the wrapper and bite into the chocolate. It's the real thing, creamy and marvelous, nothing like the ersatz crap available with ration cards these days. It must have cost quite a bit on the black market.

The flavor wafts me back to a simpler time – when I still believed in the fundamental justice of life, when Stilikan and I enjoyed candy just like this together. I've not tasted anything like it in ages. Bekar had offered me chocolate during the victory rally, but I'd refused it. I was still punishing myself back then.

Bekar picks up the magazine and slaps it into my hand. "Brought you a present."

I unroll it – the latest issue of _Struggle!_ , the Party's weekly news publication. The Magleiter is on the cover, looking solemn and dramatic. His hand grips a uniformed shoulder as he looks deep into the person's eyes . . .

"What?!"

"That was my reaction, too," Bekar says.

It's me with the Magleiter! The caption reads: _A new leader from a new generation._

I flop onto my cot, nearly landing on a half empty box of candy bars. I whip open the magazine to the lead story. Ket's name in the byline along with a small photo. She looks professional in her News Service uniform, but her sensuality cannot be concealed.

And there I am, too – several pictures worth – flying my plane, jogging at the head of the Raptor Aces, giving orders. I am the very image of youthful authority, like a scaled-down Alexander the Great.

The story begins:

Join the Magleiter in welcoming a new generation of leadership to the Fatherland's service. Dytran commands the first squadron of Youth League Air Corps volunteers headed for duty at the front. His brother, Stilikan, one of the Air Force's top fighter aces . . .

"So, who's this 'Ket' babe?" Bekar asks.

I look up. Bekar does not seem pleased. "She works for the NNS. She's making a documentary movie about us."

"Uh huh."

"I didn't know anything about this, I – "

Gyn appears, exiting the lavatory to the appreciative glances of the boys.

I stand up. "Gyn!"

"Hello, Dytran." Her manner is polite, but rather formal.

She wears another pastel summer dress. It's impossible to image her wearing anything else. She is beautiful, wholesome, delicious. She gives me a peck on the cheek and I catch a whiff of summer fragrance.

"How nice to see you again," she says.

I want to grab her into my arms, like in the park, but restrain myself.

A frown creases her face. "You've been hurt."

"Huh?"

She gestures toward my injured lip.

"Oh, that's nothing," I raise a hand to my mouth. "It'll be fine in a day or two." Am I blushing?

Gyn nods curtly, as if she knows exactly how I got the injured lip. Was that Ket's intention, to warn off other females?

"Let's go for a walk, shall we?" Bekar says. "Or, in my case, a hobble."

"Sure," I say.

"I'll meet you boys outside," Gyn says.

She walks out the door, skirt swishing. Every head turns to follow her. Bekar picks up the box of chocolate.

"Who's the most important one here?" he asks in a low voice.

"I don't know... him, probably." I gesture toward Sipren.

My indifference surprises me. Before the slobe diving incident, I would have spoken with great pride about the members of my squadron. Now, they seem a mere footnote to my real mission in life – gaining revenge for Stilikan.

Bekar walks stiffly with his cane to Sipren's cot and sets the box on it. He pulls out a chocolate bar.

"Here's an extra one for you, mate," he says. "See that the lads who aren't here get some too, all right?"

"I will, thank you, sir."

Gyn is standing on the edge of the assembly area gazing at the main runway. A wheelchair waits beside the door. Bekar slides into it.

"Could you take me to the training division? I want to see if they need a temporary ground school instructor." Bekar gives his cast a frustrated thump. "I've got to make myself useful somehow."

"Sure thing. That sounds like a great idea."

Gyn moves in to join us.

"Maybe you can show Gyn around while I'm talking with those blokes?" Bekar says. "And later I thought the three of us could have dinner in town, if that's all right."

"Good idea," I say, "count me in."

He'll be treating us to a top class restaurant, I am certain, the type of place only Party big shots can afford these days. Yet he'd asked me if it was "all right."

I know what he meant. As squadron leader, I should really be spending this last night with my boys – taking them out for beer, bucking them up with a fine speech. Frankly, I don't care much about that sort of thing any longer. Maybe it will be different after we reach the front.

Their betrayal during the slobe dive incident has cut me deep. Everybody knows this, Bekar, too. The love and camaraderie I once felt for my squadron mates has gone up with the smoke of Bel's wrecked plane. I'll miss only Katella tonight, and he'll understand my absence.

I grasp the wheelchair handles before Gyn can beat me to it and start pushing. Bekar keeps up a pleasant chatter about sports, the latest movies, the weather. Gyn remains cool and distant. What happened to the warm, passionate girl in the park?

She's seen the magazine article and the picture of its author. She, too, is asking, _"Who's this Ket babe?"_

It seems wise to redirect things into a more positive channel. "When are you going to have the surgery done, Bekar?"

Gyn stiffens.

"Well, the doctor has to wait a while yet," Bekar says, "then he can go in and rearrange things. It'll take more than one surgery."

"So, a few weeks, then?"

Bekar clears his throat. "Longer than that, actually. Once this cast comes off, I should be able to fly again. I'll be going back to the front."

"Oh, I see."

"I decided the Fatherland needs me a lot more than the dancing club."

We continue moving amid an awkward silence until we reach the training division headquarters. Fortunately, it isn't too far.

Gyn pauses at the main entrance. "I'll stay out here."

"No problem with it," I say. "There's a waiting area for civilians inside."

Gyn examines the building's exterior. Her face wears a disapproving expression, like when she first saw my Yuliac uniform. She points to a nearby bench. "I'd rather enjoy the sunshine."

Bekar and I enter the HQ. The place is fairly busy with much coming and going. Bekar insists on propelling the wheelchair himself now. We approach the adjutant's station and request an audience with the commandant. One is granted for twenty minutes later.

"Ah, enough time for a cigarette," Bekar says.

We wheel to the nearby canteen and find a vacant table. The whole place is pretty vacant, actually.

Bekar speaks in a low voice just the same. "You know what's behind this magazine article and your documentary film, don't you?"

"What?"

"They're conditioning public opinion to accept a lower draft age. Seventeen will be the minimum soon. And after that, who knows?"

This is a troubling statement. I don't know how to respond. Bekar takes a thoughtful drag from his cigarette. He blows a large smoke ring, then puffs a small one through the middle of it.

"Judging by the way she wrote that article, I'd say Ket's in love with you." He gives me a solemn look; all trace of friendly banter has departed. "I hope you make the right choices. There's a lot more to life than just getting your rocks off with some hottie."

I wither under his disapproval, but rally quick enough. "Thanks for the free advice. I'm certain it's worth every farthing."

Bekar holds my gaze a moment longer, then his old grin returns.

"You're right. Who the hell am I to tell you what to do?" He grips my arm. "See you in a while, huh?"

I get up to leave. "Sure, Bekar."

"Oh, and one other thing."

"Yes?"

"When you do go all the way with that special girl, make sure it really is 'all the way.'"

He mimes placing a wedding ring on his finger.

23. Pensive Stroll

Gyn is not waiting on the bench where I'd last seen her, and for a moment I fear she has left us. Then I spot her standing fifty meters distant watching fighter planes take off from the runway on a training mission.

She makes a quiet and pensive figure out there by herself. The sky shines above her an almost painful blue, void of clouds except for wisps of high, icy cirrus. The fighters leap into the air like predator birds eager to rip and kill. The breeze plays through Gyn's long, auburn hair and tugs at her skirts.

She is flawless out here on the summer side of existence, a girl any man would desire to make his own. I feel a pang of guilt. How can I lust after Ket while this ideal woman stands before me?

But why torture myself with such thoughts? The odds of my returning alive and whole from the front are not favorable. I have no delusions about that. It's better to just go with whatever comes my way during this last period of freedom.

This idea rings hollow the moment it occurs to me, though. Why does everything about girls have to be so complicated?

Gyn turns toward me. Her smile is melancholy and distant. "It's beautiful out here. I can see why you love it."

"That's true, but it's nothing compared to the sky."

"Ah, the world of manly action. You were born for it, Dytran."

"I wish I could take you up there, Gyn – sometime when this is all over."

I grasp her hand. The motion seems right and natural. She does not pull away. "Shall we go for a walk?"

"Sure, Dytran."

We stroll off together. In the distance, a repair crew is hammering on a bomb-damaged building, but the racket only highlights the glorious afternoon. Summer scents fill the air.

Everything is fine for a while, but without Bekar's continuous banter, the situation becomes awkward. Gyn's hand feels a bit rigid in mine, and I regret taking it so impulsively.

She is hard to read. What woman isn't? Maybe her mood has nothing to do with me, but probably it does. I decide to tackle an issue that must be simmering below her quiet surface.

"You saw the magazine?" I say.

"Yes. Bekar picked up a copy in the train station when we got here. It was quite a surprise."

"I was surprised, too."

Gyn nods. What the hell did that mean?

"I haven't read the whole thing," I say, "but it seemed pretty blown up. I didn't recognize myself."

"It's not hard to figure out. You're the type of boy that girls just naturally want to see as a hero. Ket is no different."

_Ket_ , the name has finally been uttered. I try to put things in perspective.

"She's very ambitious," I say. "She wants to build her career around the Raptor Aces story."

"You don't have to explain anything to me."

All right, I won't. Gyn relieves me from the burden of changing the subject.

"This war must end soon," she says, "before we lose too much of our substance."

"It will. Once the current operations are successfully carried out, the Great Leader can bring the war to a favorable conclusion."

She gives me a skeptical glance but says nothing.

"Why, Field Marshal Angrift just announced a major new victory."

"Do you really believe that, Dytran?"

"Yes. The Magleiter must know what he's doing."

She gives a sarcastic little laugh, very unbecoming. "If the Magleiter knew what he was doing, we wouldn't be in this mess."

Breath whistles in past my teeth. "Be careful what you say, Gyn. That kind of talk is dangerous."

She looks up boldly into my eyes. "Will you inform on me?"

"No... of course not."

She withdraws her hand from mine and gestures at the military atmosphere around us.

"Open your eyes, Dytran. the Great Leader has created everything – the war, the weapons, the dead and mangled boys. We're living inside his mind."

Gyn's remarks shock me, but I am not really surprised. From the moment I saw her tight-lipped disapproval at the funeral, I knew she was a dissenter. It hadn't mattered to me then, but that was before I'd met the Great Leader face to face.

"The Magleiter hates all this as much as we do," I say. "He never wanted this war."

Again the cutting laugh. "He wanted a war, all right. He just didn't get the one he planned on."

There is nothing I can say to get through to her. How could she possibly understand my feelings?

"People just keep going along with the madness," Gyn says. "Me, too. I've been going along since I was a child – the Youth League Maidens and all that. Father had business interests to protect, so I had to be the ideal National Salvation Party rag doll."

"What can an ordinary person do?" I say. "The NSP controls everything."

Gyn stops walking and faces me directly. "There's plenty we can do. A whole lot of us are planning things right now."

A huge, black viper slithers into the perfect day, threatening us with poisoned fangs. Gyn seems like a totally different person. There is nothing soft about her now. She stands before me cold and hard, like an ice statue.

A great weariness comes over me; my eyes burn. People disappear into concentration camps for saying far less than Gyn has. She is talking like a race traitor. Why is she telling me all this? Because she trusts me, as I trusted Bekar.

"Please don't tell me anything more," I say. "The less I know, the better."

When we return to HQ, Bekar is waiting outside in his wheelchair.

"How'd it go?" I ask.

"You're looking at the new ground school instructor. I begin as soon as the orders come through."

"Congratulations!"

Gyn wraps her arms around his shoulders and kisses his cheek. "Why don't you keep with it until the war's over? You've already done your share at the front."

"Oh, let's not go through that again, Sis. Come on, I want to celebrate."

24. Night on the Town

The restaurant Bekar takes us to is very classy with excellent food, a good wine list, and neatly dressed waiters.

He belongs in a place like this with his charm and elegant manners. Smoke from his top-quality cigarettes blends with the atmosphere. He's already pressed several cartons of these cigarettes on me to take to the front "just in case."

His father is a wealthy businessman, so Bekar can afford such luxuries. But he's also earned a spot here, as evidenced by his Air Force uniform and his injured leg. Not so the Party hacks.

There are plenty of those types here with their rosy cheeks and tailored uniform tunics buttoned tight to hold in their pot bellies. Parasites. Five of them, accompanied by beautiful girls, sit at a nearby table hoisting champagne bottles from ice buckets. Their leader is a silver-haired man with a reptilian smile.

"I'm telling you, Dytran, there's no justice in this world," Bekar says. "See those women at the next table? Talk about pearls before swine."

"They have to survive, somehow," I say, "and I've noticed one of them looking our direction."

"I've noticed that, too. Damn this cast!"

Gyn gives him a disapproving look. "Please watch your language."

"Oh, all right, Sis." He turns toward me. "She thinks I'm supposed to be an f_ing monk, or something."

I smile. Gyn doesn't seem very pleased, though. The waiters serve us an excellent meal, and I enjoy it to the full. When will I eat so well again?

As we sip after-dinner drinks, a band starts playing dance music. Throughout the meal, Gyn has remained cool and distant. Sure, she implied that Ket is no big problem, but her frosty demeanor speaks otherwise. Also, she might be worried she confessed too much during our walk. And Bekar's insistence on returning to combat could not have brightened her mood. I want a thaw in relations.

"Come on, Gyn, let's dance," I say.

We head to the floor with several other couples. Gyn is a good dancer, but her style is too formal. She feels rigid in my arms and keeps more distance than necessary. I'm not the world's greatest dancer, and her stand-offish attitude does not bring out my best performance. I'm glad when the number ends.

We return to the table where Bekar is on his second brandy. A warm, friendly glow attends his face. He is the precise opposite of a mean drunk like Papa.

"Well, that was very nice," he says. "Join me in a drink, Dytran."

A waiter places a whisky in front of me. The ice cubes tinkle merrily, in contrast to my rather deflated mood.

"Thanks." I take a healthy swig.

One of the Party hacks from the next table approaches. He is younger than the rest, a minor official, but he is plenty puffed up just the same. He bows to me and Bekar.

"May I ask the lady for the next dance?"

Bekar regards him with an amused little smile and shrugs.

"I'd love to," Gyn says.

She gets up quickly and heads to the dance floor with him.

"Looks like she's sending you a message," Bekar says.

That's true enough, and I'll admit to feeling a pang of jealousy. But Gyn's manner on the floor betrays her bravado. She is obviously not getting off on the guy. I catch her glancing my way to see my reaction. I grin and finish my drink. I am not going to play the game.

"Why don't you ask that girl at the next table to dance?" Bekar says. "She keeps ogling us."

I look over just as she averts her eyes. Things are starting to get raucous at their table with free-flowing booze and loud talk.

"Naw," I say.

"Come on, do it for me. I can sit here and fantasize."

"I don't want any trouble with those Party slobs," I say. "Besides, why would I settle for hamburger when steak is available?"

I nod toward Gyn on the dance floor. A grin spreads across Bekar's face. He hoists his drink.

"Capital fellow!"

Gyn returns, and we order another drink. Bekar is getting tipsy.

"Make this the last one, all right?" Gyn says.

"Sure thing," Bekar says. "Got to stay sober so I can drive – the wheelchair that is."

This seems very humorous to him, maybe with less alcohol it wouldn't be quite so funny. I am in a good mood myself, but not so much as to be unaware of the changing atmosphere. The room is taking on a harder edge, fueled by constantly flowing alcohol. Conversations are louder and more slurred, the laughter grows more challenging.

"Yes, let's finish up," I say. "We're getting an early start tomorrow."

Bekar raises his glass. "I'll drink to that."

Another Party man approaches. This one is a bit older – a big, mean-looking guy who makes little show of respect. Worse, he seems more than a little drunk. He is second in the hierarchy of the neighboring table, I figure, behind the sliver-haired man.

"Would mademoiselle honor me with the next dance?" he says.

"Oh, no thank you," Gyn says. "We're about to leave."

He glances at me and Bekar with something bordering on contempt. Damn, if he doesn't remind me of Papa! He looks back toward Gyn.

"Then perhaps you'd care to join us at our table," he says. "We'll see that you get home safely."

He takes hold of Gyn's elbow. She recoils.

"The lady told you she's not interested," Bekar says. "So why don't you bugger off?"

The Party man's face darkens. "And just who might you be?"

I am on my feet. "He's a fighter ace, and I'm on my way to the front myself. So why should we be impressed by a puss bag like you?"

He lets go of Gyn's arm, his mouth popping open like a beached fish. His rage starts to build, but not enough to try an attack. The Party might be behind him, but my fist is a lot closer. The silver-haired man intervenes.

"Hey!"

The slob looks toward him. The silver-haired man snaps his fingers, and his subordinate retreats to their table.

"On that friendly note," Bekar says, "I suggest we get the hell out of here."

He drains his glass. I do the same. As I knock my head back, the silver-haired man catches my eye. He gives me a cold smile. I do not know who he is, but I have the uneasy feeling I'll be seeing him again.

* * *

I accompany my friends to their hotel. Bekar leaves me and Gyn on the sidewalk out front.

"If you'll excuse me, I've got to go take a mean piss." He grasps my hand. "So long, Dytran. We'll see you off tomorrow, if they let us."

He propels his wheelchair through the glass doors and onto the lobby elevator.

"That's my brother for you," Gyn says. "Always to the point."

The night is fast advancing. It is time for good-byes. As usual, I can't think of anything to say. Gyn picks up the ball.

"There's so much uncertainty now," she says. "The whole world is being cut from under us."

"Yes, that's true, I'm afraid."

"Young people should be having fun, not going off to war and coming back all . . ." She gazes into the darkening heavens, sighs. "I don't want to fall in love with you under these circumstances, Dytran, but I am."

She is tearing my heart. I want to take her in my arms and say everything will be fine, that I love her, too.

"Gyn, I – "

She presses a finger against my lips. "Please don't say anything more, right now. Just come back safe to me."

She replaces the finger with her lips. Then she disappears inside the hotel.

25. The Adventure Begins

Dawn casts feeble light over us as we approach the railhead. A cacophony of bird song fills the dank air.

Flat cars loaded with our partially disassembled aircraft stand at the siding along with a boxcar of spare parts and other equipment. A second boxcar awaits the Raptor Aces.

The crew chief and his assistant stand nearby, looking relaxed and confident. We pilots try to look confident, too, and older than we are. We peer into our boxcar's gloomy interior.

"Ah, the lap of luxury," Katella says. "I've got a feeling it's going to be a long ride."

Everyone laughs, a bit too heartily. We are all anxious to leave, but our enthusiasm is tempered by the knowledge we are leaving our youth behind us – or at least the others are. Mine abandoned me some time ago, during the bombing raid with its dead and mutilated boys.

We'd been rousted early and marched to the siding after a hurried breakfast. We'd scarcely had time to use the lavatory or grab a quick shower. Now we hang around in our leather jackets with fleece collars, waiting for the loaders to finish their jobs.

"Careful there!" The crew chief shouts at some poor conscript who is securing one of the planes to a flatcar. "You're putting too much stress on the airframe."

He walks along the track inspecting each one of his "babies." All the while the birds keep up their infernal racket. I've always hated listening to them in the semi-darkness. Do birds make so much noise in full daylight?

I've never liked early rising. There is always unpleasant business to attend at that time. People get up early for emergency situations, or because they can't sleep, or they go off to jobs they hate.

A little switching locomotive chugs up and couples itself to our cars. Its racket blots out that of the birds. The crew chief, finally satisfied with the shipping arrangements, climbs into the equipment boxcar with his assistant. The lads wait for me to enter our boxcar first, but I step aside and gesture toward the open door.

"After you, gentlemen."

Beltran remains with me while the others climb aboard. I speak to him softly.

"Now's as good a time as any to make the announcement."

Bel nods. I take a final look around the gloomy morning atmosphere, then I board.

The lads have spread themselves along the far wall of the boxcar with a gap in the middle, space reserved for me and Bel. The four Blue Ice boys sit together on the right side, toward the front of the car. So, the squadron has already divided itself. The two groups talk and laugh among themselves.

Bel and I stand before them side by side. The train jolts to a start nearly unbalancing me. Beltran grasps my arm to keep me from falling over. I feel oddly humiliated by the gesture.

"All right, everybody, listen up!" I say.

The banter stops; all eyes look up at me. I pause a moment to contemplate the decision I'm about to announce. A squadron that held together for an entire year is about to break up. But what of it? The squadron had only been a children's game, and we are headed for the life and death maelstrom now. It's time to embrace reality.

"When we get to the front we won't be operating as a squadron any longer," I say. "We'll go to our separate assignments and answer to whomever is in command. I have decided, therefore, that we need to break into smaller, more manageable units."

I look toward Bel. His eyes are impassive, his stance a formalized 'at ease.'

"From now on, the Raptor Aces will divide into two equal flights. I will command one, and Beltran the other." A confused chatter runs through the boys. I raise my voice above it. "The two commands will be totally independent."

"I'm staying with you, Dytran!" Katella pipes up.

"Did I give you permission to speak, airman?" I say.

"No, sir." Katella lowers his eyes to the rough floor planks.

"The personnel assignments are as follows. The former members of the Blue Ice squadron are now in Beltran's flight." Four blond heads draw together in excited whispering. "In addition, Commander Beltran will require a medic. Is there a volunteer?"

Bezmir and Sipren both shoot up their hands. I instantly realize my mistake. I couldn't have better undermined my authority if I'd planned on it. Katella stares daggers at the two medics.

I turn toward Bel. Somehow I manage to keep the bitterness out of my voice. "Commander Beltran, select a volunteer."

"Bezmir, report to my flight!" Bel snaps.

Do I detect a little empathy in his manner, or is it a note of triumph?

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," Bezmir replies.

He is obviously embarrassed, though not so much as to wipe the grin off his face. I want this episode to be over, but my final act as squadron commander obligates me to address inquiries.

"Are there any questions?" I say.

"Yes, sir," Katella says. "What will our flight be called?"

Odd, I've never given this any thought. There is only one possible answer, though.

"Mine will be named 'Athens Flight.'"

I look toward Bel.

"Sparta," he says.

I turn back toward the lads.

"Anything else?" Silence, impossible to read. "That will be all, then."

So, my squadron has broken apart along its fault lines. The Spartan flight gravitates toward the front of the car while my Athens boys move toward the back. An empty space yawns between us.

This is a natural move, as the Blue Ice lads were already sitting toward the front. It was just a matter of them sliding over a little. But I cannot help feeling diminished by the arrangement. Katella shares my insight.

"Looks like Bel has taken pride of place," he says.

"He must want to get there first."

We chuckle mirthlessly. I think we are both right.

* * *

After a creaky 10 kilometer trip, we arrive at the main rail yard for more waiting. Cars are added to our train. The little switcher engine chugs away and is replaced by a big, cross country locomotive.

All the while, I keep a sharp lookout for Bekar and Gyn, but the only people in sight are yard workers or military guards. The security wrap is on us, and even Bekar's charm does not seem able to penetrate it.

Just as our train is pulling away, I see them standing behind the guards. I wave from the open door. Bekar hoists his cane in a jaunty salute and Gyn calls out to me with silent words.

"I love you! I love you!"

# Four: The Battlefront

26. The Long Ride East

Time grinds past as we approach the old eastern frontier; our new border thrusts deep into the former territory of the slobe empire.

The open door of our boxcar provides glorious summer views. Temperatures remain moderate. We have plenty of room, so we make the most of it, stretching out on our bedrolls to nap, read, or compose letters. Conversation remains at a minimum as we keep to our private thoughts.

I pull out the issue of _Struggle!_ Bekar gave me and read the cover story about my supposed heroism – how I selflessly volunteered my services during this "hour of peril," how the entire squadron rallied to my example. Not a word about the slobe dive catastrophe which is the real reason we're here or about the Blue Ice lads who are the only true volunteers for this venture.

Stilikan receives praise for his bravery and "noble sacrifice for the Fatherland." By association, I'm supposed to be equally valiant. There's even a picture of him included. This tribute to my brother shines out proudly from among the propaganda b.s. I pack away the magazine before any of the lads can see it.

I'd barely slept the night before and am just drifting off with visions of Gyn before me when our cozy little world comes to an end. At the last station before the old border, a squad of infantry, complete with duffels and battle gear, clambers aboard and takes over the middle of the car. Athens and Sparta retreat to our respective ends to make room for them.

The newcomers are all privates, except for one sergeant who is the 'old man' of the group. He is, maybe, early 20's but with a hardened aspect which makes him look much older. They bring their rough soldiers' humor with them.

"Hey, they're robbing the cradle, now!" one of them says, waving a hand toward us.

Bel stands defiantly, but before he can say anything, the trooper fronts him off.

"Did you bring extra diapers, sonny? You'll need them at the front."

The soldiers all laugh. Bel turns crimson. "Why do you mock us?"

The laughter stops. Bel is building into a towering rage, worse than I've ever seen. The trooper regards him with icy contempt. He's killed men with his bare hands, you can see it in his eyes. Bel is not intimidated, though.

I fear he will attack any moment. I open my mouth to call him off, but curb myself. I am no longer Bel's commander.

If that soldier kills him, wouldn't that simplify things for me?

I boot the unworthy sentiment out of my mind and stand up. "Hey, guys, aren't we all on the same side?"

Heads swivel toward me. I compose my face into what I hope is a friendly smile. A tense silence ensues, then the sergeant pokes the trooper's arm.

"Go easy on the kid, eh?" he says.

The soldier nods and turns toward his comrades. Their laughter and jesting resume. Bel's complexion begins returning to normal. He plops himself down in the Sparta corner.

I approach the sergeant. "We're going to the front for support aviation duty."

"Yes, we saw your planes on the flatcars," the sergeant replies. "Welcome to the war."

His manner is easy and friendly; he reminds me of Bekar. His face is unnaturally aged, though, and he regards me with weary sadness. I've never seen so much melancholy in anyone's eyes.

I return to the Athens realm and wedge myself into our now restricted space.

"Well done, Dytran," Katella says. "You should be a diplomat."

"Right."

"I mean it. Once all this is over, keep it in mind."

Yes, a secure post in some consulate sounds pretty good about now. Nice clothes, elegant ladies, banquets.

I sum up my mood in a single word. "Crap!"

"My sentiments, exactly," Katella says.

* * *

The kilometers clack by under the wheels of our groaning boxcar until it is time for the evening rations. The soldiers aren't bad sorts. They mingle with us of the Athens flight and even share the choice food they've obtained during their leave time. They also dispense comradely advice.

"Let me tell you, boys," one of them says, "it's all nuts out there. Just concentrate on keeping alive and getting back in one piece."

"The slobes are no pushovers," another one adds. "They're putting up one hell of a fight. Animals, all of them."

"God help us if those savages push us back into the Fatherland," a third one says. "It would mean the end of civilization."

We are all shocked at such blunt talk, but we say nothing.

Their conversation among themselves deals with women, getting drunk, their "bastard officers," hatred for the enemy, and fear of army discipline. Not a word about our mission to civilize pagan lands or the joys of being a member of the master race. A dominant theme runs through everything like a red thread – the second front.

Hopes run high that another war will break out on the eastern frontier of the slobe empire to relieve the pressure on them. I gather from their discussion that they strain their ears for any word of it, magnify every report of a border clash into a full-blown invasion. The tiniest rumor raises their spirits to the heavens or dashes them into a pit.

Beltran chooses not to join our camaraderie, and his Spartans must follow suit, despite their longing glances at the bread and sausages we are consuming. The soldier who had taunted Bel earlier tries to smooth things over.

"No hard feelings, lad. Come, have some sausage."

Beltran mutters something about not feeling well. The rifleman shrugs and turns his attention elsewhere. Fine, there is more for us to eat now. I hope Bezmir is particularly hungry. Sipren must understand my thinking, judging by the furtive way he nibbles his portion.

I am not surprised at Bel's attitude. Conflict is built into his nature, and there will always be something for his resentment to gnaw on. I just don't want it gnawing on me.

* * *

Everyone sacks out early. It is a warm night, and we keep the sliding door open. Summer fragrances waft over us along with the beat of the wheels and smoke from the troopers' final cigarettes. An occasional foul note of burnt coal from the locomotive adds itself to the mix. My bedroll is next to Katella's on the edge of our group. The others, especially Sipren, know better than to try cozying up to me.

It is a time to be philosophical.

"Who'd have thought it would come to this?" I say. "Why did we have do something like that slobe dive?"

"Because we could," Katella replies.

That's a true, though not very satisfying, answer. My attempt to find a deeper meaning to this incredible string of cause and effect seems doomed from the start. I roll over and look toward the Spartan corner. As usual, Bel has his pen light on for some late reading.

I wonder how the world looks to him. How would it look to me if I were in his shoes? What would I be thinking now if I had no family and no girl waiting for me back home?

He was raised in State orphanages and, as far as I know, has never had a girlfriend. He isn't ugly, but he isn't all that attractive either with his swarthy complexion and bristling hair. And his gruff personality puts women off.

Girls of our generation are taught to prefer the fair-haired types, like me. Why would I object to that? On the contrary, I've bought into it big time, strutting around with the confidence of a minor-league god. I deserve the best of everything by virtue of my looks.

It wasn't until I met Bel that my sense of superiority began to waver. Beltran may lack 'the look' but he possesses a tough, determined character along with consummate flying skill. He never holds anything back; nothing scares him. Other males are drawn instinctively to his leadership.

It's true that many more girls look at me than at him, but what does that matter behind the stick of an airplane, up high in the world that really counts? There, Beltran is the greatest. He is better than me, I fear.

But now is not the time for such ramblings, not while Stilikan lies unavenged within his cremation urn. Once I've inflicted harsh punishment on his murderers, then I can think through other issues.

27. A Warm Reception

Days of monotony drift by as we slowly traverse the captured eastern territories, like a caterpillar inching along the surface of an alien planet.

All around sprawls a vast wilderness of abandoned fields, burned houses and barns, destroyed villages. In many areas, giant thistles – as much as two meters high – overgrow once productive farms. This is supposed to be our nation's new "breadbasket," but it looks more like a wasteland. Seeing it, I understand the reasons behind our constantly shrinking food rations back home.

"The slobes didn't leave us much when they pulled out," the sergeant observes, "and their partisans keep our settlers from cultivating the fields."

Yes, the partisans. I have business with those people.

The sergeant has taken a shine to me – perhaps because, like him, I am educated. His men are rough country or small town guys and can't have provided much intellectual stimulation for him. Perhaps I remind him of a younger relative. Or maybe he appreciates the fine cigarettes I dole out from my stash.

Who knows? I'm learning that friendships arise quickly in war time.

The train makes frequent stops, often because partisans have blown up the track ahead. We carry our own repair crew and extra rail, so these delays are usually not serious. Sometimes we pull over to allow faster, more urgent traffic to pass. We wait on a siding while a priority train, laden with heavy weapons and equipment, roars past behind a powerful locomotive.

Our locomotive is a gasping, wheezing relic. We lost our original engine some time back when it was requisitioned for more important cargoes. We are slowed further when an armored "fortress car" bristling with guns is attached to our train.

The soldiers express approval at this addition, but what really cheers them is the presence of our airplanes overhead. Pairs of fighter bombers occasionally streak back and forth, or single light planes, like our own, circle around, ready to call in ground attack support should we need it. When the sky is empty, the soldiers grow uncomfortable.

"We owe you flyboys a lot," the sergeant says, "even though we hate to admit it."

"Yes, you guys have saved our bacon more than once," a rifleman agrees.

"An airplane in time saves my behind," another jokes.

Bel and his Spartans never join our banter. They keep to themselves at all times, tightening their bond. Clearly, we are not part of their 'us' group.

At least we have ample opportunities to get out of the boxcar and stretch our legs. We are cautioned not to venture far from the train, as partisan bands could be lurking anywhere.

During one of these piss stops, the sergeant and I are relaxing near the front of the engine smoking cigarettes. I've dropped my previous objection to smoking and indulge myself now and then. Why not? I am reminded of a cartoon I once saw in a magazine:

A guy standing before a firing squad is offered a cigarette.

" _No thanks," he says, "I'm trying to quit."_

It has been some hours since our previous stop, and I am glad for the chance to unwind. The weather is not too hot, and the sky is a vibrant blue. I've changed into clean underwear and socks and am feeling somewhat refreshed. Things are about as good as they are likely to get in this vast, alien landscape. Then a grim sight intrudes.

Coming slowly toward us from the east is a train as decrepit as our own, but it carries a much different cargo. A flatcar hitched in front of the locomotive is jammed full with standing men.

"What the hell is that?" I say.

"Slobe prisoners," the sergeant replies. "Those in front are the human shields, in case the partisans try to attack."

The flatcar nears. Its occupants stare at us through sunken eyes. They are ragged, filthy, starved. Many appear to be wounded. I lower my cigarette out of view so as not to torment them further. Stone-faced guards with submachine guns keep watch over the prisoners.

The engine labors past, then more flatcars, all with similar loads. Each car bears several prostrate men – corpses apparently, or nearly so. A foul odor of death attends the procession.

"That's inhuman!" I say.

The sergeant spits on the ground. "Do you think they treat our men any better?"

An hour passes and we still haven't moved. The prisoner train has sucked out whatever pleasantness we'd tried to find in the day. The wasteland spreads around us like a hungry wraith, pulling our minds to the far horizon.

None of us Raptor Aces have ever stood within such a flat, endless expanse before – devoid of hills, trees, or buildings. My squadron mates huddle in little clumps to reassure each other. The sergeant is all the reassurance I need. His hardened face and slit-down eyes present an impassive barrier to the agoraphobic dread gripping the others.

"When I'm on leave, I can regard the enemy as being men like ourselves," the sergeant says. "But when I'm back at the front, Piotra is nothing more than a wild beast that must be exterminated."

Never have I felt more like a green, pampered youth. I am simply not qualified to comment on this observation.

"Out there we all turn into savages," the sergeant continues. "We truly believe we're facing sub-humans. Such belief is the only way to survive."

I light another cigarette to cover my agitation, though I am a bit light headed from the previous one. A second train comes into view from the east. This one carries our own wounded men – box car after box car, some festooned with red crosses.

The sergeant spits again. "Why do they paint those stupid crosses? The partisans use them for target practice."

I can see tiers of bunks inside the cars, each one holding a casualty – another young man to recover and return to the fighting, or else live out the remainder of his life disabled. Some of the less severely injured men sit by the open doors.

"What are you doing out here?" one of them calls to us.

"You're headed the wrong way!" others yell. "Get the hell out while you still can."

* * *

Finally, we get moving. At the next junction we turn south and continue at, what is for us, blistering speed until long after sunset. Then we turn an easterly direction again and slow to our usual crawl.

To the north, massed artillery thunders. Our train sometimes rocks from the concussions. Crimson flashes stab along the horizon like the fires of hell. We observe the spectacle with a mix of horror and fascination. The veterans remain stoic.

"Looks like Piotra's taking back more of his farms," a rifleman mutters.

* * *

The last morning of our journey dawns. The land is now of a more familiar type – woods, fields and rolling hills, even some intact farms and villages. Clearly the enemy did not have time to follow their scorched earth policy here with the thoroughness we'd seen on the open steppe.

The soldiers remain their usual selves, bantering, cussing, bellyaching. It is impossible to tell how they feel about our impending arrival. But among us Raptor Aces, a lessening of tension occurs. The long trek is ending and we can get on with our mission. We have a purpose again. Even Bel lightens up.

He looks rather out of place sitting among the fair-haired boys of the Sparta flight. I've wondered if I shouldn't have taken the former Blue Ice squadron members myself and given Beltran the others, except for Katella. That way I could start over fresh, get rid of Orpad and Grushon who had once turned on me so viciously.

It seemed like cowardice to dump my problems onto Bel, though, and I respect the common wisdom: _Keep your friends close and your enemies closer._

Until now, our two flights have remained segregated, even during the piss breaks. This way the units can develop group cohesion. Bel has made good progress with the Sparta flight. Even the shared sacrifice of refusing to accept food during our first night serves to weld them together. When they move, it's as a team. Bel speaks for them in all matters.

My personal circle includes Katella, the sergeant, and a few riflemen. Katella has taken over as second in command of my flight, and the boys speak to him if they have concerns. As much as I dislike admitting it, I care little about the others. My desire is that I will not have to deal with them much at the front.

I am surprised when, just as we are nearing our depot, Bel moves back to sit with me.

"Hello, stranger."

"Hello, Dye."

"I'd have thought you'd stay up there so you could arrive first."

Bel grins. "You know, I considered that. But a couple of seconds won't matter much, will it?"

"No, I suppose not."

He looks toward Katella. "How's it going?"

"All right."

"My butt's a bit numb, otherwise I'm fine," Bel says.

Despite this awkward try at humor, the tension between them is obvious. The hatchet from the slobe diving incident does not seem to have been buried.

Bel turns back to me and lowers his voice. "I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate all this, and that you can count on me in any situation."

"Sure thing, thanks."

"I mean it, _any_ situation. I'm not a b.s.-er, you know that."

I hold up my hand. "Athens and Sparta, in it to the end."

Bel clasps my hand. "Damn right!"

The train halts with a screech of its overtaxed brakes.

"Well, lads," a trooper says, "here we are, safe and sound."

BOOM!

A massive explosion rocks the train, thrusting it upward like a child's toy. We crash down as a sheet of flame roars through the car. The world becomes an inferno of screams, gunfire, and burning flesh.

"Partisans!" somebody yells.

I stumble to the door and fling myself outside. Others drop nearby, some cut to pieces by gunfire before they touch the ground. Bullets whistle over my head, and I hug the earth.

The heavy guns of the fortress car open up, adding to the hellish racket. Soldiers around me fire their rifles from prone positions. The war god howls for blood amid the stench of fire and explosives.

Then it is over, as quickly as it began. Silence, except for the crackling of flames and moans of the wounded. Somebody rolls me onto my back.

"My god, Dytran! Are you all right?"

I open my eyes, and Beltran blurs into focus. He seems unharmed. I am lying in a pool of blood. Is it mine, or somebody else's?

28. ZOD

When I regain my faculties, I am able to take in the full extent of the disaster.

A charge hidden beneath the rails by partisan saboteurs blew the front of our boxcar to smithereens, along with the car ahead of us. Other partisans opened fire from the woods, then slipped away before our ground units could engage them.

The carnage is unspeakable – a horror show of blood and mangled bodies. The entire Sparta flight has been killed, except for Bel. Many of the soldiers, including the sergeant, also died in the attack. By some miracle, the Athens flight survived. Our position tucked into the rear of the boxcar proved to be our deliverance.

Several of our aircraft on the flat cars are riddled with bullets. I do not know how extensive the damage is, but with only seven pilots remaining, there will hopefully be enough serviceable planes.

I am taken to the infirmary. Except for ringing ears and a few nasty scrapes, I am judged to be well. After this experience, I wonder if I'll ever be "well" again.

Lying in the blood pool had been the worst part. I can still feel the hot liquid clinging to my skin, even though I've been scrubbed and clad in fresh clothing.

* * *

My head is still throbbing from the train depot catastrophe when I fly my first mission – an ammo drop to a forward infantry unit. Y-47 has taken some hits, though not in critical locations. She is quickly patched and deemed fit for service, as I am.

The trauma of the explosion, the screams and gunfire, have taken possession of my mind, along with the stench of blood and death. I need to get these frightful apparitions out and focus only on the mission. It is a difficult one that exceeds my aircraft's design parameters.

The loading personnel jam Y-47's rear cockpit full of ammunition and grenades. They sling pylons filled with more ammo under each wing. They even give me a belt of machine gun bullets to wear around my neck like a shawl.

"How much does all this stuff weigh?" I ask one of the loaders, a draftee scarcely older than myself.

