That was the night Joe Sanchez and I told each other we would enlist. We wanted more stupid joy and danger and the sheer, druggy rush of survival. We wanted as much of that as we could get, the real thing. Wanted it over and over. God, how I loved that whole stupid day and chilly night.
We were idiots. But we were also young gods.
I SAW THAT in an old movie.
Coyle!
This time the word balloon fills in. I roll over, look up from my tangled bed, and glare at the ceiling. “It was real. It happened to me—to us.” I can feel her, recognize her—almost hear her voice. “I don’t know what you’re doing in here! You’re fucking dead.”
And you’re fucking stuck in a cheap hotel. But not for long.
That makes me angry. “Get the hell out of my head!”
And what is this about you and Joe and a mummy? That is just creepy. If you want original, you should see what I’m seeing. And by the way, I like Corporal Johnson better than you.
“You mean, DJ? Where is he?”
Then—Coyle’s voice dusts up and away, before I can even decide whether I’m still dreaming.
DAY 123
The stainless steel shutters behind the thick window hiss and click and slide open. A new guy stands behind the glass while the suite’s little buzzer attracts my attention. He’s alone. He looks around, sees me standing in the door to the bedroom. I’m still wearing my bathrobe.
The new guy’s in his late fifties, bald, skinny, with a peach-smooth pink face and small, bright eyes. He’s something of a sloppy dresser and wears a gray wool coat over a worn green sweater. He fastens those small bright eyes on me and smiles. Pink lips, tiny, perfect teeth.
“Master Sergeant Michael Venn. Vinnie,” he says, though nobody around here has earned the right to use that nickname. Any other time or place, I’d look right past him, but there’s something about this new guy, like close-mortared bricks or a finely fitted rock wall. He’s confident, in his element, with the creepy manner of a civilian who can make generals wait in the lobby.
I get it. I’ll play along and see what transpires.
“My name is Harris,” he says. “First name Walker. I’m not a doctor but the docs talk to me. They tell me they’re just about finished with your CDE.”
Command Directed Evaluation.
“Oh?”
He smiles reassuringly. “They tell me there’s no evidence of a maladaptive and enduring pattern of behavior destructive to yourself or others. In short, you’re fine.”
“Why did the docs take so long to make up their minds?” I ask.
“The stories you told were interesting. Fantastic and interesting.”
“You’re Wait Staff,” I say.
“Some call us that,” Harris admits. He releases a dry chuckle and then his eyes scrinch down. “You claim to have been influenced by a green powder you encountered inside an intriguing geological formation on Mars.”
“Not just me,” I say.
“Right. Another soldier, Corporal Johnson—DJ. Pardon. Another Skyrine. We needed to check out the stories, and so we have. I’m about to deliver a report to a trio of Gurus. They work in threes, you know.”
I did not know.
“They interact with us in threes, that is, to avoid making mistakes, I suppose. I’ve been working with the Gurus for ten years—eleven, actually—and I am still amazed by how little we know about them. How little I know.”
“Inscrutable?” I ask.
“Like open books, actually—but printed in a foreign language. Well, our local trio has expressed great interest in your story, what you’ve told us. Our doctors and scientists have finished their analyses, and the upshot is—the final report is going to read—I am going to tell the Gurus directly—that nothing significant about you has changed.” Walker Harris touches the bridge of his nose, sniffs lightly, and concludes, “You are not contagious. Never have been. Nobody should feel concern. The green powder appears to have been innocuous. Maybe it was just dried algae, residue from the attempts to fill the old mine with breathable atmosphere. Don’t you agree?”
I don’t say a word. Maybe they’ll let me out. Maybe they’ll let me get back in the fight. It’s all I know, really. All I’ve ever been good at.
“As for the dreams you’ve been having, we’ve been tracking your thought patterns, even translating some of them, and I’m told they’re vivid, imaginative. But your dreams are neither based in mental disorder or referential to another reality. Certainly not an ancient moon’s reality.” Having doubled down, he waits for my response. I give him a twitch of one finger, which he focuses upon like a targeting system.
That look, that expression—
Is this guy human or machine? I have to ask. But I don’t. Could be maladaptive.
“Your time here can’t have been easy.”
“No complaints,” I say.
“Remarkable presence of mind. Though I understand you’ve been visited by a friend.” His targeting system homes on my eyes. “A dead friend.”
This gives me a jolt. I haven’t told any of the docs about Coyle. My skin heats, my face flushes. Walker Harris watches with sympathetic concern. I murmur, “I miss my buddies. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“And nothing to be ashamed of,” he says. “We remember our dead in so many ways. As for the experience itself… What little I’ve managed to understand of Guru metaphysics is a puzzle to me. They might or might not deny the possibility of life after death, but you understand—in our military, in our security forces in general, such an experience does not inspire confidence. Still, MHAT is prepared to evaluate and clear you quickly if it’s just a stress-related interlude.”
“Yeah,” I say, “but I never expected a visit from Medvedev. Vee-Def, we called him. He hated my guts.”
“Paradoxes and surprises abound,” Harris says. He’s giving up nothing—or he doesn’t know. He’s like a watchful barracuda, perfectly happy to find blood in the water; any excuse to tear me down and eat me up. I’m thinking maybe Walker Harris is borderline maladaptive.
“But given the trials you’ve been subjected to, and the length of time you’ve been isolated with little in the way of human company—and given that most of these contacts have been scientists…” Harris’s smile could chill a side of beef. “I can arrange for all of that awkwardness to be ignored.” His cheek jerks. He’s lying.
“Good to hear,” I say. “What else have you seen, looking into my head?”
Harris appreciates the chance to show off. “The compiled profile shows an intelligent and resourceful warrior with fewer stress-related issues than might be expected. A warrior who could return to service very soon and be a valuable contributor to our war effort. Which is entering a new and interesting phase.”
“Titan,” I say.
Harris nods with a tight little fidget. “We have yet to broadcast these actions to the general public,” he says, “but you’ve drawn conclusions from what little you’ve heard, and they are not wrong.”
“How long have we been there? Fighting?”
“Two years.”
Again, he’s lying. Based on what the gray-haired secretary said to me outside SBLM about her son’s death, I think maybe four or five.
“The Gurus must have given us new tech,” I say. “Otherwise, it would take a decade for space frames to reach that far, even with spent matter drives. Out to Saturn and back.”