The new shuttles our benevolent friends traded us took me right out of a job. I mean, they were safer, faster, and ultimately cheaper. The only reason I was able to keep my job for two years after the war was because no nation could buy many of them. But eventually, they replaced me. Come to find out, the shuttles they sold us were almost obsolete to the Jhi, but to us, they were revolutionary.
The TSC took pilots, but they only took the absolute best and most experienced, and even those guys will be getting released after the new TSC recruits come up.
Then I was out and didn’t have a job. The economy was a disaster, just beginning to get back on its feet. Nobody had work, and I had no skills other than operating an outdated machine. I went from being a badass helicopter pilot to nothing. It sucked.
Did you try to become a commercial shuttle pilot?
Calling them pilots is a stretch. Ok, that’s not fair (Smiles.), but they are straightforward to fly. I mean, the technology does most of it for you. But why didn’t I? I would have loved to, and I did try, but they didn’t need me. There weren’t that many of them in the beginning, and the ones they did get went to the hotshot jet pilots, which is understandable.
We lost a lot of pilots in the war, but there were a lot of pilots out there still. Think about this. 75% of all commercial pilots, from American Airlines to Fed Ex, became military pilots. Then, with the rise of shuttles, those pilots got laid off, or the company they were working for simply kept them as shuttle pilots. The rest of the laid-off pilots were all looking for a job. Now, here I was, a helicopter pilot waving my hand in the air saying, “Pick me, pick me.” Never going to happen, and I knew that. I still tried, mind you, but I was prepared for the result.
So, there I was, recently married with a kid on the way, and I couldn’t get a job. Veterans assistance? There was none, nor any type of welfare. Things like that disappeared with the Veech. People did whatever they could to survive, as did I. I took a lot of small jobs—mover, cleaner, farmer, whatever I could get.
A friend, an old university roommate, told me he’d give me a job if I moved to London. So I packed my family and moved them here. I’ve been at the supermarket ever since. It’s not a bad job. It’s not a piloting job by any means, but it’s not bad.
I get angry sometimes, you know, thinking about all I did, and this is the thanks I get, but that’s just me being selfish. People lost their whole families, literally everything. So, I have to stock cans—so what. I get to see my wife and kids every day, and they’re well-fed.
You know, helicopter pilots aren’t the only jo b that disappeared because of the new technology. There’s a doctor that works here. He works at a cash register. Can you believe that? That guy went from making a ton of money pre-invasion to making minimum wage. Sucks for him, but it’s nice having full medical now. Of course, lawyers didn’t lose their jobs. Those guys are like cockroaches.
Jonathon Meeks
Summerset, Kentucky
Jonathon sees me, gives a nod, and, with a noticeable limp, walks toward me through the busy restaurant. Long, unkempt, graying hair moves back and forth as he walks toward the table. Retired from TSC, Jonathon owns a landscaping company in which he “mainly yells at people.”
Jonathon was one of two dozen men and women who guarded Veech prisoners captured during the war.
I had to get permission for this meeting; I didn’t want to get in trouble. My old supervisor had to call his supervisor and, well, here I am, so I guess they thought it was okay. It doesn’t matter now, does it? All those guys are gone.
How did you become a guard?
In a roundabout way. I was stationed in Texas during the war. I fought there for two years -small battles, big battles, scouting raids – and did it all without a scratch. Then one day, I’m out with a team, scouting a small town, and the next thing I know, I wake up with a concussion and two broken legs. As you can see, it left me with this baby. (Slaps his leg.) It’s not too big of a deal unless I walk too long on it.
I got stuck in a hospital up in Montana, recovering but mostly feeling sorry for myself. That place was cold. I mean really cold. I wanted to get back in the fight, you know? Most of my family was dead, and the only brothers I still had were down there. I knew it wasn’t going to happen though, which led me to being a prick. The doc told me I might not even walk on my right leg again. Thankfully he was wrong about that one.
One day I got out of bed, loaded myself into my wheelchair, and went to find some booze. I didn’t care at that point. I was depressed and angry and was ready to have at it with anyone I saw. I think I wanted someone to stop me, so that I could share my anger. I made it to the end of the hall and I couldn’t get the door open. That broke me, and I just lost it. I started yelling, screaming, cursing, and threatening anyone around me. Next thing I know, an officer walks up, opens the door, and says, “after you.” I just looked at the guy, you know? His calm demeanor took me off my game for a minute. I think I mumbled, “thank you,” but I’m not sure.
I head out the door, and the guy follows me. He starts asking me questions about my injury and my recuperation. I didn’t want to answer him or talk about it. I’m surprised I didn’t get busted right there because I gave him some attitude, but the guy was chill. He told me he was here recruiting for a job, but I needed to be able to walk—not fight, just walk. He put his card in my shirt and disappeared.
Well, after I cooled down, I realized it was a chance, maybe the only chance, I had of getting back in the war, so I hit my physical therapy hard, and three months later, I could walk… kind of. (Gives a shrug.) I thought it was good enough, so I give the guy a call, and he arranges everything, just like that. I thought it was strange, but I wasn’t going to ask too many questions.
Two weeks later, I’m flown out to a remote base—sorry I can’t say where. (Gives an apologetic smile.) I thought, perhaps foolishly, that I already had the job, but I was told I still had to interview. I was shown into a room, a small one, you know, one of those interrogation rooms you see on T.V. and then told to wait.
A few minutes later, a man entered the room. The guy was dressed in a black suit and tie, regulation hair cut, you know the type, I’m sure. I had him pegged for C.I.A. or some other letter agency, but never did find out. Anyway, he sat down and asked me one question. “What would you do If you came upon a Veech who wanted to surrender?” That was it. I just looked at the guy; I mean, what was I supposed to say?
I wondered if this was some kinda test? Was I supposed to answer that I would slap some cuffs on him and turn him in? I got angry. They brought me out here just to turn me away because I wasn’t gonna be nice to a genocidal alien? Screw them!
I stood up and growled at the man that if I ever came upon a Veech I would slit it open from neck to gonads and then watch it bleed. I threw the chair across the room, told the man to screw himself, and walked to the door.
He laughs, pulls out a rubber band, and puts his hair into a ponytail.
Well, the door didn’t have a handle on it, so I turned around, ready to handle this daisy pusher. He saw me turn, held up his hand, and offered me the job. I just stared at the guy, sure I was being punked or something. The man asked me to sit and he would explain. I sat.