He shrugs. "Beats me. Just get it where it needs to go."

I have no time for even a rudimentary weight and balance calculation. The soldiers need this ammo, and if it costs my life to get it to them, so be it. Never have I felt myself to be so expendable, like a sausage wrapper.

I rumble down the bumpy grass strip. My plane is overweight and unbalanced, which adversely effects ground handling. My once docile machine has become a death trap requiring every milligram of my attention. One miscalculation can put me into a vicious ground loop.

Once I get in the air – if I get in the air – will the imbalance force me into a deadly stall-spin accident? All thoughts of the train depot horror flee my mind, replaced by total concentration on my task. The engine roars with extreme effort as I build up speed.

A line of trees draws closer, soon I'll have to lift off or face a collision with them.

"Come on, girl. Let's get out of here."

I bring the stick back; we chug into the air. The trees draw closer, but I dare not increase my angle of attack lest I go into a stall.

Steady... steady... brass it out.

I'm over the trees!

Control pressure is heavy, and I adjust trim to reduce the strain. Suddenly, my aircraft noses up, and the stall warning screeches. I lower the nose, the plane starts going into a dive. I pull back on the stick and the stall warning howls again. I'm on the verge of a lethal pilot induced oscillation. Panic reaches for me.

Concentrate! Feel the aircraft!

Push the stick forward, then back slightly – we're nosing down. Pull the stick back, then forward slightly – we're climbing, though not as steeply as before. Repeat the maneuvers again, again. Adjust trim.

We smooth out into straight and level flight. A gigantic vise of tension releases its grip. I utter the time-honored pilot's dictum.

"Piece of cake."

I climb gently to 1,200 meters and focus on navigation, giving my pounding heart a chance to slow down.

The airfield is still in sight, so it is easy to orient myself. The geography is not difficult to read, the same gentle hills and forest we'd seen from the train. Creeks and railroad tracks make for good reference points. Battle scars are evident here and there, but the landscape is mostly intact.

Maybe I'll survive this mission after all. Something like my old joy of flying returns. I am at one with the sky again, melded with my aircraft into a single being. I have the air to myself, no sign of friend or foe to distract me.

Some low cumulus lies directly in my flight path. I consider flying over or around it but reject the idea. A detour would consume precious time and fuel, and I am reasonably confident I can handle the whiteout conditions. Besides, I doubt if Bel would shrink from this challenge. And if he can do it, so can I.

I review my zero-visibility flight training: Trust the instruments. Avoid the temptation to overcorrect the controls. Ignore any false cues from my non-visual senses.

Delicate wisps reach out for me like strands of cotton from a beautiful girl's summer dress. Behind them looms a solid wall of cloud. I thrill at its approach. For the first time since the bloodbath at the train station, my face breaks into a smile. I enter the cloud, and all is cool dampness tingling my skin.

The white backdrop enters my mind, and I summon an image of Gyn's face upon it. Again I see her deep brown eyes gazing into mine and the little dimples that appear in her cheeks when she smiles. My own private cinema in the sky.

What would it be like to wake up beside her some morning? Just lie there watching her sleep, following her gentle respiration. She senses my eyes upon her and snuggles close. I wrap an arm around her and our breathing harmonizes. I slip a hand under her nightgown, her breast is soft, yet firm . . .

The wonderful fantasy keeps me from obsessing about my flight attitude in the zero visibility. Overloaded as I am, any abrupt maneuvers could have fatal results.

The plane is trimmed for straight and level flight, so don't hinder it. Periodic scans of the instruments to make sure all is well, an easy hand on the stick, gentle feet on the rudder pedals. Just let it flow. Minutes of near contentment drift past.

Then, unbidden, Ket's face appears before me. She wears a frenzied, almost savage expression, and her blond hair is disheveled. Her breath blows hot on my face. Her hand grinds my crotch, and her teeth bite my lip. It's all so real! Ket is loosening my belt –

Suddenly, brutally, I exit into searing blue sky, and my daydreams flee back into the cloud. Below me sprawls absolute destruction.

The whole area is charred and barren. Massive craters disfigure the ground. Everything is brown and dead, not a speck of greenery survives. The ruin spreads out in a rough circle that must be eight or nine kilometers across. Conflict of unimaginable ferocity had once raged beneath my wings.

Unease grips my heart. The entire place is wrong, even in the midst of a battle front. I name it the _Zone of Destruction_ or _ZOD_ for short. Yes, ZOD, the opposite of GOD, the very face of war. Its vile spirit reaches up for me.

The ruin is so horrific that it seems to be not of this world – as if the violence the land endured has blasted it into an alternate reality. The impression is enhanced by a blurry patch on the edge, just before the more normal landscape resumes.

I shake my head and look again. The patch is still there, like a motion smudge in a photograph. What is it? A more important question – does it exist at all, or am I losing my mind?

But I have a job to do. Men are scanning the air for my little plane, wondering if their ammo will hold out until I get there. I focus my attention on my task and push all other considerations out of mind.

Still, I experience a powerful sense of relief when I exit ZOD, as if I've returned from the grave.

29. Missions Accomplished

The landing field comes into sight, identifiable by a large national flag spread on the ground and by men frantically waving their arms at me. I circle the area, reducing my altitude gradually. Then I go into a gentle final approach.

This landing will be tricky. Under normal conditions I'd lower the flaps, but I dare not steepen my flight angle, overloaded and unstable as I am. Just come in long and low; the field looks big enough with only a light cross wind. My concentration is so intense that, at first, I do not notice the hot bullets flashing past.

The slobes are shooting at me!

Gunfire is coming from a patch of forest off to starboard. Nothing I can do about it – just keep to my flight path and hope for the best. Sweat is pouring off me, dripping under my goggles into my eyes. My hands are cold. The ground nears. Soon I'll be rolling upon it or flipped over into a pile of wreckage . . .

Touchdown!

I taxi to a halt and switch off. Without the engine racket in my ears, the pop of gunfire is distinct. I jump from the cockpit and throw myself onto the ground, discarding my machinegun bullet scarf. I crawl away from my plane as fast as possible.

The shooting stops, but I remain where I am – face down, hands over my head. I feel an odd sense of guilt for abandoning Y-47.

"It's all right now," somebody says.

I look up to see an Army captain towering above me. He offers a hand.

"Ah, they're sending us the young ones now," he says when I've regained my feet.

"Yes, sir. Youth League air squadron commander Dytran reporting, sir."

"Forget the 'sir' routine," the captain says. "We're glad to see you, boy."

Troopers are unloading Y-47 and hurrying off with the cargo. They are gaunt and hard-bitten, as if they haven't bathed nor eaten properly in a long time. Their eyes burn with a feverish glow.

"Tell them to send us more ammo, a lot more," the captain says. "Partisans have stopped the supply trucks from getting through."

"Yes, s– Captain."

"Better yet, I'll tell them myself. Take me back with you. Maybe I can light a fire under a few butts."

"Uh, I don't know if I have enough fuel to carry a passenger."

"No problem there. We salvaged some fuel from the last plane."

He gestures toward a wrecked aircraft at the far end of the field. It is a high-winged machine, better suited to rough field work than my low wing monoplane.

"The pilot didn't make it, unfortunately."

Among the trees, from where the bullets had been fired, a merry jingle in our language blares from a loudspeaker:

Ain't it hard to be the master race

when Piotra's standing on your face?

Hey boys, slip and slide!

Dig them graves and jump inside!

"They're at it again," the captain says. "You'd think they'd come up with a new song already."

We are quickly refueled and airborne, but not until after I've taken a stiff drink of brandy. The captain insisted upon it, so as to "calm my nerves."

And they do need calming. The strain is grinding me down. Even so, the uneventful flight back perks me up a little – until we reach ZOD. The blurry patch is still there, but it seems to be shifting now, as if it's being reflected by a constantly moving mirror.

"What's that over there?" I ask over the intercom while pointing outside my cockpit. "That blurred area along the edge."

"What blurred area?" the captain says. "The whole thing's crap!"

The moment I roll to a stop at home base, the captain jumps out and runs to HQ. His arguments must be persuasive, for I make my next ammo delivery to his unit. They've secured the landing field and my arrival is free from enemy fire and propaganda songs.

Then I make a third ammunition drop, to a different unit. By this time I scarcely know what I'm doing any longer but merely function on instinct. The sector of my mind that is not totally numb comprehends the value of the rigorous training we'd undergone. I give Pansy silent thanks. You have to be part robot to endure this routine.

I don't know where the other Raptor Aces are sent or what their missions are. Air Force officers issue the orders without consulting me. On one flight over ZOD, I pass Beltran going the opposite direction. We waggle our wings by way of greeting.

* * *

The sun is going down when I complete my last mission. I experience an abrupt shift from functional awareness to near total collapse the moment I climb out of the cockpit.

"Rough day, lad?" the crew chief asks.

I nod, too exhausted to say anything. The crew chief pats Y-47's fuselage as if he is stroking the flank of a thoroughbred horse.

"She's a good one. I'll take over now."

I stumble to our barracks where I take a hot shower. This is an unheard of luxury for the troops in the field, but one we pilots can enjoy – if we survive the day's missions. When I get to the bunk room, it is already lights out. Inert lumps occupy the cots, except for the one next to mine where Beltran is reading by the dim illumination of a table lamp.

He looks up from his book as I tumble into bed, face first.

"How'd it go today?" I inquire from the depths of my pillow.

"Didn't you attend a debriefing?" Bel asks.

"Was I supposed to?"

"Yes, you're the squadron commander."

I roll over and stretch. My spine cracks. "That doesn't matter. The officers order me around just like the rest of you."

Bel's face is calm and matter-of-fact in the low light, impossible to read. He doesn't look tired at all – damn him.

"It matters to me," he says.

"I don't believe it!" I say, too loud. Some of the lumps shift position on their cots. "What do you want me to do, blow my foot off so you can be the 'official' squadron leader?"

An unpleasant grin distorts Bel's mouth. "That would be a start."

"So I missed the debriefing. What are they going to do, shoot me? That's sounds pretty good about now."

"Don't be so dramatic. It doesn't go with your charming personality." Bel closes his book. "It must be destiny at work. The gods have decreed I should always be your subordinate."

"Right. So who's the drama king now?"

Bel chuckles, then turns serious. "Orpad bought it today."

I jerk up onto my elbows. "What!?"

"Crashed on take off, his first mission."

The dreadful news breaks through the shell of my fatigue. Bezmir, and now Orpad – two of my old squadron mates, killed on the same day. Lads I had almost considered to be brothers at one time.

I flop onto my back. "Did he suffer much?"

"He was dead when they pulled him from the cockpit. Stall-spin accident."

"Oh, God. I nearly spun out myself."

"Join the club," Bel says.

"How about the others?"

"Albers took some ground fire, but he's all right."

Since the morning we'd been reduced by half. Quite a day's work for the enemy.

I venture a delicate question. "Does it feel strange... being the last surviving Spartan, and all?"

A melancholy look spreads over Bel's face. His mouth bunches. "You mean, do I have survivor's guilt?"

"Something like that."

"Of course, I regret their loss, but nothing in life is fair. How would feeling guilty improve anything?"

Part of me is dying from exhaustion, but another part is too wired up to sleep. I know how Bekar must have felt under the influence of two powerful and contradictory drugs.

"Tell me," I say, "did you notice anything strange about that blasted area we flew over?"

"It's lovely. I'll build a vacation home there after the war. Land ought to be cheap."

"I'm serious. Did you see anything?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know... a blurred spot or something."

Bel gives a sarcastic snort. "Seeing things again, Ghostie?"

"All right, fine."

I turn away, giving my blanket an annoyed rustle. "Why don't you shut off that damn light already?"

"Is that an order, Commander?"

"Whatever."

Actually, I prefer having the light on. When Bel switches it off a minute later, I can feel the hot blood pooling around me again. I summon the presence of the Magleiter to ward off the nightmares.

30. Downward Slope

The weeks grind past into autumn, and our schedule never slackens, except for the occasional day when it rains too hard for us to fly.

We do ammo drops and courier runs, with recon flights and mail deliveries thrown in. We deliver medical supplies and sometimes transport wounded men on our return to base. We even fly some artillery spotting missions, Beltran's favorite assignment for which he always volunteers.

I've flown a few of those missions myself and was never so scared in my life with the antiaircraft fire popping all about. I won't admit this terror to Bel, though.

After our bloody initiation of the first day, we suffer no further deaths. A few of us sustain injuries from ground fire or rough landings, but nothing serious. Katella receives a minor shrapnel wound in his right shoulder.

"At least I'm balanced now," he jokes, referencing the earlier injury to his left shoulder.

Around us, the front crackles and sparks. Combat flares in our sector for a day or two, then dies down. Artillery pieces duel and fall silent. Enemy fighter aircraft appear to joust with ours before vanishing as quickly as they came.

Piotra is keeping us on edge but has not launched any major operations in our area. We lack the strength to go on the offensive ourselves. Our troops are dug in and have all they can handle with the enemy army before them and the partisans behind.

Elsewhere along the vast front, the situation is grim. The offensive everyone expected to hit our southern sector hasn't come. Instead, the enemy struck north again, pushing our forces back to within 150 kilometers of the old frontier. They use their advanced positions to launch bomber strikes against our Homeland.

No amount of propaganda can disguise the fact we are losing the war. The once solid front is now distorted. Our southern sector is dangerously exposed on two sides. We should be retreating to more defensible positions, but orders have come through to "stand fast."

The destruction brought to our cities screams loud and clear about the growing catastrophe. I thank God our home is in the western part of our country, out of bomber range. Gyn, too, is safe – for now.

And what of Ket? She is a moving target. There's no telling where her next assignment will lead. In my mind, she has taken on an air of invulnerability. Nothing bad can happen to such an extraordinary person, but I'd thought that about Stilikan, too.

There is much perplexity. By all logic, the slobes should have attempted to recover the cities and rich farmlands of the south rather than the relatively barren steppe of the north. Amid this bafflement runs a sigh of relief that the Death Angel is spreading its wings over those other poor devils and not us.

Myself, I never blame anyone for being smart, and the enemy strategy seems very intelligent. Why expend precious resources against strong opposition when they can make up ground elsewhere at relatively low cost? And the air raids against our country bring joy to every slobe heart – and despair to our own.

Anxiety infests our ranks. No one speaks of glorious victory any longer. Nobody boasts of achieving our "place in the sun." Faith in the Magleiter remains strong, however – an almost mystical belief that, somehow, he will get us out of this mess.

Question is, will we still be alive to benefit from this miraculous deliverance?

Mostly the talk is about fear for loved ones being killed in the air raids, about cherished homes being destroyed. This topic far overshadows discussion of the second front. Faith in the second front is vanishing anyway, replaced by a grim fatalism.

And always the gnawing certainty that the hammer will fall upon us next.

Unable to sleep one night, I leave my cot and wander outside to the porch. Above me vaults a fantastically clear sky loaded with stars. A single cloud puff covers the sliver of moon, diffusing its light. I inhale deeply, trying to draw some of the serenity into myself.

Someone else exits the barracks, Katella. He takes up position beside me.

"It all seems so beautiful now," I say.

"Yes." Katella gestures toward the heavens. "Looking at that, it's hard to believe in anything else."

The ground is silvery gray. I can see the trees of the nearby forest patch. Closer in, a single tree with a pronounced crook in its middle bends backward as if in awe of the celestial glory.

Unguarded words come to my lips. "I'm sick of all the whining talk. _We_ started this war, and now it's coming back to us with a vengeance. What did people expect?"

Katella says nothing about my treasonous comment, but I think I detect a slight nod. He returns to the barracks. A few minutes later, I follow.

By a turn of fate, I am assigned to the same airfield where Stilikan served. We were supposed to go up north but were diverted when the offensive overran our positions there.

Stilikan's old squadron transferred out some time ago, but many among the ground crew remember my brother and speak in glowing terms. I hear Bekar's exclamation repeated various ways: "Aren't you the spitting image!"

The partisans who murdered Stilikan are nearby. I know that in my innermost being. At night, I feel their presence on the edge of my dreams, can almost smell their unholy stench. In the daytime, I look for them below my wings.

I'm not offended by the idea of irregular forces operating behind our lines. How would I react if an invader came to my country? I'd be out in the forests, too, fighting back any way I could. But what they did went far beyond military necessity. It was sadistic, cold-blooded murder.

They'd had a high-value prisoner in their custody whom they could have exchanged for any number of their captured comrades. Or they could have handed him over to their regular troops as a POW. Instead, they chose to exercise vicious blood lust upon a helpless victim.

Why?

I yearn for an opportunity to confront those savages with a gun in my hands. One afternoon, quite unexpected, it comes to me.

31. The Chasm Breaks Open

The wet, stormy day and a half during which we'd been grounded comes to an end leaving clear skies and fresh breezes in its wake.

The intense heat and humidity of the false summer are gone. During this break in the action, we enjoyed plenty of sleep and caught up on our letters home. Now we are getting bored. We want action, fools that we are.

The six of us sprawl on chairs outside our barracks, like tourists at a health spa sunning ourselves – except we wear flight suits instead of swimming trunks, in anticipation of the day's assignments. The weather is superb, with a touch of fall color in the trees. It almost seems like old times, back before things got complicated with the world and with my comrades.

Our barracks is a small, shabby, affair, tucked off to the edge of the base near a patch of woods and a disused air raid shelter. We are an afterthought to the main life of the base. A telephone keeps us in touch with HQ, but the cheap aluminum wire transmits a barely audible signal. More often than not, we receive our orders in person.

The mail has been held up for quite a while, but now a mass of it pours into our laps. We all receive letters, except for Bel. This is typical; he never got mail at school, either. He pretends not to care, but I've often seen him glancing over people's shoulders, trying to read their letters on the sly.

Right now he's reading an official National Salvation Party text on racial theory. The bold Party banner on the cover advertises this plainly.

"I wish something would happen, already," Bel grumbles into his open book.

"Like what?" Katella looks up from his letter. "A visit from Santa Claus, maybe?"

His voice carries an edge, as if he's trying to goad Beltran. This is not wise. Bel doesn't take the bait, however.

"Sure," he says. "If he's got an interesting mission for me, I'll take it."

"How about a one-way flight home?" Sipren says.

"In a box?" Grushon says.

We all laugh. Now that we are 'battle hardened veterans' we have a right to enjoy such dark humor. Beltran is not amused and sticks his head back into the book. Katella begins to say something, but I wave him off. Bel is in one of his moods again, so best leave him alone.

Beltran is a white crow among us, out of sync. Whatever amuses us seems to irritate him. He's always been like this to an extent, but since we've been at the front, this characteristic has gotten worse. I think the loss of the Sparta flight has hit him very hard, forcing him deeper into the lonely regions within himself.

He seems to have no humor, which deprives him of an important safety valve. One time back at school, when we were joking about the things that attracted us to aviation, Bel threw cold water on the fun. Orpad, the shortest one among us, said that flying made him feel taller. Katella said it took his mind off his crabby girlfriend back home.

When it was Bel's turn, he said, "Flying distinguishes me from the common people."

I turn back to my letter from Bekar. Like the man, it is bright and optimistic. He is out of his cast now, he writes, and is "limping around with authority." Ground school instruction is going well, and he is trying to arrange some flight tests to see if he can handle a fighter plane. Further details to follow.

Then the letter from Gyn. It is sweet, flowing with concern, and with lots of meaning just below the surface. From a girl who "doesn't want to fall in love," but is. My heart aches for her gentle presence. If only I could look over and see her in the chair beside me, instead of Bel with his nose buried in that damn book.

My letter back to her will be equally circumspect. It will nibble around the edges of giant issues that cannot possibly be addressed under these circumstances. When will I be able to see her again, hold her in my arms, feel her warm lips on mine? I place her letter back into its envelope with a sigh loud enough to draw notice from my comrades.

"A real heart breaker, eh?" Katella says.

I shoot him a 'mind your own business' look.

Katella holds up the letter he's reading. "My girl is trying to bust my nuts, as usual," he says.

"Couldn't happen to a nicer guy," Bel mutters.

I open my next letter... love from Mama. She mentions the walnut cake she'd sent. It arrived earlier and has already been wolfed down by the Raptor Aces.

Finally, the letter from Ket. I wanted to open this one first, but forced myself to wait. As I read my other mail, the unopened cream envelope rests on my lap tempting me with its bold, backhand script. It radiates a curious warmth. Ket's fingers have caressed this envelope intimately, as they'd caressed me during that incredible evening.

Maybe not 'caressed,' exactly – more like 'seized.' After a final bit of hesitation, I open the letter. Like Ket, it's blunt and to the point:

No need for that, Ket. Your meaning is _very_ clear, even to a thick-skulled male like myself. Hot arousal collides with the most intense frustration imaginable.

"What's the matter, Dye?" Katella says. "You look like somebody slugged you in the gut."

I look up into a row of grinning faces. On my other side, Beltran is peering over my shoulder.

"Do you guys mind?" I stuff the letter back into its envelope.

"It's that News Service girl, isn't it?" Sipren says. "God, what I wouldn't give to hear from her!"

The others laugh; my face reddens.

Fortunately, a courier arrives and rescues me from the awkward situation. We glance up from our chairs at the trim figure with his cap tilted at an angle and a briefcase chained to his wrist.

"I've got a priority run," the courier says. "They told me to find a pilot."

"Hold on a minute," I say. "I'll take you."

I step inside the barracks and place my mail in the drawer of my side table. Then I reconsider. Violating the personal storage space of a comrade is the ultimate taboo, but the temptation of the cream-colored envelope might prove too much for that pack of hyenas out there. So, I slip Ket's letter into one of my flight suit's exterior pockets – the one closest to my heart – and zip it securely in place.

* * *

We will be using the "big boy" paved runway instead of our usual grass strip, which still contains large mud puddles. Before we climb into Y-47, the courier holds up the attaché case chained to his wrist. His other hand rests on a small pistol holstered to his belt.

"You know how this works, don't you?" he says.

He takes his hand off the gun butt long enough to point at a cord running out of the case.

"Yes," I say, "we've all been briefed."

If, for some reason, the courier cannot deliver his message, he is to pull the cord and set off an incendiary device. This bit of fireworks will destroy whatever papers are inside the case. Should he be unable to do this, I am to pull the cord so as to prevent the contents from falling into enemy hands.

"It's just a formality," the courier says. "I've gone seven months without a mishap. When I'm along, you're safe as spades."

I flinch.

"Safe as spades" was one of Stilikan's pet expressions. I've never heard anyone else use it. Where did this guy pick it up?

"Uh, did you know... by any chance..."

"Yes?" the courier says.

"Oh, never mind. Let's get the hell out of here."

I jump into the front cockpit. Mentioning Stilikan at this moment seems like bad luck. We are all developing morbid superstitions.

Just concentrate on the task. Get that message delivered.

* * *

It feels good to be back in the air, and on a milk run, too. No pile of hand grenades crouching in the rear cockpit ready to explode, no white-knuckle take off and landing. Just smooth flying through bright skies. Even the approach of ZOD does not dampen my spirits overmuch.

These courier runs are taking up a lot of our schedule lately. With the enemy breaking our radio codes as fast as we can change them and the partisans cutting our land lines, we are increasingly forced into hand-delivered communications. This suits everyone fine, except for Beltran.

"When are they going to let us have fighters?" he grumbles constantly. "I'm tired of these flying sewing machines."

He yearns for the days when artillery roars so he can fly as a spotter. He'll dodge in and out of the ground fire pinpointing enemy positions, calling in the coordinates for our own guns. These artillery duels seldom last long, but Beltran is pumped for days afterwards by a brief period of spotter duty.

Maybe Bel will get his wish today, judging by the flashes off to starboard. A voice crackles over the intercom.

"They're at it again down there," the courier says.

"Yes."

The big guns' thunder lurks behind the engine roar. I review my selection of emergency landing fields, in case we have to vacate the sky. We carry no parachutes, too much bulk and weight.

Besides, parachutes are fair game for both sides these days. Anyone dangling beneath one is a sitting duck. Stilikan's chivalrous attitude toward his rival airmen is woefully outdated in the current war of extermination.

"Impressive view up here," the courier observes.

"Right."

We are flying parallel to ZOD now. One could call it "impressive," though I can think of other, more accurate, terms – strange, creepy, evil.

Neither of us sees the enemy fighter plane diving out of the sun. A torrent of bullets slams into us.

Y-47 bucks and jerks like a wild stallion. I nearly lose control. An ear-splitting howl explodes through the intercom, then dies. The enemy fighter screams past, so close I can feel the engine heat. It begins turning around to make another run at us.

I am numbed with shock, as if a huge chasm has split open, exposing the inner workings of hell to the bright day – a moment as terrible as when Beltran crashed his plane.

Maybe that prior experience has steeled me for this one. Snapping out of my paralysis, I push the stick over hard and slam the throttle to the firewall. We head toward the earth in a power dive. Escape into low altitude!

Smoke pours from the engine, nearly blinding me, and the controls feel dead. A large hole blown through the port wing gapes at me.

The fighter is behind us now, firing his guns. I jink my plane to make myself a more difficult target. The ground rushes up, I fly along it, power off. Bullets tear up the dirt around me.

I am moving through a narrow channel between two swathes of forest. I bleed off speed, lowering, lowering... then a touchdown absurd in its precision. Y-47 bumps along the surface, plowing through the underbrush. We crash against a tree stump and ground loop to a halt.

I fling off my harness and tumble out of the cockpit, grabbing my emergency pack along the way. I dash into the woods as if pursued by all the demons of hell.

The fighter plane circles a while, then departs for other pastures of death.

32. Lair of the Beast

The world becomes silent, except for the ringing in my ears and the distant rumble of big guns. I loiter in the forest trying to regain my grip on reality. By some miracle, I have suffered no major injuries.

Get away, now!

The secret message is still in the aircraft, though. I fumble the little binoculars out of my survival pack. The courier is obviously slain; his body sprawls twisted and bloody in the rear cockpit. Against every survival instinct, I depart the forest cover and approach the tragedy.

My beautiful Y-47!

She's all twisted and bent, her prop broken, wings shredded by gunfire, and blood running down her fuselage. At least it is a fighting death and not some ignominious training accident. I come to attention and offer a salute to my plane and to the courier whose luck has finally run out.

He is, literally, shot to pieces. When I reach into the rear cockpit for the briefcase, his hand comes out with it, dangling from the chain like an obscene good luck charm.

"Ugh!"

I fling the case away and vomit my guts out onto the poor, violated flanks of Y-47. I collapse to my knees. The world spins and starts to fade, then comes slowly back into focus. A single thought keeps me from fainting – _Partisans_!

Alone, cut off. Any partisan unit in the area would have seen my crash landing. Or else that fighter pilot could have radioed them. The partisans work in concert with the regular forces.

"One of the bastards escaped," the pilot would say. "Finish him off, guys."

Wobbling back onto my feet, I force myself to confront the horror in the rear cockpit again. The stench of gore and explosives nearly forces me into a swoon.

Get a grip, Dytran!

I work the pistol out of the courier's gun belt. The thing is slick with blood. I grope around the belt and pat down the pockets, no indication of more ammo. I wipe my prize as clean as possible on the grass.

Six bullets are in the clip, five for any partisans who might show up, and the last one for me. I will not repeat Stilikan's mistake – assuming others are as honorable as myself. They won't tie me to some tree, not alive anyway.

I recover the briefcase. Thank God the courier's hand no longer dangles from the chain. I do not wish to find out where it has tumbled. The case itself has taken a round near the top which has shattered its locking device. The demolition cord protrudes from the bottom. What should I do?

Is the incendiary charge still intact, and if so, how powerful is it? Will it set off a blaze drawing attention to my position? The explosion can no longer be contained by the damaged briefcase. If I pull that cord, I might set myself on fire.

I pry the case open and withdraw a medium-sized manila envelope stamped in red.

TOP SECRET

Commanding officer's eyes only

The envelope is thin, only a sheet or two inside. I can tear the paper into bits and bury it, or swallow it, if necessary. But before I can do anything, alien voices intrude.

Get away from the plane!

I stuff the envelope into my flight suit's interior pocket and retreat to the forest. I dive into the underbrush and aim the pistol back into the clearing. Moments later, partisans emerge from the far stand of woods and approach the wreckage of my airplane.

There are fifteen guerillas, including two women and a few boys who appear to be younger than myself. The rest are hard-bitten men, raggedly dressed, unshaven. They seem like a pack of hungry wolves come to feast on the carcass of Y-47. Everyone is heavily armed.

Their leader is a large, bearded brute hefting a submachine gun. His peasant cap is pulled low over one eye. He roves his single exposed eye over my aircraft, taking in the dead courier. Then he looks out across the clearing toward my position. A dark wave of evil accompanies his gaze, reaching corroded fingers for me.

A cold fist slugs my chest. I _know_ , with greater certainty than I've ever experienced, that he is the man who ordered my brother's murder.

A grim ancestral voice roars in my ears, demanding vengeance. Stilikan's blood cries out to me from the ground. My teeth clench so hard they seem about to break. I chamber a round into the pistol with a sharp _clack-clack_!

Then I regain control of myself. Fool! I'd never hit the bastard at this range. Thank God for the artillery explosions, or somebody might have heard me cock the gun.

Yes, the artillery... it's louder now. I scarcely noticed it earlier above the tumult of my emotions. The partisans halt their examination of Y-47 and glance skyward. Their leader makes some hand gestures; two groups of four detach themselves from the main body and head toward opposite ends of my woods.

So, this is their game, comb through the trees and snare the fugitive. Two can play at it. I'll maneuver to intercept the group on my right. With any luck I can ambush them and take out one or two. I'll pick up a fallen submachine gun and –

The gods of war have other plans. They send an artillery shell hurtling our way, an express train roaring through the heavens. A long moan, changing to a whine, a scream. The partisans dive to the ground as the shell explodes in the trees behind them. The earth shakes under my belly.

The leader is the first one back on his feet, yelling in the harsh slobe language and waving his arms. The people he'd sent after me return on the double. They all melt away the direction they'd come.

Another shell explodes in the area, then another and another. I hug the ground; shrapnel whistles past my ears. I am one with the chaos. Mad exaltation shoves aside my terror.

At last, the maws of the big guns direct their fury elsewhere. Things become – relatively – calm once more. Whose guns were those, ours or the enemy's? It hardly matters. Against all the odds, I've been granted a reprieve.

If I had any sense, I'd take advantage and run off. But I must know where the partisans went. If they have a base camp nearby, I need to find its precise location so I can direct an attack against it. I need to kill the leader of that band and all the others who assisted him in Stilikan's murder.

I dash across the open area, pistol at the ready, and enter the far stand of woods. This is a huge risk, but the last thing the partisans expect would be pursuit from their intended victim. So, an element of surprise favors me. The forest is dense and marshy, an easy place to get lost. I pull out my compass and guide myself in as direct a line as possible.

I don't have far to go. After a sloggy period of stepping over fallen trees and negotiating underbrush, I suddenly emerge from the woods into a ghastly open area. ZOD!

The shock pulls the air from my lungs.

A vast silence assaults my ears, a howl of emptiness. Confronting ZOD close up is far worse than seeing it from the sky. Up there I can determine its limits, but from here it seems to go on forever – a desert of nonexistence. It appears to be in motion, somehow, like a sluggish whirlpool of nothingness. In spots, a poisoned vapor hugs the ground.

The fetid odors of the forest are gone, sucked away into the void. The rumble of artillery becomes subdued, as if I am hearing it from a great distance underwater.

I shrink back into the woods and look all directions through my filter of underbrush. There is no sign of the partisans, as if they've vanished from this earth. My own mind seems to be slipping away into the vacuum. Panic gnaws at me; I fight the impulse to run.

And then, I detect the blur.

When I look directly at it, the blur disappears into the blasted landscape. But when I turn my head and use peripheral vision, it wavers back into view. What on earth can it be – is it even _of_ this earth?

Maybe it's a camouflaged tunnel entrance, an underground escape route for the partisans. Where else could they have gone in this barren wilderness?

For a foolish moment, I consider trying to enter the blur myself, but that would be suicide. If the partisans are anywhere around, I'd be a sitting duck wandering out into that wasteland. No, I'll have to come back later, in force.

I slink away. And ZOD laughs.

33. Revelation

My progress toward home base is swift and sure, driven by the fear of partisan bands.

I've flown this route so often that navigation poses few difficulties. An occasional compass reading keeps me on course, and I don't bother with the paper map tucked inside my flight suit. The map in my head is sufficient.

I keep to the forest edges and the overgrown fields, avoiding places that might contain settlements, hoping one of our patrols will appear – but none does. I am alone in the alien wilderness.

My route detours around a farmhouse. Smoke curls from the chimney; the place is clearly occupied. The smell of a wood fire tantalizes me, but I avoid its lure. A large barn and some outbuildings stand nearby.

The farmstead is out of place in the midst of so much emptiness. I encounter numerous abandoned buildings along my route and am tempted to stop for a while, but I press on.

A swift moving river, perhaps 30 meters wide, halts my advance. From the air, it's just a little ribbon, a check point from which to orient myself. But close up, it presents a substantial barrier. It rushes through the woods at the bottom of steep embankments.

There is a bridge a few kilometers upstream, and I am tempted to use it. Perhaps it is guarded by our own men... but maybe not. If partisans are about, wouldn't they be keeping an eye on that bridge? How could I approach unobserved? Tall, blond guy wearing an enemy flight suit – a pretty bad disguise.

So, I make my way down the embankment and search for a point to cross the river. After some time stumbling through underbrush and shore mud, I find one. The river at this spot passes over a sandbar which seems to extend most of the way to the opposite bank. I might make it across without getting fully soaked.

Wincing as it floods over my boot tops and soaks my feet, I step into the water. As a frightening thought occurs. If this is the best place to ford the river, won't the partisans know about it, too? Might they be watching right now from the opposite side, aiming rifles at me, waiting for me to reach the midpoint so as to be the easiest target?

To hell with all that, Dytran, get moving!

I take another step and pause again. What if the water is deeper than it looks – what if I have to swim for it? I'll be soaked clear through with a cold night coming on. Should I strip off my flight suit and try to hold it out of the water?

No time for that.

I move ahead, holding my survival pack aloft.

My fears about snipers and water depth are quickly joined by another anxiety – the current. It tugs at me, forcing my progress farther and farther downstream. The water is frigid, as if it's running off a glacier. It rises up to my waist, freezing my genitals.

I am staggering along the downstream edge of the sandbar, gaping at the deep eddies of a drop-off. As I force my way through the last meters, I am almost drawn into the swirling water.

Finally, I slosh onto dry land.

"Piece of cake," I mutter through chattering teeth.

I ascend the embankment, stopping under the first available cover to pour the water out of my boots and ring my socks semi-dry.

My trek resumes. Now that I am out of immediate peril, the day's accumulated fatigue and horror drag me down. I experience a strong urge to stop and rest and, maybe not get up again. Just lie on my back, facing the pristine sky, and wait for whatever comes. I might have done so except for a strange, glowing presence moving ahead of me, urging me on.

No... it isn't _really_ there, not so it can be seen, but I sense an almost erotic manifestation. My overwrought mind is going down some weird survival channel. Still, I dare not challenge the manifestation's command. If I do, all will be lost. So I keep moving through the hours, despite my numbed brain, aching legs, and clammy flight suit.

My guide needs a name, so I give it one – Ket.

Her letter smolders inside my pocket, spreading warmth throughout my exhausted frame. Images of her beauty flood my mind. She moves to my side, holding my hand, her long fingers stroking my palm.

My other hand grips the pistol. Ket whispers into my ear, words of love and lust I cannot quite understand. She's made promises and given me things to look forward to – I must keep going for her sake.

As dusk approaches, I determine to stop and find concealment. Partisans own the night. My guide realizes this and vanishes as mysteriously as she had appeared. Without her, I feel adrift.

Yet, I'm fairly confident of my location, having just passed the scummy pond seen so often from the air. A final check would be in order before the light becomes too dim. I reach inside my flight suit to get the map nestled there. My fingers touch the dispatch envelope.

Damn!

I've been wandering about for hours with a priority message. The atmosphere ratchets up its burden of paranoia. I can almost feel enemy hands wrapping around me, seizing the document I have so foolishly allowed to survive.

I enter a stand of trees and pull the envelope out of my flight suit. It stares up at me, cold and severe, with its TOP SECRET warning stamped in blood red. The thing is oddly terrifying, like the paper which bore the news of Stilikan's fate. It has already cost a man's life, and my beautiful airplane. My duty is to destroy it.

Something about that envelope compels me to read its contents. Ever since the crash, my brain has been operating on some strange, intuitive level that defies all logic. Reading the dispatch could be considered an act of treason, though. If the partisans catch me, they could force me to reveal secret information.

I glance at the pistol. No, the partisans will _never_ take me alive.

Without any clear idea of what I'm doing, I tear open the envelope and read its contents in the dying light.

To: Division Commander

From: Army Group HQ

Subject: Reprisals for partisan attacks

You are ordered to follow standard procedure without further delay. Failure to do so will result in court martial.

Select two mid-size villages. All men to be shot, all women and children to be burned with the houses.

Signed,

Army Group Commander

The dispatch tumbles from my hands. A profound horror assails me – yet I am not surprised. The words typed on that paper are quite at home in this demented place.

I dare not leave my area of concealment, yet cannot stand to be around that cursed message. I dig a hole, tear the paper to bits and throw them inside – then set them afire, then bury the ashes. The words still blaze in my mind, though. I move as far away from the grave as possible and try to get some badly needed sleep.

It won't come. Whenever I start to drift off, I see the flames of hell and doomed villages. I hear the shrieks of burning children. A constant roaring, as of a powerful wind, fills my ears.

I try to summon the Magleiter to banish these images, but he doesn't come. In fact, he is bringing the horror to me. The revelation banishes all peace. An unbearable thought tortures my mind:

How many other death warrants have I delivered? How many children have already burned with my help?

There is no way I can undo the harm!

I can see it never happens again, though. I'll simply make sure others fly courier from now on. Nobody would object, except for Bel maybe. Courier flights are greatly preferred over other assignments.

But that would be a dishonorable evasion. I'd be a coward sending others to do the filthy work I shrink from myself. Maybe I could put a bullet through my foot... another cowardly evasion.

_This is war, you spoiled brat!_ a harsh voice bellows in my head. _What did you expect? Right this minute, they're murdering your national comrades with their air raids. They're not human. Kill them all!_

But I can't accept that. The slobes are human, all right, just as we are – for all our mutual crimes.

My desperation grows, hemming me in, until only a single way out seems possible. Suicide. A blast from the pistol would liberate me from all responsibility and redeem my personal honor.

An image of Mama's grief-stricken face floats into my consciousness, and I know I could never subject her to that.

The voice of Stilikan echoes in my mind: " _You think too much, twerp! Try to_ _feel_ _more. Believe and trust – obey the Magleiter's will."_

He'd said things like that when we were kids. Did he still feel that way toward the end? Judging by his final letters, I'm inclined to doubt it. And what were his thoughts when they tied him to that tree – when he confronted the brutal face of hatred and revenge?

Pure, unreasoning hate murdered Stilikan, the same monster as in the dispatch I'd burned. That partisan leader . . . what was he like before the atrocities started? Was he a normal man before the hate took over? The hate _we_ brought to this cursed land.

Damn him! Whatever else happens, I will kill that man and all the others responsible for Stilikan. I am part of this vicious cycle.

34. Enemy Contact

An exhausted morning arrives, bringing with it a breakfast of cold emergency rations and tepid water from my flask.

I've gained nothing from my restless night, have no idea how I will conduct myself when I get back to base... if I get back. My journey resumes. With any luck, I might be able to arrive by nightfall.

