“It's over,” said Joy.
“I don't know,” said Tantas. Him scanned the room. The hivers on the floor were stirring. Like Sergeant had said, maybe even now one of the general hivers was mutating into a Queen. “We're leaving, Joy. Getting Alistair off-world, remember?”
“I thought it would be the end of it, if her dead,” said Joy
“I know.” Tantas pulled her to her feet. “We're going now.” Him pulled Joy through the room of hivers, and out into the field.
But instead of the fleet of flyers them expected there was just the one, a small craft, a two solider flyer. Alistair was already in the flyer, Sergeant stood at the wings, waiting for them.
“Where all the others?” asked Joy, bewildered.
Sergeant shrugged. “Who knows. Wordsworth, you climb in and take Alistair to Primateur.”
“No.”
“That's an order, Acting Private.”
“Joy should go.”
“No,” said Joy “You go. You go. You the civilian. I knew what I was signing up for.”
Tantas shook his head. “I mean you should go, Joy, because I can't pilot a flyer.”
“You what?”
“I can't fly.”
“Everyone can.”
“Not me.”
“That's settled then,” said Sergeant, “Alistair no pilot either. Joy, you go with Alistair. And don't even be thinking of telling me to go.”
Joy saluted. Her climbed into the flyer. Her set the course, while Sergeant activated the roof port.
Joy reached out her hand to Tantas and said, “I'm sorry that you can't go. It would have been better if you could get to safety. I'm the solider.”
“Only someone who can fly, can go,” said Tantas. “Lachesis has seen to that.”
Joy smiled. “Yeh. Them Moirae. Can't argue with them.”
“Now go,” said Tantas. “Take care of yourself and Alistair.”
“I will,” said Joy. “And you and Sergeant, you better stay safe until I come back.”
The roof to the flyer slid shut. The burners pulsed out red-hot air. The flyer lifted into the sky. For a moment or two Sergeant and Tantas watched the flyer. Then Sergeant said, “Come on then, Wordsworth. Them hivers aren't going to be confused forever.” He set off at a trot.
Them made it thought the school safe enough, and ran through the town and to the old mining tunnel.
“Are we going to make it?” asked Tantas.
“You better hope you don't survive,” said Sergeant.
“Eh? Why's that?” asked Tantas.
“When Joy finds out that you can pilot a flyer, her going to rip your head off.”
“You knew?”
“Sure. I'm not stupid,” said Sergeant. “What was it between you and Joy?”
“Nothing,” said Tantas quickly “I just… you know.”
“Oh, yes,” said Sergeant. “I know that song.”
When them emerged from the tunnel, them both turned their faces to the sky. The flyer was a diminished speck of light against the stars.
Sergeant laughed “Wordsworth, if you get through this, you going to be in so much trouble.”
Tantas grinned. “I reckon so,” him said.
Perfect War
Jay Werkheiser
“How the hell could a soldier get killed?” Colonel Spencer shouted. Gardner wondered if he might pop a blood vessel. “It's the middle of a war, for Christ's sake.”
Gardner avoided eye contact. “We're looking into it, sir.”
“Well what the hell happened?”
“He was on a simple recon patrol, sir, when he slumped over at his station. If I had to guess—”
“You're not paid to guess, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir. I'll let you know when I have the autopsy report.”
Colonel Spencer huffed and stalked out of Gardner's office without another word. Gardner collapsed into his chair, trembling with anger. He didn't even care to ask the guy's name.
A tentative knuckle rapped on the door. “You okay, LT?”
“C'mon in, Liz.”
She sauntered in, dreads bouncing, and melted into the chair on the opposite side of Gardner's desk. Her fatigues were crisp enough to snap had she bothered to salute. “That bad, huh?”
He blew out a long breath. “It's not bad enough we lost Joel. Now I have command breathing down my neck.”
“Don't sweat it. Brass doesn't give a flying—”
“How often do you see a full-bird colonel snooping around? To them, this is bad publicity. Another war in the Mideast gone wrong. And they're sure as hell going to want a scapegoat.”
She shook her head. “The autopsy will clear you. Probably show he had an aneurysm or something.”
“The EMEG rig was fried. That had to be what killed him.”
“So it was a malf.”
“It passed the pre-mission inspection.” He realized he was standing, his voice practically a shout. He again collapsed into his chair. “They don't want any doves claiming the EMEG rigs damage soldiers' brains.”
She planted her hands on his desk, leaning her face into his. “It. Wasn't. Your. Fault.”
He retreated. “You didn't have to vid the news to his mom. See her eyes. He was just a kid, damn it.”
“Man, you gotta lighten up. No one misses Joel more than me. He was like a brother. I'm telling you, you gotta let it go.”
His phone vibrated, sparing him a response. He checked the display. “Autopsy's in. I guess we'll have our answers soon enough.”
“Good, maybe that'll get the monkey off your back,” she said. “Look, I have a recon duty shift coming up. How about you buy me a couple drinks after I get the rig off?”
“An officer fraternizing with enlisted?” He managed a weak smile.
“Oh, come off it. That rule's been taking a beating since before you could even spell fraternize. Now get off your lazy ass and get over to the infirmary.”
“Uh, I think you have the chain of command inverted.” His smile widened a bit.
She reached out a hand and yanked him to his feet. “Go get 'em, cowboy.”
He walked with her as far as the Active Combat Room. She put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder then swiped her ID. The door's lock clicked open.
“Be careful out there,” he said. “We don't know what killed Joel.”
“No worries.”
He watched from the doorway as a tech draped the EMEG net over her head, carefully adjusting electrodes into position. He forced himself to turn away and continue down the hallway.
The infirmary was typical of a modern military base — brightly lit, claustrophobic, and lined with the meds and salves needed for minor cuts and sniffles. The doctor on duty looked up from his paperwork, his square jaw and graying temples lending weight to his steely stare. Not a face Gardner had seen on base before.
He tried to put on a casual smile. “What's the verdict, doc?”
“Major.”
“Sir.” His posture involuntarily straightened. Damn it. “The autopsy report?”
“You have no facilities to do a proper autopsy here. I had to improvise, using the emergency OR. I don't know how your doctors manage.”
“What killed Joel? Sir.”
“The soldier? I logged it as catastrophic neurological sequelae.”
Gardner gritted his teeth. “Which means?”
“He suffered burn damage to his brain.”
“Caused by the EMEG rig?”
“I had the technicians tear down the electromagneto-encephalographic drone interface he'd been using. They said the thing was burned out by a massive electromagnetic pulse.”
“But they're hardened against EMP.”
The major gave him a cold stare. “Mission logs show normal brain activity right up to the end, terminating in a burst of hyperpolarization across the cerebral cortex.”