The Veteran
We slipped
out of our houses just after midnight and took various transits through the dark
and still hours until we reached the asteroid’s equator. I fell asleep on the transit, and the guys
didn’t ditch me. They were nineteen- and
twenty-years old and had pressured me into paying their way to the Gaps with my
sister’s benefits. It was stupid –
something they could get away with and I couldn’t. I’d be in trouble the second I got back.
“Look
dude,” Mac had said, “we’ll pay for everything once we get there. We’ll take you to the girly shows. We’ll do the amusement park rides. Spend all afternoon in the stores. Whatever. All we need is transit fare and you can hang
with us.”
“Maybe,”
Austin said, “we’ll even see a Veteran!”
I jerked a
glance at him, trying to detect any sign of mockery. He knew my interest, that I cubed all the net
sites about the psychic wars. He had
hounded me about it in the past. I kept
my face immobile.
Austin
tried another tack. Clapping both his
hands aside his face, he bent to within centimeters of mine, bugged his eyes
out at me, and said, “There’ll be girls! More
girls than you have ever seen!”
“C’mon,”
Mac said, “none of us has got the money.
Your thumb can get everybody there on your sister’s benefits. She’s not expecting you back `till late
tonight. By that time we’ll be half way to the equator.”
They were so
much older, but they needed me along. It
wasn’t a chance I would get often. I was
only fourteen.
“Alright!” I said. “Back off a bit.”
They smiled
and gave each other high fives, fists closed.
Austin woke
me when the transit stopped. No one else
was in the station at that hour but a couple of bums with sleeping bags. The doors opened for us and we walked
through.
My first
sight was the line of shops, curving upward in the distance as the floor sloped
around the asteroid, disappearing into the horizon’s rising curve. It’s what made Earth films fail out
here. Who could look at all those people
standing with their feet toward the center of the planet, always looking at the
horizons curving downward? It was too
weird. Centrifugal force was the only
way to go.
“I’m gonna get my sister something,” I said, “some clothes or
something. It’ll cool her down when I
get back.”
“They’re
still closed,” Mac said. “Look behind ya, dude.”
I turned
around. A wide marble-like floor stretched
out before the shops, cluttered with enameled white metal tables and chairs. All were empty. In an hour or two, people taking their
weekend or vacation would horde into this area, mashing foot-long dogs into
their mouths or eating boxes of popcorn anteater style. Beyond the tables was the view.
Level with
the marble floor, some fifteen meters of balcony extended out into the vacuum
of space. A transparent barrier curved
around the balcony, above, below, and in front.
We ran onto it.
“Look up!” Austin commanded.
Above us
were stories and stories of city, reaching higher and higher until they reached
the roof, our asteroid itself. The
builders had slapped layers and layers of city onto the asteroid leaving a
single gap encircling the rock’s equator.
The Gap – the only tourist destination on the asteroid – was an inverted
canyon.
“Look
down!”
Below us, a
black sky, studded with stars glimmered beneath a faint layer of crystal ices
and planetesimals.
“So cool!” I crooned.
Then I
raised my eyes to the level. Before us,
a kilometer across the Gap, were the city lights of the Right Sheath, our
enemy. We lived in the Left Sheath, once
half of a great city, now an independent state.
But as all these sights held the older
boys, I gradually felt a draw on my attention to our left.
A dozen
meters along the balcony, sat an old man before the great window, unmoving,
unspeaking, staring into space. I knew
what he was looking at: he was focused on our distant,
mortal foe.
He wasn’t
actually that old: young enough to look at, but his eyes and skin revealed age. His face was drawn too tight; skin was too
thin a membrane; his eyes, eternal.
“Guys,” I
whispered. They looked at me and I made
short jabbing motions with my index finger.
They all looked, not trying to hide their gawking. He must have noticed our attentions, but he
sat still, staring out across the Gaps.
“It’s a
veteran,” I said. “See that gray
uniform? On his lapel there’ll be brass
buttons, one for every ten successful attacks against the enemy.”
We stared
in awe for a moment.
“Yeah,”
Austin said loudly, “too bad it always toasts your brain.”
I looked
from the old man to my comrades.
“What would
make someone volunteer for that?” I asked. “I mean, knowing what he would turn into?”
“You
idiots,” Mac said. “There never was any
psychic war. It’s all just
propaganda. If anyone really burned up
at all, they were probably set on fire by the secret police.”
Austin
threw his plastic cup toward the man.
The remainder of the drink spilled and the ice clattered under the old
man’s chair. He didn’t flinch. The others stepped out, throwing their trash
from their lunch at his feet. I held my
tongue.
I didn’t
care what they said – I believed there had been a psychic war.
Later, in
the night, I forgot about him. There was
a long evening of carousing, my first beer, and learning to flirt with girls
much older than I was. We walked so many
kilometers in the Gaps that I was unaware I had returned to the very spot where
we had arrived. He still sat there,
still staring across a kilometer of vacuum to the Right Sheath. A thought came to my mind: I would approach
him. I would walk past him, behind his
chair, count how many brass buttons he had and report to my older friends how
many psychic attacks he had made.
On his
lapel were three gold bars, two thinner silver bars, and six brass
buttons. I didn’t have a clue what all
that stood for. I was just
fourteen. I had forgotten my fear and
stood staring at his lapel. He suddenly
seemed so harmless. I walked around to
his face and examined the front of his uniform.
He stared at the enemy. I stared
at him.
“She burned
up,” he suddenly said without diverting his gaze.
It was an
insane thing to say. A person didn’t
begin conversations with something like that.
Maybe Austin was right. Maybe
there had been no war; maybe this was only mental illness.
“What?” I exclaimed.
“You asked
earlier why someone would join the Corp,” he continued, “why someone would
undergo the training, knowing it would some day leave
them here staring. I joined because she
caught fire and burned right in front of me.”
I paused,
absorbed. “So after they burned her –
your loved one – you just went and signed up?”
“No. I had to report her death. In those days, the days of the Psychic War,
there was an office for reporting such things.
They questioned me for hours.”
“Why? You didn’t do it. What did they want?”
“They
wanted to know if during the attack I’d seen any sort of vision, heard any
voices. Some of the psychics were bold
to arrogance – they left a sort of calling card with their strike. The government kept track of them. I told them there had been nothing; they
wrote on her death certificate Fire, Unknown Origin.”
“But you
knew,” I said without thinking.
He hmfed: “My training
must be slipping. How did you see
through to that?”
“You saw a
man with a trimmed white beard and hard eyes.”
He turned
suddenly and his glare was upon me. I
turned my eyes away, downward. Beneath
his seat were ashes.
“I burned
them for years. I’d be burning them
still if parliament hadn’t signed that treaty.”
I turned
and fled. I never told my comrades.
I was only
fourteen.