Luck is a rare commodity today, though. Twice I have to find concealment as groups of men pass by. The first group appears to be laborers, the second one seems less benign – hunters perhaps, or maybe partisans going about under the bright sun. And I have to give a wide berth to people working in the fields. Much of the farmland in this area is abandoned, but some is still under cultivation, which complicates matters greatly.

This is supposed to be "conquered territory," but I feel no security at all traversing it. Our forces are a thin crust on the surface of this foreign land, like a cracked egg shell. Beneath it, hostile forces roil and hiss.

Trees offer some protection. Up in the hills, the woods lack the fetid swamps that choke the lowland forests, and negotiating them is not too difficult. In another situation, I'd enjoy strolling among such tall, stately trees, but they're only sentinels of doom now.

I once read a magazine piece about the great slobe forests we'd be exploiting after the war. The article spoke of vast tonnages of paper, building materials, and decorative woods flowing into our country from this inexhaustible resource. The profits of this industry would be immense.

Right.

My progress is slow, and I am resigned to another night in the outdoors when the boy appears. He is hiding by a tree. I might have bypassed him were it not for the supercharged senses I've developed since the crash. My eye catches a glimpse of a dirty and terrified face pressed against the bark. I drop into a fighting crouch and whip out my knife. The lad bolts.

"Hey!"

Fear drives my quarry on, but I quickly narrow the gap. I leap the final distance and bring him down.

_Kill him!_ The savage voice roars in my head.

I raise the knife, targeting a spot on his back... then I lower the weapon. I roll the boy over and clamp a hand over his mouth. His face disappears, except for a pair of frantic eyes gaping at me.

"Keep quiet!" I touch the knife blade to my pursed lips, then draw it symbolically across my throat. "Got it?"

The boy can't have understood my words, but he grasps the meaning of my gestures. He nods. All the while his eyes bore into mine. I feel ashamed. Stilikan toppled gigantic Papa before threatening him with a knife, while I am confronting a mere child.

I take my hand away. "On your feet."

The boy rises slowly, glancing around himself like a frightened doe. I brandish the pistol under his nose.

"Don't even think of running."

He nods again and holds up his hands, uttering something in the slobe language.

"I don't know what you're saying, so shut up."

The lad looks to be around twelve with long, disheveled hair and clothes too small for him. What's he doing out here? Is he a homeless refugee, a vagabond, a herding boy looking for a lost goat?

Well, I can either stand here all day asking unanswerable questions, or I can go. One thing is certain – I can't leave him behind to inform on my whereabouts.

"Get moving." I gesture with the pistol.

The boy starts walking briskly.

"Not too far ahead."

We trudge through the next hours – the boy first, me following a short distance behind trying to watch in all directions. My pistol and knife are always close at hand.

Of all the useless complications! I'll have to keep an eye on the lad all day, lest he run off. And come night, I'll need to restrain him. Thank God for the various items in my emergency kit. These include a length of sturdy cord and a bandana, useful to bind and gag. Tomorrow, if I am still alive, I'll free the lad when the airbase comes in sight.

I toy with the idea of bringing him in. If he has no family on the outside, he can be our servant – clean our barracks, do our laundry and so on. In return, we'll make sure he has adequate food and a decent place to live. He could survive. In a tiny way, this would help make up for all the burned ones . . .

But the whole idea is foolish. Considerations like these have no place in this cauldron of brutality. The higher ups would never let us keep him, and if they did, the lad would only run off at the first opportunity to inform on us – or else slit our throats as we slept.

The route takes us over high ground which offers frequent views of the road below. The road leads directly to the airbase, and I am sorely tempted to use it. No... it's more prudent to stay up here, farther away from notice.

The lad's back is constantly in my field of vision, the target I once considered stabbing. Now and then, he glances over his shoulder, doubtlessly hoping that I've vanished into thin air.

"Eat up." I toss him a strip of jerky and some dried fruit.

He wolfs the food down. I am weary and footsore, many hazardous kilometers remain to my destination. All sorts of random thoughts play through my mind.

For instance, who is this boy, and where did he come from? Is a mother anxiously awaiting his return? He is younger than the slobe boy who attacked Bel's airplane, but I see them as one in the same. They blend into a single, universal Piotra.

So many twists and turns brought me here, and all because of one stupid decision. I've read the advanced reasoning portions of the brain do not fully mature until a person reaches his 20's. I am yet seventeen, can I be blamed for being an ass?

Blame! Such concepts fade to insignificance in these alien surroundings. Human beings are snuffed out wholesale here – shot from the sky, blown up by artillery, burned in villages.

My luck turns when I spot something down on the road.

"Hold it! Get down."

We crouch in the high grass and peer out toward an armored personnel carrier stopped on the road below. It's similar to the ones I saw at the victory rally – a stealthy, long-range model with eight wheels instead of clanking tracks. With its camouflage paint, it blends in well with the background, but my eyesight – more keen than ever – has picked it out.

It is one of ours, originally, but it might be in enemy hands now. The partisans are experts at using captured equipment and uniforms to bait traps. From this distance I can't tell who is in charge, even through the binoculars. There are no troops around it.

"Come on."

35. Death Storm

We make our way downhill, taking advantage of the high grass and every other bit of cover.

The wind favors us, rustling through the vegetation and disguising our movements. The boy is skilled at this subterfuge, moving along with the cunning of a snake. Maybe he has done this before, in service with the partisans.

Despite the life and death circumstances, my mind wanders back to when I was twelve. Stilikan was home from school that summer, and we played a similar game, creeping down a hill to surprise the 'enemy' lurking below. The age difference between me and Stilikan was about the same as between me and this boy.

The realization of the war's futility and waste slams an armored fist into me. Here I am, five years later and half a continent away, still playing this game. Between then and now lies a vast killing field piled high with our best young men. And for what – so the slobes can teach us the limits of our arrogance?

Perhaps these thoughts distract me too much, or maybe the wind rushing through the grass dulls my hearing. I do not notice the man sneaking up behind us until I hear the sharp cock of a gun. I spin around, groping for my pistol.

"Hold it, flyboy!" a harsh voice says.

A boot knocks the pistol out of my hand. I squint into the sun. A man dressed in camouflage stands among its rays pointing a rifle at me. The barrel seems big as a howitzer's.

"W-who...?"

"Your fairy godmother," the man says, "who else?"

He speaks our language with no trace of enemy accent. The coiled spring inside me loosens a tiny bit.

"We've got a live one, Captain," the man calls out.

A second man, also dressed in camouflage, strides into view. His bulk obscures the glaring sun, and I can make out his face clearly. It is hard and sharp with piercing blue eyes. Blond hair bristles on his skull.

"Good work, Eagle-eye," he says.

For a moment, I think he is addressing me with my old squadron nickname. I almost utter some absurd reply. The captain looks down at me. I must be a contemptible sight, sprawled in the grass, gaping like an idiot.

"You going to lay there all day, sonny?" he says.

He offers me a hand. I take it and am yanked to my feet by an iron grip.

"Thank you, sir."

The captain is no taller than me, but he seems more powerful by an order of magnitude. Next to him, I feel about as strong as a rag doll. Now that my initial fear has passed, I'm struck by his resemblance to Stilikan. He could be related to us, but his face bears a cruel edge my brother's never had.

"We've got ourselves a celebrity," Eagle-eye says. "This one was on the cover of _Struggle!_ – with the Magleiter."

The captain nods, unimpressed with my celebrity status.

"What's with the kid?" he asks.

He jabs his gun barrel toward the slobe lad, who is standing nearby with hands above his head.

"I found him a way back. I was keeping an eye on him."

"Good move," the captain says. "Every one of these little snots is an informer."

More men in camouflage are standing around now, all of them tough and hard as brass. Clearly, they are one of our anti-terrorist commando units – men whose job it is to track down and exterminate partisans. Men I need to know.

"We've been told to watch for a missing courier pilot," the captain says. "Is that you?"

"Yes, sir. Youth League air squadron commander Dytran reporting, sir."

Sarcastic chuckles greet my announcement. "Yuliac babies," somebody sneers.

"What about the courier?" the captain asks.

"He was killed, sir. An enemy fighter jumped us."

"And his dispatch?"

"... destroyed."

Thank heaven he does not question me further about the dispatch. He gestures to one of his men.

"Radio the airbase. Tell them we've got the prodigal, safe and sound."

"Yes, sir."

The trooper runs ahead to the personnel carrier.

"All right, we can take you back," the captain says. "Let's go."

We tromp down the hill. My relief at my deliverance is so profound I seem to be floating. The commandos tread around me like predator cats ready to pounce at an instant's notice. Thank God they are on our side.

I need to tell them about the partisan band, lead them back to the spot where I discovered it. I wonder what the protocol is. Should I speak directly to the captain or wait until I get back and submit my report through channels?

I determine to speak with the captain once we're inside the APC. I don't think my superiors will fault me for that. And what if they do? Anything that brings faster justice to Stilikan's murderers is worth trying.

Eagle-eye nudges my arm. "Here, you forgot something."

He returns my pistol to me butt first.

"Thanks, sir."

"Don't shoot yourself with it. Ammo's expensive."

I tuck the gun inside my flight suit trying to keep a grin on my face about the supposed joke. He's not really joking, though.

We gain the road and walk to the armored personnel carrier. It is a fearsome brute, open at the top. Its armor juts in aggressive angles like that of some prehistoric monster. A small turret in front houses a machine gun while another heavy machine gun pokes out the back.

The vehicle is sinister enough, but a logo painted on its flank adds to the effect. It's a dark, whirling cyclone with a ruby-eyed skull peering out. _Death Storm_ is written beneath this illustration. The thing is worked into the camouflage, and I don't notice it until I'm right next to it. The effect is startling.

"You like the artwork?" Eagle-eye asks.

"Uh... yes, sir. Very much so."

More sarcastic chuckles from the men.

I glance off to the right where the road starts to bend. A second APC lurks against the trees. I wasn't able to see it from the hill. It is even more highly camouflaged, with greenery attached along its flanks, like a rolling bush.

The slobe lad is still with us, I notice with some surprise. He seems like an intruder from some other lifetime.

"Run along now!" the captain barks, gesturing down the road with his gun barrel.

The slobe boy looks toward me with soft, brown eyes that remind me of a puppy dog's.

"Yes, go on," I say. "You're free."

The lad takes off at a run.

Men are clambering up the side of the armored vehicle. Then it is my turn to ascend. I hope I can get up there without embarrassment. I seize the handholds and pull myself to the top. So far, so good; a shred of my dignity returns.

A shot rings out. I jerk my head around. Down the road, a tiny heap indicates where the slobe boy lies.

"Nice shot, Eagle-eye!" somebody yells.

The scene has an unreal air. It does not involve me, does it? The boy is far away, dehumanized, while I am here, safe.

Just climb aboard and keep your mouth shut.

But this is wrong. Honor demands that I take it personally. I drop to the ground and stride up to Eagle-eye.

"Why the hell'd you do that!"

He turns a look of amused contempt toward me, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. A swirl of wind envelops him, wafting away the smoke.

The captain grips my shoulder and spins me around. "It's not all pretty blue, flyboy. Down here, there're no limits."

# Five: Disillusion

36. Hero's Homecoming

The ride is tense and ugly. Although the vehicle is crowded, there remains a chilly vacuum around my corner. I've offended the squad's code, and they are ostracizing me.

Thank God they've radioed ahead that the courier pilot is "safe and sound." Otherwise, I might be lying in the road with the slobe boy. This ride could still come to a bad end.

I'd wanted to accompany these men on a raid against the partisans, but that idea seems beyond foolish now. I'll save my report until I get back to the airfield.

Fear and dread oppress me as never before in my life. Even the terror of the shoot down or the railway depot ambush does not match it. Those were military actions against legitimate targets. This murder is the face of pure evil.

But I need these men in order to exact vengeance for Stilikan. Perhaps I can make it up with them, utter some cruel jest, apologize for being so unreasonable.

" _Hey guys, you shot that damn kid before he could polish my boots,"_ I might say. _"You know how it is with us 'flyboys,' we're all a bit soft in the head from too much altitude."_

My emergency kit contains a supply of cigarettes. I can pass them around. They never fail to win friends. But I can't bring myself to any of this. What the hell am I doing here? How can any of this horror and injustice be considered devotion to the Fatherland?

We are still a kilometer from the airfield when the vehicle stops.

"Time to get out," somebody says.

The captain grips my arm and speaks in my ear. "Don't ever let us find you again, kid."

I am heaved over the side, almost landing on my face in the gravel road. I straighten my flight suit and begin walking with as much dignity as possible. Every moment I expect to hear a shot ring out, feel a lethal impact against my spine.

But nothing happens. The armored personnel carriers turn around and drive off the way they'd come.

* * *

I pass through the sentry posts and enter the airfield. First order of business is a report to the wing commander, then a glorious hot shower and something to eat. Some nasty blisters have developed on feet grown unaccustomed to long treks, and I want to have the infirmary look at them. I pray there will be no flying assignments today.

My brain is hardly functioning anymore. I wish I was back home curled up in my comfortable bed, with Mama downstairs baking pastries and brewing real coffee.

As I crunch along the gravel path toward HQ, a vast weariness takes hold, only part of which is physical. My spirit is exhausted. After taking care of my immediate needs, I have to face the brutal issue of the courier flights.

Something ahead on the right catches my eye. _What the hell?_

A movie camera, with a two-man crew, is grinding away on a tripod. Its long lens jabs at me like a rifle barrel.

"Don't look into the lens!" a cameraman yells. "Look off toward the left."

I am too astonished to react. Here is another scene of unreality, as if I've stepped from one madhouse into another.

"Look off to the left!"

I swivel my head leftward to see a crowd approaching – Bel, Sipren, other pilots and ground crew, even the wing commander. A man with a portable movie camera on his shoulder strides among them; another man brandishes a microphone.

And near the back – crisp in her News Service blazer, tall in her platform shoes – Ket.

"By one of war's unpredictable turns, our film crew is on hand to witness a hero's homecoming," the man says into his microphone. "Youth League Air Squadron leader Dytran was given up for lost, but has now returned safe and sound to the arms of his national comrades . . ."

As the man drones on, my gaze remains on Ket. Her eyes direct an irresistible, electric-like current into mine. A bright smile covers her face; she purses her lips into a kiss. She's a fantastic visitor from another universe.

And the muffled tick, tick, tick of the camera rolling, the enthusiasm of the crowd. It surges around me, slapping my back, shaking my hands, saying what a helluva guy I am. For a moment, I fear it will hoist me upon its collective shoulders.

"You're one lucky bastard," Bel whispers in my ear. He, too, is gazing off toward Ket.

"Tell us how it feels to be back, Dytran," the newsman says.

The microphone is shoved into my face.

"Uh, it feels great. I never thought this airfield was so beautiful."

Everyone laughs and applauds. The newsman asks me more questions, and I mouth replies. I scarcely know what I'm saying. Somebody thrusts a bottle of wine into my hand. I take a healthy swig to cheers and applause.

Then the celebration breaks up, and people return to their duties. The movie cameras switch off.

"Report to me when you're finished with... them," the wing commander says. He gestures toward the newsreel people. His face bears a tired, sardonic little smile.

"Yes, sir."

He drifts away with the others, leaving me alone in a temporary void. Then –

"Welcome back, Dytran."

It's Ket. She is standing close to me, her body giving off incredible warmth. She is bursting with vitality in this land of murder – my guide who has led me back.

"Ket, what are you doing here?"

I can't focus my eyes properly. She seems to give off an obscuring glow, and the wine has hit my famished system hard.

"Oh, Dytran..."

Her hands reach for me, then drop to her sides. She looks toward her colleagues, who are avidly watching us. They busy themselves with other things.

"We were in the area on another assignment," she says. "I persuaded the director to divert here for a follow-up on the Raptor Aces. And... I wanted to see you."

I nod dumbly, still unable to get a clear view of Ket. She is like a goddess hovering before me.

"Dytran, I was so afraid. You were missing, and so many of the others were already killed. Then the radio message came from the commandos – it was like the sun came out again."

She brushes a tear from her perfect face with the back of one hand. My heart is breaking on her behalf.

"We're leaving soon," she says. "Can I talk to you alone?"

"Yes, of course."

She leads the way to a group of News Service vehicles, including a large van into which men are loading equipment. I seem to be back on my trek, following her perfect image to salvation.

Ket approaches one of the men. He's the same guy who operated the projector a hundred years ago, back before I left home for this horror excursion.

"Give me five minutes," she says. "I'll owe you one."

"Sure, Ket." The guy looks toward me. "Nice to see you again, Commander."

His voice carries an undertone of admiration and, perhaps, a tinge of regret. Maybe he would have liked it better if the 'homecoming hero' hadn't showed up. He and the others move away. Ket enters through the back of the vehicle.

"Come on, Dytran."

I step inside, and she shuts the door behind us. Instantly, she is upon me, her body pressing against me, her mouth seeking mine, her breath coming in hot gasps. My fatigue vanishes amid a raging torrent of desire.

"Oh, God, Dytran, I thought I'd lost you forever."

She crushes her mouth against mine again. After a blissful eternity, she withdraws.

"I wish you could take me right now." Her voice is husky and soft, irresistible. "I want you to take me... I love you so much."

Her face glows in the dimness like a beacon from heaven. Her body is magnificent perfection in my arms.

"I love you too, Ket. You're all that kept me going these last two days."

"Really?"

"Yes, I wouldn't lie to you about that."

Moments drift by. I feel her deep breathing; her heart beats against my chest. We almost seem to be one life, here in the darkness. Then she injects a note of fearful urgency.

"You have to get away from here before it's too late, Dytran. So many are being killed now."

"What makes me so special?"

"You're a hero back home. _Youth Answers the Call_ is a huge success. Did you see the magazine article?"

"Yes."

"The readers loved it. And the footage we got today – people will eat it up."

Right here in my arms, she is changing from a pliant, love-struck girl into a hard and calculating professional woman.

She deepens her voice to imitate me. "'I never thought this airfield was so beautiful.' What a fantastic line!"

I could use another great line, but can't think of anything. Ket picks up the slack.

"We have excellent connections with the Propaganda Ministry, Dytran. We can arrange for you to come home on a good-will tour. And after that – "

A lightning flash goes off in my mind. I can see a way out of this hell hole and onto the bright highland of true service to our nation.

"I'll do it, and then I want fighters."

"Fighters?" Ket's voice has become small again.

"Yes. We were promised fighter training if we did well in this assignment. I think we've all proved ourselves."

"You want to come back here as a _fighter_ pilot?"

"No, not here. A home defense squadron, protecting the Fatherland from air raids."

"I... uh..."

"Come on, Ket. People will 'eat it up,' won't they?"

She draws back a little. "Yes, I believe they would."

"Then you'll help me?"

A knocking comes at the door.

"Sorry Ket," a muffled voice says, "we have to get going."

"Just a minute, please." She glides from my arms and straightens her clothing. "Very well, Dytran. I'll see what we can do."

"Thanks, Ket. You're the most incredible woman I've ever known."

Her smile lights up the darkened surroundings.

"What a sweet thing to say, Dytran." She gives me a final peck on the lips. "Hold that thought until we meet again."

She opens the door just wide enough to slip through, then closes it again.

37. Reports

Again I am shell shocked by Ket's abrupt departure, as I was after the showing of _Youth Answers the Call!_ Her way of making an exit cannot help but impress. It leaves a vacuum behind.

I am alone in the semi-darkness with the cameras and other equipment. I get the strange impression I'm inside a weapons cache. In a way, these thing are weapons – coercing people psychologically, rather than through brute force. The door opens wide, admitting late afternoon daylight and a male face.

"Sorry, Commander," the guy says, "time to go."

I like the sound of "Commander," there is genuine respect behind it. I exit the van into a lesser reality. Moving from a Ket space into the outside world is even more jarring than leaving my airplane for solid ground.

Guys throw equipment into the van. I see nothing of Ket, just a News Service car driving toward the main gate. Is Ket looking back at me, or is she already absorbed with the latest calculations to advance her career?

Bel's voice intrudes. "What happened, Dye?"

I turn toward him. He's got hands on hips and a smirk on his face. How long has he been standing there?

"I got shot down, that's what."

"Oh?" His eyes widen with mock surprise. "I thought she was happy to see you."

My face reddens. "Dammit, Bel, why don't you learn to mind your own business?"

He laughs. "So, you meant shot down by the _enemy fighter_ – the lesser of two evils, don't you think?"

"That's very clever. You should try getting downed yourself sometime."

"Not on my agenda, sorry." Bel takes my arm and walks with me. "You know, everybody else believed you'd bought it, but something told me you were all right."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, it was the strangest feeling. 'You just wait,' I told the others, 'Dye's humping his way back to us right now.'"

I give him a doubtful look.

"Go ask anybody. They'll tell you."

It's impossible to read Bel's intent. Is he being sincere, sarcastic, affectionate, hostile? Probably a mixture of them all. Everything between us has always been a mixture.

"Thanks for your confidence," I say.

"Sure thing. They can't kill us off so easily." Bel's lighthearted manner tones down. "Too bad about the courier. He seemed a decent sort."

I stiffen.

"Something wrong?" Bel asks.

"Just some aftershock."

Bel nods sympathetically. We walk in silence toward the HQ building. Yes, the courier was "a decent sort," but the message dangling from his wrist like a poisonous snake certainly wasn't.

I feel a strong urge to talk about it. Bel's reaction cannot be predicted, though. I'm certain he would not report my treasonous act of reading the message, but what would he think of its contents? He might not be upset at all; he might even approve of the extermination order. I don't want to find out.

We reach the HQ building.

"I'll just leave you here," Bel says. "Hot food and a shower will be waiting for you."

"Thanks, Bel."

* * *

My report to the wing commander does not take long. I locate the suspected partisan lair as accurately as I can on the reconnaissance photos and offer to accompany a raid against it – provided it is not conducted by the _Death Storm_ anti-partisan unit.

"And why this exception?" the wing commander asks.

"I disagreed with some of their methods, sir. Their captain indicated it would be unwise for me to encounter them again. I have no reason to doubt that."

The wing commander lets the matter drop, thankfully. He indicates ZOD on the recon photo he is holding. "Can you tell me anything more about this 'camouflaged entryway' you saw?"

"No sir, only that I've caught glimpses of it from the air as well. None of my other pilots can verify the sighting, however."

"There's no indication of it in this photo," the wing commander says, "nor in any of the others."

"Yes sir, but I am certain it exists all the same."

He nods – rather unconvinced, in my opinion. "And what's your interest in this?"

"My brother, sir. I believe this partisan group was responsible for his murder."

The wing commander's brow furrows. Again, the weary look comes over him.

"It's not my place to set conditions," I say, "but it would be best if I accompanied the raid. From all indications, I am the only one who can find the entrance."

"Very well, I'll pass your information on."

A tremendous racket thunders through the closed door – shouts, whoops, gunfire. Are we under attack? The phone jangles, and the wing commander snatches it up.

"That'll be all, Dytran."

"Yes, sir."

I salute and leave the office.

In the hallway extreme agitation reigns, and outside the HQ building is pandemonium. Everyone not presently flying seems to be converging on the parade ground, yelling, cheering, and firing guns into the air. Men tumble on the ground in playful wrestling matches.

A man runs past me, heading toward the mayhem. I grab his sleeve. "What's going on?"

"The second front, boy! It's finally started!"

He breaks away and runs to join the others.

"We're going home!" somebody yells.

Others take up the chant: "WE'RE GOING HOME – HEY HEY! WE'RE GOING HOME!"

Every fiber of my being wants to believe this, but I've covered such hysterical ground before – at the victory rally. Where has it gotten me? If the news is true, it will keep. I walk off toward the barracks.

38. Becalmed

The reports are true, no inflated rumors this time. Full scale war is raging on the distant borders of the slobe empire. Their eastern enemies have taken their measure and are looking to settle old disputes.

Our world becomes eerily quiet during the next week as both sides suspend military operations. The front is a ship becalmed; even the partisan attacks cease. Best of all, the bombing raids on the Homeland have stopped.

Many civilians have died in these raids, including Sipren's mother and little sister. They perished during a horrific fire bombing which erased their entire city. And this only one day before the de facto truce started. The enemy wanted to send us a final message.

Sipren is a white crow himself now, quiet and distant. He, too, has aged ten years very quickly. The rest of us offer what sympathy we can, while being inwardly relieved our own families have been spared.

We fly only occasional reconnaissance missions now, with observers in our rear cockpits snapping photos. Their reports confirm a rosy scenario – the enemy is pulling back.

High-winged monoplanes are preferred for this work, but they are in short supply. Our technique is to go into a steep bank so as to get the wing out of the way. While this is amusing for us, the observers are unappreciative.

A radio message arrives from Ket:

We're working on it. Will let you know soon.

Hope flares in my breast. Is it really possible I will see her again?

Peace negotiations must be taking place, everyone reasons. The slobes can't handle major wars on two widely separated fronts, and they'll want a quick settlement with us. Sure, we'll probably have to give back much of the land we've conquered, but so what? We're going home!

Discipline on the base relaxes. Officers walk with a new bounce in their step, their customary scowls brighten. Uniforms have less formality now – caps askew, ties loosened. An armored infantry unit parks their vehicles on one end of our base while its men go off on R&R.

About the only military operation during these quiet days involved the Death Storm commando. Without waiting for army backup, they tore off to liquidate the partisan band I'd reported. They would have had trouble convincing higher command to assign troops for the raid, anyhow. Everyone, from the top leadership to the lowliest rifleman, has 'second-front fever.' Any excuse to avoid combat is good enough.

Besides, they must have considered the guerillas to be only a small bandit group operating outside the well-organized partisan effort. Underestimating the slobes is a flaw in our national character. The enemy ambushed the commando and inflicted heavy casualties. To my discredit, perhaps, I hope the one called "Eagle-eye" is among the slain.

In return, our men killed some partisans, but none of the enemy casualties fit the leader's description. I saw the official account, as the wing commander obtained it for me somehow. In the thick of the fighting, the partisans simply "vanished," the report said. I know where they went, though.

That beast of a partisan leader still walks the earth, and my opportunity to settle accounts with him is slipping away. How can I face Mama, while knowing Stilikan's remains will lay in their urn forever unavenged?

On one level, I know my desire for retribution to be futile, self-destructive even. In this roiling cesspool of violence, what is one more occurrence of inhumanity? Just let it go.

But I can't let it go. The world, _my_ world, is out of balance and needs to be set right, whatever the cost.

* * *

Beltran is the naysayer among us. He will have none of the optimism that infects everyone else. True to form, he chooses a moment when we are all in a particularly good mood – kicked back in our chairs relaxing on the barracks porch – to express his misgivings.

Or maybe we aren't so jolly. With the strain of constant flying removed from us, the old knives are coming out.

Bel pulls his nose out of his book on racial theory and asks no one in particular: "Do you _really_ think we'll get off so easy?"

A pause, then I take the bait. I'm sitting next to him, after all. "It makes sense the slobes will have to make peace with us. They can't handle full scale wars on two fronts."

"Sure, they'll have to make peace, eventually," Bel says, "but what's the big rush?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Look at the map, Dye. They can afford to lose a lot of territory in the East before they have to transfer their main forces there."

The front feet of Katella's chair bang down onto the wooden planks. "What's your point, Bel?"

"The point is, they'll want to improve their negotiating position. Before they talk serious peace, they'll hit us with everything they've got." Bel smacks a fist into his palm hard enough to make me flinch. "If we had any sense, we'd strike first!"

Katella waves a dismissive hand. "We can always count on you to look on the bright side, Bel. I think you were born with a thundercloud over your cradle."

The rest of us shift uncomfortably. Bel is an orphan, illegitimate most likely, and jokes about his birth seem out of place.

"Whatever," Bel says. "But we need to think about getting out of this mess once the fireworks start."

"What fireworks?" Katella snaps. "Reconnaissance shows the enemy pulling out."

"Believe that if you want, but I say it's all deception. You never were too bright, Katella, judging by that girlfriend you picked."

Now the line has definitely been crossed. Katella is on his feet.

"Maybe it's time we settled our unfinished business," he says.

Bel remains seated, chair leaned against the wall. He looks up at Katella innocently. "What's that?"

"I think you know."

"Oh, yes," Bel says. "You were going to 'kick my ass,' as I recall."

Katella moves in, fists clenched.

"Here's a man with serious intentions," Bel taunts. "Can I get out of my chair, or are you going to sucker punch me first? Maybe you could actually win that way."

I watch, fascinated, along with everybody else. Which one would triumph in such an evenly matched battle? After so much enforced inactivity, this is a chance to see some real violence!

Katella steps back. "All right, stand up."

Bel drops his chair to all four legs and begins to rise. We gape at the spectacle like a row of baboons. An electric thrill runs through us. Then I come to my senses.

"Knock it off!" I stand and thrust myself between the combatants. "Save it for the enemy!"

The two glower at each other. Katella with hot anger and Bel with a cold, empty stare that chills me to the core.

"Quit yanking his chain!" I scold Katella. "He's entitled to his opinion."

Katella starts to reply, then clamps his mouth shut. I turn toward Beltran.

"And cut the 'stupid' comments, already. Katella's as smart as any of us."

"Yes... _Commander_."

The standoff continues a bit longer. Katella disengages first.

"Very well, Dytran," he says. "Excuse me if I go inside. The air out here isn't too good."

He stomps into the barracks and smacks the screen door closed behind him. The rest of us resume our seats.

"You know, he's right," Bel says. "The air is a lot better now."

Nobody laughs.

"Come on, Bel," I say. "Let's just hang together a while longer. This will all be over soon."

"You, too, huh? Buying into the sugarplum vision."

Bel returns to his racial theory book, a little smirk creasing his face. Before long, the others find excuses to get out of their chairs and head inside, leaving the two of us in sole possession of the porch.

I feel suddenly exhausted, as if all the woes of the universe are pressing down on me. I am sick of being out here at the ass end of the world, and I'm tired of breaking up fights. I don't want to lead anybody or be some cinema hero. I want to be home again... with Gyn.

She is warm and beautiful, and she sees things clear, as I am finally starting to. Long ago she perceived the downward path we are on – beginning with the National Salvation Party and its fantastic, hate-filled philosophy which bears no relation to the real world. The crimes against the slobes, the unwinnable war, the "Master Race" getting its head handed to it on a platter.

All of this leading to Stilikan's death and vast numbers of others. I've grown to hate the Party with its legion of parasites bloodsucking our people.

And who is the Party, really? Aren't we all taught the Party is the Magleiter and the Magleiter is the nation? But I simply can't believe he's to blame for the mess we are in. Any time the thought tries to enter my mind it is blocked by an image of the Great Leader's hypnotic eyes boring into me, keeping him above all reproach... like God.

Why am I feeling like this? A few minutes ago everything was fine. It's Bel's fault – him and his gloomy predictions. I wish Katella had shut him up.

No, that's just an evasion. I actually share Bel's misgivings, but his brutal frankness has destroyed the hope that lived alongside my doubts. Like everyone else, I yearn to believe in a favorable outcome, but where has such groupthink brought us? Groupthink has made our nation stupid.

I look toward Bel next to me. He is such an admirable person in so many ways – intelligent, brave, honorable, and highly competent. The best pilot in our squadron. But there is something unsettling about him, as if a crucial element of his character is missing. I wonder what he'd be like if he'd been raised by a normal family instead of in a State institution with its constant drumbeat of hate and paranoia.

Not that there wasn't plenty of that in the Youth League, but I had Mama to keep me from going too far off the deep end. She and Stilikan presented a family bond stronger than any external force.

Bel turns my direction and says something so unexpected I can scarcely reply.

"You'd best give me all the fancy cigarettes you've got."

"W-why? Did you take up smoking?"

Bel shakes his head. "The less you know the better, for now. How many do you have left?"

"Oh, about five cartons."

"Good. I'll need whatever else you've got, too – anything that girlfriend of yours might have dropped off."

I think of the can of real coffee Ket left for me, and the box of chocolate bars. They are still waiting, unopened, in my locker. I've thought of breaking them out when our orders to return home arrive.

"What's this about?" I say.

"Athens and Sparta. I said you could count on me, so why don't you shut up and give me your stash? ... sir."

His gaze brooks no argument. Later that day, outside the view of the rest, I hand over my treasures. I'm giving Bel a lot more than just material things, I suspect.

39. Creature in the Forest

An uneasy calm maintains itself in our group, while underneath the bad blood simmers. We emerge into another day.

Why is Katella always spoiling for a fight with Beltran? It must be clear by now I've long since made peace with Bel and do not hold the slobe diving incident against him, but Katella can't let it go. He's always had something against Bel, in a quiet, sullen way. His attitude has hardened since the slobe dive. Is he jealous; does he feel left out, somehow?

I need to get out of here, go home and resume my life without these guys. Above all, I'm tired of hanging around the barracks and want to get into the air. Then the thought of a courier flight comes to mind, and I settle down quick. Boredom is far preferable to another death mission.

My thoughts soon return to the sky, though. Flying is my great infatuation. It's like every thrill imaginable wrapped up with the most fabulous girl in existence. Ket. What could entice me to give it up? Would I forego true love for the sky, or would I choose my special lady and remain earth bound?

I am what I am, and that includes being a pilot. Why torment myself with false choices? Anyone asking me to give up flying could never be my true love.

Bel approaches with a mysterious proposal. "Meet me outside. I want to show you something."

He leaves the barracks by himself. Shortly afterwards, I grab my jacket and follow. Autumn chill is in the air. The trees are turning magnificent golds and reds. The scent of fallen leaves wafts from the nearby woods. For an instant, I imagine myself back home.

_No, Dytran, you're still in this lousy place_.

I discern Bel standing some distance off gazing at the runway, just as he did this past spring at our home base before the air raid began. I walk to him.

"What's all the mystery about?" I ask,

By way of answer, Bel turns and walks briskly. I follow alongside. All right, if he doesn't feel like talking, that's fine with me.

We reach the far end of the base, where the vehicles of the motorized infantry unit are parked. The men haven't returned from their leave yet. Their trucks, halftracks, and armored cars stand in neat rows as if their drivers have just stepped out for brunch at some tea room.

"Bunch of clowns," Bel mutters. "They don't want to admit there's still a war on."

It is an unprofessional display, a sad testimony to our lack of dedication. But who am I to criticize? I've had a bellyful of this war, like everybody else. A lone sentry stands guard over the vehicles. He and Bel exchange nods. Then Bel turns sharply and heads for a stand of trees.

"Would you tell me what's going on already?"

"Sure," Bel says.

He quickens his pace and enters the little wood. I follow, unenlightened, in his wake. My ignorance doesn't last long.

"There it is," Bel says, "our ticket out of here."

He indicates an armored personnel carrier parked under the trees as innocently as a family sedan at a picnic ground.

"W-what the hell are you talking about?"

"The enemy offensive," Bel says. "When it gets rolling, we'd better look to our own escape. Nobody else will."

To say I am caught off guard would be a rank understatement. I couldn't be more astonished if my own dear Papa returned to life and stood beneath the colorful trees.

I approach the APC cautiously, as if it is some terrible alien god emerged from the nether regions. It is as large as the one used by the commandos, enough for a dozen occupants, but this is a half track design with tank-like treads and conventional wheels in front. I lay my hand upon it, half expecting the machine to disappear like a mirage, but it remains before me, cold and lethal.

"But... you can't just take off with this thing," I say.

"Why not? I've learned how to drive it while the rest of you were sitting around reading letters."

"That's theft of government property."

Bel gives a caustic laugh and gestures toward the vehicles parked outside the copse. "A lot of 'government property' is going to get blown sky high pretty soon. If we're lucky, the enemy won't spot this one."

"But – "

"Face it, Dytran, we're a non-priority. When the fighting begins, we're on our own."

"That's not true, I'm..."

I almost said _"I'm a hero back home,"_ but the absurdity of it sticks in my throat.

"It _is_ true," Beltran says. "Nobody gives a damn about us. We're not regular military."

Now that I'm over my amazement a little, I have to admit Bel is talking sense. I am not ready to give up my objections, though.

"What about that sentry out there?" I say.

"The relevant people have been paid off."

"With my stash?"

"Yeah, and with my allowance, which I've been saving for years." Bel takes an aggressive step forward. "Look at me; I'm no pretty boy. What did I have to spend money on, huh?"

I wipe a hand over my face. It seems unnaturally cold.

"Well, there it is." Bel moves back a step. "You've got two choices – either go along with it or turn me in."

I don't reply.

"Three choices, actually," Bel says. "You can just ignore the whole arrangement, but I doubt you'll want to do that once the shooting starts."

"You know I wouldn't turn you in."

Bel cocks an eyebrow. "All right then, let's head back."

He leads the way out of the copse, and we walk in silence. Bel's plan is incredible, paranoiac, but it also makes a lot of sense. One thing about Beltran, he doesn't trifle with you. In all the time I've known him, he's never said or done anything frivolous.

We are most of the way back to the barracks when Bel speaks. "Tonight, after supper, I'm going to start a row with Katella."

"What the hell for?"

Bel waits for me to calm down, like an adult with a petulant child. "Because I need an excuse to leave the barracks. I should stay near our transport."

"Well, in that case." I fling up my arms. "Far be it from me to object."

"Just listen, please. I'm serious."

"All right, go ahead."

"You break up the fight before it goes too far," Bel says. "I'll act all offended and storm out with my blankets."

"You're going to live out there in the woods?"

"Not for long. The disaster is coming, Dytran, can't you feel it?" He pauses and looks down at our feet. "It's like an electric current running through the ground."

I don't want to accept this idea, but, by heaven, there does seem to be a vibration under our feet.

"When the hell breaks loose, your job is to get the others to the transport," Bel says. "I'll handle the rest."

* * *

That evening, as we sit around the barracks digesting our supper, Bel shoots me a meaningful glance. I understand what he wants. I get off my cot and saunter into the lavatory.

I stand before my favorite sink examining my face in the mirror. Funny how you stake out 'favorite' things, even in a lowly barracks – favorite sink, window, spot to leave your boots. It's just a way of keeping sane.

My face looks dry and pale, but at least the pimples that bothered me occasionally during the summer have not recurred. I turn my head from side to side. Which profile looks best? Left, I think, but Ket prefers to photograph me from the right.

Ket... if only she were here. Or, better still, if I could go where she is. Memories of our last encounter flood back in an erotic rush. I'm in the darkened van with her again.

" _Take me!" she cries._

I tear off her clothes, and she yanks me out of my flight suit with one sweeping motion . . .

Wafted away by sexual fantasy, I'm unpleasantly surprised when the sounds of violence intrude. The fight must be on. I take another moment to preen my hair, then walk to the door.

In the bunk room, a battle royal is going on. Bel and Katella grapple on the floor, punching and tearing. Neither one seems to have an advantage. The others cheer them on, except for Albers who stands aloof from the action.

"Break it up!" I stride across the room. "Help me you guys!"

The others join the break-up effort. Soon we have the combatants separated, but they both continue to struggle and curse. Bel flings off his restrainers long enough to throw a wild, looping punch. It doesn't reach Katella because my face is in the way. The blow catches me square on the cheekbone.

"Ugh!"

Bright lights explode in my head. I stumble back and sit down hard on a cot. Everyone gapes at me, stunned, including Bel. All becomes silence as I nurse my injured cheek. Then Bel wrenches himself away from the group and rages across the room to his own space.

"To hell with you guys! I'm out of here!"

He flings a duffle on his cot and stuffs in some items from his locker. Then he tears the blankets off his bed. With these things in hand, he stomps out the door into the darkness.

"Are you all right, Dye?" It's Katella speaking.

"Uh... yes, I think."

I dab at my injury. The face I'd been admiring in the mirror is going to have a nasty bruise.

"Should we report him to the wing commander?" Albers asks.

"No, just let him go. It's obvious he didn't intend to strike me."

Actually, I'm not sure that's true.

"I hate that son of a bitch!" Katella snarls.

"Why?"

"Because he exists on the same planet as me."

40. A New Direction

True to his plan, Bel does not return that night. I think of him out there nestled against the cold steel of the APC or lying on the ground with dry leaves for a mattress. Autumn is closing in with colder nights. I do not envy his bravado.

I thought it would be a relief to get rid of him for a while, but I miss his surly presence in the next cot. His glowing pen light had been reassuring in the darkness. He is similar to a low-grade headache which you've gotten accustomed to. I have difficulty sleeping that first night.

Bel is just being an alarmist, though. It won't be long before he returns to the barracks, his scatter-brained plan forgotten. At least, that's what I tell myself. In the back of my mind gnaws the suspicion he could be right.

My apprehension grows throughout the next day, making me edgy and curt. My bruised cheek aches. Anyone who dares speak to me is at risk of getting snapped at.

Nobody says a word about Bel, as if they've guessed there's a method behind his 'spontaneous' act. Beltran isn't the type who does things on the spur of the moment. He's the most controlled person I've ever known, along with Stilikan.

When I walk outside, I feel the electric current throbbing under my feet. Or is it just my overactive mind vibrating? Without Bel to keep me grounded, my imagination is running wild. But isn't _he_ the one who first noticed the current?

Until now, there had always been some rock-solid person available to help me endure times of distress – Stilikan, Bel, Bekar – even the image of Ket leading me through the wilderness. Now I am alone and exposed to all sorts of eerie sensations. Katella is a great friend, but I seem to have outgrown him. He can't offer the support I need.

The fear of impending disaster grows heavier throughout the day, perching on my shoulder like a vulture grown fat on carrion. Around me, the base carries on as before, relaxed and content. Nobody seems to share my foreboding. Are they wiser than me, or are they deluded?

Late afternoon, a message arrives from Ket. I happen to be moping around HQ when it comes in. I am handed the transcript.

Dytran – all is arranged. Orders coming soon.

The band of tension crushing my skull relaxes, and the vulture flies away. The ominous vibrations under my feet abruptly stop. The ground is soft and peaceful now, like a feather bed. I drift across it toward the barracks, strutting proud and strong through the glorious day. Where is that movie camera when I need it?

When I get to the barracks, the lads are lounging on their bunks whiling away the time before dinner, except for Katella who is just slipping into a fresh pair of trousers. Everyone flinches as I enter the door. They must be wondering who will be the target of my foul mood this time.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen!" I say with a heartiness that surprises even me.

The lads exchange confused glances.

"What happened, Dye?" Katella says. "Did you whiff some laughing gas?"

"Nothing of the sort. I'm just delighted to see your smiling faces."

Everyone chuckles.

"In that case," Katella says, "let me drop my pants again so you can see my smiling rear end."

"I'll forgo that pleasure, thanks," I say, popping open my locker door.

The interior stares back accusingly. Why did I give Bel my chocolate and coffee? This would be the perfect evening to break them out, have a celebration. Then again, are _all_ of us going home for the goodwill tour?

Maybe the orders concern only me. The radio message is vague on that point. I'm fairly confident Ket wants all of us to go, but maybe not. And even if she does, will she be able to arrange it? The Propaganda Ministry has the final say.

Why am I always beating myself up? Ninety nine percent of the things I worry about never come to pass. One thing is certain, though – if I remain in the barracks much longer, I'll spill the beans for sure. It's not yet time to share the joyous news.

So, instead of hanging up my jacket, I close the locker door with authority. "Think I'll get some more fresh air. See you guys later."

* * *

This night is far more restless than the one before. The strain of keeping my mouth shut is wearing me out. I want to flick on the lights, jump atop my bunk and yell, "We're going home!"

I want to traipse over to HQ and camp by the radio so as to receive our orders the moment they arrive. They'll come tomorrow, right? They have to come tomorrow!

And if this anxiety isn't enough, nonstop thoughts of Ket torment me. I can see her face hovering above mine in the darkness, feel her passionate breath, inhale her subtle, maddening perfume. Ket has her mind fixed on one thing, and she's determined to get it. How will I handle that situation?

Sure, we all talk big, but none of us have 'gone the distance.' We're just novices in the romance field. Katella tried to consummate things with his girlfriend before leaving home, but she shoved her left hand into his face and said, "No ring, no fling."

Well, Ket is ready for a fling. Her incredible sexuality is a time bomb, primed to go off the moment she sees me. Will it be too overwhelming? And what about Gyn? How can I possibly square things with her?

Here I am, beating myself up again. We are nowhere near home, and I'm already embroiling myself in girl trouble. Besides, maybe Ket has changed her mind by now, perhaps another suitor has caught her interest. Then we could be just friends, sort of business associates. That would be for the best, wouldn't it?

No it wouldn't!

I toss the blankets aside. The sheets are hot and damp. Sleep won't be coming tonight, so I may as well get up. I dress quickly, making minimum noise. Only once, when I bang my locker door too hard, does anybody stir in their cot. As a rule, we Raptor Aces are very sound sleepers.

A realization strikes me halfway through buttoning my shirt. I'm starting to think of us as a unit again. Is the deep estrangement finally easing, will we rediscover our old affection for each other? Well... I'll just have to see about that.

Two cigarettes remain from my once hefty stash. I fumble them out of my nightstand drawer, along with a pack of matches, and head outside.

Dawn can't be far off. Soon it will be time for the birds to begin their cacophony, though perhaps many of them have already migrated and the noise won't be too bad.

I walk a short distance from the barracks and light up a cigarette. Smoke curls against a backdrop of glowing stars. I've never seen such a starry sky before – it's brilliant, crystalline, a heavenly host gazing down at our poor human affairs.

People say they 'feel small' under such a sky, but I don't feel diminished. In all the universe's vastness, there is nothing quite like me. The stars cast their light upon a unique work of creation. Besides, the sky is my true home. I am not really one of the earthbound.

Time drifts. I finish my cigarette and light up the second one. A bitter note enters my musings – Stilikan. I'll be leaving this area soon, and I've not been able to avenge his murder.

I should have sucked it up and gone with the Death Storm commando on the partisan hunt – told them something, anything, to get into their good graces long enough to achieve my aim. But no, I had to put restrictions on my involvement. Where did I think I was, a church picnic?

I fling down the cigarette butt and grind it under my heel. My mood has turned savage. Even the sky appears to share my anger, judging by the fierce red sunrise glowing in the east.

Hold on . . . that's no sunrise flickering on the horizon. It's the herald of a gigantic artillery barrage.

I observe, fascinated, as the display unfolds. It's far more spectacular than all the heavenly glory shining above. I can hear the muffled thunder of the guns now, and the current of war throbs beneath my feet.

The horizon flames like the end of the world approaching. Chaos reaches out to embrace me. The experience is terrifying, sublime. Then a sound intrudes, also from the east – the rumble of massed aircraft engines.

I snap out of my reverie and run into the barracks.

"Air raid!"

41. The Storm Breaks Loose

Bedlam, fear, the thuds of bodies tumbling off cots.

"What the hell?" someone cries.

"Form up, on the double!" I yell over the mayhem.

Somebody lurches toward the main light switch.

"Don't touch that!"

Too late. I hear the click of the switch. The fool is going to make us a perfect target.

But all remains dark, swirling confusion. Penlight beams pierce the blackness, lockers clang. I wrench the telephone from its hook, totally dead. We've been cut off – partisans!

Figures move toward the door, clutching boots and clothing. I slam the receiver down hard enough to nearly rip the phone unit off the wall.

"Wait here, and turn off those damned lights!"

I grope to my locker and pull out the automatic pistol. It feels cold and impotent in my hand. If partisans or enemy troops are in the area, this gun will be poor defense. I make my way to the huddled mass at the doorway.

"All right, let's go to the shelter."

They start to jam their way out en masse. I imagine an enemy machine gunner outside aiming at the door.

"One at a time. Keep low."

My voice sounds firm and strong, commanding instant obedience. I experience a brief thrill of authority, but this is quickly overshadowed by apprehension. I follow my boys outside, crouching low, ready to hit the dirt any moment. Thank God, nobody is waiting for us.

The horizon flames with increasing violence, and the roar of approaching aircraft is louder. Toward the periphery of the base, numerous small fires are burning. Partisans must have lit them to guide the bombers in. I move to the head of the procession.

"Give me a light."

Somebody thrusts a penlight into my hand. We move into the wooded area where the air raid shelter is concealed.

"Wait here."

I walk toward the shelter alone, trying to keep as silent as possible, grateful for the rising noise level to cover my approach. I'm almost there now, eyes fixed on the dark entrance. A single partisan hidden inside with a submachine gun could kill us all without working up a sweat.

I spread myself flat on the ground and crawl the last few meters, straining my eyes and ears for any sign of the enemy. The entrance gapes at me like the maw of a subterranean beast. I fling a stone at it – no reaction. I flick on the penlight and toss it aside, nothing. Either no enemy lurks within, or else he's too shrewd to fall for my amateurish diversions.

The roar of bomber engines is much louder now, sirens begin to wail. Soon we'll be blown to bits if we don't get under cover. Urged on by this idea, I retrieve the penlight and shine it into the depths of the shelter. A pair of eyes glistens back at me.

"Ah!"

I jerk the pistol trigger several times, but no shot fires. I've forgotten to chamber a round. Whatever night animal that owns those eyes does not wait for me to correct my error. It takes off, brushing past me on its headlong flight. I roll away onto another hissing, scrambling creature of some kind.

"Ugh!"

Then I'm on my feet. "Come on!"

The lads rush toward me. There is just enough light now to make out their wide and fearful eyes. We clamber into the shelter and hunker down. The place is big enough for a dozen occupants, so we have plenty of room to sprawl out if it is to serve us as a grave.

The bombers arrive with their hellish cargo.

Who knows how long the raid lasts? My squadron leader's watch I'd been so proud of lies on my nightstand waiting to get blown to smithereens. Uncounted time passes while the bombs dance above us.

Most of them are dropping a fair distance off – hitting the main base facilities, tearing up the runways, demolishing the hangars and the parked aircraft. I can't see what's happening, but my experience from the first bombing raid provides me a general account.

The explosions draw closer. A catastrophic blast sends a torrent of dirt and concrete fragments showering on us from the ceiling. My head seems about to explode from the concussion.

"There go the barracks," somebody says.

I flick on my penlight; the beam cannot penetrate the choking dust. We are all coughing. Then another bomb goes off nearby, and half the ceiling caves in. Screams, sobs, voices calling out for their mothers. I want to scream along but manage to control myself somehow.

Be brave, Dytran. You're their leader!

More explosions rock our shelter, more ceiling comes down upon our heads. I'm torn between hugging the ground and rushing outside. The fear of being buried alive nearly trumps the terror of being exposed to the blasts . . .

Then the war gods move off, leaving us shattered in their wake.

"Help, I can't move," somebody moans.

Voiceless terror fills the shelter.

"Everyone stay calm," I say. "We'll dig you out."

I'm not certain I don't need digging out myself. Somebody is pressed against me – Katella.

"Come on," I say.

Forcing a path through the dirt and rubble, we make our way out of the shelter and stretch ourselves out along the ground like disinterred corpses. The open air revives us, although it's polluted with smoke and death.

"You all right?"

Katella nods. A choked "Yes," exits his mouth.

I can scarcely hear it through the ringing in my ears.

"Let's get the others out."

We slither back into the ruined shelter and dig with our bare hands, pulling out chunks of earth and concrete. From the far side of the cave in, other hands do the same. We break through to our trapped comrades.

Albers, thinnest of the lot, is the first one we pull through the tunnel, followed by Grushon and Sipren. All of them are battered and shaken but free of major injuries.

We exit the bomb shelter tomb into a fresh nightmare. Dawn is in full swing, its light augmented by numerous fires. What's left of our barracks flames nearby. A bomb crater occupies most of its former location. Through it all, the siren continues to wail.

No bird song disturbs the ambiance. Small arms fire crackles around the base. Invaders must be swarming everywhere. A group of them creeps toward us.

"Partisans!"

I cock my pathetic little pistol. It's all that stands between us and the advancing enemy. I count six of them, all heavily armed. For the first time, I remember Bel.

"We have to get to the far end of the base. Bel's got an APC for us."

Under different circumstances, the amazement on Katella's face might be comical.

"Follow me," I say.

I move though tall grass toward the trees on our right. If we can avoid detection, we might be able to...

Harsh shouts in the slobe language. We are spotted. A partisan opens up with his submachine gun. We all hit the dirt. The enemy is walking toward our hiding place, crouching low, guns at the ready. Escape is no longer possible amid the increasing light.

Albers whimpers at my side. "We need to surrender."

"Shut up!" Katella snarls.

Albers begins to stand. Fool! Those scoundrels don't take prisoners. I prepare to leap up, gun blazing. Can I get one before they cut me to pieces?

A blast of heavy machine gun fire settles the issue. Partisans tumble like human bowling pins, their cries brief and horrific. A voice calls from the trees.

"Get over here!"

It's Bel. We run toward him.

42. Rescue

Bel glowers down at us from behind the armored personnel carrier's machine gun.

"Somebody take over this position," he commands. "The rest get in and keep low."

We hurl ourselves up the side of the roofless vehicle. Nobody bothers trying to open the rear doors. Bel watches us scramble, the very image of confidence perched atop his armored steed. He knows he was right and all of us were wrong.

My emotions are a seething cauldron. Moments ago, I was prepared to leap into the arms of eternity, now I'm back among the living. I don't feel at home in my body, as if I'd already left it and am enduring a forced reunion.

I was the undisputed leader then; now I'm just one of the pack. Gratitude wells up in my heart, along with a burst of love for Beltran. But beneath it all, the sour taste of envy resides. I grasp for a shred of power.

"I'll take the gun," I say.

"Go ahead," Bel says.

Is that a smirk creasing his face? He drops into the driver's seat and fires up the engine. The beast roars into life. With a grinding of gears, we lurch forward. Underbrush and trees give way. Soon we are out of the woods and heading for the border of the airbase.

Bel sits almost directly below me. He's got a submachine gun across his lap, and he handles the big steering wheel with authority while gazing out a portal in the armor plate ahead of him.

"Where're we going?" I ask.

"West, like everybody else."

I twist around in the gun turret. Behind me, the lads are sprawled on the floor and benches, heads below the armored gunnels of our rescue ship. Cans of diesel fuel share the space with them along with some knapsacks. Two more submachine guns dangle from the metal walls.

"Hang on to those knapsacks, in case we have to get out quick," Bel says over the engine racket. "Don't shoot yourselves with those machine pistols."

Katella hands me a knapsack. It's surprisingly heavy. As I shoulder it on, hand grenades press against my back. Where did Bel get all this stuff?

A more important question, how do I operate this machine gun? My only experience came in a training film we'd seen back home, flashed through the same projector that showed _Youth Answers the Call!_ What fun it had seemed – just pull the trigger and blast the hell out of everything. I try to remember the correct procedures from the movie.

"You know how to work that thing, Eagle-eye?" Bel calls up to me.

"Y-yes..."

"Shoot anything that moves. They won't be our guys."

A diabolical racket fills the world – explosions rock the airbase, gunfire rattles an accompaniment. The siren abruptly halts, like a choked scream. We're approaching one of the auxiliary gates. Shadowy figures move about the guard shack.

"Shoot!" Bel commands.

My hands remain frozen.

"Shoot!"

The machine gun explodes, throwing shock waves through my body. A mad exultation grips me amid the chaos. Pieces of guard shack fly about, and the figures disappear. Time is suspended.

I stop firing as a training film admonition enters my brain – _Do not overheat the barrel_.

"That's showing them," Bel says.

Something bounces off the APC – grenade!

An explosion. Shrapnel plasters the armor but cannot punch through. Another grenade arches through the air above us. I watch with fascinated horror as my death approaches. Events screech into slow motion.

Katella flings out his arm and bats the grenade. The little bomb tumbles over the far side and goes off, rocking our machine. But it does not stop our progress.

We're at the gate, crunching the barrier under our treads. I spin the machine gun around and fire a parting burst.

* * *

After the chaos at the base, the rest of the morning seems almost placid, but the sounds of war are everywhere. Artillery continues to thunder, and the roar of aircraft fills the sky. We keep to narrow secondary roads which Bel selects from a map spread beside him. Trees often arch over us, providing cover from marauding planes.

There are lots of them, and, judging from the sound of the engines, they are not ours. But the trees and the low-lying clouds provide us some protection. Occasionally, Bel pulls off the road to seek better cover. Progress is slow, and we have no radio to monitor. Our armored island moves along ignorant of the broader situation.

"What about the other armored vehicles?" I ask. "Did any survive?"

Bel shakes his head. "The slobes hit every one."

He doesn't add the phrase, _"like I said they would,"_ but I know it's there just the same.

Unlike the relatively quiet APC used by the commando, this is a clanking half-track with a deep-throated engine. It's meant to haul grenadiers behind a tank assault, and stealth was not a design consideration. If partisans are in the immediate area, they cannot fail to hear us coming. Hopefully, they've committed all their manpower to the assault on the air base and other fixed targets.

Bel picks up my concern. "Sorry about the noise. The motor pool was fresh out of limousines."

I've got my machine gun, though, and that makes all the difference. Until now I've been a helpless victim. The enemy has blown up my train and shot me out of the sky while I've been unable to fight back. I stroke the gun barrel as if it's the flank of a beautiful woman – as if it's Ket.

God, if only our orders had come through sooner! We'd be safe now instead of wandering through this nightmare. My whole being aches for the Homeland and for Ket... and for Gyn.

I'm not being fully truthful, though. A part of me prefers things the way they are. A warrior strain has come to the fore, turning me hard and ruthless. I recall Bekar's startling transformation when he flew his wheelchair fighter plane at the rally.

In any case, there isn't much I can do about the situation. The enemy offensive will unfold without asking my opinion.

Late morning, Bel pulls over and shuts down. The world becomes quieter. Even the artillery booming in the distance seems more subdued. The roaring engine has been rattling my kidneys for hours, and I need to "take a mean piss," as Bekar would put it. But this has to wait a while.

"Keep an eye on things, eh?" Bel says. "We won't be long."

"Sure, Bel."

The others climb out, using the doors this time, and take the submachine guns with them.

"You there, Sipren," Bel says, "top off the fuel tank."

"Yes, sir."

Sipren reaches back inside and grabs a can of diesel. I catch his eyes for an instant, then he looks away.

Everyone heads a short distance into the woods, including Sipren after he's completed his refueling task. Bel conducts a lecture on small arms operation.

"Don't make rocket science out of it," he says, "any idiot can fire one of these."

We've had sharpshooter training before, but that was with precision rifles, not these weapons of wholesale killing. Bel's voice drones on. I catch snippets of his remarks as I scan the area for signs of the enemy.

"Here's the safety... fire short bursts... drop the magazine like this."

I half expect to hear practice rounds being fired, but Bel is too smart to attract unnecessary attention. The lads have to get by with a quick overview.

They exit the forest. Bel hefts a submachine gun, as do Albers and Grushon. Albers seems an odd choice to entrust with a gun. I'd have thought Bel would choose Sipren. Then again, Sipren has not been himself since his family was massacred in the air raid. And, of course, Katella would not receive a weapon.

Beltran clambers aboard alone and approaches my position. "Sorry there aren't enough submachine guns to go around. Here's some ammo for your popgun, though."

He hands me a clip for my automatic pistol. I don't know whether to be grateful or insulted.

"Thanks." I tuck the clip into a pocket.

"I'll handle this while you make a pit stop," Bel says.

"Thanks," I say again.

I step down from the gun position and Bel effortlessly takes my place, as if he's the one who truly belongs there.

As I stand urinating against a tree, I feel oddly humiliated. So, Bel is even deciding when I can take a leak. A paranoid fantasy plays through my mind in which the APC drives off, abandoning me.

But it waits. I climb back behind the machine gun, and we start rolling again.

# Six: Flight

43. At the Bridge

Afternoon arrives as we continue our journey along the back roads.

Albers sits in front beside Bel, navigating from the map. Grushon, flanked by Sipren, rests his back against the rear door, submachine gun at the ready. Katella crowds up next to me.

It's a cozy arrangement, one that leaves no doubt as to who's in charge. And it sure as hell isn't me.

We're all in this together, just get through it.

The situation fills me with unease, though. Bel has pulled off a coup. He and his supporters are armed, while my closest friend isn't. Albers, weakest willed of the lot, has been cleverly won over. Bel has entrusted him with a gun and has granted him the supposed authority of being navigator. Bel doesn't need him in the front seat, though. A sack of potatoes would be a more useful load.

Katella and I exchange glances. He clearly shares my misgivings.

Maybe I'm just being paranoid. How could anybody exist in this nightmare world without being paranoid? And if it wasn't for Bel's 'coup,' I'd be lying back at the airbase riddled with bullets. Still... what would it take for Grushon to shove his gun into my face and tell me what's what?

After all this time, the slobe diving incident still gnaws at me. I'll never forget the look of hatred on Grushon's face when he and the others closed in on me. I've often wondered if Bel would have called them off if Katella hadn't intervened first. I've never dared ask him. I know he wouldn't lie, and the truth might be more than I can handle.

Well, if I don't like the current arrangement, I can always get out and walk. My "pop gun" would be fine defense against the partisans or any regular troops that might appear. And don't forget the hand grenades in my pack. I could always blow myself up when the time comes.

The gloomy woods and overgrown farmlands we traverse promote these thoughts. We are adrift in an alien wasteland. Soon we will have to depart these tributary roads, as we're approaching a river and will need a stout bridge to bear the weight of our APC. I lean down from the gun turret to consult Bel.

"How much father?"

"A few more kilometers."

"Until what?" Albers asks, but we both ignore him.

Shortly afterwards, we make an abrupt turn toward the north. Our period of relative safety is coming to an end. Bel's hands grip the wheel hard, and his jaw tightens.

* * *

We come to the main route and the world changes. Every imaginable type of military vehicle clogs the road – tanks, armored cars, APCs, trucks. Staff cars bearing high-level officers are stuck in the backlog, despite heated threats issuing from their occupants. Everyone is headed west in a nightmare logjam. Worst of all, the sky has cleared, and bright sunlight illuminates the chaotic spectacle. When will the enemy planes show up?

Columns of battered troopers march along the shoulders, some of them hurl mockery at the staff cars.

"What's the matter, Colonel, Piotra break up your tea party? .... Hey, your fancy uniform's wrinkled! .... Thanks for getting us into this mess!"

The officers can only glower back at the insolence. I feel zero sympathy for them. A gigantic catastrophe is unfolding, and people need to get blamed. Why not the pompous fools in the staff cars? Any officer worth his salt would be out trying to control the mayhem, not adding to it. I fantasize about blasting one of the cars with my machine gun.

We force our way into the traffic jam between a tank and a truckload of infantry. The men in the truck curse furiously at us, but Bel ignores their ire.

"Sipren, Albers, go see what you can find out," he orders.

The lads exit and walk off in opposite directions along the road.

Now that Albers is out of the way, I feel a barrier start to come down between Bel and me. It's time for sincere talk.

"Thanks for saving us back there," I say. "We'd all be hash without your help."

"Hey, no problem. I had nothing better to do."

"You sure called things right."

Bel grins, his face brightening our little world. I reach down my hand and he slaps it in boyish salute. For a moment, it seems like old times, but the glow quickly fades. The tank ahead of us revs its engine, sending a miasma of diesel fumes our way.

"God!" Bel says. "How long do we have to put up with that?"

Sipren and Albers return. Their news is not hopeful. Every soldier they've spoken to tells an identical story – total surprise, countless enemy breakthroughs, collapse all along the line. Overwhelming force thrown against us, and no effective resistance anywhere. Piotra is not far behind, but nobody knows exactly where he is.

Enemy assault teams infiltrated past our strong points in the first hours of operations, and their infantry advanced behind. Then came the armored fist. Our brilliant senior officers did not realize the scale of the attack.

"Incompetent cowards," Bel mutters, casting a venomous glace at the nearest staff car. "With leaders like them, no wonder we're getting creamed."

The brigadier general sitting in the back seat keeps his eyes fixed rigidly forward. He must be one of the politician generals, attaining his rank by currying favor with Party big shots. The NSP armband he wears attests to his true allegiance.

I am discouraged by the reports, but hardly surprised. The story of defeat is etched on the face of every man strung out along the road.

We continue to crawl ahead with the steep riverbank plunging down to our right. The bridge is in sight now where the river curves leftwards. Men and machines jostle each other for a place on the span. Overmatched military policemen try to keep order, but their efforts are ignored. All is shouting, cursing, the rumble of engines and distant artillery. Then a new sound intrudes.

"Enemy planes!" somebody shouts.

Silver aircraft hurtle toward us like angels of death, a whole column of them flying low. They open fire with machine guns and cannon. Spent shell casings tumble away, glistening in the sunlight. Rockets streak down at us.

I spin my machine gun around and open fire. Back along the line, others do the same, but their efforts are quickly silenced. Vehicles explode under the rain of shells and rockets, others careen off the road. Men jump for their lives amid a chorus of screams.

Katella yanks at me. "Come on, Dye!"

He throws himself over the edge. I am reluctant to abandon my gun, and I fire another burst at the approaching aircraft. A line of bullets stitches along the column toward me – as happened during the air raid back home. There is a fascination to the spectacle, but I've outgrown my death wish. I jump clear of the APC and hang suspended in mid air. It's a moment of strange perfection.

Then Earth rushes up and I hit it hard, tumbling down the slope amid a cascade of bodies. Above me, our vehicle goes up like a Roman candle. The world does not seem big enough to contain all the noise. Machinegun bullets and cannon shells pepper the dirt around us.

Albers takes a round. His head disappears in a bloody mist, and his torso thuds to the ground at my feet.

I gape, rigid with shock. Then I'm moving again, picking up Albers' submachine gun and grabbing the knapsack out of his dead fingers. Another person seems to be performing these actions, while I observe the horror from afar.

Panicked men scramble down the embankment toward the river, including the brigadier general.

"Hey, puss bag!" a trooper shouts.

He fires his carbine. The general falls onto his back, an amazed expression on his face and a blood spot spreading across his uniform. I freeze. The trooper points his rifle at me, but then he seems to think better of it and moves off. More gunshots ring out, other officers go down.

We are inside a brutal spiral of violence. The vortex is here now but is shifting inexorably toward our Homeland, destroying everything in its wake.

Katella is running alongside me while the slaughter continues on the road above. The roar of heavy guns and exploding rockets is unceasing. Blasted vehicles tumble down the slope, crushing anybody in their path. A wave of panic carries me along...

Finally, I regain some self control. I stop my headlong retreat and glance back up the slope. Bel is there. He's injured and sprawled out on the ground. Sipren is attending to him.

"To hell with them." Katella grabs my elbow. "Let's go!"

I almost start downhill again, but restrain myself. I shove my pistol and extra clip into Katella's hands.

"Take these."

Then I'm moving uphill, past an avalanche of terrified men and tumbling debris. Katella reluctantly follows. As we near the top, a dive bomber hurtles toward the bridge, sirens screaming.

"Get down!"

From my position in the dirt, I swivel my head up to view the attack. The plane releases its bomb and pulls away sharply. The pilot inside me feels the tug of massive G force. The bomb plunges with lethal precision, beautiful in the afternoon sky. I duck my head back down as a monstrous explosion makes the earth heave.

A second dive bomber descends, then a third. They blast the bridge to smithereens. Its carcass crashes into the river below.

The gunfire and explosions stop, and the aircraft buzz away. They'll head back to base now for refueling and rearming where the pilots will congratulate each other for showing those Mag bastards what's what. Then they'll take off on another massacre flight.

Where the hell are our fighters? All shot to hell back at the airbase.

The air is foul with the hissing stench of fire and death. I get to my feet and stride to where Beltran is sprawled out with Sipren examining his ankle. Bel's face is an utter blank, as if he cannot comprehend what has happened. He seems oddly smaller than I remembered.

"Report, medic," I say. "How severe is the injury?"

"It's a bad sprain, sir," Sipren replies, "no broken bones as far as I can tell. His knee took a severe jolt, and he might have a cracked rib."

I glance at the devastated road above. There is no future for us that direction. "Is he all right to move?"

"Damn right I am," Bel says. "Help me up."

His old self reappears, pugnacious and defiant.

"Let's get going," I say. "I know where to ford the river."

"Yes, sir," Sipren says – he's under my command again.

He and Grushon stoop to assist Bel. Grushon's back is toward me, his machine pistol dangling from its strap around his shoulder.

"I'll take this." I deftly relieve Grushon of his weapon before he knows what's about. Then I take his knapsack and pass both items to Katella.

Bel observes my slight of hand with an ironic smile. "Well done, Commander."

I'm in no mood for sarcasm.

"You hump Bel's knapsack," I tell Grushon.

"Yes, sir."

He's under my control again, too.

Bel hands his knapsack to Grushon but retains his submachine gun which dangles around his neck like some lethal necklace.

"Don't shoot yourself with it," I say.

Sipren and Grushon pull Bel to his feet. He places his arms over their shoulders for support. We move downhill.

44. Lost

We are at the tail end of a mad, retreating procession. Ahead of us, men are scrambling across the river as best they can.

Some try to form human chains or concoct safety lines. Many just plunge in and take their chances with the current. The water is frigid, as I well remember from my previous soak. There will be drownings and deaths from hypothermia.

Most of the soldiers have fled the opposite direction – to the far side of the bridge. The river narrows upstream, and crossing might appear easier there. Good. The fewer panicked men we have to deal with, the better.

We make our way downstream toward the fording which I discovered on my last trek through this area. I consider telling the troopers of its location but reluctantly decide against it. Best to keep as far away from them as possible. All discipline has broken down. Those men are no longer soldiers but desperadoes capable of anything. They've already shot numerous officers – why shouldn't we be next?

To them, we're pampered 'pretty boys' dressed in Yuliac uniforms that reek of the NSP, and the NSP is not highly regarded today. Besides, our knapsacks are tempting booty. At very least we could be relieved of them at gun point, if not executed outright.

Katella jabs an elbow into my arm. "Well done back there, Dye!"

I grunt. Katella hefts his submachine gun.

"With this in my hands and you back in charge, I can really kick butt."

"Forget about kicking butts. Let's get ours out of here."

Katella grins. He hands over my pistol and extra clip.

"I won't be needing these any more, Commander."

I shove the items into my jacket pocket.

Katella moves in close and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "That bunch is slowing us down. Why don't the two of us move on ahead?"

I stop walking and use the Stilikan voice, low and ominous. "There'll be no more talk like that, Airman."

Katella lowers his gaze. "Yes, Commander."

Our comrades have fallen some distance behind and are struggling to make their way over tangled roots and underbrush. Yes, it would be a lot more convenient to abandon them... I dismiss the shameful thought.

"What have you got against Bel? He saved our lives back there."

"You wouldn't understand, sir."

"Go bring up the rear. See that nobody jumps us from behind."

"Yes, sir."

Katella moves back, leaving me alone with my turbulent thoughts. I can scarcely absorb the huge disaster that has befallen us. At least, I'm back in charge, however brief this change of fortune might last.

* * *

We arrive at the crossing. It's a lot farther than I thought, difficult to spot from this side of the river. I walk right past it and have to double back. I call a halt.

Grushon and Sipren lower Bel to the ground. He is pale with exhaustion and pain, but has not uttered a word of complaint. I admire his grit. He badly needs rest; we all do. Once we're across this barrier we need to find shelter. A dangerous idea is taking shape in my mind, although I cannot yet admit it to myself.

At least we are adequately provisioned. In addition to grenades and ammo clips, our packs contain combat rations. Again, I experience a pang of anxiety. How did Bel obtain all this stuff? As if the army is going to investigate petty theft in the midst of all this chaos.

"How are you feeling, Bel?" I ask.

A bitter smile crosses his lips. "Never better. How do I look?"

I try to grin, but it doesn't sit well on my face. I lower myself to my haunches beside him.

"There are some farm buildings on the other side of the river. We can hole up for a while until you get your strength back."

Bel nods. "Sounds good, unless the enemy gets there first."

"Well... let's hope otherwise."

I stand and stretch myself. Tortured bones snap back into place. The air is better up here, above the dark pool of resentment surrounding Bel.

"All right, lads," I announce, "twenty minute break. Then we cross this sucker."

We rest in silence. Bel removes a knife from his belt and digs at the ground, as if punishing the earth for his misfortune. Katella and I stand guard, machine pistols in hand.

Then it's time to go.

Katella enters the water first. He is an almost comic figure – naked below the waist, holding his clothes and boots in his arms along with his extra knapsack. His rear end glistens in the late afternoon sun.

"Damn, it's cold!"

"Keep moving!" I yell. "Watch out for the current."

He shuffles on, uttering a sharp cry when the water contacts his groin. Then he's moving with alacrity through the waist-deep turbulence. We all observe him, scarcely breathing, until he slogs out on the far bank. He fairly runs the last few meters.

"All right, you guys are next," I command.

Bel hobbles into the water, flanked by Grushon and Sipren. His assistants yelp at the frigid contact, but he remains stoically quiet. They move on.

I'm alone on this shore now, covering our retreat with my submachine gun. Katella is right, the gun gives you an outsized feeling of power. But what good is power when the enemy has vastly more?

Partisans might be observing me. There could be an enemy battalion concealed in those trees without me knowing it. I glance back toward the river. The trio is halfway across now.

Some distance upstream, a mighty tree has tumbled into the water; a mass of flotsam is tangled in its branches. I wonder how long the tree has been there. Did it fall some time ago, undermined by the current, or did a recent explosion knock it down? I don't remember it from my previous expedition, but fallen trees were the farthest thing from my mind then.

Forget that. Keep a sharp lookout!

I scan the woods with painstaking care, straining my eyeballs for any trace of the enemy. I have never felt so alone in my entire life. Then I look back toward my comrades. They reach the opposite bank, and it's my turn to go.

Nothing has prepared me for the frigid water. It is much worse than when I crossed the last time. The cold autumn nights have left their mark, and who knows where this damnable stream originates? It could be flowing out from a subterranean lair of the dead. The water is an ugly brownish-yellow.

I move quickly, trying to still my chattering teeth. I want to cry out obscenities, but the enemy might be listening. Worst of all, there is no one covering my back. If partisans are on the shore behind me, my friends can't reach them with submachine fire.

Why didn't Bel obtain a sniper rifle? He seems to have remembered everything else.

I'd thought I would have an easy time crossing, but my strength is waning fast. What's wrong with me? A painful cramp is developing in one calf. My knees ache horribly and both feet are numb.

Still, I'm making good progress. I imagine my comrades on the far bank pulling me in like a snagged fish. Just a few steps more, then a few more after that.

Upstream, the fallen tree can no longer contain the mass of flotsam backed up behind it. Its branches release their burden, and it comes my way in a ghastly, rotating mass. Corpses!

I quicken my pace, nearly losing my footing on the sandy bottom. A half dozen bodies are heading right for me like a welcoming committee of the damned. They roll about in the swirling current doing their grotesque dance. Is Albers' headless torso among them?

Don't panic!

I'm practically running now. A corpse brushes against me, almost knocking me over. Its face rolls over in the current and gapes at me, burning a nightmare image into my memory. Then the body swirls away.

One of the corpses gropes at me. The trooper must still be alive! I reach for the extended hand, but the guy rushes past, beyond redemption. The last bit of my sanity follows him downstream.

I lumber along, a mindless savage. Breath gasps in through my mouth. The water is mid-thigh now, then knee deep. Katella sloshes out and escorts me the final distance.

I flop on the shore and cover my face with both hands. My comrades stand around me. I manage a feeble moment of bravado:

"Piece of cake."

* * *

I try to reassemble my shattered dignity as we continue our march. I can't help asking myself how Bel would have handled an encounter with those waterborne corpses. He'd have taken it in stride, I conclude, regarding the bodies as nothing more than wreckage.

But who can say? Anyone can be heroic when he's not in the thick of things. Bel had two comrades with him and another one guarding his back, while I was totally alone.

My mood is foul and defensive. It improves a bit when we reach the devastated farm toward dusk. The last time I passed by here, the farm house was still intact; now it's gutted by fire. The barn is fairly undamaged, though, and we choose to settle there. We climb into the hay to sleep.

Despite his injuries, Bel insists on taking first watch.

45. Found

Bel has started a good recovery by morning. Fortified with nutritious combat rations, his ribs, ankle, and knee solidly bandaged, he looks worlds better. Probably better than me.

My night's rest was tormented by images of the dead trooper bobbing in the water and by Albers' decapitated body lying at my feet. Of all the horrors I've witnessed, his death is the worst.

Three of the original Raptor Aces are now slain – Bezmir, Orpad, Albers – along with the Blue Ice lads. I cannot help wondering who will be next. Bel seems to have insight on my torment. We are the only ones in the barn now, as the others are out prowling the area.

"So, Dytran," he says in a supposedly offhand way, "did you see what happened to Albers?"

"Did you?"

Bel shakes his head and pats his injured knee. "I was too busy with my own problems. I must have blacked out for a while."

I hesitate. The last thing I want is to discuss is Albers, but I know the necessity of getting it out in the open – the same way it was necessary for Bekar to talk about Stilikan's murder.

"He took a round, probably a 30mm cannon shell. There was... nothing left of his head."

Bel turns a shade paler. "Ohhh, that's bad."

The barn is silent for a long moment, then:

"Albers didn't really belong with us," Bel says. "He wasn't tough enough for fighters."

I nod. Although a competent pilot, Albers was too indecisive and meek to handle combat situations. I realize we had all regarded him lightly, sometimes even treating him with borderline contempt. I regret ignoring him back in the APC, but how was I to know it would be my last contact with him?

"At least he had the brass to show up," Bel says. "Not like the four who stayed behind. They're probably having a hard time of it now, though."

"That's likely true."

The draft age has been lowered – Bekar was right about that – and the army must have scooped up our former comrades already.

"Can't say as I fancy myself an infantryman, especially with this bum leg," Bel says. "So, what's our next move, Commander?"

"Like you said, we keep going west. Maybe we can meet up with some of our people."

Bel grunts. "Didn't that work out great the last time? We're lucky 'our people' didn't shoot us on the spot."

He speaks truths I don't want to hear, and I don't respond.

"I'm telling you, Dye, we're better off on our own. The glorious army has degenerated into a mob."

"That may be, but if the partisans find us, a bullet from our guys would seem a tender mercy."

Bel's mouth tightens. He opts for a change of subject. "You'd make better progress without me."

"What?"

"You heard, Dye. Why don't you move on? In a day or two, I'll be fit to walk without help."

"In a day or two, this place could be crawling with the enemy."

"Not much we can do about that, is there?"

"I'm not leaving you, Bel, so don't say anything more about it!"

My voice is more severe than I intended. Is it because I actually _did_ consider abandoning him at one point? But I rejected that course of action, so why do I feel guilty? Besides... well... damn it!

"All right, then," Bel says, "you're the one in charge."

"And cut that out, too. I didn't blow up the APC. You had your moment in the sun." I'm being grossly unfair and know it. "Sorry, I-I didn't mean that – "

"Yes, you did," Bel replies coolly. "It's all right, I don't hold it against you."

I'm angry enough to smack him. If he wasn't all crippled, maybe I would. Then some words of wisdom arise in my memory from, of all people, my father:

" _Don't ever get mad at somebody for speaking the truth."_

Of course, the context was totally different. Papa was only defending one of his rotten opinions. Still, my anger vanishes.

It's replaced by a flash of insight: I've never really had a father, just a violent drunk who lived with us for a while and abused Mama. I've been looking for a replacement all my life – Stilikan, Bekar. And now Bel?

The idea is absurd. We are the same age, he's no father figure. But he does have the infuriating _older brother_ superiority Stilikan so often displayed. Yes, like it or not, Beltran is my brother. Therefore, he deserves to be let in on my secret plans.

I begin to tell him. "Stilikan wasn't killed in combat."

"Oh?" Bel's eyebrows go up.

"He wasn't even injured, and he bailed out safely. I learned that direct from his wingman."

A dark frown creases Bel's face. His eyes burn. "What happened?"

"The partisans got him. They tortured him to death."

The dreadful words exhaust me, and I plop down onto the straw. Everything's happened so fast; a moment ago I was in tight control. Bel grips my arm. The pain and sympathy in his eyes only worsen my anguish.

"Oh, my God," he says. "Oh, God..."

Steely hate rises in my heart, giving me renewed strength. "The bastards who did it are not far from here. Their base is out by that large ruined area. I saw them when I was shot down."

"And you want revenge?"

"Yes – more than anything in this world."

Bel releases my arm and reclines into the straw. "This is something to consider."

Shouts coming from outside wrench me from my misery. I seize my gun and dash through the door.

Grushon and Sipren are dragging somebody toward the barn. It looks like a girl, maybe fifteen or so, but it's hard to tell the age of these slobes. A small boy follows along, clinging to her. Katella brings up the rear, machine pistol at the ready.

"What going on?" I say.

"We found them hiding in the basement of the house, sir," Grushon says.

"That's wonderful!" I kick up a spray of dirt. "That's... just what we need!"

"Yes, sir."

The little boy clings more tightly to the girl and stares at me with the same wounded fawn look I'd seen in the last slobe boy – the one Eagle-eye killed. My fury abates.

I try to recall the handful of phrases we learned during training. "Does anybody know some slobe talk? Can we find out who these people are?"

To my utter amazement, Katella approaches the girl and begins speaking the enemy language. He sounds fluent, as far as I can tell. The girl replies in clipped phrases. She is frightened, but her manner carries defiance.

Katella turns toward me. "This is their farm. They are the surviving children."

"What are their names, how old are they?"

Another exchange in the harsh slobe language.

"Trynka is almost sixteen. Pomi is nine."

I gesture toward the burned house. "What happened here?"

Another exchange. The girl's face twists with hatred as she speaks.

"Our commandos did this last week," Katella says. "They also killed their mother."

Giant hands crush my skull in a death grip. A violent trembling comes over me. "Dammit to hell!"

Katella takes my arm and speaks in a low voice. "Dye, what's wrong?"

I inhale deeply and force myself to stop trembling.

Don't appear weak in front of the others.

But the guilt is overwhelming. Those commando bastards! The only reason they came out here was because of me. Why didn't I keep my mouth shut about the partisan lair?

"I'm all right," I lie.

It's not hard to figure out what happened. The commandos expected an easy victory over the partisans, but they got a hard fight instead and lost some of their men. When they came back this way, they took out their rage on the available targets. They didn't include this atrocity in their report.

The girl is talking again, spitting words into the morning air.

"What did she say?"

Katella hesitates.

"Tell me."

"She says when the enemy army gets here, they'll cut off our genitals and feed them to us."

"We'll see about that!"

I take a step toward the girl, hand raised, aching to slap her down – but the blatant cowardice of the act restrains me. I glance toward the barn. Beltran has braced himself in the doorway and is watching us. I turn toward Katella.

"Ask this... young lady what happened to their father."

Katella speaks to her. She replies with a torrent of words. Her anger and hostility have increased.

"Their father was taken away by the partisans," Katella says. "They executed him."

"What for?"

"They charged him with being a collaborator."

I feel a stab of sympathy for the kids, but it does not overcome my suspicion. "Keep an eye on them. See if they've got anything we can use – particularly a cart or wheelbarrow for transporting Bel."

"Yes, sir."

They all move off. The girl favors me with a lethal backward glance. Who can blame her? Don't I look a lot like the commando captain? That s.o.b.! Yet, she holds animosity against the partisans, too. Is there some way I can turn that to my benefit?

I reenter the barn. Bel has left his post at the door and is sprawled out in the straw.

"What are you going to do with them?" he asks.

"I don't know yet."

"Well, don't spend too much time worrying about them. They're just slobes."

I turn on him. "Why don't you knock that off, already?"

"You're not going soft on us, are you Dytran?"

"My butt's as hard as yours."

"Glad to hear that," Bel says. "As long as you don't get too sentimental about the inferior races."

The sympathetic intimacy we'd experienced only minutes before is gone now.

"Do you still believe that nonsense?" I say. "In case you haven't noticed, these 'inferior people' just rolled right over us."

"Of course I believe it."

"Why?"

"Because I've got nothing else. Just my race and my flying ability."

46. Alliance Attempt

Common sense and the Party line direct me to shoot the slobe kids and move on.

I'm disgusted with such "common sense," though, and following the Party line has led to disaster. Besides, judging by the courteous way he spoke to her, Katella seems to like the girl.

Beltran's final remarks ring in my ears as I walk toward the house. At least he has some sort of belief to hang onto in all this lunacy. Bel always was an NSP loyalist, and faith in our "racial superiority" is the central tenet. Any contrary evidence is battered down with slogans and hysteria. Our pretense of superiority is a disease that even total defeat cannot cure.

Who am I to judge? Wasn't I as much of a pea brain with the mystical awaking I experienced as the Magleiter gazed into my eyes? The recollection of that spooky incident makes me shudder. As Gyn said, we're all living in the Magleiter's mind, and it's a terrible place.

How would the world look to me in Bel's shoes – raised in orphanages, no family, no girl? I can't imagine how I would have turned out were it not for Mama and Stilikan. Even Papa was a great teacher, showing me the type of man I would never want to become.

Right now, there are more pressing concerns. The Homeland is far off, and we are adrift in enemy seas like bits of wreckage from a torpedoed ship. I cannot afford to delude myself – our chances of getting back are near zero. Sooner or later, the enemy will pick us up. I pray it's their regular army that finds us and not some partisan group. There must be men of honor within their army's ranks who will treat prisoners decently.

If Bel's analysis is correct, and I've learned not to doubt it, peace will soon be declared. The slobes have enhanced their negotiating position with this offensive, but they will need to transfer their main forces east before long. Our side will be desperate to end hostilities. Then will come prisoner of war exchanges. I can only hope we are among the survivors.

But I _must_ complete my mission before I can think about getting home.

Katella is in the basement with the two slobes. He's fired up his little solid-fuel burner and heated some rations which the kids are devouring. Everyone freezes when I appear on the stairs.

"As you were," I say.

I descend the steps amid total silence. As I cross the dirt floor, the boy stares at me with wide-eyed terror. I follow his gaze down to the NSP badge stitched to my jacket. I notice Katella has removed his.

"That's not a bad idea," I say. "Lend me your pocket knife, Katella."

He hands over the blade. I peal off my jacket and begin working at the badge stitches. The slobes go warily back to their meals.

The girl is rather pretty beneath her grimy exterior, I can see now. The nutrition has brought some color to her cheeks. The boy is part of the universal slobe lad – like the two earlier ones who were slain.

"How do you know their language?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

"My heritage, sir," Katella replies. "There are slobes among my ancestors, and the language got passed down."

"Oh... I see."

Katella examines my face, looking for some indication of disapproval, probably. I keep my eyes fixed on my work.

"There are lots of people like me," he says. "It wasn't a big deal until the NSP took over."

Things begin falling into place. "Is this why you dislike Bel so much?"

"Yes. That smug little NSP lap dog! If he had his way, 'racially defiled' people would be shot."

I want to defend Bel, but can't really deny the truth of Katella's statement. He peers into the stove flame, chewing on his anger.

"It's bad enough I have to conceal my background without Bel rubbing the Party line into my face nonstop," he says. "Besides, when's the last time he looked in the mirror? He's not exactly the 'racial apex' type, is he?"

This is dangerous territory we cannot afford to enter. A change of subject is urgent.

"So, what do you think we should do with our captives?" I say.

"What does Bel think?"

"I haven't asked him, but it's likely he'll favor harsh measures."

Katella's hand moves toward his machine pistol. "Tell 'His Honor' that if he tries to hurt them, he deals with me. And it won't be a fair fight this time."

"You haven't answered my question, Katella. What should we do with the captives?"

"We leave them alone. We clear out. Don't you think we've harmed these people enough, already?"

"They'll inform on us to the enemy troops. You know that, don't you?"

"What are they going to say?" Katella snaps. "There're some Mags headed west? The enemy knows that already, for God's sake."

"I tend to agree with you, Katella."

My NSP badge is free from the stitches. I squat down and place it in the flame. It flares up, popping sparks. The slobes jerk back in surprise. I feel unmoved by my heresy.

"Inform Trynka that I know the man who killed their mother."

"That doesn't seem like a smart move, Dytran."

"Go on, tell her, word for word."

Katella wipes a hand across his mouth, then he begins speaking. His words are like an electric shock to the girl. Her lips curl back in a snarl. She tries to rise, but Katella restrains her. She spits on the floor.

"Now tell her this," I say. "When I find him, I'll punish him severely."

Katella translates. A torrent of angry words issues from the girl.

"She asks why you'd do that," Katella says.

"Because he injured me, and because I want to benefit her." I lean in close. "You know I never talk b.s. Try to get that through to her."

"Yes, sir."

Katella speaks at length, the girl makes a brief reply.

"She doesn't believe you," he says.

"Can't blame her for that, but I've got something more immediate she can believe in."

"What's that, sir?"

I glance around the wretched little room. With it's dirt floor and walls, it's more like a grave than a cellar. An apt setting for what I am about to propose.

"I want her to help me find the man who killed her father. I suspect he's the same one who murdered my brother. We will both take revenge on him."

"The _partisans_ killed Stilikan? I didn't know that."

"You know it now. Translate, please."

Katella speaks. The girl remains silent and wary. She looks me over with a new thoughtfulness, as if regarding me for the first time as something other than just a Mag savage. She gives a sharp nod.

"Good," I say, "but before we decide anything, I want to hear her story – all of it."

47. Trynka's Story

My family lived here for generations. Over time, life became more difficult as the government took away our freedoms. Hatred for the cruel regime was widespread.

Then the war started. News of invasion and desperate battles came back to us. Some of the young men were drafted into the army. Others disappeared into the woods so as to avoid military service.

Many people spoke with favor about the "liberators" coming from the west. They believed our oppression would soon be over. But as the war ground on and reports of Mag atrocities filtered back, such talk ceased, replaced by determination to fight the invaders.

A huge battle raged nearby in which many thousands of troops were wiped out. The flash of artillery fire turned night into day, and the sky blackened with smoke from burning corpses and machines. The ground shook, and a horrible stench of death covered the land. Aircraft screamed overhead, spitting destruction.

Finally the battle ended, and the invaders continued eastward. They left behind a vast wasteland where nothing could survive any longer. We named it "the Barren" and avoided the place at all times.

Occupation troops moved in. For a while, things improved. The hated tax collectors and secret police were gone. People began to think the terrible rumors about the Mag were false.

Then the killings started.

Any reason was good enough. Enemy soldiers murdered farmers for not handing over their food stocks quick enough. They gunned down anyone who looked like a "terrorist." Many women were raped and shot afterwards. Then came the "punishment actions" that wiped out whole villages.

The young men hiding in the woods emerged to join the partisan bands springing up everywhere. Most of these partisans were under Army control, but some were independent. The Omzbak Avengers was one such group.

Their leader hailed from north of the Barren. His band was small but far-ranging – and totally ruthless. Six of them, including Omzbak and a female partisan, invaded our house one evening. They turned a pleasant dinner hour into a nightmare.

Omzbak was a huge and terrible man. Although it was dark, he had a cap pulled down over his face, as if he were in bright sun. He spoke the indictment to my father.

"You're under arrest for suspicion of collaborating with the enemy."

"How have I collaborated?" Father protested. "The Mag come, they take food – what can I do about it?"

"That's for the People's Court to decide," Omzbak said.

Two partisans yanked Father to his feet and dragged him toward the door.

"No!" Mama shouted.

The female partisan seized her by the throat. "Shut up, bitch, or you'll come with us, too!"

She slapped Mama hard, and she fell.

The partisans dragged Father into the night. Mama lay crying and screaming on the floor; Pomi cringed in a corner. Hell had visited our family.

"Be brave, Pomi," I told my brother. "Watch out for Mama."

I took off after the raiders and followed them across countryside shrouded in damp, misty moonlight – always keeping just far enough behind to avoid notice. After a long trek, we reached the Barren.

I flattened myself in the underbrush and watched the others enter the blasted zone. They approached a strange, blurry area that glimmered in the moon beams. I dared not follow, as the open ground offered no place to hide.

An incredible thing happened next. Two partisans seized Father by the arms and rushed with him toward the blurry spot, stepping in a zigzag pattern. The three of them disappeared!

Then another partisan did the same, and another – each vanishing in turn. Finally, Omzbak himself entered the mysterious blur and was gone.

I was alone with the Barren sprawling before me. My nerve almost failed. I wanted to run for home, but what awaited me there? All our happiness had been destroyed. So, I approached the spot and repeated the zigzag steps.

Suddenly, I found myself wandering through an area tilting at crazy angles. Papa once took us to a fun house at a carnival, and it was like that, only much worse. I couldn't be sure of which direction I was going. I heard voices, but they could be coming from anywhere. Panic groped for me.

" _Papa! Papa!"_

I clamped my eyes shut. My pounding heart slowed, and my head stopped spinning. When I opened my eyes again, I could see better.

I was in an underground passage, though I could not make out the walls. They might be just beyond my touch or a long distance off. The voices were coming from directly ahead, so I walked toward them.

The surface under my feet was solid, but I couldn't see the path clearly. I just moved along, trusting the ground would not give way. I seemed to be viewing only the shadows of things.

Then I was staring into a large room. Its appearance was so sudden I almost cried out. Inside the chamber was Father and the partisans who had brought him to this evil place. Other people stood about. Two men were speaking in turn.

I recognized them – shiftless bums who had once worked at our farm. Father had dismissed them because of their laziness and because they were stealing things. Now they were bearing false witness against him.

The accusations made my ears burn and my stomach lurch. The men were accusing Father of conspiring with Mag agents, of selling information to the enemy and betraying loyal patriots. They said he profited from selling food to the invaders.

It was all lies!

Father was an honorable man. Before the war started, he had good relations with everyone. But the decent people had been driven off or killed, leaving only the scum of the earth behind – like those two. They had guns now and could do what they liked.

I could no longer bear such injustice. I opened my mouth to speak, but at the same moment, Father turned his head and looked directly at me. His eyes bore incredible sadness. His mind screamed a voiceless warning.

" _Run, Trynka!"_

Then I was running through the passageway with no idea where I was going. Somehow I got outside the nightmare world and kept running...

The next day, Father's body was discovered in a field with a bullet through the head. A sign hung around his neck:

I collaborated with the enemy

Mama was broken. She remained in a fog of madness, mumbling to herself and staring into space with haunted eyes. We cared for her as best we could during her final months. The farm declined and we went hungry.

Then the Mag arrived last week. After setting fire to the house, they shot Mama, laughing as they riddled her body. They wanted to rape me, but I held a knife to my heart ready to plunge it in if they tried. They thought this was amusing, and they left.

* * *

The basement is silent. Trynka's words soak into its clammy walls and disappear. A chill runs through me as a ghostly hand tickles my spine. How could this slip of a girl endure so much tragedy?

"There you have it, Dytran," Katella says. "Are you satisfied?"

"Yes."

There is no doubt in my mind. Trynka's description of Omzbak matches the partisan leader I'd seen. We have the same enemy.

Katella gets to his feet. "Well, since you're both going after this Omzbak fellow, count me in."

# Seven: The Mission Commences

48. Departure

The next day, we are all prepared to move out, knapsacks on our backs and weapons in hand.

Katella, Trynka, and Pomi stand with me on one side of the farm yard. Across from us, Bel sits in a little pushcart with his submachine gun cradled in his arms. His eyes are narrow and suspicious. Grushon and Sipren flank him.

It's time for the parting. After so many months together, the last of the Raptor Aces are about to go their separate ways. I don't know how I feel about this, don't know what to say. My emotions have been numbed ever since I arrived in this accursed land.

So, I just begin speaking, hoping the right words will come. "My friends, it's been an honor to serve as your leader, but the time has come for us to part."

Sipren and Grushon glance at each other. Bel's steely gaze remains fixed on me.

"A small partisan band has its lair nearby. It's more of a bandit gang, operating outside the main organization. They've murdered my brother and killed the father of these two."

I gesture toward Trynka and Pomi. Trynka's eyes blaze; she knows what I'm saying, even if she doesn't understand the exact words.

"Trynka has been to the partisan hideout, and she's agreed to guide me there so we can punish those criminals. Katella has chosen to accompany us."

I allow my words to sink in for a moment. Nobody tries to speak.

"Since I cannot, in good conscience, ask the rest of you to join this mission, I release you from my command and wish you God speed on your journey home."

Absolute silence, as if the world has halted in its tracks. The breeze swirling around the farmyard stops. I prepare to dismiss the assembly when Beltran pipes up.

"You won't get rid of me so easily. I'm going with you, Dye." He looks toward Sipren and Grushon. "What about you two?"

They shift uncomfortably and stare at the ground.

"Either come with us and strike a blow for our cause," Bel says, "or head off on your own. Which is it?"

I hold out my pistol and extra ammo clip toward the two. "You may have these. Along with your grenades, you can defend yourselves until you scavenge more weapons."

Sipren gazes off toward the distant West. "My family has already sacrificed much for the cause. Mother and little sister are slain. I wish to see Father before he dies from grief."

"We share your anguish," Bel says, "but you cannot avenge their deaths without our help – or gain justice for an heroic national comrade." He fixes a penetrating gaze on the two. "Decide now. All in, or all out."

Sipren and Grushon draw together in conference. They soon come to a decision.

Grushon speaks for both. "We're in."

Again, I am impressed by Bel's leadership abilities. He's persuaded two doubters to join our expedition and made it seem like their own idea, but what he does next downright astonishes me.

He jabs a finger at Trynka and lets loose a torrent of words in the slobe language. My jaw drops. Katella grips his machine pistol and steps closer to Trynka.

"What did he say?" I ask Katella.

"He said he'd kill them both if they betray us."

Katella shouts at Beltran in the slobe language. Bel glares at him scornfully, then looks off.

"What the hell was that?" I say.

"I think you know what I told him," Katella says.

We head out. Trynka leads the way with Pomi and Katella. Grushon follows, then Bel pushed along in his cart by Sipren. It's time to express my gratitude. I approach Bel and reach out a hand. He grips it. No words are necessary between us.

I turn to Sipren. "Thank you for helping in this difficult task. It means a lot."

Sipren offers a melancholy smile. "Sure, Commander. How could I leave now? Somebody might need a band aide."

I move up to Grushon. His eyes are fixed upon the ground, and he doesn't notice me at first.

"Grushon, I – "

He looks up. "Ah, Commander. I've been wanting to speak with you."

"Yes?"

"I just wanted to say that... we were all so foolish back then. It was wrong to oppose you. Can you forgive me?"

A giant weight lifts off my heart. Tears try to force their way into my eyes. I don't trust myself to speak and limit myself to a nod and a hand clasp.

49. Along the Blood Trail

Trynka knows the byways and forest trails. We make good time, despite our injured comrade.

Bel's little cart is designed for rough service over narrow tracks and does not hinder us overmuch. The ride cannot be comfortable for him, but he doesn't complain.

We rotate pushing duty, except for Katella who isn't inclined to assist Bel. I don't ask him to make the effort. My turn comes around, and I drop back to relieve Grushon.

"Your jacket's missing something," Bel says by way of greeting.

I look down to the spot where the NSP badge used to be. "No sense advertising who we are. We stick out enough already, don't you think?"

"If the enemy catches us, they'll cut our throats with or without the badge."

"Thanks for the reassuring words. Now let me ask you a question, if you don't mind."

"You're wondering how I learned to talk slobe, right?"

"Something like that."

Bel shifts uncomfortably as the cart jostles through a rut. He must find this situation humiliating. I know I would in his place.

"In the early years, slobe kids lived with us at the State home," Bel says. "Even after they got expelled, there were slobe-speaking workers around. I learned the language from them."

"What for?"

"Don't you think it's smart to know the enemy?"

"Well, yes, but why didn't you tell anyone you could speak the lingo?"

"I knew there'd be a war eventually," Bel says, "and I didn't want to be stuck with noncombat duty as an interpreter."

"You thought like that... even as a little kid?"

"Sure. Didn't you?"

Why am I still surprised by anything Beltran says or does? I opt for a change of subject. "Let me thank you again for coming. I _really_ appreciate it."

"Somebody has to pull your butt out of the fire when the time comes."

"You're good at that, Bel. There should be a medal just for you, the _Saving Dytran's Butt_ award."

Bel chuckles, pleased by my backhanded compliment. Time to skate out on thin ice.

"It wasn't really necessary to threaten the slobes," I say. "They understand the risks."

"Just so they know what's what. We'd be fools to trust them too much."

A sharp command from Trynka terminates our discussion.

"Someone's coming," Bel translates.

I assist him from the cart. All the Raptor Aces slip into the trees and lie low.

From my position in the underbrush, I observe a small group of men approach Trynka and Pomi. They talk briefly. She displays the pail of berries and mushrooms we've gathered as a cover for her presence.

The discussion breaks up and the men depart, walking past our hiding place. They have a cautious look to them. Enemy stragglers or bandits might be lurking about these woods. But they also project confidence. They know this is their country again, purged of the detestable Mag.

We bundle Bel into the cart and get moving.

"Did you catch anything they said?" I ask.

"Yes, army patrols are combing these woods."

This is unpleasant news, though hardly surprising. I can only hope our subterfuge continues to work a while longer – just until I make it to the partisan hideout.

"Remember that 'Ghostie' blur I saw from the air our first day?" I ask. "The one you laughed at me about?"

"What of it?"

"It really exists, Bel. We're headed for it now."

* * *

Our company is still divided along its fault line, as indicated by our uniforms. Bel wears his NSP badge on the left breast, as do Sipren and Grushon. Katella and I have discarded ours. If we can all just hang together long enough to "strike a blow for the Cause" as Bel put it.

Trynka is quite pretty when her face is not twisted into an angry snarl. I can see why Katella is falling for her. She has a determined air that reminds me of Gyn.

Gyn! She is always in my thoughts as we march along this blood trail. I can hear her soft, melodious voice in my ear, feel her lips pressing against mine. I want to melt away with her into the deep forest, but then Ket pushes me hard from behind and I come out of my reverie. My lip smarts where she bit.

The moment of revenge is no longer a distant fantasy but draws closer with every step. In my heart, I know I will finally confront my enemy face to face. Does he know I'm coming? Has the savagery of his life endowed him with the intuition of a wild beast?

What kind of man is this Omzbak?

I know he's a capable leader who has survived nearly two years as an outlaw. Even our most vicious commandos could not defeat him and his followers. What chance have we to prevail?

We seek justice, and that has to give us power, or else the entire world is upside down. Besides, the commando already killed some of the partisans, and the band was never large to begin with.

Does Omzbak want to continue living in a peaceful world? From what I saw of him, he is not a young man. He had a previous life long before the war. Perhaps he knows he cannot go back to it. The hate and violence he's reveled in for so long might be too thick a morass for him to escape –

"Soldiers!" Trynka warns.

She sprawls with us into the underbrush. Moments later, I see enemy soldiers approach in a cautious group, spread out on both sides of the trail, moving through the ferns and underbrush. Helmets conceal part of their faces; what I can see of them is hard and cold.

Their commander is a lean, tall man. He wears an officer's cap, and his face displays the typical slobe racial characteristics we were taught to despise. These attributes are supposed to render him 'inferior.' I invite anyone who believes that to confront him directly.

My earlier confidence vanishes. We cannot avoid detection. These men, in their unhurried progress, will flush us out. What then? Should we fight or surrender? Bel flicks off his machine pistol's safety and has his finger on the trigger. Whatever I choose, Bel will start a battle that can have only one outcome.

The enemy soldiers draw closer. It's only a matter of time now. An immense sorrow comes over me. I'm not afraid to die, only regretful of departing this life before I can accomplish my aim. Trynka whispers into Pomi's ear. The little boy nods. Are they set to betray us?

Suddenly Pomi cries out. The soldiers crouch into combat position, guns at the ready. A thrust a restraining hand toward Bel. He's on the knife edge.

Pomi cries out again. The leader yells something back at him. Trynka whispers a final command into the little boy's ear. Pomi begins walking through the underbrush toward the soldiers, hands raised. He is weeping freely. Trynka follows with her berry pail, calling out to the troops.

The soldiers relax at the sight of them. Some break into grins and laughter. Their commander silences them with a sharp look. He speaks with Trynka, then lowers himself to Pomi's level and takes the boy's shoulders into his big hands. He interrogates Pomi. The little boy utters monosyllables through his tears.

The interrogation continues a while longer. Then the soldiers move on. Pomi is entrusted to the care of a squat, grizzled sergeant. As they depart, the boy chances a backward glance at us through his tears.

Unbelievably, we have been spared.

"What went on there?" I ask Katella

"Trynka said she found the boy out wandering alone, that his family was killed. She asked the soldiers to take him to a refugee center, and she assured them this area is free of enemy stragglers."

Trynka wipes a tear from her eye and mutters something.

"He'll be safer with them," Katella translates.

50. First Encounter with the Void

Per usual, Trynka walks well ahead of us so as to sniff out potential dangers. Sipren is the tail-end boy for now, keeping an eye on the path we have already traversed. The rest of us hang together, humping along. Grushon pushes the cart.

Trynka rushes back and speaks urgently with Katella. She moves up the trail again.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"She wants us to capture the person coming our way."

"All right. Katella, Grushon – take positions across the trail. Sipren, Bel stay with me."

I give Bel a stern look. "No shooting except on my order."

"Aye, Commander."

In moments we have our surprise party organized. From my position crouched in the underbrush, I can hear Trynka's voice getting closer, along with another, huskier, female voice. Sipren's head pokes above the greenery, and I motion him to get lower.

Trynka appears, accompanied by a tall, gaunt woman with gray-streaked hair and a hardened face. She's got the look of death about her. A rifle is slung over her shoulder; a revolver hangs from her belt, along with a stick grenade.

I've seen her before – among the partisans who came to inspect the wreckage of Y-47.

Trynka stops walking and offers her bucket. She looks completely harmless and innocent standing beside this fearsome individual. The woman reaches in for some berries.

"Now!"

We leap from concealment. The woman yanks her hand from the bucket, spilling its contents over the ground. She reaches for her pistol, but I've got my submachine gun in her face.

"Hold it, Sister!"

She freezes in place, fixing cold, empty eyes on me – like a corpse's. I steel myself against them. Sipren and Grushon seize the guns; Bel takes possession of the grenade.

"Better check her boots," Bel says.

Katella barks a command, and the woman seats herself on the ground. We pull off her boots and a double-edged knife tumbles out, accompanied by a curse from the woman.

"Same to you," Bel says.

"That's a pretty toy." Grushon kicks the knife away.

I take the rifle from Sipren and examine it closely. It's one of ours, modified for sniper work – extra machining, precision trigger, and a powerful scope. Some poor soldier had it stolen from him, along with his life, no doubt.

"Shouldn't that go to our best shot?" Bel says.

That means me, Eagle-eye, who topped all our shooting competitions.

Yes, I like the feel of this rifle – excellent balance, fine workmanship and materials. It places demands on the person wielding it. This elegant weapon has little in common with our submachine gun death sprayers which are bashed out of sheet metal and lower-grade steel.

Yet, I am reluctant to give mine up. Its brute killing power commands a respect of its own. Bel is right, though. I hand my machine pistol to Grushon. This leaves the revolver. Trynka eyes it hungrily, but I direct it be given to Sipren.

"Get the prisoner off the trail," I say. "Find out what you can about her."

Katella speaks in the slobe language and points to a nearby tree. Our prisoner gets up reluctantly from the dirt and walks toward it. Does she expect to be tied up and tortured?

Grushon and Sipren stand guard while the rest of us crowd around the tree. Katella begins the questioning. Bel provides me a running translation.

"What's your name and where are you from?"

"I'm called Comrade 19."

"What's your real name?"

She looks away, refusing to answer.

"Forget all that," I say. "What does she know about Stilikan's death?"

Before he can phrase another question, the prisoner gushes forth a barrage of words, spitting them at us like machine gun bullets.

"A year ago a gang of you Mag raped me and left me for dead, but I didn't oblige. After I recovered from the attack and had the demon spawn inside me aborted, I joined a partisan group where my brother served." A vindictive grin contorts her face. "I helped glank quite a few enemies with them."

"What the hell does 'glank' mean?" I interrupt.

"Uh... it refers to eradicating vermin," Katella says.

"What was this partisan group she joined?"

I don't really expect an answer, but Comrade 19 snarls one out.

"The group is called 'Omzbak's Avengers," Katella translates.

"My only regret is that my brother was captured and executed," Comrade 19 says.

I'm unconcerned with her regrets. "What does she know about Stilikan?"

Katella translates my question. Comrade 19 seems to not understand, at first; then realization enters her eyes. Revulsion and terror flash across her face.

"Ah, the beautiful young pilot," she says, "like a god, almost. I thought he was a gift from heaven. We could exchange him for our captured comrades, including my own precious brother."

"Then why didn't you?" I demand.

She gazes at me a long moment. I can barely restrain myself from striking her.

"The pilot looked much like you," she says. "He could have been your brother... He _was_ your brother!"

"Tell her to answer my question!" I'm practically shrieking now.

Katella grips my arm. "Calm down, Dye."

He fires a torrent of slobe words at the prisoner. She nods wearily. Then she grabs a handful of her thin, gray-streaked hair and practically shoves it in my face.

"See? It used to be my pride and joy. Even the bastards who raped me could not harm it. But since that cursed day, it's been like this." She flings the tress back over her shoulder. "You aren't the only one who's suffered. Not long ago, I could have charmed even you."

I realize for the first time that Comrade 19 is a young woman, attractive once. Youth and beauty have been torn from her.

"It was Omzbak who butchered the pilot," she says. "He had the devil inside him that day, and we were all too cowardly to oppose him. He would have killed anyone who tried."

She spits on the ground.

"I'll never forgive that swine! Two days later, my brother was hanged in a public square. He should have been back safe among us." Her eyes flash with hate. "Do you know how they hanged him? Slowly, with piano wire."

I am unmoved by this grisly detail. "Who else helped murder Stilikan?"

"Number One. That goddam cobbler is as evil as Omzbak himself."

"Where is he?" My voice croaks; it seems to be coming from somebody else. "What does he look like?"

"He's an oily weasel, and where else would he be? Down there with Omzbak. Those of us who still have a shred of humanity are leaving."

The hatred fades from her eyes, replaced by animal cunning. "You want to kill them, don't you?"

"Yes."

"I can help. I'll take you to that cursed place. We will both avenge our dear brothers."

I am too astonished to maintain my harsh demeanor. I feel like I've been smacked with a dead fish.

"Omzbak deserves to die," she says. "He wants to die, I think. He is weary of befouling this world."

I mull the proposition over. This might be just the person we need, or she might betray us at the first opportunity. Her look becomes even more cunning.

"He was a decent sort at one time, until his family was massacred in one of your 'punishment actions.' Let's send him off to join them." She leans toward me and speaks in a low, ominous voice. "Do you want to know why he killed that pilot?"

My breathing halts. I manage a jerky nod.

"Because he resembled the commando leader who murdered Omzbak's family."

My breath escapes in a prolonged groan. "Ohhh."

Everything falls together into a completed circle of evil. I finally understand...

The silence drags on. Trynka fills it.

"You don't recognize me, do you, 'Comrade?'" she says. "I recognize you, despite your ugly hair."

Comrade 19 stares hard at Trynka. "No, child, I don't."

"Then perhaps you recall invading our house and taking my father away. Remember slapping my mother? You were very brave that night."

Recognition dawns in Comrade 19's eyes. "Why, you're –"

"Bitch!"

Trynka is upon her, stabbing the twin-edged knife into her heart. Comrade 19 falls backward against the tree, instantly dead. She slides down, eyes staring in shock, mouth gaping.

Trynka stomps the inert body. Katella pulls her away.

"Bravo!" Bel cheers. "One less of those scum to deal with."

51. Hiatus

We pause a full day so as to encourage Bel's recovery. He insists he can "tough it out" as is, but I'm having none of it. There's no telling what rigors lie ahead, and I want him as fit as possible.

I would never admit this to anyone, but Bel's incapacity has rattled me to the core. Earlier, I'd considered myself the man in charge, with Bel as a testy subordinate and threat to my position. Now I appreciate his true worth. He's as important to me as my right arm.

Trynka finds us a little cabin on the edge of some woods. She explains it was used by goatherds, woodcutters, or anybody else who might require a night's lodging on the trail. That was back when this was a productive area. Now the cabin is abandoned. The place is comfortable enough, though; it's even got some blankets stashed away.

We all need down time, but there is another reason I've called a pause. On a deeper level of my consciousness, I'm hoping something will occur to abort this crazy mission. I'm experiencing increased feelings of dread. It was easy to get carried away earlier when it was just me, but now others are involved. Their lives hang by the thread of my obsession.

If Comrade 19 is right, then a prolonged life might be more of a punishment for Omzbak than a quick death would be. And any death I bring him will be quick. Many nights I've lain awake with thoughts of torturing him the same way he tortured my brother – but in my heart, I know I am incapable of that.

Maybe I should just leave him alone in his tormented world to face the ire of those he's wronged. He would seem to have no lack of enemies, and even the authorities will want to be rid of him. They know he's too much of a loose cannon to fit into this time of peace.

But I _can't_ call off the mission; it has sunk its hooks too deeply in my mind. Justice must be served, whatever the cost.

The others seem to have their own misgivings, judging by their somber looks and quiet demeanors. We still have plenty of high-nutrition combat rations, but we have all reduced our calorie intake, as if we are fasting to prepare ourselves for some ascetic venture.

Sipren is a cause for concern. His mood swings could pose a danger to us. Toxic thoughts roil in his mind, and they burst out randomly. He asks unanswerable questions.

"What about our guys killed in the fighting?" he says. "What about our people slaughtered in the bombing raids?"

Will more violence bring them back? I can't dispute with him, though. It's too easy for me to talk. How would I feel if Mama were among the slain, or Gyn, or Ket? There are no answers, only more hate. I consider leaving Sipren behind, but he'd be a worse threat to us if he were captured.

How will it be to look into Omzbak's eyes and pull the trigger? Will he know who I am and why I'm taking his life? I have a pilot's perspective. We don't know the enemy we're trying to kill. We shoot at him from a long distance, or he shoots at us.

Katella and Trynka spend all their time together talking and gazing into each other's faces. She already speaks some of our language, and Katella practices with her. He's become a sort of combination boyfriend and language tutor.

They also busy themselves with patrolling the area. We all take turns at this, except for Bel who stays inside resting his injuries, on my express orders.

Without his books to occupy him, Bel stares up at the ceiling, as if he's unraveling the mysteries of the universe in his mind. Late afternoon, when only the two of us are in the cabin, he opens up.

"You know Dye, I've come to admire that slobe boy I killed with my airplane."

"Yes, me too. His name was Piotra."

"How did you learn that?"

"From his mother. She attacked me in the railway station when I went home on leave."

Moments of silence pass. No one intrudes.

"I hated Piotra a long time because he destroyed my dreams," Bel says, "but now I can appreciate... his beauty. He had true honor and courage."

"We thought we were entitled to humiliate him because we're so 'superior.' He taught us otherwise, didn't he?"

Bel nods. His lips are pursed, and his eyes bear a far-away cast.

Katella enters with Trynka. I should leave now so as to take his place on watch, but I make it a point to be in the cabin whenever Katella is there. Another flare up between him and Bel is the last thing we need.

Tense quiet maintains itself between them. Katella busies himself with cleaning his machine pistol. Bel lies on his back, gazing at the ceiling. Then he chooses to break the silence.

"You're very good at their language, Katella. Not a trace of accent, either."

"Uh huh."

Katella's body stiffens. He doesn't look up from polishing the barrel of his submachine gun. Trynka draws closer to him.

"I learned to speak it at the State home," Bel says. "Where did you learn?"

Katella's hands stop their polishing routine. He looks fiercely at Bel. Hairs bristle on the back of my neck. Bel's manner is not hostile, though, and his words carry no insinuation. He gazes at Katella with frank curiosity.

"You must have figured it out by now," Katella snaps. "I've got 'racial inferiors' in my family tree. Do you have a problem with that?"

Bel studies him for a long moment, then shakes his head. A coiled spring in my chest relaxes.

"I've always wondered what you had against me," Bel says. "I thought it was because I'm poor and your family is well off."

"I don't care about your background." Katella gestures toward Trynka. "I care about other things."

"I can see that."

Silence takes over. Bel shifts uncomfortably on his pile of straw.

"Dye, you have to let me get up. If I lay here another minute, I'll go stir crazy."

"Sure, go take a stroll."

Bel gets to his feet and tests his injured ankle. He seems pleased with the result.

Katella watches steadily, but the anger is gone from his eyes. Thank God, he says nothing further. Bel, too, seems to want the matter dropped.

He turns my direction. "Best if we carry no secrets to wherever it is we're going, right, Dye?"

"You don't have to explain anything to me. You volunteered to help; that's all that counts in my book."

A melancholy smile crosses Bel's lips. "I've often told myself I would have stopped Grushon and the others from hurting you that day. But the truth is, I don't really know what I would have done if Katella hadn't spoke up."

"I... appreciate your honesty," I say.

He disappears through the door. Katella gives his gun a final buff, then sets it aside. I return to my brooding thoughts.

Bel's parting remark is comforting in it's way. The infallible Beltran, always so sure of himself, has admitted to a moment of doubt. If he'd meant for the others to clobber me, he would have said so, but the answer he gave leaves a better option for me to hang onto.

Besides, what can it matter now? Compared to all the horrors we've endured, what does a little ass kicking among friends amount to?

52. Discovered

Minutes later, Sipren bursts in. "Somebody's out there!"

"All right," I say. "Stay here and keep the girl with you."

I grab my rifle and dash outside, stooping to take advantage of the natural cover. Katella follows in my wake.

Grushon and Bel are crouched behind some bushes, looking off toward the north.

"Did he see us?" I ask.

"Don't know." Bel hands me binoculars.

A man is passing through the underbrush carrying a machine pistol. He is not clad in a military uniform. Can I pick him off from this distance? Maybe, but the gunshot would alert the world of our presence.

The man moves away and disappears. I have to assume he's a partisan scout and that we've been spotted.

"Katella, Grushon," I say, "go tell the others. We're pulling out."

"Yes, sir."

They trot off toward the cabin.

"What's the plan?" Bel asks.

"We need to be gone well before nightfall. Omzbak will be paying a visit then, I think. Night raids are his style."

"Maybe we should stick around and prepare a welcome for him."

I shake my head. "We don't know what direction he'll be coming from. A fight in the open where he can maneuver would be disastrous – especially in the dark."

Bel strokes his chin thoughtfully. "What's our next move, then?"

"What do you think?"

I give him time to churn this over. He doesn't need much.

"We infiltrate Omzbak's hideout while he's away."

"Exactly!" I smack a fist into my palm. "We set a trap for the SOB where he least expects it, in his own rat's nest."

Bel grins. "Great minds think alike, don't they?"

"He probably doesn't have many people left. Comrade 19 said they were deserting. Why would she lie about that? She was deserting herself."

"She was a tough one, all right," Bel says. "I'm thinking it's too bad she's not coming with us."

"Yes..."

I feel extreme annoyance at myself. Trynka had mentioned a female partisan assaulting her mother. I should have made the connection and protected Comrade 19 from her wrath. But how would that have worked? Trynka is so consumed by hate she could never have cooperated with Comrade 19.

Is she the only one motivated by hatred? There seems to be a broader lesson here, but I don't have time to think it through right now.

"It makes sense Omzbak will use his whole force to attack us," I say. "Or maybe he'll just leave one or two behind."

"In the 'blur?'"

"Yes. Think on it, Bel – the war's over here, their alertness will be low. If we play it right, they'll never know what hit them."

Bel ponders for a while, squinting into the distance with those hawk eyes of his. "Better to give him a double surprise, don't you think? Some of us go in, the rest stay outside."

The audacity of this plan is pure Bel. Divide our forces in the face of the enemy? But it makes sense, too. Omzbak would be on the defensive. He broke off the fight with the commando and fled into his lair. Why wouldn't he do that again?

"Yes, that might be just the thing," I say. "I'll infiltrate with Trynka and – "

"I'll set the trap outside," Bel says. "We'll be the ones with the freedom to maneuver, then."

"We'd better leave that job to Katella, somebody who can run like hell if necessary. You come inside with me."

Disappointment flashes across Bel's face. He starts to say something, but I don't him the chance.

"That would work best, right? Besides... I need you with me, Bel."

A knowing little smile replaces the chagrin on Bel's face. It speaks volumes about our turbulent relationship. "All right. Count me in."

Quiet settles over our discussion. The plan seems about as complete as we can make it at this point.

When we return to the cabin, Trynka is gouging some letters into the dirt floor with a stick.

"What's she doing?" I say.

"She wants to leave them a message," Katella says.

"Tell her to stop."

Katella speaks to her. A brief argument ensues, then Trynka begins rubbing out the marks. I've had time to reconsider my order, though.

"No, tell her it's all right," I say.

Katella speaks to her again.

"Are you sure about that?" Bel says. "Won't that tip them off?"

"It might spook them a little, too. If the band is disintegrating already, maybe this will help speed things up."

Bel looks doubtful.

"Let's work on his mind. He doesn't know who we are, does he? He must have made lots of enemies."

"All right."

Trynka is gouging the floor again.

"Give me that stick," I say. "I want to add my two farthings' worth."

Under Katella's guidance, I craft the final letters. Then I toss the stick aside.

"That should get the bastard thinking."

#  Eight: The Darkness

53. Eastern Debacle

Editor note: The following introduction is taken from the papers of Field Marshal Angrift, former Army chief of staff. Shortly before his suicide, Angrift entrusted these papers to an aide with instructions to make them available to "all interested parties."

I depart this life in the only fashion that might redeem a shred of personal honor. It is easy for me to go, and I leave my countrymen a final admonition: DESTROY THE CRIMINALS WHO HAVE LED US INTO THE ABYSS!

Do not despise this call just because it issues from one of the responsible men. I freely admit guilt for my part in the debacle which is overtaking the Homeland. We abandoned God, so God has abandoned us.

I should have known our course was moving toward disaster, but my head was turned by material rewards and a field marshal baton – and by the unquestioning faith in the Magleiter that has distorted so many of our minds.

As bizarre as it sounds in the light of subsequent events, I once believed the Magleiter was sent to us by God to restore the Fatherland's greatness. I cannot forgive myself for this wicked error.

It was clear from the start that our attack on the slobe empire was a criminal enterprise. It sought to enslave, if not exterminate, the entire population of the conquered areas.

We who knew the scope of the Magleiter's intent had our own rationalizations. The rest of our people had to make do with lies churned out by the propaganda machine – the absurd contentions that we were "righting historic wrongs" and "defending ourselves" by seizing lands which had never belonged to us.

Far surpassing these claims for sheer lunacy was the assertion that our foes were primitive subhumans we could easily dominate and dispossess. Ask any combat veteran how easy it was to dominate these "subhumans."

Our invasion was a naked grab for territory and resources. Now it has backfired. Unless divine providence favors us with extraordinary dispensation, the enemy will roll over our defenses and exact terrible revenge upon the Fatherland. I pray for the success of the Empire's eastern foes, but I know in my heart they will fail, as we have. Then comes the reckoning.

An objective reader of these papers will conclude the only way to bring down the Empire was by using a two-pronged strategy:

1. A military campaign to destroy the enemy's armed forces

2. An outreach to the population to win them over

Many of us in the high command counseled this approach. We reasoned that, given the well-known brutality of the slobe regime, many people would welcome a change of government. We could play on the multi-ethnic nature of the Empire so as to swing important segments of the population into our camp. Even a modest improvement in their living conditions would have been enough to gain their loyalty.

We lacked the resources for a prolonged war of attrition. Victory had to come fast, or not at all. And victory was impossible without help from the disaffected elements within the slobe empire.

There is ample historical precedent for this. Consider the demise of the Roman empire. Any band of barbarian raiders crossing the frontiers was quickly joined by slaves fleeing Roman captivity and by other alienated persons, thus magnifying the intruders' power. The internal contradictions of the empire brought it down.

Also, consider what happened to the Aztecs when their subjugated tribes joined forces with the Spanish invaders. Cortez was a weak conqueror who relied upon the revolt of others to attain his ends, a stratagem that paid off brilliantly.

The leader of the slobe empire, the so-called 'Man of Iron,' made no such errors. He responded to our attack with an immediate reduction of oppressive measures against his people. Political prisoners were let out and mobilized for battle. Appeals were made to religion, patriotism, ethnic pride. He promoted himself as a savior.

These were far more attractive alternatives than what we offered. From the beginning, the Magleiter insisted on a "war of annihilation." Any inhabitant of the slobe empire was a racial inferior who needed to be subjugated. NSP ideology trumped common sense.

The results of this insane policy are obvious:

The formerly disunited population rose up as one, creating a deadly partisan movement behind our lines. The resolve of the enemy's regular forces stiffened, enabling them to rebound from their early defeats. The slobe empire can, thus, take full advantage of its three to one manpower superiority.

Worst of all, our soldiers became brutalized. Mass murder, rape, and destruction of property became such common occurrences as to be scarcely noted.

Were I the "true patriot and man of valor" the propagandists made me out to be, I would have put a bullet through the Magleiter's head before this doomed enterprise got started. Now I can only pray a better man than myself will perform this service for our people.

May God protect the Fatherland!

54. Avenger Omzbak

"You're certain it was her?" Omzbak said.

"Yes, Chief," replied Comrade 23. "She had a knife in her heart, but was not otherwise mutilated. The wild dogs had not gotten to her yet."

"Very well. Back to your duties."

Comrade 23 departed. Omzbak turned toward the grizzled, wiry man standing beside him in the forest glade. "Looks like we've got a connection, Number 1."

"I knew there was something fishy about those Mag punks, Chief."

Earlier that day, Number 1 had reported seeing boys dressed in strange uniforms hanging around a wood cutters' hut. It didn't take a crystal ball to determine they were enemy stragglers – support troops of some kind. The Mag were scraping the bottom of their manpower barrel. Underage and overage soldiers were common.

"What's to be done, Chief?"

Omzbak stroked his beard and pondered the new situation.

The lads made a tempting target. Omzbak had considered staging a final ambush before his Avenger band completely dispersed, but he was weary of all the killing. He knew from bitter experience that no amount of bloodshed could erase his pain.

He'd decided to let the army handle these stragglers, but then a disturbing report made its way to him. Comrade 19's body had been found in the woods. The Mag boys must be responsible. Didn't one of them have a long-barreled rifle, like the weapon Comrade 19 prized so much?

Outrage boiled in Omzbak's heart. Comrade 19 may have been a deserter, but she'd served loyally for almost a year, striking terror into the enemy. Her murder cried out for vengeance. Omzbak slammed a fist into his palm.

"Tonight we settle the score!"

Number 1 grinned. "Yes, sir."

Only eight members of the band remained. The others had been killed fighting the Mag commando, or had run off. No matter, these veterans would be more than enough to handle a few boys.

* * *

All the Avengers, save one, drifted like a death vapor through the woods and marshlands. Omzbak felt the old blood lust returning as they closed in on their quarry. Malice kept him moving in the dark.

_God damn them to hell!_ he repeated in his mind like a religious mantra.

These Mag were all the same, regardless of age. Every single one had to be glanked.

The last Avenger guarded the hideout. The way things were these days, Omzbak couldn't really trust anyone to hold the fort without him. Now that the main enemy forces were purged from these districts, the temptation to flee was simply too great.

A single man, alone and isolated in the hideout, would be less likely to take to his heels than two would be, Omzbak reasoned. One man's fear and cowardice would play off the other's, and soon they would both run away together.

Only Number 1 could be fully trusted, but he would never miss an opportunity to kill. Besides, Omzbak needed him to help control the rest. Number 1's glowering presence bringing up the rear intimidated them into obedience.

Omzbak winced as a sharp jolt ran through his leg. "Damn!"

His thigh wound had not completely healed, and stabs of pain accompanied his progress. Good, the discomfort kept his hate focused. He'd suffered the injury while fighting the Mag commando. The bastards had surprised them last week in one of their above-ground sites and killed several Avengers.

It was not possible to camp permanently in the hideout. The psychological pressure overwhelmed his men, eventually. The women could endure it better, for some reason, but nobody could stand the hideout for long in one stretch.

The enemy had taken heavy losses, too, though. Omzbak grinned at the recollection of "Egelai," as the enemy medic called one of the wounded Mag. After dispatching the medic with a bullet, Omzbak had used his practiced butcher's hand to gut Egelai like a hog. He could still hear the s.o.b. squealing out the last of his life.

Number 1 interrupted Omzbak's bloody memories. "We're almost there, Chief. I first caught sight of them from this spot."

Omzbak grunted. "Comb the area for sentries."

"Aye, Chief."

Number 1's voice conveyed genuine pleasure, as if he was about to attend a birthday party. He'd come a long way since he was the meek village cobbler, drunk more often than not. He was a lean, hard killer who hadn't touched alcohol in nearly two years.

Omzbak and Number 1 were marked men. They had so much blood on their hands and had outraged central partisan HQ so much that there was no going back for them. The deserters must have thought they could resume normal lives. Omzbak had his doubts on that score.

They neared the objective. No sentries anywhere, and the cabin was dimly illuminated with flickering light. The worm-eaten door wasn't even secured.

Omzbak considered lobbing grenades through the windows, but he preferred to see the faces of the people he was killing. The unholy rage was upon him. He crashed his bulk through the door, spraying submachine gun fire –

The place was empty, except for a few bullet-riddled blankets stuffed with leaves to simulate human forms. Two candles sputtered in the corners, and a single word was gouged into the floor half a meter high:

JUSTICE!

The letters had a chilling effect, even on Omzbak's stone heart. He and his men stood in grim silence gazing at the floor, as if additional words might suddenly appear.

"Piss on it," Number 1 said and proceeded to do just that.

Omzbak ground his teeth.

So, the Avengers have attracted avengers of our own.

He was not surprised; it had a kind of symmetry. He'd inflicted much bloodshed – not all of it justified or necessary. Omzbak understood this now, but when he'd been in a killing frenzy, nothing could get through to him. Like the time they'd captured that enemy pilot, when he'd almost had a mutiny on his hands . . .

"Let's get out of here!" he ordered.

Whatever might be behind the word on the floor, Omzbak knew he was treading on a path of no return. In his mind, he journeyed back to its beginning.

55. Into the Barren

Omzbak was a third generation butcher, highly respected in his village. His meats were top quality, his scales gave honest weight, and his sausages were renowned throughout the district.

Times were difficult now, though. The war had brought a hard edge to everything, and worry was a constant companion. Omzbak was particularly troubled by concern for his son. The boy was approaching military age. All he talked about was running off to join the army, or else finding a partisan unit where he could perform his "patriotic duty."

What could Omzbak say about this? He hated the old government and was among those who welcomed its demise. Things had become intolerable over the past few years as the authorities appropriated more food from the countryside to finance the crash industrialization program. Anyone who resisted went to a labor camp – or worse.

He'd hoped the invaders would liberate them from this yoke. After all, the foreign army hailed from the much admired "Golden West" with its high level of culture and technology – the land of automobiles, stylish clothing, and flush toilets.

The Mag were proving to be cruel masters, however. What was a virile young man like his son to do? What would Omzbak have done during that stage of life?

Omzbak always had a native curiosity, but the small world of his butchering trade had provided little opportunity to indulge it. After the great battle devastated the area south of his village, he could not restrain himself.

He'd never witnessed an act of violence more serious than a tavern brawl. What would the aftermath of such a huge killing rampage look like? Some devilish need to know took hold of him. So, one day he left his son in charge of the shop and journeyed to the wasteland alone.

The moment Omzbak stepped out of the forest and into the Barren, an overpowering sense of dread came over him. The place seemed not of this earth. The vast explosion of hate, violence, and suffering which occurred here had summoned forces of evil from the nether regions.

_All right, you've seen it_ , a voice inside his mind cautioned, _now go back!_

But some evil power had him in its grip, leaving him no more freewill than a side of beef hanging in his store room. He continued walking through the ravaged landscape. The place was void, a null entity. Omzbak's simple vocabulary could not describe the environment, only that it was _wrong_.

Not a single living thing survived around him; a deadly quiet filled the air. Scant evidence remained that a battle had occurred here. The blasted war machines had been hauled away and the corpses removed for burial – at least some of them. Omzbak sensed the presence of others lurking beneath the surface, eager to suck him down into their realm.

That's just my imagination playing tricks – isn't it?

Were he a better educated man, he might have said the battle here had ripped open a portal to another world... but not exactly. More like it had parsed the evil out of the wider reality. The area was a distillation of wickedness.

A donkey had kicked his head when was a young boy, which had left his eyes permanently out of alignment. With both eyes open, his vision was a slightly blurred double image. When using his butchering implements, he always pulled his cap down over one eye so he could see clearly through the other one.

Both his eyes were open now, and they relayed disjointed visions. Ghosts seemed to be observing him on the periphery – fleeting images moving just beyond actual sight. He resisted the urge to pull his cap down. For some perverse reason, he wanted to experience everything the Barren offered.

Then he saw a blurry spot directly ahead, something that shouldn't have been there. He closed one eye and the blur disappeared. He opened both eyes and the blur reappeared.

Go home, you damn fool!

But Omzbak was too fascinated to break off now. He approached the blur, and it vanished. He turned left and took two steps; the blur reappeared. He repeated this oblique process until, by trial and error, he gained the entryway. He took a final step into the Barren's interior . . .

He had no idea how much this trip would influence his future.

56. Day of Horror

Two weeks after his frightening visit to the Barren, Omzbak was again ranging away from home, striding purposefully along a forest trail.

His mission had not been successful, but it was still good to be a strong man in the prime of life, walking in the fresh air. Ordinarily, he'd have brought his son along, but with things the way they were these days, it was better he remain home to watch his mother and the young ones.

The occupation forces were commandeering more food supplies, and good meat was getting hard to find. So, Omzbak had jumped at the opportunity when he learned a farmer from a neighboring village had prime hogs for sale.

When he arrived, however, the hogs had already been requisitioned by the Mag. The poor farmer could only shrug with regret for the profit they'd both lost. There was nothing for Omzbak to do but turn around and go back. There was enough daylight remaining for the 15 kilometer hike.

He did not wish to be out after dark. Curfew aside, bands of guerrilla fighters operated at night. The growing effectiveness of these partisan groups was evidenced by severed telegraph lines, blown up railway tracks, and by the summary executions of enemy collaborators.

Most recently, partisans had attacked the Mag garrison at Railway Junction K, inflicting heavy casualties before melting back into the woods. This bold action had put the whole district on edge.

Omzbak left the forest trail and entered the main road – a dirt track, really, but wide enough for two large carts to travel side by side. He trudged along, entertaining grim thoughts.

When will this damned war end? How can we survive without food? Will my son go off with the partisans?

A strong wind kicked up, rustling the trees. Omzbak was so preoccupied he did not at first notice the armored personnel carrier approaching. It suddenly appeared from around a bend, coming straight toward him like some primordial beast.

For such a monstrous vehicle, it moved quietly. A second machine rounded the bend behind it. Omzbak stepped into the brush alongside the road and faced the intruders. He was certain they'd shoot him in the back if he tried to run.

The first machine passed, nearly brushing against him. He caught a glimpse of a frightening picture on its side – a dark tornado with a skull peering out.

Enemy soldiers shouted abuse in their foul language. One of them aimed his finger at Omzbak like a pistol. He was one of the 'blond heroes' the Mag were so proud of – the racial type that proved their superiority to everyone else in God's creation.

Omzbak would never forget that face and the mocking sneer creasing it. The man was obviously the leader of this gaggle.

"Bang, bang!" the man shouted to the laughter of his comrades.

"This is your lucky day, Pop!" another one yelled in broken slobe.

Omzbak averted his gaze so as not to antagonize the brutes further. After the second APC passed, he looked up. At first he could not comprehend, and when he did, all color drained from his face. Human scalps dangled from the rear of the vehicle.

No!

Omzbak ran toward home, scarcely aware of what was happening, past the point of exhaustion. His heart pounded and legs trembled as they carried his great bulk. His endurance gave out, and he collapsed fainting on the road.

When he came back to consciousness, he saw smoke in the distance, caught the scent of death in it.

No! No!

He began running again, until his heart was ready to burst out of his chest. His extreme efforts brought him to a vision of hell.

The scalped corpse of his son sprawled in the village main street. The other village men lay scattered about, similarly mutilated.

Shock held Omzbak in its grip as he reeled toward the smoking ruin of the storehouse. Lying within it were the charred bodies of his wife and two daughters, along with all the other women and children. A sign nailed to a tree read:

REPRISAL FOR JUNCTION K

Grief and horror convulsed Omzbak. He wrenched his knife from his belt and raised it high, determined to plunge it into his heart and join his loved ones in death.

"Omzbak, no!" somebody wailed. "You must help me avenge them."

Through his tears, Omzbak saw the village cobbler sitting on the ground nearby. The man's face was streaked from weeping, and ashes covered his head. He gestured to the charred bodies among which his own family lay.

"I was sleeping it off in the woods when the Mag came. God damn them! Why didn't they take me instead?"

The cobbler got to his feet, like a dead man rising, and removed the knife from Omzbak's hand. "From now on, I'll get drunk on their blood."

Then Omzbak was moving again, headed toward the Barren with the village cobbler. They descended into the blur which was now their true home. Others would soon join them.

57. Return to ZOD

We follow an arching path so as to avoid partisans. I reckon they will make a beeline to our cabin and do not wish to engage them in a running fight.

Bel agrees, or rather, it's his idea. Bel is the real leader of this expedition, despite his confinement to the cart. He objects to being wheeled along "like a baby," but I want him as fresh as possible when we enter ZOD.

I recognize his authority. He knows more than I do about ground operations – all those books he's read, the combat veterans he's spoken to, his masterful handling of the APC. He is simply more geared for fighting than I am. Service to the Homeland has always been my top motivation, but the joy of conflict is the main thing for Bel. He's got the true killer instinct.

Katella takes his turn with the cart pushing duties. The truce between him and Bel is holding, superseded, even, by a growing respect. Thank God! They confer in low voices as Bel advises Katella about the role of "exterior force commander."

Judging from what Trynka has told us, the partisans will enter the hideout individually or in small groups. Our exterior force is to hide until enough of the partisans have gone in, then ambush the rest. Those who have entered will either stay inside to face our "interior force," or go back out to take on Katella and his crew. In either case, we can attack them from both front and rear.

It seems like a good plan, but experience has taught me even the best plans can disintegrate with amazing speed. The biggest problem is that we don't know how many fighters Omzbak has. Will he appear with more than we can handle? Has he left sentries behind? If Trynka hadn't killed Comrade 19, we might have got some answers to these questions.

I have to stop thinking of Omzbak as an inhuman monster and see him as a cunning, rational leader. I must get inside his head. What would I do in his place?

If my command was falling apart, as Comrade 19 indicated Omzbak's is, then I would be hesitant to leave anybody behind to guard the hideout. They simply couldn't be trusted not to run away. Only the deputy commander might be relied upon, but I'd want him with me so as to help control the others.

Besides, I'd be fairly confident no enemy could find his way into my lair, especially now that the Mag regular forces have retreated. By this line of reasoning, the hideout will be unguarded when we arrive. I know the logic is thin, but it's all I have to go on. It is within the "realm of acceptable risk," as Bel puts it.

Trynka scouts ahead along the trail, leaving me among my countrymen. I can see the fear growing among them, except for Bel who remains his usual enigmatic self. I'd be scared in their place, too, but I feel only a grim sense of purpose, an almost religious zeal for the task ahead. I can be frightened later.

The realization of what the others are doing for me penetrates my self-absorption. Every one of these lads is risking his life to help me win justice for my brother. Were it not for their allegiance to me, they could have surrendered to the army patrol. They might be in a POW camp right now awaiting the prisoner exchange, but they chose this dangerous path, instead.

I feel a burst of love for them all. The final traces of my resentment over the slobe diving incident blow away into the dank forest air. They are my true brothers now. I owe them more than I can ever repay. I brush a tear from my face; thankfully, no one has noticed.

The sun is going down when Trynka returns to us.

"We're here," she says simply, as if announcing our arrival at a church picnic.

"Get rid of this damn cart!" Bel snaps.

While the others are disposing of the cart, Katella and I accompany Trynka to the edge of the woods and peer out to a large open area. I recognize the place. The forlorn wreckage of Y-47 greets me like a specter from the past. Thank God, the courier's body has been removed.

"Ohhh," Katella says, "you were lucky to survive that one, Dye."

"Yes..."

I can't suppress an image of the courier's severed hand dangling from the briefcase chain. I shake my head to dispel the horrid memory.

"Stay here, Katella. I'm going with Trynka for a closer look."

He talks with Trynka. She seems reluctant to leave his side.

"We haven't got time for this," I say. "If we don't all trust each other, nothing's going to get done."

Katella tries to soothe Trynka's concerns. I know – I look a lot like the bastard who killed her mother. How could she not be wary of me? It's time to make a trusting gesture. I pull out the automatic pistol and hand it to Katella.

"Show her how this works. Tell her not to use it without my express order."

"Sure, Dye."

He gives Trynka a brief lesson on the pistol's operation. When he's finished, I present her the extra ammo clip.

"Here's some more punch for you."

Trynka looks at me a long moment. The hostility I'm used to seeing in her eyes has lessened, replaced by something akin to friendliness. She is softer now – quite attractive, really, in the last sun rays – light brown hair, delicate lips, a few tiny freckles scattered about her nose, long eyelashes. I can't help becoming a bit aroused.

Stop that, dammit!

Here I am, in a life and death situation, and all I can think about is hitting on this foreign girl. Well, at least it proves I'm still alive. I exchange my rifle for Katella's submachine gun.

"If anyone comes after us, shoot them on sight."

"Yes, sir."

I turn toward Trynka. "Let's go."

We move across the open area, keeping as low as possible. Trynka is good at this, maneuvering silently through the plant cover. Again, I feel oversized and exposed compared to my stealthy companion. We enter the forest on the far side of the clearing and work our way through the marshy paths.

I know what's beyond these trees, but it's a terrible shock just the same when I view ZOD again. It's just as I remembered – the deathly silence, the overpowering sense of wrong, the sensation the land is moving and standing still at the same time.

Trynka stiffens. She is clearly sharing my emotions about this place. We hunker down in the underbrush. I strain my eyes for the blur, but can't find it in the general void.

"Can you see it?"

Trynka understands my question; she shakes here head.

Many minutes drag past, and we still haven't located the blur. It's getting dark, and the moon is out. We're at an impasse.

A terrible thought creeps into my mind: what if the partisans have no intention of attacking the cabin, what if they're still around? Maybe my basic assumptions are wrong. An icy lump forms in my stomach.

I'm about ready to head back to Katella when a man suddenly materializes out in ZOD, as if from thin air. I practically jump out of my skin. Trynka stifles a cry.

We sink deeper into the underbrush as another man emerges, then another. Soon, there are eight figures standing in the moonbeams. I cannot make out their faces, but the huge figure at their lead can be none other than Omzbak. They head off swiftly in the direction of the woodcutter's cabin.

I am surprised on two counts. First, the location of the entryway seems different from the last time I was here. Trynka was also looking for it in another direction. We were both mistaken, or else the entryway has moved.

Also, I'd assumed Omzbak would leave earlier to take advantage of the last daylight, but he's waited until after dark to commence his raid.

What else am I wrong about?

Trynka grips my arm and speaks awkwardly in our language: "We now go."

I am reluctant to depart. Why didn't I hang onto the rifle? Maybe I could pick Omzbak off from this distance.

Yes, and then what? The others would counter attack on terrain they know much better than we do. We'd be sitting ducks, even if I managed to hit Omzbak, and the muzzle flash would give us away.

Trynka's hand on my arm is oddly pleasant. It's high time to leave.

"Let's get back," I say.

58. Embrace the Blur

We are ready to commence operations.

Bel and Katella have staked out ambush positions for the exterior force while I have, finally, located the hideout entry. I am now able to see the blur for brief periods, wavering in my peripheral vision. I'm not sure if Trynka can see it. I can only hope she will manage to lead us inside.

We have been lucky so far. If only our luck continues!

Beltran is so well recovered that my objection to his leading the exterior force seems unfounded. I don't change the command structure, though. My reasons are purely selfish. I am entering extreme danger, and I want Bel at my side. The fear is taking hold.

"Exterior force is in position, sir," Katella announces. "All present and accounted for."

I peer out over the moonscape. Although I know the locations of Sipren and Grushon, I can see no trace of them, so good is their camouflage.

"Excellent work, Commander. Carry on."

"Yes, sir."

Katella salutes and moves away. Our adherence to military protocol seems peculiar, but it helps take our minds off our growing apprehension. Katella drops to the ground and disappears from view.

Bel nods approvingly. "With any luck, we'll catch those bastards by surprise."

"Right... well," I say, "I suppose it's time we took our own positions."

"Yes, _sir_."

A trace of irony tinges Bel's voice, as if he is mocking our strict formality. How can he keep so calm? Does he think this is a game?

Trynka is to lead me and Bel inside the hideout and familiarize us with the areas she'd seen during her former visit. Then she will go back outside and join the exterior force. If necessary, she will guide them inside as well.

We approach the blur together. I flank Trynka on the left, Bel is on her right. My former self would have objected to this arrangement, insisting that I should hold pride of place on the right side. But I am far beyond such considerations now.

The plan appeared reasonable enough when we discussed it by the light of day. Now, it seems beyond stupid. How can this half-baked scheme possibly work? I bite my tongue to keep from crying out. It's too late for second thoughts.

A powerful vibration under my feet becomes more pronounced. Trynka grips our hands. We enter the blur in the gap between heartbeats. I am immediately disoriented. The ground goes mushy under my feet, and I am no longer certain which way is up or down. Only the strong grip of Trynka's hand keeps me anchored.

The way ahead is a dark smear; we fall into it. A pinpoint of light emerges in front of us, and Trynka makes a sharp turn. We continue our headlong rush until a second point of light appears, another wrenching turn. The violent maneuvers continue until we break into the netherworld . . .

Everything is cockeyed here, tilted at strange angles. Time and space are different; I've stepped into an alternate reality. Panic threatens to choke me. The vibration has reached a maddening intensity. Thank God, Bel is here!

Only he isn't. Through my tunnel vision I can see Trynka gaping at her empty right hand.

"Damn!" she cries in our language.

"Where is he?" I hear the terror rising in my voice.

"You wait."

Then Trynka is gone, leaving me alone in this nightmare world.

59. Strange Obsessions

D _on't panic, Dytran!_ my interior voice cautions.

I want to push it away, give myself over to pure, screaming fright. I don't know where I am; I can't see. Claustrophobic pressure squeezes me in a vise, but there is nothing tangible around me. I clamp my eyes shut and try to will my thundering heart to slow before it bursts.

An unknowable amount of time passes while I struggle to keep my sanity. At last, the roaring in my ears abates, and my heart calms to a more human rhythm. I'm here, wherever that is, and I'm safe. Nobody has attacked me, at least not yet.

When I open my eyes, the world is slightly less bizarre. I'm in a tunnel, I think, though I can't see any walls. The way ahead is blurry, but at least the ground is solid under my feet. I have the sensation I'm not seeing things as they are, but only the shadows of reality.

I'm in the pee cave!

The knowledge hits me a sledgehammer blow, and a new burst of terror assaults me. I whip my submachine gun into combat position, cock the bolt and throw off the safety.

Hold it!

Trynka will soon be returning with Bel – I must believe that. Their sudden appearance could startle me into firing at them. I force myself to lower the gun and click on the safety. I feel naked and exposed to attack from every direction.

This is what you wanted, isn't it?

"No!"

Quiet, you damn fool! Somebody might hear you.

I cower under the admonition like a dog threatened with a belt, but I can't keep a sly little smile off my lips. I've done something bad and have gotten away with it. I'm much too clever to get caught. Papa will never find me with his ham-sized fist.

Papa... he's dead, isn't he? Maybe I'll meet him down here. He can tell me about the time somebody stuck a knife in him when he was guzzling beer. You could say Papa really got the point that day. I wonder how that moment of truth was?

What the hell's wrong with me? My mind is working like a mad man's. I must get a grip on myself – only I don't really want to. I rather enjoy the effect this place is having. It's relieving me of the civilized burdens I've been lugging around my whole life. I deserve a break from these restrictions, don't I?

I devise a poem:

Elegy to the Nether Regions

Here I stand among the dead

Visions squirming in my head

I shall not leave til blood's been spilt

Daggers buried to the hilt!

My inner voice laughs sarcastically. _You sure as hell ain't no poet, Dytran!_

"Shut up!"

All right, I'm leaving.

A cord snaps in my mind, as the final link to the outside world severs. I am truly alone now with this place. Icy panic presses in, then retreats.

I'm feeling more comfortable now. What was I so scared of? It was just unfounded, childish fear – like when I was four and accidentally broke the sugar bowl. I hid in the pantry so Papa wouldn't find me. He never looked, though. He just gave Mama a good smack for being "so damn careless" and leaving out the good china where I could get at it.

That was very bad of her, wasn't it? Papa was right to slap her.

I shake my head to dispel the evil thought. "Come on, Bel. Get here before I lose my mind!"

There is more definition around me now, tiny details visible in peripheral vision. My eyes are adjusting to the surroundings; my brain is shifting. It's like getting used to a dark theater when you enter it during a horror movie.

Is that a large chamber up ahead on the left? Maybe I can find Papa there. He's got some explaining to do. It's time for a father and son chat.

Figures suddenly appear at my side.

"Uh!"

I jerk my machine pistol up and press the trigger. Nothing happens – the safety is on.

Trynka bats the gun barrel aside. "Careful!"

My face burns with shame. I might have killed my best friend, my true brother. Thank God he seems unaware of my stupidity. He looks shell-shocked, just as I must have when I first entered this place. He's still holding onto Trynka's hand.

"Close your eyes, Bel," I say. "It makes things easier."

Bel shuts his eyes tight. He gropes his free hand toward me, and I grasp it with my own. Trembling vibrates up my arm from him. I know exactly what he is experiencing.

Then, sooner than I would have thought possible, the trembling ceases. Strength enters Bel's grip, and his eyes pop open. Wonderment attends his face.

"Ohhh. This place is... weird."

He seems much younger, somehow, like an awestruck kid watching his first magic show. For a moment, I glimpse the person he might have become had not harsh circumstances intervened – the abandonment, the orphan homes, this terrible war.

To my feverish mind, Trynka seems the embodiment of all that is feminine and nurturing. I want her to enfold Bel in her arms and make his pain disappear.

This is only a fantasy. The real Trynka is hard and determined – a woman of ice. She presses a finger to her lips and begins walking. Bel and I follow.

# Nine: ZOD

60. Return of the Avengers

As the partisan band made its way back to the hideout, two of its members melted away into the woods. Omzbak detected their absence almost immediately, and so did Number 1.

"Should I go after them, Chief?" Number 1 asked.

His face glowed with the lust to kill. Omzbak knew this look well, but he reasoned that more of his shrunken band would desert if he tried to punish the traitors.

"Forget it," he said, "just keep a close eye on the rest."

"Aye, sir." Disappointment tainted Number 1's voice.

The men continued through the moonlight and the ground-hugging mist, like ghouls returning from a night of robbing graves. The ghosts of all those Omzbak had slaughtered lurked in these haunted woods.

He cocked his machine pistol with maximum noise. The others could not fail to hear it and think twice if they were considering their own escapes.

Omzbak's thoughts turned toward the recent series of strange events. Were they all just coincidences, or were they related somehow?

First came the shot-down plane with its dead courier. The pilot had escaped with the secret papers. They should have tracked him down, but the artillery barrage intervened.

Besides, it was not so easy to go about in daylight any longer. Mag patrols notwithstanding, the Avengers had made enemies among the local population. Some disgruntled farmer might have reported their presence to the invaders.

Then there was the commando raid two days later. Had the Avengers not managed to slither back into their hideout, they could have all been killed. Omzbak himself had stopped a bullet for the first time in his partisan career.

Worst of all, he'd failed to get the commando leader. Omzbak could have sworn it was the same man who'd pointed his finger at him two years ago. The man who dangled human scalps from his vehicles, the one who had murdered Omzbak's family.

Omzbak would have traded his soul to punish that beast, but this was a foolhardy notion. His soul had gone to the devil long before.

The closest he'd come to exacting revenge was the time that Mag fighter pilot parachuted down. Omzbak went insane and could scarcely remember what he'd done to the poor bastard.

Afterwards, when the darkness lifted from his mind, the mangled corpse and the blood splattered over himself told the story. That and the evil leer of Number 1 who was also covered with blood.

"This will bring a curse upon you, Omzbak!" Comrade 19 proclaimed.

Maybe it had. At least, it got him in trouble with the main partisan command. He'd violated their strict rules – high-value prisoners were to be traded for as many captured partisans or regular soldiers as possible. Due to their massive casualty rate, the Mag were desperate to get back elite personnel.

The regional commander sent people to arrest him, but Omzbak escaped their clutches. Somehow he kept his band together, despite their condemnation of his actions.

High command soon turned its attention elsewhere. Planning for the great offensive had taken urgent priority. Who had time to worry about some minor leader's infractions?

Omzbak regretted the whole episode, but what could he do about it now? Since the destruction of his family, he was only a shell of his former self – a hollow man stuffed with hate. It would soon be time to leave this painful world, he hoped.

61. First Blood

Trynka leads us into a large chamber. The hair braid running down her back swings as she walks. I focus upon it to keep my mind from being pulled away.

At least, the chamber seems big. For all I know, the place could be anything from living room to concert hall size. She halts and motions us back, practically shoving us away. A rock outcrop appears by us. Bel and I wedge ourselves behind it.

I hear a man's voice, loud and challenging, and my heart leaps into my throat. I try to peer around the boulder. Bel yanks me back.

"Stay here."

Trynka answers the voice; her own is small and frightened, like a young child's. I know her well enough to recognize the effect is bogus. The male voice barks again. Trynka makes a trembling reply.

"They know each other," Bel whispers.

My perceptions are divided, as if my eyes are operating on different planes. To one part of my awareness, I am firmly concealed with only drab rock in front of me. With another part, I can see Trynka standing out in the open. The effect is dreamlike.

A man approaches her. No... he materializes right next to Trynka, like a genii popping out of a bottle. Bel grips my arm tighter, willing me to silence.

The man is a gaunt, hardened figure with a rat-like face. He's pointing a machine pistol at Trynka who has raised her hands in surrender.

Trynka nods toward her hip pocket. The man withdraws the little automatic pistol from it and tucks it into his own pocket. Then he pats her down with his free hand, all the while keeping his gun aimed at her heart. He seems to enjoy the search, judging by his crafty leer. He finds the extra ammo clip and adds it to his booty.

My finger twitches on the submachine gun trigger. If only I could get a clear shot!

The man slings his gun over his shoulder and yanks Trynka toward him. His hands rip at her shirt. Trynka makes no sound, but her eyes blaze with hate. She tries to push him back.

Then it isn't Trynka and some partisan struggling in the murk – it's Mama and Papa. He's tearing off her clothes. He's going to kill her, and Stilikan isn't here to stop him.

"Now," Bel says.

I move out from behind the stone. The pair is scarcely two meters away.

"Hey, you!"

Papa gapes with astonishment. His mouth pops open, but I'm in no mood for conversation. My gun speaks for me.

Blam-Blam-Blam!

The burst strikes his chest. Mama is holding onto him, though, and he doesn't go down. Then she pushes him away. My second burst knocks him flat.

The wrath of God courses through my veins. I stride to the fallen man and fire the rest of the clip into him. The body jerks under the impact of multiple hits. Uproarious laughter fills my ears.

"Stop!" somebody shouts.

Who is that fool yelling at me? The world turns into a narrow, black tunnel. The gun is hot in my hands. I yank out the spent clip and shove in another. I prepare to start blasting again.

A sharp impact on my chin; I tumble backwards –

Next thing I know, I'm lying on the ground with Bel towering above. Trynka is shouting at him. She lowers herself beside me and takes my head in her arms. She utters soothing words.

"I-I'm sorry, Dye," Bel says. "I had to do something... you went nuts."

He looks away, ashamed.

"That's twice you've popped me, Bel. I'm beginning to take it personal."

Trynka starts to admonish him again.

"Just help me up, please," I say.

She assists me to my feet. The madness has passed, and I can think more clearly. I'm back to reality – whatever that means in this bizarre place.

The partisan is a bullet-riddled mess. The sight does not bother me at all. I feel detached, as if somebody else is responsible for the carnage. Trynka relieves him of his weapons. The automatic pistol is smeared with blood, as it was when I first took it from the courier. That thing sure gets around, like a whore at a convention of NSP big shots.

"Who is this bastard?" I ask.

Trynka spits on the corpse. "He worked on our farm. He's one of the men who betrayed Papa." She turns toward me. "You did well, Dytran. Thank you."

"Sure thing, you're most welcome."

My reply is absurd. I'm grateful Bel does not translate it.

"I've shown you everything I know down here," Trynka says. "I must get back to the others."

"Very well, carry on," I say.

We follow her back the way we came until we reach a dim, circular glow in the murkiness. It flashes at slow intervals.

"Exit when the light is strongest," Trynka says. "Move quickly, straight ahead. Close your eyes if necessary."

"Will do," I say.

She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses my cheek. I couldn't be more surprised if the dead partisan got up and embraced me. She pulls away and gives me the oddest look – a mixture of awe, fear, and I'd almost say... love.

She becomes all business again. "Farewell, comrades. May God see you through these perils."

She composes herself and steps toward the glow as it reaches maximum brightness. She is instantly gone, as if she never existed. Quiet settles over our subterranean world like a burial shroud. Bel lifts it.

"We should get out of here, too," he says.

I spin on him. "No way in hell! Papa... I mean... Omzbak hasn't showed up yet."

Bel shakes his head. He's got his hands on his hips and is wearing his most steadfast expression. His thrust-out chin dares me to take a swing at it. Maybe I will.

"You're going around the bend, Dye. Is this worth losing your mind over?"

"Who are you to say that? Where were you when Stilikan took Papa down? He was just a skinny kid, and he had to fight for all of us."

"What are you talking about? It's me – Beltran, your squadron mate. Don't you know me?"

"Of course. You ran over Piotra. What did he ever do to you, anyway?"

"Oh, my God." He looks very tired, smaller. "I don't know what this place is. It was a mistake to come here."

I'm still angry, but hold myself back. Could there be something to this?

"We've jumped out of one trap into something worse," he says. "Remember when I told you about the vibration, just before the offensive?"

"What about it?"

"It was coming from _here_ , Dye. This is an evil place."

"Nonsense! You seem normal. You're not 'going around the bend,' are you?"

I begin walking back toward the great chamber.

"It's because I don't want anything here," Bel calls after me. "It can't get a hold on me – yet."

I spin around. "What _do_ you want, Bel?"

"I want us to survive. Trust me, please."

"No way! You want to know what I think?"

"You think too much, Dye; you see too much. Let's get the hell out."

_You think too much_ – that's what Stilikan used to tell me.

I can't believe it! In place of the dark, glowering lad, it's Stilikan standing back by the lighted circle. He's proud and strong in his blue uniform. His face wears a smile of great sadness. He's holding out his hand.

"Come with me," he says.

I take a step toward him. "W-wait, please..."

Muffled sounds penetrate from outside. Gun shots.

62. Parting of the Ways

Omzbak and his men entered the clearing with its crashed enemy aircraft. Moonlight glittered on the wreckage and stabbed into his eye.

It was an unpleasant sensation, as everything up here had come to be. Omzbak longed for the sympathetic embrace of the hideout, his true home. The wound in his thigh ached furiously.

They navigated through the patch of marshy woodland and came out by the edge of the Barren. Even after two years of coming here, Omzbak felt a thrill of dread shiver up his spine. He repositioned his cap so it no longer covered one eye and stared out into the void. Several seconds passed.

"Something wrong, Chief?" Number 1 asked.

"The entryway. It's moved again."

Number 1 cursed under his breath. "It's been hardly a week."

Shifts in the entryway's location were happening more frequently, as if the Barren was reshaping itself, somehow. Months used to pass without any changes. What this could mean was beyond Omzbak's power to imagine.

"Come on," he ordered.

As they moved along the periphery of the woods, Omzbak kept a sharp lookout over the Barren's surface. He scanned the same areas repeatedly, hoping to see some indication of the tell-tale blur, but the vista remained stubbornly blank. The men around him shuffled their feet in the darkness and exchanged glances.

Then – "Over there. I see it."

The entryway had indeed moved. It was now fifty or sixty meters from where it had been earlier tonight. Omzbak led his men along the edge of the forest and maneuvered as close to the entryway as possible. Then he brought them out onto the inhospitable ground, blackened and rough, as if charred by hellfire. The moment he left the woods, he felt the steady throb of the Barren's power vibrating through his boot soles.

When they were almost at the entryway, Comrade 23 spoke. "I won't be going in with you, Chief."

"What?"

Omzbak spun around and took threatening steps toward the man until they were face to face. Comrade 23 stood unmoving, machine pistol at the ready. He was even taller than Omzbak, though extremely thin.

"That goes for me, too, Chief," a second man said.

"Me, too," said another.

Four of Omzbak's men now stood together against him. Only Number 1 remained on his side.

"Nothing against you, Chief," Comrade 23 said, "but the war's over for us."

"Yes," another man said. "We did our share."

Omzbak surveyed the grim, silent wall of men facing him. They were all ready to fight, so a violent response would be suicidal.

"You should get inside, Chief," Comrade 23 said, "before things get nasty."

Omzbak knew he was beaten, but he couldn't resist a parting shot. "You think it's that easy, just walk away? Remember what happened to Comrade 19."

"Whoever did that is long gone," Comrade 23 said. "Besides, there'll be four of us looking out for each other."

"Really?" Omzbak gestured toward the surrounding darkness. "You must have _lots_ of friends out there, huh?"

"We aim to find that out for ourselves," Comrade 23 said.

He took a step forward and thrust his face into Omzbak's, his eyes blazing. Omzbak jerked back.

A bullet struck Comrade 23 in the temple, splattering blood and brains. An instant later, the sound of a gunshot arrived.

"Get down!" Omzbak shouted.

Comrade 23's body had barely hit the ground before the others joined it in the dirt. Off in the distance, Omzbak spotted four figures coming toward them. His tactical mind made rapid calculations. The approaching enemy did not have the fluid, practiced movement of experienced troops. They were amateurs.

"You three, go flank them on their left," he commanded.

The men, who moments before were defying him, instantly obeyed, making their way back toward the tree line.

"What about us, Chief?" Number 1 asked.

"We go inside."

Number 1 barked a malicious laugh. "Yes! Let them go meet their 'friends.'"

Automatic weapons fire punctuated the night, along with the sharp report of a rifle. Muzzle flashes joined the star glimmer. Omzbak scrambled to his feet.

"Let's go!"

He led the way into the blur.

63. Invasion

"Back to the room!" Stilikan cries.

"W-why?" I ask. "I thought you were taking me home."

Stilikan grabs my arm and pulls me along. No... it's actually Bel giving me orders.

"I'll have you know _I'm_ in command here," I protest.

"Shut up, or I'll pop you again!"

We're almost back to the big room when Bel dives to the ground, taking me with him. We peer back toward the way we'd come.

Two figures materialize at the flashing light. I cannot make out their faces. One is of medium height, and thin. The other, with its towering bulk, leaves no doubt as to who it is – Omzbak!

I leap up. "Hey!"

The submachine gun barks in my hands, spraying a torrent of death toward the intruders. Something's wrong. The men should have fallen, but they are unharmed.

"Get down!"

Bel drags me to the floor and rolls with me behind an outcrop. Bullets come our direction, but are absorbed by the stone with dull thuds. I shove a fresh ammo clip into my gun but hold my fire. There's nothing to shoot at.

A dead silence sets in. The explosions have cleared my thinking.

"How the hell did I miss them?"

"I don't know. They looked like sitting ducks."

It's a baffling mystery. I'm aware my own perceptions may not be reliable, but Bel was also deceived. His face is hard and alert, his eyes are sharp. He doesn't have the look of someone given to hysterics.

The truth dawns. They weren't hit because they weren't really there. This is the pee cave where we see only the shadows of things. So, while I wasted ammunition blasting at phantoms, the real men were someplace else preparing to take us out.

The enemy does not suffer from such illusions. He's had a long time to familiarize himself with the deceptions of this place.

Yet again, Bel has saved me from ruin.

"Where are they?" he says. "Can you see them?"

The passageway is indistinct, blurred. There seem to be many rock projections and indents where the enemy might be hiding.

"It's an illusion," I say. "They aren't where they seem to be."

"I figured something like that."

Three figures materialize by the flashing light.

"Damn!" Bel snarls.

Then we can see who the newcomers are – Trynka, Katella, and Sipren. We shout a warning.

"Look out!"

The three drop down as a hail of bullets comes at them. Bel and I shoot back, aiming as best we can at the origin of the gunfire. A deadly fight takes place over the heads of our comrades.

"This way!" I shout.

They crawl toward us. Trynka and Sipren drag Katella between them. At last, the enemy ceases firing. We pull our comrades behind the outcrop.

Katella has been slain. A smear of blood trails his body, and numerous bullet wounds cover him. Sipren's face is ashen; Trynka is crying wildly.

"Katella! Katella!" she wails.

I wrap an arm around Trynka and try to console her. Her tears soak my shoulder. My own anguish threatens to overwhelm me – Katella, dead! My oldest comrade taken from me. I feel weak, unmanned.

You'll all die if you aren't strong. Snap out of it!

Grief is a luxury we can't afford now. I grab Sipren with my free hand and shake him hard. "What happened out there?"

"T-they got Grushon. They just... opened him up like a ripe watermelon."

Another stab of anguish assaults me. My stomach heaves at this awful description, and I try to avert my eyes from the even more awful reality lying nearby.

"Did you get any of them?"

"Katella shot one at long range... the entryway moved," Sipren says. "He tried to get the leader but hit another one instead. The others ran off after they killed..."

His eyes stare into distant horrors. I can't press him further, he's on the verge of collapse.

"It's all right now," I say. "Settle back and close your eyes."

Trynka's sobbing has lessened. Bel murmurs soothing words to her in the slobe language. Quiet settles onto our nightmare world. My comrades have brought the sniper rifle. I grip its cold lethality and peer out to the unknown.

"I'll avenge you, boys. Count on that."

64. The Flameless Hell

Matters settle into a grim deadlock. The enemy is content to wait and let the environment grind us down.

His strategy is working. Sipren is devastated, gazing off into space and refusing to talk. Trynka is prostrate with grief. The loss of our comrades presses on our hearts.

A more than physical exhaustion drags us down. It's a mental and spiritual disorientation. We are so stressed by our surroundings that we are wearing out. This will eventually have fatal consequences. The Enemy does not suffer from such limitations, at least not as much. This is his domain.

That second man must be the deputy commander. Who else would stick with Omzbak after the others ran off? I force myself to regard them as a depersonalized foe. If I think of them as the murderers of Stilikan, I'll lose my head and do something foolish.

Only Bel looks rock solid, but even he is having trouble keeping alert. He constantly blinks his eyes and shakes his head, fiddling needlessly with his gun.

I shift position on the rock floor. "We have to stay sharp."

"Agreed," Bel says. "It's getting tough, though."

"Where do you think they're hiding?"

He gestures to our right. "Judging by the direction of their gunfire, somewhere over that way."

The area was once little more than a vague blur; now it has more detail. Everything around us is coming into more focus.

This isn't a separate passageway, as I'd first thought. We're in a large, spherical space around which there are many niches, ledges, and outcroppings. Jagged stalagmites, some as high as four or five meters, thrust themselves upward in places.

A sick, yellow glow of unknown origin illuminates this place. The ceiling is indistinct. The overall impression is savage, horrid – a vision of Hell without the flames.

"There must be some way to outflank them," I say. "I'll look for it when my vision improves more."

"Go whenever you're ready, Eagle-eye."

The sound of that shared nickname makes me flinch, but I push the association aside. That scum who murdered the slobe boy is nothing like me. I have to be ice cold. No distractions.

My eyes continue to adjust, and I can make out our surroundings better. I can see Katella's body well enough. Someone has pulled his jacket over his face, and Trynka clings to him. Quiet sobs wrack her own body.

A hot stab of guilt penetrates my ice. Katella was my wingman, my oldest and most faithful comrade. He'd backed me against the whole squadron, even though severely injured. Yet I'd grown distant from him, taken him for granted. My relationship with Bel had seemed more interesting and important.

Why did he have to die like this before I could tell him how much I valued his loyalty and friendship? As is so often the case, Bel reads my thoughts.

"I miss him, too," he says. "I'm glad we finally became friends."

A need for self-punishment oppresses me. "Look what's happened. I didn't want any of this."

"Who does?"

"Everything is my fault."

"We all volunteered," Bel says. "You didn't force anybody."

"But the losses!"

"What did you expect during a war, Dye?"

"The war's over. We could have surrendered to that army patrol back in the forest. We could be waiting for the POW exchange right now."

Bel gives me an irritated look. "Perhaps. Or they might have shot us on the spot. Have you considered that?"

"Well, no..."

"Let's finish what we came here to do and get the hell out."

One thing about Bel, he never helps you feel sorry for yourself. He looks off into the distance, signaling the end of our conversation.

More time passes. Who can say how long? Time moves differently down here. The _Malaise_ , as I've come to call it, makes further inroads. My mental processes are slowing down. If I don't get moving soon, I'll become totally immobilized.

I hand Bel my submachine gun.

"Take care of this for me." I seize the rifle. "I'm going."

"We'll cover you from here."

I crawl away from our enclosure, half expecting a hail of bullets to greet me, but nothing happens. Rifle cradled in my arms, I maneuver to the next outcrop, then on to another. I'm not far from our position, but can no longer see it. Or maybe I could see it but am looking the wrong direction.

Everything is a lie here. You have to look beneath the surface to see the real things. That being the case, I should not head off to our right, as logic dictates, but follow a leftward path. I dodge between the outcrops and stalagmites, keeping a sharp eye out for the Enemy.

The ground rises. Then I'm walking on a broad ledge with sheer rock face on one side and a panorama of the Flameless Hell on the other. Cover is abundant on my ledge, and I make good use of it, hunched over in my stealthy progress.

My sense of direction, usually quite good, is of little help. But I'm developing another sense of navigation exclusive to this domain. I continue on, trusting to luck and intuition.

The high path takes me round and round. Vertigo threatens. I've given up any attempt at logic and rely solely on my 'Ghostie' eyes to see me through. The Flameless Hell attempts to amuse itself with my mind. Fearsome images intrude – Papa, Eagle Eye, the severed hand – but I let them pass like water through a sieve.

The rifle is solid and true in my hands. I grasp it tight, as if holding onto my very soul. Progress is slow and torturous. I can no longer sense my comrades' presence. I am adrift in an alien world.

Just as I am about to give up hope... the Enemy appears. Below me, perhaps 75 meters away – but who can judge distances in this place with any confidence?

I can only see one man, the deputy commander. Black hatred surges in my heart. My teeth grind so hard they seem about to shatter.

Forget all that – ice cold!

Where's Omzbak? Perhaps he is resting from his round trip to the cabin. Maybe he's lying somewhere out of sight. If I wait long enough, he should appear.

But I can't wait. The Malaise is draining my energy by the moment. In this confusing atmosphere, the chances of hitting my target are poor, later they will be nonexistent. Another thought intrudes: What if Omzbak isn't there at all but is sneaking up on our position?

There's no time to squander. Through my rifle scope, I can see the deputy leaning against the rocks of their little fortress, arms crossed over his chest. He's in the crosshairs; this should be an easy shot.

Then I pause. The last time seemed like an easy shot, too. Is the man really there, or is he someplace else? I rely solely on instinct and let my rifle shift position as it will. The man disappears from the crosshairs.

Images of Stilikan flash through my mind. He's running in the field of spring flowers, battling with Papa, flying his fighter plane. A little-boy voice assures him: _"If anybody ever hurts you, I'll chase them down and smash them!"_

My finger tenses on the trigger.

* * *

Number 1 waited eagerly for the order to attack, aching for more Mag blood on his hands. But the Chief had ordered a delay.

"We'll give them time to stew in their own juice," he'd said. "They'll fade soon enough; then we'll jump them."

The Chief had then lain down to rest his injured leg and had left him to stand watch. Despite his impatience, Number 1 knew this strategy was sound. He was well aware of the exhaustion and bewilderment the hideout imposed on people when they first entered. He'd experienced these symptoms when he and the Chief had sought refuge here.

His mind journeyed back to the events which brought him to this strange place . . .

He'd been carousing in another town. There'd been a riotous dice game, free-flowing alcohol, and a disgraceful tryst with the tavern girl. Then his stumbling progress through the night until he collapsed in the woods amid a drunken stupor.

The next morning, he returned shame-faced to his village, fearing a tongue lashing from his wife. Instead, he found the unspeakable slaughter. He would never forgive himself. He'd taken a good woman for granted, and his three wonderful children, as well.

But all those family responsibilities held him back from the life of excitement he craved. The frustration drove his constant drinking – or so he'd told himself.

Well, he was getting plenty of excitement now, wasn't he? He'd trade all of it just to glimpse his precious family once again. So vivid was his longing, that his loved ones appeared before him, wavering in the dim light. Joyful tears sprang from his eyes.

A bullet struck his chest.

His final thought: _I'm coming!_

65. Pursuit

My rifle shouts like the voice of God on judgment day. The man tumbles over.

Yes!

The Malaise vanishes amid a burst of triumph. Joy surges through me.

Get out here, Omzbak. You're next.

He appears, rolling along the ground. I shoot and miss. I fire again, but Omzbak is up now, retreating into the dimness. Below me, all turns into swirling chaos.

Bel's voice dominates. "Over there! He's getting away!"

He rushes across the hellscape firing bursts from his machine pistol. Trynka accompanies him, howling a battle cry. Sipren runs with the others.

I descend from my ledge and follow them. Sooner than seemed possible, I'm standing with my comrades beside the man I have shot. His face wears a rapturous expression, as if death was a delightful experience.

"Pig!" Trynka spits on the corpse.

So, I have struck down one of Stilikan's murderers. I feel oddly unfulfilled. Maybe it's that grin on the man's face, mocking my achievement.

Bel gestures toward the left. "Omzbak went that way."

"Uh-huh."

I can't take my eyes off the dead man. Here is the second enemy I've killed – unless you count all those children burned to ashes by the death orders I delivered in my plane.

"Come on, Dye!" Bel's voice snaps at me. "You've got to lead us."

Bel's fierce glower matches the red NSP eagle on his jacket. Trynka's eyes blaze with hatred. Even Sipren is animated and determined. Something in the periphery grabs my attention – Omzbak, moving on the ledge.

"Follow me!"

* * *

Fear seized Omzbak, dragging him along with its bony hands. This surprised him, as fear was among the things that seemed to have died on that horrible day two years ago.

An enemy of astonishing capabilities pursued him, one who could see well enough down here to pick off Number 1 with a single shot – that tall blond kid. Omzbak cursed himself for underestimating his opponent.

A gnawing curiosity accompanied the fear. Who were these people, and how did they get in? He knew one of them was a girl. Why would she come here?

The memory of a farmhouse they'd once raided clicked in his mind. A young boy and an older girl were present when they'd apprehended the collaborator. Comrade 19 had to get rough with the mother when she'd tried to intervene.

That must be who the girl was. She'd settled the score with Comrade 19 and learned from her how to penetrate the hideout. What motivated those Mag punks to throw in with her, though? The usual way those bastards treated local girls was to rape and then shoot them.

Dread coursed up Omzbak's spine. He'd not gotten a close look at the enemy, but that blond one seemed familiar, somehow. No... he was just another Mag vermin. Or maybe he was somebody Omzbak didn't want to recall. No matter, all of the intruders would meet their demise soon.

Omzbak regretted the loss of his deputy commander. He'd seen the look on Number's 1's dead face, though, and he envied it.

* * *

We move along a wide ledge with jagged cliff face on our left and sheer drop offs to our right. I catch glimpses of Omzbak ahead. He's moving with some difficulty, favoring one leg. Despite this handicap, he maintains his lead.

He turns and fires a burst from his submachine gun.

"Get down!"

We sprawl on the rocky surface.

"Is everyone all right?" I ask.

"Yes," Bel says. "We're out of effective range."

"Well, he isn't."

I fire twice with my rifle; the bullets ricochet off the rocks. Omzbak is taking good advantage of the natural cover.

"Save the ammo," Bel says.

Who is this man I'm trying to kill? I have chased him into the bowels of the earth, risking my own life and expending those of my comrades. He's taken on nearly superhuman dimensions, a perverse force of nature. Yet, he seems pathetic, trying to escape our vengeance on his game leg.

There is no room for pity in my heart, though. He's the man who murdered Stilikan; that's all I need to know. Once I have finished with him, God can sort out the mysteries.

The ledge abruptly narrows, leaving space for only a single person to cross. This narrowing runs about 25 meters. Beyond it, I can see Omzbak scrambling away.

"I'll go first," Bel says. "Cover me from here, Dye."

"Alright."

Bel ventures alone onto the ledge, crouching low, submachine gun at the ready. He reaches the other side and takes up position behind an outcrop.

I motion toward Trynka. "You next."

Moving with the grace of a mountain cat, Trynka makes her way rapidly across and joins Bel.

Color drains from Sipren's face as he scopes the way ahead. His lower lip trembles. I think to order him to remain behind, but he gathers his pluck and ventures onto the ledge. Then he, too, is across.

Now it's my turn – the last one, just as it was at the river crossing. Fear and paranoia assault me as I step onto the narrow shelf. I try to ignore them, but they worm into my skull with terrible persistence.

What if Omzbak _does_ have a long-range weapon stashed up there? What if he's drawing a bead on me right this instant? Why didn't I send my rifle ahead with Trynka? At least my comrades might be able to cover for me.

From inside my airplane cockpit, great altitudes do not disturb me at all, but here, with the abyss yawning close by, I'm terrified. A stone tumbles underfoot and my heart stops dead. I grip the rock face for dear life, feel its cold against my cheek, taste its foul saltiness.

"Keep going, Dye!" Bel shouts. "Just a few more meters."

This place is screwing with my mind. I could handle this situation better in the normal world. What if there's another partisan lurking behind us in the shadows? I dare not look back.

Perhaps the man with the smile isn't dead, after all – maybe he's back there, lust for revenge burning in his shattered heart. Then Bel has a firm hand on my arm and pulls me onto the wider trail. My fears abate.

"Let's go," I say.

Omzbak is farther ahead now, but I can still see his figure in the distance. I pick up the pace, more confident in my own abilities and eager to make up for my poor showing on the ledge. The gap widens between myself and my comrades.

I cannot gauge the passage of time or distance, but the way is easier now. The path widens and slopes downhill. I force myself to slow down a bit.

Then I come to an abrupt halt. Ahead, the trail descends into the opening of a cave or tunnel. The orifice gapes like the toothless mouth of an old witch. It is, perhaps, three or four meters across. It appears high enough for a tall man to enter unbowed.

Omzbak moves toward the opening and is instantaneously gone, as if he's been plucked from existence. I run as close to this opening as I dare, then crouch behind an outcrop to await my comrades.

66. Dissension

The vibration that permeates this domain is much stronger here, a beckoning, demonic voice originating from the cavity ahead. It seeks to capture my mind.

This increased energy brings more light. The area is filled with green-tinted illumination bright enough to read under. I shudder to be alone in its presence and am greatly relieved when my companions arrive.

"What the hell are you doing?" Bel says by way of greeting. "We could have broke our necks back there. We can't see as well as you."

"Sorry, it won't happen again."

"Yes, well..."

Bel takes in the ghastly vista ahead. The Entryway gapes at us like the maw of damnation. A reddish glow within it flickers and sparks.

"What is that place?" he says in an awe-struck whisper.

"I don't know. Omzbak went in."

Evil vibrates the air, intimidating us. Trynka has lost her mask of hatred. Without it, her face is childlike and frightened.

Sipren is on the edge of panic. "I'm not going in there!"

"You don't have to," I say. "Stay put."

"Let's get out. This place is sick."

"Stay calm," Bel says. "We're all with you."

Sipren falls silent, but his eyes remain wild and fearful.

Bel leans close and speaks in a low voice. "He's right, Dye."

The remark is a cold slap. "That doesn't sound at all like you, Bel. What happened to the fearless leader?"

"Maybe I've learned a few things."

"Like what?"

He glances at Sipren, then back at me.

"Our lives are precious. If we're to die, it must be for a better reason than this." He gestures toward the entry. "Leave that savage in there alone."

"We'd get caught outside. They'll likely shoot us – you said so yourself."

"It's a chance worth taking. It's a chance _you_ need to take, Dye, before you go over the edge."

Who does he think he is, speaking to me like that? But I also know he's talking sense. Trynka has figured things out. She grabs my arm.

"No!" She points ahead. "That way."

"Give it up Dye," Bel says. "It's not worth it."

Omzbak is tantalizingly close. If I can keep going a bit longer, I can get him! Another part of me knows that Bel is right. Trynka grips my arm tighter and penetrates me with a fiery gaze. Indecision gnaws at me.

"We can't turn our backs on him," I say. "He could be waiting just inside there, ready to come after us."

Bel pulls the stick grenade off his belt. "Let's leave him a calling card, then."

"Give me that," I say. "I can throw farther than you."

"The hell you can."

"Don't argue. Just give me the damn thing!"

I hold out my hand. Bel glowers for a moment, then slaps the grenade into it.

"Have it your way, _Commander_."

Unbelievable. After all that's happened we're still engaged in a stupid power struggle. But I have no wish to dominate Bel. I only want to spare him from a dangerous undertaking that is rightfully mine.

The grenade feels odd in my hand, like a lethal toy. I can understand why it's dubbed a 'potato masher.' A thin metal canister contains the explosives. It kills by percussion rather than shrapnel.

I look off toward the entry. It's too far away to reach from here, but an outcrop ahead might be close enough.

"I'm going over there. Cover me."

"Right." Bel readies his machine pistol and nudges Sipren hard. "Make yourself useful."

My comrades train their weapons on the maw. At the first shots, I begin running like a madman.

The objective seems impossibly distant, stretching farther away with each step. Every moment, I fear an answering burst of gunfire will cut me down. Finally, I reach the outcrop and dive headfirst behind it.

The racket of gunfire ceases; my pounding heart takes up the slack. To my utter amazement, Trynka is crouching beside me.

"What are you doing here?"

She gives me a defiant look, and I realize any reprimand is useless. Do I expect her to dash back the way we just came?

I unscrew the bottom cap of the stick grenade. A white, ceramic ball drops out with a cord tied through it. The thing seems fantastically out of place in this bizarre environment.

It looks like the chain pull of our old parlor lamp, the one with the frilly shade that stood beside Mama's chair. I remember her doing crochet work in that chair, adjusting the lampshade to get the best illumination. Once, when I was quite young –

"Well?" Trynka's voice interrupts.

I crash back from my recollections. "Cover me."

I yank the cord. At the other end of the stick, a fuse sets into motion. I stand up to the accompanying roar of gunfire from my comrades and throw the grenade with all my might.

The thing spins end over end. I drop down beside Trynka.

BOOM!

The explosion seems to be coming from far away, in a different world. It gathers power – another explosion, and another. Flames belch out of the maw and tumble toward us like an ocean wave, accompanied by a ghastly shriek. The sound freezes the marrow in my bones.

Trynka begins to scream; we are all screaming. Then silence, except for the sparking and hissing at the entryway.

Sipren springs to his feet. "Let me out!"

He starts running back the way we came. Bel tries to tackle him but fails.

Stilikan is calling from inside the maw, urging me on to blood vengeance. Trynka hears a similar appeal from her slain father. Bel and Sipren are of another world. They have served loyally and must now be released. The last doubts vanish from my mind.

"Take him out of here, Bel! Make good your own escape."

Bel is on his feet, crouching behind the rocks. "Come with us."

"No! Get going. That's an order."

Bel looks off toward the fleeing Sipren, then back at me. Rage contorts his face.

"I'll do that. Damn you!"

Then he's gone. I look toward Trynka. We two are, indeed, the damned. The road to salvation is not open for us. I pull a fragmentation grenade from my pack.

"Come on."

We run toward the hole, zigzagging to confuse any gunfire coming our way – none does. Trynka fires short bursts from her machine pistol to cover our progress. I yank the pin out of the grenade, keeping a firm grip on the safely lever.

When I am within throwing range, I hurl my grenade and pitch myself forward onto the ground. Trynka dives down as well; we roll behind some rocks.

The grenade detonates. I fear that more flames will wash over us, but nothing comes out of the entryway. It is silent as a tomb.

67. Into the Abyss

Omzbak stumbled away to nurse his injuries.

The blast from the first enemy grenade had ignited the air, sending a sheet of flame roaring over him and inflicting painful burns. The flames also detonated the booby traps he'd set. The explosions, magnified by the fire's power, had shattered one ear drum and partially blinded him in one eye.

His insides felt twisted and bruised. They might stop functioning any moment, leaving him dead as a slaughtered hog. He had difficulty breathing, and mortality puffed its own frigid breath down his neck. He coughed, spitting out a bloody glob.

Curse those Mag! Who was that blond one – the expert sniper and grenadier? He had the devil inside him.

_You know who he is_ , said a voice inside his feverish brain, but Omzbak did not want to listen.

He still had two grenades and extra ammo clips. Victory was not yet impossible. He moved deeper into the Final Zone, toward the horror at its center. Should his enemies follow... God help them.

* * *

We enter a sinister world of negation. This side of the maw has less of everything – sound, color, substance – as if somebody has rubbed an eraser over the place. The light is dry and brittle, as is the air. We almost seem to be moving in two dimensions, comic strip figures.

The immediate area is blackened and charred. There is no sign of Omzbak, except for some bloody sputum on the ground. I regard it with satisfaction. So, the bastard _was_ waiting here to ambush us – and he's injured. I have finally struck a blow against Stilikan's prime murderer.

No, I must not think of Stilikan until final justice has been done. Trynka is much too close. She's almost nestled against me, making us a prefect target.

"Move back."

She obediently does so, leaving the point position to me alone. We move cautiously ahead, guns at the ready. I keep my eyes peeled for any sign of Omzbak, but I know he's not around.

I'm gaining a sixth sense down here, maybe more than six. A darkness is entering my spirit, shutting some things down but also bringing increased awareness. It's the darkness of ZOD, lurking within me and Omzbak – in everyone, I think, waiting for an opportunity to take over.

I glance back at Trynka.

She is my sister in revenge, yet she is much more than that. A powerful attraction is developing. A great spark jumps the gap between her and me. It is supercharged by our mutual blood lust. Trynka feels it, too. Her eyes are locked on me. Strange thoughts and emotions are gaining control of us. Visions of blood.

Get a grip, Dytran!

But I don't want to get a grip. My thoughts turn toward the man I killed, savoring his destruction. My only regret is that he did not suffer adequately. It would have been so much better to gut shoot him and enjoy his death agony. That would have wiped the smile off his face.

How pleasant it will be tying Omzbak to a tree and skinning him alive. Except, there are no trees down here. Tie him to a rock then. Spill his guts out.

We enter an area of fantastic distortions. Tormented rock formations twist above and around us. Some giant hand has torn the earth in a fit of rage. The rocks are a stark white, composed of salt or powdered bones. Other rocks have moved along the floor, leaving tracks behind them. The landscape dips into tortured gashes. Piles of stone debris are everywhere.

I can make out the blasted hulks of military vehicles. They lie heaped together like the carcasses of massive animals – tanks, trucks, armored cars. Some are our models, most are alien. A stench of death issues from them. Are those skeletal arms thrusting out?

We give these ghastly mounds as wide a berth as possible.

Trynka is closing the distance between us again, and I do not shoo her away this time. She is _very_ attractive. I'd noticed this before, but she had been Katella's girl, so I'd tried to ignore her charms. But now they are all here, just for me. Thoughts of bloody revenge become tangled with an all-consuming lust. Death and copulation become one.

Never in my life have I missed anybody as much as I miss Bel. This evil place is taking over my mind. It's mixing the worst aspects of my personality in with its own perversions. I can observe this process, but can't do anything about it. Worse, I don't want to do anything about it. I have lost my moral compass.

Please come back – hurry!

Bel's not coming back, though. I've sent him away, just as I sent away everything else that's good during my pursuit of vengeance – except for Trynka. She is pressed close to me now.

We approach a stone archway. It's in the shape of a vast, prehistoric animal hunched over and grasping for victims. Its outcrops offer plenty of concealment for an ambush, but I know Omzbak is nowhere near. We can avoid the archway, but choose to cross under it instead, hand in hand. It vibrates power down upon us.

I sense a much greater power lurking ahead – the driving force of this underground world. It draws me on, yet repels at the same time. Trynka draws up against me and murmurs into my ear; her hand squeezes my arm. Her tone is husky and sensuous. She is filled with carnal lust, as I am.

There is no trail. We move through a vast open area under pale green light. Ahead thrusts a large outcrop, a mini-mountain. An opening gapes in its middle. We move toward it; we enter.

Within is a scene of preternatural wonder. The floor is barren rock but the... sky is filled with celestial glory. It sucks my breath away.

Above is a gauzy blur of exploding nebula. A huge red glow, like the eye of God, gazes down at us from within. A ring of green light shimmers on the horizon, reflected in placid waters. The vista is beyond human capacity to appreciate.

It's a lie, Dytran – the pee cave!

It's all just a reflection of my deepest longings, corrupted with evil. Yet I stand in awe before it. Trynka moves toward me in the greenish glow. Her lips press against mine, and I respond eagerly. We grope for each other, carried away by mutual lust.

But it's wrong! Real love does not belong in this cursed place.

"No – " I try to protest, but Trynka's hunger silences me.

She crushes her mouth against mine, bruising my lips. Unimaginable desire surges through my body. Compared to this, my episodes with Ket have been Sunday school type events. Ket's image wavers before me, then disappears on a hot wave of arousal within which I am drowning.

We claw at each other. I manage to pull back.

"We can't... not like this."

But I'm unable control myself, even though I know this is evil. I want it _because_ it's evil.

68. Confrontation

Omzbak lurched forward, each step taking him farther into an area he'd not seen in two years. Some potent force gripped him, lending strength to his faltering efforts.

He moved along a narrow trail skirting a canyon. This 'canyon' was actually a long gouge, 50 meters deep and 75 wide at the top, with steeply sloped banks.

At the far end of this wound, towering like a wrathful god, the War Tornado raged – a black, churning funnel with lightning flashes along its crown where it merged into tortured clouds.

The cone boiled with terrible power. It was the blackened soul of something beyond the ability of human beings to comprehend. Omzbak detected a low hissing through his one good ear.

"I'm back!" he called.

He did not know where the dreadful twister originated, but he knew where it ended – at the center of the Barren. The whole devastated area revolved around it.

For all its awesome force, the War Tornado seemed weaker than it was – narrower and more erratic, as if the energy sustaining it was beginning to wane. Could it be the ending of hostilities in the world above was robbing it of force?

Omzbak didn't know; he could scarcely frame the question. His whole world was winding down, so why not the tornado? He examined his injured body – the red and blistered burns on his arms, his tattered clothes. He spat out another bloody glob.

He was much reduced from what he'd been, but his curiosity was still intact. The previous time, he'd been too frightened to approach the War Tornado. He'd merely gaped at it from a distance before fleeing back to the world of the living. But that was when he still had a life and a family worth returning to.

It was time now to investigate further.

Step by painful step, Omzbak drew closer to the tornado until he was almost beside it. The whirling force stroked him; his hair stood on end. He could see through the outer mantle and behold the fearsome core. It flashed and hissed a violent red, like the blood of a million slaughtered men.

He stretched out his hand to touch it. Would the dreadful power tear him into atoms? He paused his hand, then reluctantly withdrew it. He craned his neck to view the apex, but it was obscured among the clouds and lightning.

Maybe this apparition had some answers for him. If he dared to behold its source, he might experience a revelation, learn the reason behind all his suffering.

He advanced a few more paces and looked straight down. Beneath the swirl was a bottomless abyss, a void of total nothingness – no answers, not even any questions. Omzbak shook his head with rueful acceptance.

* * *

A huge roaring in my ears blanks out all thought. I am a wild beast. We tear at each other's clothes; we sink to the floor. Trynka's flesh writhes beneath me as the moment of obscene consummation approaches.

Trynka is shrieking. I howl along. We're never coming back from this unholy coupling –

Above us, a harsh voice intrudes. "What is this?"

Terror shoves aside my raging lust. The whole universe implodes. My spirit, far gone in its flight toward damnation, hurtles back to me.

I grope for my rifle, but a boot is pinning it down. A gun barrel points in my face and a dark figure glowers down at me. Only then do I recognize who the intruder is. I struggle to my feet.

"Damn it Bel!"

Trynka stares up at us. Her face is flushed and scared – as if she's awakened from a nightmare. She beholds her nakedness with astonishment. She grabs her discarded clothing and sidles away. My own clothing is mostly removed, leaving nothing to the imagination.

"Better pack it away, Dye."

I yank my clothes on.

"What are you doing here?" I try to cover my humiliation with anger. "I told you to get out."

He barks a sarcastic laugh. "Good thing it's me instead of Omzbak. What the hell's wrong with you?"

"It's... this place."

My ire melts into desperate gratitude. Bel's loyalty is far more than I deserve. I'm unworthy to be standing in his presence.

"Why didn't you keep going?" I say. "Where's Sipren?"

A light extinguishes in Bel's fierce eyes. "He's gone."

"W-what happened?"

"He went over... where the ledge narrows. He was too far ahead."

Bel seems on the verge of tears. I wrap my arms around him. "Hang on. It's just us now."

For the first time ever, I feel stronger than Bel. He sags in my arms.

"Why'd he have to run like that? I-I couldn't get to him, Dye. He was... I couldn't get to him!"

I try to provide such comfort as I can, though it's precious little. He rallies and pulls away from my embrace. The old Bel reasserts himself.

"What is this hellhole?"

"What do you mean 'hellhole?'" I gesture to the magnificent surroundings. "Can't you see?"

"You need a reality check. This is the worst place I've ever been in my life."

I look upwards. Everything is as I first saw it, gorgeous and seductive. I know it's an illusion, but I cannot see past it.

"Let's get out of here," Bel says. "Do you know where Omzbak went?"

"You mean... you're coming with us?"

"Button your fly already," Bel snaps. "Represent the Fatherland with some dignity."

I adjust my clothing as ordered. "How did you find us, Bel?"

"You were making enough noise to wake the dead. How could I not find you?"

I nod, too late to be embarrassed about that. Then I ask the question I really want answered. "Why'd you come back?"

"Somebody has to be here who's got his head on straight."

Trynka rejoins us, fully clothed. If she is humiliated by our tumble, she isn't showing it.

"Let's go," she says.

She moves toward the exit, but I hesitate, unwilling to depart the celestial beauty.

"What are you waiting for?" Bel says.

We leave the glow cave, as I've named it, and reenter the wider enclosure. I take a backward glance, and my blood freezes.

The glorious vista has departed, replaced by a scene of utter desolation. The brilliant stars are gone, and a swirling mist has taken their place. The glowing eye is still there; only now it's deep scarlet and throbs with malice.

I turn away from the evil thing. "That eye!"

"Charming, isn't it?" Bel says.

Awe for Bel's capabilities overwhelms me. How did he have the courage to enter that place alone and confront two people screeching like devils? And he navigated to the glow cave by himself through the erased landscape, with no one at his side to buck him up – right after Sipren had been killed, too.

"Look at all those rocks," Bel says. "Omzbak could be hiding anywhere."

"He's not here," I say. "I'd know it if he was."

"One of those 'Ghostie' things, huh?"

"Something like that."

Bel looks around the landscape, unconvinced. "Where is he, then?"

There's only one place he can be. I point to a large crack in the rock face some distance away.

"He's in there."

69. Enemy in the Valley

More piles of wrecked vehicles and other war debris lay ahead – cannons, rocket launchers, small arms – all twisted and corroded into grotesque shapes. Also more of the tortured white rock formations.

We pass near one of these structures. It's composed of bone fragments, pressed together into a death marble. Here and there, a skeletal arm or leg protrudes. It's a disgusting sight. I'm grateful for my empty stomach.

We approach a towering crevasse in the rock wall. From a distance, it appeared to be quite narrow, but closer up I can see it's wide enough to admit us three abreast.

"That looks like a trap," Bel says. "Omzbak could be just inside waiting to ambush us."

"He isn't, though."

Bel gives me an unbelieving look.

"He's nowhere close," I say. "Trust me on that."

"Trust _you_? Like back there? I'm away ten minutes and you've already got your dong out ready for action."

"It was a lot longer than ten centimeters... I-I mean minutes."

"See what I'm driving at?" Bel says.

"Oh, forget it! Just wait out here."

Trynka moves to accompany me, but I wave her off. Bel is going to see I'm right about this. He's not the only one who can barge into strange places alone. To further display my confidence, I sling the rifle over my shoulder.

"Tough guy, huh?" Bel says. "Better take this with you."

He shoves the extra machine pistol at me. I think to refuse, but am actually quite pleased to get it.

I take the gun with seeming reluctance. "All right, have it your way."

The crevasse is ten or twelve meters deep. I begin walking through. It looms high above like the entry to a cathedral. There is a religious awe about it – the sort of dark faith that speaks of blood sacrifice and the soul's most evil secrets.

Bats should be fluttering around its highest regions, but nothing can live there. I grip the submachine gun more tightly and force myself to keep going, fighting off an urge to turn and run. I keep my eyes fixed rigidly ahead.

I step into another phase of this bizarre world. The first thing to catch my eye is a deep cut sprawling before me. It's like the sharply banked valley of the river we once crossed. Towering at the end of this gorge is something beyond imagination.

"Good God!" a voice behind me exclaims.

It's Bel, of course, who has kept right behind me in the passageway. But his voice is different. A low hissing in the air distorts all sound. His face is drained of color, as mine must be.

"What is that thing, Dye?"

I've seen it before, painted on the commando's APC. It spun around Papa as he glared at us in hate, his chin bleeding where Stilikan had cut it. It enveloped Bel's burning aircraft and whirled about Eagle-eye when he killed the slobe lad.

"It's the Death Storm."

Trynka joins us, her eyes wide. I point to the raging, sparking apparition at the end of the valley, 200 meters distant. I'm surprised my arm is not shaking.

" _That's_ where Omzbak is."

We stand as if cemented to the rock. The manifestation swirling before us seems to be the source of all terror and violence – an entity mere mortals cannot approach. But Omzbak has approached it. He's brought me here as the final act of this tragedy, to see if I can endure its ultimate truths.

It's up to Bel whether I can endure it or not. He wipes a hand across his mouth. His lips must be paper dry, as mine are. I expect him to turn around and go back the way we came.

Instead he says, "All right, let's go get him."

He starts walking, but I remain rooted to the spot. He's several paces ahead when Trynka finally draws me out of my inertia. I begin moving.

The path is little more than a meter across. To our left plunges the Valley of Death's steep bank. To the right is sheer rock face, and ahead of us swirls the great hissing funnel of smoke and evil with lightning flashing along the top. It's a hungry monster, both cause and result of the horrors raging in the world above.

Yet I also sense that, fearsome as it may be, the cyclone is losing power – like a plate twirling atop a long stick in a stage performance. When will it topple off?

Bel's strong back goes before me, a rock-solid support in my ordeal. He's got a limp now. The rigors of this day have taken a toll on his injured leg. His determination humbles me. Ahead of him swirls the Death Storm with its crown of lightning, enough to cower any lesser mortal, but he advances.

What a man of excellence Beltran is! On his own, he's managed to fling aside his straitjacket of anger and resentment and step out to his full potential. His nobility shines forth like a beacon.

And what of me? I'm just a spoiled brat – pampered and given respect I haven't earned. While Bel struggled with rejection and loneliness, I was preening in front of a mirror, wondering which profile the girls would like best.

I'm being too hard on myself, another of my faults, but I'm not exaggerating about Bel. He's a true champion of the Fatherland – loyal, brave, steadfast. How many more must die in my pursuit of vengeance? I'm tired of all the sacrifices.

A rock obstructs the path ahead. Bel walks to the left of it. His foot dislodges a cascade of pebbles down the embankment.

"Careful!" Trynka and I cry together.

Bel glances back. "Piece of cake."

A moment of absolute clarity explodes in my mind. I can see the full extent of the NSP system that has corrupted us all. Stilikan was a victim of it, and Bel, and me, and Trynka – and Omzbak, too. All of us were pounded into corrupted shapes by that system, like those piles of military wreckage.

Enough of this! I want to struggle out of my own straitjacket and emerge a free man. I want my mind cleansed of all brutality and error. I don't want to kill Omzbak any longer. He's not worth the risk, and we have far more in common that I'd ever imagined. I have... forgiven him.

I stop walking. Trynka looks up quizzically into my face.

"You're right!" I call after Bel.

He pauses and turns toward me.

Trynka grasps the situation. She seems tiny, yet very strong. She is beautiful and frightening. "No!"

"Yes." I look toward Bel. "Let's go back."

A smile spreads across Bel's face. He replies with a Bekar pet phrase, "Capital fellow!"

He walks toward us. Then it isn't just Bel any more; it's Bekar and Gyn and Ket and Mama – every worthwhile thing in my life returning to me. He comes to the rock again. This time, he passes on its other side.

Too late, I spot the tripwire. "Look out!"

His foot catches the wire. Our eyes lock in a moment of terrible understanding.

Explosion and blinding flash. The ground gives way and we are tumbling down, down, past cliff face and crumbling rock. We hit the chasm floor.

70. The Final Act

I lie on my back at the bottom of a scree slope, dazed and disorientated. The world is a crazy, rotating kaleidoscope. My head is too big, and it throbs with a maddening, ringing noise.

Things blur into focus. I move slowly. My body screams with pain, but it still works. I grope for my machine pistol. It's gone, so is my rifle. Trynka is at my side. She brushes dirt and gravel from my face. She, too, seems to have escaped major harm.

"Bel!" I call out. "Where are you?"

I force myself up to my knees, looking frantically for my brother. The chasm sprawls about me like a vast, open grave... At last, I spot him lying away among the rocks. I scurry over to him.

"Ohhh!"

His injuries are terrible. He lies staring upwards, his chest rising and falling erratically. I grip his hand and cradle his head with my other arm.

"It's me... Dytran."

The vacant eyes flicker with recognition. He squeezes my hand faintly. "In it to the end, huh?"

Tears spring into my eyes. "I love you, Bel."

He smiles up at me. His face is young and innocent, free of all suffering. Then his features go slack, the hand loosens. His noble spirit departs his body and soars out of this evil place – toward the heavens which are its true home.

"Bel!"

I am sobbing freely. My heart has been ripped out. I'm naked and abandoned in the valley of death.

Someone is tugging at me. "Come!"

Trynka pulls me to my feet and leads me toward the slope. She intends for us to climb out, apparently. I'm an automaton, unable to form ideas in my numbed brain.

A burst of gunfire snaps me out of my paralysis. Bullets tear along the ground beside me. I jump out of the way. Another burst drives Trynka against me. A huge, dark figure glares down at us from the top of the slope – Omzbak!

Beyond his hulking presence, the Death Storm towers in unholy rage. Its lightning forms a demonic halo for Omzbak's head.

"God damn you!" I shout.

Another blast of gunfire hits the slope right in front of me; stone fragments fly. One of them grazes my face, and blood trickles. The bastard is toying with us!

Trynka pulls out her tiny pistol and fires repeatedly at Omzbak, but there is no hope of hitting him at this range. He does not even bother to move. He is a demonic presence standing up there with the cyclone twisting behind him. It's howling with increased strength, celebrating Bel's death.

"Coward!" I yell. "Fight me man to man!"

No answer, except for a low, evil rumbling. He's laughing at us.

"Do you hear me, Papa! Get down here!"

He brandishes a stick grenade in his right hand, like the death god's royal scepter. I look desperately around for any sort of cover, but there is none. I try to shield Trynka with my body, but she slips back around. We'll face the end together.

Omzbak gazes down at us, a cat tormenting helpless mice. He waves the grenade tauntingly. I cannot make out his face.

"Lousy coward..." I try to shout, but my voice has lost whatever power it had.

Omzbak yells something back. Trynka translates: "I know you!"

His free hand moves toward the grenade. He'll be unscrewing the bottom cap now, soon the little white skull will drop out. I try to gauge where he will throw the bomb, prepare myself to roll the opposite direction – but it's useless, I'll just be rolling into a blast of gunfire.

He yanks the grenade string in a wide, dramatic gesture.

* * *

During the seconds before the grenade went off, the faces of every one of Omzbak's victims flashed before his eyes – in particular, the pilot whose courageous brother pursued him to this evil place. What magnificent sons those lads would have made!

He looked off toward the war tornado and pressed the grenade against his belly.

Here's another one for you.

# Ten: Return

71. Retreat

The cyclone roars with increased fury. Its lightning bolts crackle and flare. Blinding illumination assaults us, then retreats.

Omzbak's blasted corpse tumbles over the edge in suspended time, like a slow motion horror movie sequence. It bounces down the slope, leaving a bloody smear, then thuds to the bottom. It lands too far away for me to get a good look, and I have no desire to see it.

Trynka starts to utter a victory cry, but it strangles in her throat.

I have no sense of triumph – only the weary knowledge that the final act of this tragedy has played out. My grief over Bel allows no other emotion to intrude.

"We go now!" Trynka says urgently.

She leads me across the chasm until we reach Bel. I lower myself beside my poor slain brother lying among the rocks. His face wears an expression of peace it never had in life.

"We can't leave him here."

Trynka understands. She points toward the steep path we must ascend and shakes her head. I know she is right. This valley will have to serve as Bel's final resting place. I arrange his arms over his chest and brush some dirt off his face.

"Fly right, brother. You were the best."

Trynka comes to attention and snaps a final salute to Bel. I do the same. Then we depart together.

She leads us up the precipitous scree slope. For every meter we ascend, we slip back half the distance. My legs seem to be working on autopilot. Finally, we make it to the top. Trynka exits the valley of death first, then pulls me up behind her.

The cyclone is thinner now, unstable, and the lightning at the crown flashes with less intensity – as if in recognition that its final victim has been devoured. Despite its declining power, the storm is no less a display of pure hate, cunning and treacherous.

Trynka yanks my arm. She takes us back along the route that brought us into this cursed region. The evil influences that once hindered us fade into the shadows, as if in awe of Trynka's determination. Mama once told me women are stronger than men in certain ways. I didn't think much of that comment then, but now I see its wisdom. If left to myself, I don't know if I'd have the will to continue.

All the while, the light is getting dimmer. Everything is starting to fade. The whole place is shutting down, dissolving. By the time the trail narrows, we need the illumination of my pen light. Thank heaven it wasn't destroyed in my tumble down the slope.

We venture out onto the steep ledge where Sipren fell to his death. I wonder idly if I will fall myself, but Trynka keeps a firm grip on my hand. I can almost hear Sipren beckoning to me from the infinite depths.

We're practically running now – past the bone pillars and heaps of military equipment. The bouncing flashlight beam turns yellow. It weakens so much we can scarcely see the way ahead any longer.

"Hold it."

I fumble extra batteries out of my pocket. When I drop out the old ones from the flashlight, the world around us grows very dim. Creaks and groans fill the air, the whispering of ghosts. Things seem to be imploding. Finally, I get the new batteries installed and a bright beam shows us the way again.

We move rapidly down the wide ledge as the sepulcher presses in from all directions. A horrid thought intrudes:

We'll never get out of here.

Even in the dim light I can see the worry in Trynka's eyes. We continue moving through the limitless space. Already, the new batteries are starting to fade, and I have no others. The evil surroundings are sucking the energy from them.

The dimming flashlight ray glints off three bright, metallic objects – the spent shell casings from my sniper attack. I know where we are now.

"This way!"

I lead us to the spot where I first ascended to the ledge. Despite the rapidly diminishing light, it's actually easier to navigate now. The strange power that had dominated this place is losing its grip, and the spatial disorientation is lessening.

Before long, we are at the exit – or what used to be the exit. The circle of light on the rock face is barely visible now, and its flashes are erratic, like a dying heartbeat. Trynka grips my hand and heads straight for it. We slam into a stone wall.

"Ugh!"

We fall to the floor, but are soon back on our feet.

Where is the light circle now? Only blank rock stares back at us. We glance around desperately. After all we've been through, we're going to be trapped here? The injustice of it strikes me a hammer blow. Trynka begins to cry.

"This can't happen," I say.

I switch off my penlight. The nightmare world is pitch black now. Trynka grips my hand. Our hearts thunder in the darkness. A tiny flashing glow appears.

"Come on!"

I propel myself toward it head first. I'll either win through or fracture my skull . . .

We emerge into blinding daylight. I raise a hand to shield my eyes. The first snowflakes of the season land on my skin, pinpoints of soothing wetness.

Trynka sighs with joy and relief. "Aaaah!"

She raises her face to the glorious sun and its attendant clouds. She pulls in a great breath of air, then blows it out. A dark, evil miasma from the lower regions exits her lungs.

We scurry off the surface of ZOD and enter the woods. We cross through them to the clearing where my airplane lies. I make my way to her and fall on my knees, unable to continue.

I cling to the port landing gear of Y-47. Her wing overarches me like a mother's loving arm. My poor, shattered aircraft is the final link to the world of dreams and hopes – to my lost brothers. My tears run hot.

Trynka speaks to me urgently and tugs at my clothing. She must want me to leave this place, but where would I go? My homeland is impossibly far away, and my fate is here. After a while, she gives up the effort. She moves a short distance away and sits among the high grass, leaving me alone with my sorrow.

72. Harsh Welcome

The day advances. The sun begins to warm the world and melt the thin layer of snow, but I am shielded from its rays by my aircraft.

If only I could drift away forever, into the sky where I belong. Bel is waiting there, and faithful Katella along with all my Raptor Ace brothers – and Stilikan.

I hear Trynka scramble to her feet. Then a metallic clack as she cocks the pistol. Is she going to shoot me?

She is yelling at somebody in the nearby woods. I open my eyes to see a squad of enemy soldiers emerge from the trees. They are grim, lethal men in brown uniforms – hardened killers. Trynka is beckoning to them while she keeps me covered with the pistol.

So this is it... finally. I begin to rise, prepared to confront the enemy.

"Stay down!" the commander says in our language.

I drop to a seated posture and assume as dignified an expression as I can. The commander approaches Trynka and snatches her pistol. They exchange rapid fire remarks. I can't be certain, but he appears to be the man we saw on our trek to the hideout. He possesses the same whip-like toughness and hard face.

Trynka is offering explanations, but the leader isn't buying them. He turns a cold, dispassionate look my direction – the same look a carp might receive just before getting stuck with a fisherman's spear. The commander gestures to one of his men.

The trooper advances, cocking his rifle. He aims it at me. I fight to remain steadfast – they _will not_ see me cower. I prepare to shout my final words of defiance:

Long live the Fatherland!

Trynka throws herself between me and my executioner. She is speaking furiously. She flings her arms wide to cover me, exposing her own breast to the gun. The trooper backs away, his face reddening.

The commander shouts something. He waves his arm.

Trynka and the soldier retreat. The commander approaches and squats down beside me. He's so close I can smell the leather of his gun belt. He brings his face close to mine. It's the face of death. He speaks our language with a heavy slobe accent.

"Your girlfriend says we should not disgrace our glorious victory with an act of cowardice. What do you think of that, Mag?"

"She's not my girlfriend."

He glances at Trynka, then back toward me. "I believe she would disagree with you, Mag."

"My name is Dytran, sir, commander of the Raptor Aces Youth League aviation squadron."

"An aviator, huh?" He gestures toward Y-47. "That would explain your affection for this wreckage."

He withdraws a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and lights one up. It's a potent slobe variety with a long cardboard filter. He offers me the pack.

"Cigarette?"

"No thank you, sir, I'm trying to quit."

The commander gapes with astonishment, the cigarette nearly drops from his lips. He bursts out laughing.

He turns toward his men and says in our language, "Little Blondie's got brass!"

The soldiers laugh along – a cruel, mirthless chatter. The commander turns back toward me. He's all business again.

"She claims she captured you. Somehow, I doubt that."

I do not reply.

"So, what really happened?"

"If you're going to kill me, why don't you get it over with?"

I hold the commander's eyes steadily with my own. I want him to know he's shooting a better man than himself, someone who knows how to die for his country. He gazes back with cold appraisal. His face is unyielding, pocked with scars. Why does it have to be the last thing I will see in this world?

An amused little smile crosses his lips. A bit of life flickers in his dead eyes. He pinches my cheek and follows with a light slap.

"Don't worry, lad, we'll save your pretty face for the girls back home."

He rises and barks orders to his men. They yank me to my feet and hustle me away. I glance back toward Trynka. She looks very sad, her eyes downcast.

73. Stages of Captivity

I join a long column of my defeated countrymen on a trek to captivity. We march eastward several days, always more of us joining in, silent and dejected.

Slobe troopers watch over us with their machine pistols. Most are stone-faced and impassive; others are dying for an excuse to open fire. A few guards are more sympathetic. Occasionally, one of them tosses us cigarettes or bread.

The settlements we pass through present mixed reactions. Sometimes our guards must protect us from the wrath of the townsfolk. Other times the civilians merely gaze quietly as we shuffle past. Powerful emotions confront us everywhere – anger, hate, pity, contempt.

Now and then, somebody takes a potshot from a long distance, as if shooting at a passing reindeer herd. One of our number falls; the rest move on.

At the end of our long march, we are loaded onto trains. My group occupies a flat car, like the one I saw crammed with slobe prisoners on my way into this hellish country. We chug for added days through a landscape turning colder by the hour. Some of us don't survive.

* * *

We spend the winter months in a prisoner of war camp, taking part in its crash weight loss plan. I lose a great deal of body mass, and my skin takes on the texture of dry paper. My hair starts falling out. But I can't complain – millions have suffered far worse.

Like the others, I appear to be an animated dead man, beyond caring what happens to me. This isn't the case, however. I'm still alive, but my humanity is buried deep out of harm's way. I've given up all hope for the future, but perhaps this is the only way to preserve hope. I dare not think about those back home and merely let my affections slumber in peace.

Faith in a POW swap withers as the months drag past and our numbers dwindle in the harsh conditions. Some talk of escape. To where? We're in a frozen wilderness. Besides, I cannot avoid my fate. I must see things through, wherever the path leads.

Our captors know we are trapped and don't bother overmuch with guarding us. They even turn a blind eye toward the shortwave radio somebody has managed to sneak in. A group of us huddles together in one of the freezing huts passing the headphones around. From the Homeland propaganda broadcasts and from other news sources, we learn the enormity of our nation's defeat.

When the slobes found themselves embroiled in a two-front war, they sent peace feelers our direction. They stopped bombing the Homeland as a "goodwill gesture" and began redeploying troops away from our forces – or so we were led to believe. Bel was right, though; it was all deception, along with a willingness on our part to be fooled.

Peace delegations were meeting in neutral territory when the offensive began. Our forces' headlong retreat did not stop until they reached the river barrier a scant hundred kilometers from our old frontier.

There, our shattered army dug in and put up an organized defense. The slobes then withdrew their main forces so as to deal with their new enemies, and our war finally ended with an uneasy truce.

Our propaganda heroes make much of the slobes' "treachery" for attacking us in the midst of peace negotiations. As if our unprovoked invasion had modeled the highest moral principles. We are deeply depressed by these broadcasts. Maybe that's why our captors let us keep the radio.

"You look very young," one of my companions, a grizzled infantryman, says. "What unit did you serve with."

"I was in the Children's Crusade."

He nods and says nothing further. It's too cold to think about anything but surviving the next five minutes.

* * *

Just as the first signs of spring are emerging in the frozen wasteland, glorious news arrives: We are going home in the next prisoner exchange.

There is nothing of the wild joy which greeted the announcement of the second front, only resigned gratitude that we have survived thus far and apprehension we might not live long enough to see the Fatherland.

Many don't believe the announcement, chalking it up as an enemy trick. But the slobes increase our rations a few days before our announced departure. They scrub us up, and we are gone over by doctors and dentists.

The dentist is a jovial type who can speak some of our language. He practices it as he pokes around in my mouth.

"How was your vacation with us, my friend?" he asks.

"Very enjoyable."

He chuckles, then sighs. "Ah, if only I could go with you. There must be need for dentists in your country, right?"

"One would assume so," I mumble around his probing fingers.

"Don't you think it's time we moved on from all this hatred?"

"Absolutely."

With his mirrors, he shows me serious cavities in two molars. He'll be happy to yank the teeth out, he says. Shouldn't hurt too much, despite the lack of anesthetics.

"No thanks."

* * *

They pack us into railway boxcars and ship us westward. My initial trip with my squadron mates across this sprawling landscape seems luxurious by comparison, but we are fed semi-adequately and let out now and then to stretch our limbs. Our constant grumbling seems unfounded. What did we expect, a private club car?

At the cease fire line, we are herded onto another train – _our_ train! The comfort level is scarcely better than on the slobe transport, but it seems like I'm riding on a cloud. Renewed life stirs inside me, but I still dare not allow myself to believe the long nightmare is ending.

We arrive at the same town where I attended high school a century ago. I flew airplanes back then as a Raptor Ace and thought of myself as quite a fellow. A wilderness of bomb craters greets our approach to the railway terminal. Our train groans and screeches over the patched up tracks, then comes to a halt.

74. Back Home

We jump down from the train and shamble off to be processed.

The brick and mortar station has been eradicated, and a billowing white tent stands in its place, as if from a traveling circus. The rail yard is a gloomy landscape of cinders and debris.

It's early morning, judging by the gray light and the chill in the air. We pull our tattered coats more tightly about ourselves.

The railway yard is a madhouse of confusion. As quickly as we vacate the train cars, other men replace us – slobe POWs taking the trip home. Many civilians are mixed in with them, our resident slobes fleeing the Fatherland.

Who can blame them? They have no future here. I've seen the empire they are escaping to, though, and the future doesn't look so bright there either.

Our two columns unavoidably converge. We brush against men as ragged and emaciated as we are. I avert my eyes to avoid seeing a mirror image of myself.

Something strikes my right cheek, a gob of spit. I turn to see a small woman glaring back at me from the slobe line – Piotra's mother. She curses at me as she moves into the distance. I raise my hand to my face.

"Let me take care of that," someone says.

A man reaches over from my left and daubs my face with a snow-white handkerchief. He looks impossibly healthy and well-fed. He wears a News Service blazer.

"Thanks, friend."

"Don't mention it."

I recognize him. He's the guy who ran the projector for _Youth Answers the Call!_

"How come I keep running into you?" I say.

The man chuckles and pulls at my arm, removing me from the column. "We can fast track you through."

He leads me to a less congested area of the yard and toward a secondary entrance of the tent. I look warily around for movie cameras. There aren't any, thank God. Pictures of our battered, half-starved troops returning home must not be considered the best newsreel footage.

"Any medical concerns?" the man asks.

"Just a couple bad teeth that need work."

"Ket's going to be very pleased you're all right. She waited here for days hoping you'd be on the next train. The boss finally pulled her off on an assignment."

Ket! The name rings out to me like a clarion call from the lost world. I've scarcely given her a thought for months, certain I'd never see her again.

"When is she coming back?"

The man grins at my eagerness. "Hard to say. It's one of those drudge assignments out by the cease fire line. Could be quite a while."

My disappointment is keen, but I am also relieved. I don't want her to see me like this. In a few weeks, I might actually resemble a human being.

"She could twist the boss around her little finger if she'd be 'nice' to him, if you know what I mean," the guy says.

"Yes... I know what you mean."

"Ket won't do it, though. Claims she's saving it for somebody special. Wonder who that is, eh?"

He elbows my ribs. I don't know whether to be complimented or take a swing at him for his cheekiness. I decide to let it pass. Anyway, I'm so worn down he might mistake my best punch for a puff of wind.

Inside the tent, military officials sit at tables speaking with the returnees and filling out documentation. The News Service guy speaks a few words to the ranking officer. The officer looks toward me a moment, then waves us on.

In front of the terminal, all is devastation – blasted buildings, piles of ruble, a faint scent of death in the air. The street has been cleared and patched, though.

A large black car awaits at the curb. To my exhausted brain, it appears to be a hearse. Then I notice a government flag attached to the fender and a badge on the door identifying it as a Propaganda Ministry vehicle.

"This will take you to the hotel where you can get cleaned up," the News Service guy says. "Then the doctors want to see you. I'll make a dentist appointment for this afternoon."

"Thanks."

Groups of bedraggled men are leaving the station and piling into trucks. They'll be going to an army barracks to recuperate. No limousine ride or fancy hotel for them. The News Service guy is just opening the car's rear door when a familiar voice calls out.

"Dytran!"

Bekar is standing by one of the trucks. He leans on a cane and waves joyously with his free hand. Sunshine bursts into the dreary morning.

"Bekar!"

I turn to the News Service guy. "Give me a few minutes, all right?"

"Sure."

I move toward Bekar as quickly as possible along the crowded sidewalk. Is Gyn with him? No sign of her; I'm relieved and saddened at the same time.

He throws an arm around me. "My God, there's nothing left of you!"

We pull away but still hang on to each other's arms.

"Thanks, Bekar, that really makes my day."

"Sorry, it just slipped out. Don't worry, those Propaganda Ministry boys will fatten you up quick."

I look back toward the limo. "Yes, they've got plans. I think they want to turn me into a bloody hero."

"Who deserves it more than you?"

Bekar is keeping a sunny face, but I know it pains him to see my wretched condition.

"I heard you might be on this transport," he says, "so I ran my butt here as fast as possible."

"Not bad for a guy with a cane."

Bekar chuckles, then a note of melancholy enters his voice. "I can see you've been through hell. You can talk to me about it whenever you feel the need."

"Thanks."

"Talking helps a lot... I know."

But I don't want to think about the dark horrors right now, much less talk about them. I feel like a man climbing out of a grave – I want more sunshine on my face.

"How's Gyn?"

"Oh, she's fine, but – "

"But what?"

"It's her hospital, all hospitals, really. The sick and wounded are flooding in. She's working brutal hours, every day."

A twinge of conscience pokes at me. With all this backlog, doctors will be making house calls for me today.

"She's a strong girl, Dye. I think she'd make a good fighter pilot."

I crack a smile. It feels good to smile again.

"I'm serious." Bekar lowers his voice. "The way things are now, we need all the help we can get."

He looks off toward the limo.

"Well, I don't want to keep your friends waiting."

"Friends, eh?" I grip Bekar's hand. "I know who my real friends are."

On that note, our reunion draws to a close. Bekar watches me climb into the hearse and depart. We exchange a final wave.

The black car drives through a city of the dead. Being so close to the eastern frontier, the town was bombed many times. The old student quarter with its myriad of cafés and pubs is obliterated. The downtown is nothing more than hulks of gutted buildings. Nothing is recognizable from my school days. I divert my eyes.

We arrive at a little resort hotel on a lake west of town. The pleasant surroundings provide a jarring contrast to everything I've grown accustomed to.

75. Hollow Celebration

After a few days recuperating at the resort, I am transferred to a hotel suite in the capital city.

I'm gaining weight. My two molars have beautiful gold crowns – a kind of war souvenir – and my hair is thickening. Looks like I'm going to live, after all.

But the inactivity is not good. Thoughts of the horrors I've experienced haunt my waking hours, and a new nightmare terrorizes my sleep. In it, I fire my rifle and bring down a fleeing slobe boy.

"Nice shot, Eagle-eye!" somebody yells.

_Purpose_ is what can banish these things from my mind – progress toward worthwhile goals. If I don't move, I'll be overwhelmed. So, I begin to move. Although my body is temporarily restrained, my mind is making plans.

Clearly, I've been assigned a key role in the government's propaganda effort. This is part of the complex fate working out for me ever since the slobe diving incident. I plan to make the most of it for my own ends, and for the interests of my country.

I'm being groomed for my public debut at the "Great Homecoming Celebration" to be held soon in the capital. Propaganda Ministry officials show me a speech manuscript. I add some introductory comments but leave the main text alone.

"This speech is excellent," I lie. "It expresses my deepest sentiments." Now is not the time to make waves.

During my debriefing, I tell my handlers about the fate of the Raptor Aces – eliminating any references to Omzbak and the pee cave. In this edited version, my squadron mates all perished while fighting the partisans above ground. I alone survived to be discovered by an enemy national who held me at gunpoint until an army patrol came on the scene.

I manufactured this last detail so as to help protect Trynka. My story is going to be made public and will surely be picked up by the slobes. I also failed to mention our men shooting their officers.

Throughout, I focus the spotlight on Beltran – the great hero from humble origins who rescued us during the airbase attack. A true leader and loyal comrade who died heroically serving the Fatherland, steadfast to the end. They'll build a legend around him; soon he'll be as famous as the Magleiter. I'm sure Bel would like that, and if he doesn't... well, consider it the last of our many disagreements.

Posters with my general likeness are appearing everywhere, trumpeting the admonition spoken to me by the Magleiter:

Stand fast young man! The Fatherland needs you.

It's not too bad a resemblance, although a bit over dramatic. The hair has been darkened to provide a more "universal appeal." The idea is that every patriotic young male can visualize himself carrying our banner to victory.

Blondes like me were never common and are even rarer these days. The slobes often executed any 'racial apex' types who fell into their hands.

Also, the brawny arms and torso of the poster figure bear little resemblance to my still emaciated frame. The Propaganda Ministry has me on a special diet to fatten me up – like a lamb for the slaughter. I have no doubt that, if I don't play my role properly, I will join the ranks of the honored dead. An unfortunate 'training accident' would be the likeliest cover story.

Ket is still out on assignment, but her letters arrive frequently. I've made my displeasure at her exile known to the Propaganda Ministry. I often ponder how things would have turned out if we'd been able to make her goodwill tour.

* * *

The day of the Homecoming Celebration arrives. Bekar shares a place of honor with me atop the magnificent review stand with its bunting of national flags and Party banners. Black is the dominant color wrapping around us, like crepe on a funeral bier.

The Propaganda Ministry wanted to include Bekar. As Stilikan's wingman, he can help build the legend of the "Golden Brothers" aviation heroes.

We stand together on the vast platform along with top Party officials and military brass. Field Marshall Angrift is notably absent. He "died heroically" during an inspection tour at the front, according to the reports.

Spring breezes play about, promising renewed life. I am dismayed, though not surprised, to behold the silver-haired Party man we encountered at the restaurant the night before I left. I somehow knew I'd see him again. He's part of my fate. We exchange cool nods of recognition.

The Magleiter will not be joining us today. The official word is that he's off at the cease fire line supervising our "impregnable defenses." I think he's trying to distance himself from the fiasco. This event does not commemorate the great victory he promised.

The parade opens with the National Military Band strutting down the street in impeccable uniforms. Its members look like the victorious heroes we were all supposed to be. They pause before the review stand and serenade us with the national anthem. We stand at attention and salute.

Bekar and I exchange some private words after the band marches off.

"Well, I'm finally getting my surgery done," he says.

"That's great."

"Yes... Gyn arranged everything. She said I'd find no end of excuses if left to myself."

"Is she here now?"

Bekar shakes his head. "She'll come when they're ready to put me under the knife. She's very anxious to see you, Dye."

"I'm anxious, too."

The procession resumes. A column of "returned heroes" marches past. They wear fresh uniforms, but these do not disguise their gaunt appearance. The crowd is joyous, yet subdued. I join the cheers and applause, mindful that each returned hero represents many others who will never come back.

An army unit appears next, rumbling by in wheeled APC's like the ones used by the Death Storm commando. The unit must have been brought here from the ceasefire line and will be rushed back as soon as the parade is over.

Then more returned heroes march by, more regular units and military bands. Senior officers in splendid uniforms accompany the formations.

How many of these officers are incompetent Party hacks? I recall how ordinary soldiers gunned down such charlatans at the bridge. It's unreasonable to expect them to do such things again – unless they have a leader.

I make a dangerous comment. "How would all these people react if they knew what's really going on?"

Bekar frowns. "Don't be an idiot, Dytran. People don't want to be enlightened."

The procession ends, and the speeches begin. All are variations of the same rubbish: "We owe everything to the Magleiter who has seen us through these perilous times; our future victory is certain – and blah blah!"

Finally, the Party big shots have shouted themselves hoarse, and it's my turn to speak as a "representative of the Fatherland's heroic youth." I take my spot at the microphones and strike a suitable pose for the News Service cameras which are grinding off to the side. The crowd has grown restless from all the drivel they've been forced to hear.

"Please join me in a moment of silence for all of those who cannot be with us here today." My voice booms over the loudspeakers, like an admonition from on high. "Let us remember those who are closest to our hearts, along with all the rest of our fallen heroes."

Absolute quiet as thousands of heads bow in reverence. I feel a mystical bond with my suffering countrymen, with our betrayed and defeated nation. It is a truly sacred moment. I want to end it with a call to action:

" _Arise and fight back!"_ I want to shout. _"Our 'Great Leader' is a death god, and we are his sacrifices!"_

But that would be suicidal. Instead, I launch into my prepared speech. It's all lies. My camouflage feathers remain in place.

* * *

Later that day, in recognition of my "stellar achievements," I receive a commission as an Air Force first lieutenant. News Service cameras record this honor, and Bekar pins the aviator wings on my chest.

Come spring term, I'm to be fast tracked into the National Military Academy. My fighter pilot dream is coming true.

Epilog: Our Uncertain Future

My existence is bracketed by two forever-young men who are my brothers and greatest heroes – Stilikan and Bel.

I bear a heavy responsibility to them and to all the lost comrades of my squadron. I am the final Raptor Ace. The four lads who did not join our expedition were scooped up by the infantry and marched through the meat grinder.

All my actions, no matter how noble I tried to make them, were twisted and poisoned by the world of the Magleiter. I do not excuse myself nor anybody else, but we are only humans trying to operate in an inhuman system. And I cannot change the past. The future is another matter.

The same bloodthirsty fools who led us into the abyss still control our nation. They strut and beat their chests like mighty conquerors. They point to our "Eastern Rampart" on the river. Behind it, they claim, our army is building an invincible defense against the slobe hoards.

Some rampart! More like the Eastern Sieve.

We've lost nearly an entire generation of young men. The long, meandering border river is defended by a hodgepodge of troops – boys as young as 14, men over 50, and the occasional soldier of appropriate age who has been worn down by starvation, disease, and wounds. They all hold their posts like clay pigeons strung out in a shooting gallery.

A terrible addiction problem plagues the combat veterans. Amphetamines and other drugs were distributed to them during the war so as to keep them going, and now another devil's debt must be paid.

Only our Air Force remains a potent weapon, though it, too, is cruelly depleted. We need decades of peace to recover our national strength but are unlikely to get them. We have failed the test of history.

The slobe army has halted the advance of its eastern enemies and is starting to grind them down. Within a year or two, it will be back to settle accounts with us.

Above all this destruction towers the bloody colossus of the 'Great Leader.' Without him and his Party henchmen, we'd still have our national honor. Millions, on both sides, would yet walk among us. The Magleiter _must_ go. His NSP must uprooted like a noxious weed and thrown into the bonfire. I wish to do my part.

I'm a national hero, the "Pride of the Fatherland," and the youngest commissioned officer in the Air Force. I have a popular following and friends in high places. My influence has freed Ket from exile and got her a promotion. Her former boss reports to _her_ now.

I steel myself for the future struggle, but questions from the past haunt me. Why did Omzbak spare me at the end?

The most likely reason is that he wished to deny me the satisfaction of killing him myself. He knew his end was coming, what better way to punish me than to deprive me of my goal?

Or perhaps he had enough humanity left to understand his actions were evil and had to be atoned for. Maybe he just wanted to die – as Comrade 19 indicated.

There is another possibility. Late at night, when I am on the verge of sleep, it arises in my mind.

" _I know you!"_

He detested what he'd become and, in some inscrutable way, wanted to spare me from giving in to hate and violence, as he had done.

All I know is that I must hold fast to honorable notions of right and justice. Our leaders must answer for their crimes, but I cannot afford to hate them. Hate will destroy me, as it almost did before.

My lost squadron, the brave men I met serving in the war, Stilikan. Their beloved ghosts trouble me, but I must put them to rest and think only of the tasks ahead. The Fatherland needs me, and I must not fail.

For right now, though, it's good to relax in my easy chair with a mug of real coffee in my hand. Today is my 18th birthday, a milestone I did not expect to reach. I feel immensely older – a world-weary old man in a young man's body.

I gaze out the window toward the East where so many events shaped my life. Ket will be here soon with her cameramen to conduct an interview, and after that . . .

If nothing else, the future promises to be interesting.

THE END

Thanks for reading! You must have liked the story if you got this far, so why not write a review? Just a few words, either at the online bookstore where you obtained this book or in any other medium you wish. May numerous blessings come your way.

# Reading Group Guide

Questions and Topics for Discussion

1) Do you agree, or disagree that humanity is on a perilous course which threatens it's existence?

2) If so, what is the greatest threat to the future of civilization?

3) Is political extremism an inevitable outgrowth of chaotic times, or can people of good will redeem the situation?

4) There is general agreement that the future isn't what it used to be. What is your view of the future a century from the present time? Two centuries?

5) Some thinkers look forward to a time when humanity will move beyond the "us versus them" mentality. Is this a realistic hope, or will people always tend to divide themselves into opposing, often hostile, groups?

6) To what extent are individuals responsible for their own actions in a totalitarian society? In a democracy?

7) At what point are individuals entitled to oppose their government's policies, even if this involves violence?

8) Is good inherently stronger than evil? Will it always triumph in the long run?

# Connect with the Author

Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed the story.

Please visit my website and blog at: "The B2"

Also, my Smashwords Author Page

# Brian's Other Books

Here are brief descriptions of my other adult books. They are available at all major online retailers in e-book format. To find the relevant links, please visit my website at "The B2"

Return to Mech City

Book one of the _Robot Horizon_ series

The end of the world as you've never seen it before. Life goes on in Mech City, but it is no longer human.

As mankind succumbs to its follies and exits the stage, scholar model robot, Winston Horvath, makes a perilous journey to Mech City where he was manufactured. He meets Star Power, the world's only functional female robot.

Things unravel when a Roboto Fascist dictatorship seizes power. Its leader has designs on Star. Winston flees with her to gather forces for a counter-coup and, perhaps, get himself upgraded so as to bring Star true satisfaction.

Science Fiction / Humor / Dystopian

Expedition Westward

Book two of the _Robot Horizon_ series

What is the cost of rediscovering true love in a shattered world? Whatever it might be, Star is willing to pay, or not survive the outcome. A trek along dangerous roads provides the answer. The dystopian adventure continues.

Science Fiction / Humor / Dystopian

Battle for Mech City

Book three of the _Robot Horizon_ series

Winston Horvath regains control of Mech City, but his success is soon threatened. Violent religious fanatics are approaching with a robotic army. A disgruntled Dr. Che is also coming to kidnap Star. Meanwhile, Star's out of control sexuality is causing difficulties with various robotic and human partners. The fun continues!

Science Fiction / Humor / Dystopian

Great Republic on Rye

When dissolute card sharp and ladies man, Eugene Walton, unexpectedly inherits a plantation, his life assumes new purpose. After freeing the slaves and narrowly escaping a lynch mob, Eugene moves into the wider world bearing a message of liberation.

Accompanied by dedicated friends and a shadowy former bondsman, he plans to found a "Great Republic" based upon the highest ideals. But things are not so simple in an unready world. Let no good deed go unpunished!

Adventure / Social-Political Satire / Dark Humor

Strange Tales for Cozy Nights – 1

Nine offbeat tales to disturb your cozy nights. From strange voyages and baffling powers to dystopian athletic competitions and the in-laws from Hell, these stories are for you if you enjoy burning the midnight oil with a good yarn.

Horror-ish / Mystery / Whatever

4th Musketelle

Trophy wife Laila Armstrong chafes under the domination of husband Frank. When she learns her adult "step children" are plotting to cut her out of their dad's lucrative business affairs, she must act fast to avoid being thrown back into the poverty she escaped years earlier. Murder seems to be a reasonable solution – much better than a messy divorce.

Laila plots to use Frank's infamous temper against him and make his death seem like an "accident." Things don't work out as planned, though, and it's not certain who will survive the final cut.

Dark Humor / Romantic Homicide

DAS ROAD

A road novel with fascinating turns through exotic Asia, workaday America, and Iran caught up in revolution. Travel realms where anything is possible, wonderful, or horrible. And always on the road ahead, the mythical figure of Jon Glass who haunts the entire journey. A story imbued with meaning just below the level of articulating. A siren call to your wanderlust.

Travel / Mystery

Career Moves for Burnt Out Personifications

Santa, the Grim Reaper, and others scramble to find new careers and identities. Outrageous political and social satire. "A smorgasbord of paranoid ramblings ideally suited to today's sensibilities."

Humor / Political Satire

