Indomitable (22 page)

“That's him, isn't it?”

It was all she could do to nod.

The father laid a hand on Promise's shoulder and squeezed gently. “Ah, I see. A brother of the close fight. God rest his soul.”

“Yes.”
He was in every sense of the word.
She took a moment to collect herself. “Are you former military?”

“I was in another lifetime.” The father looked up. “
He
enlisted me. You know, we have this silly little notion about death that's definitely not from Him. We've had it for millennia, back to the dawn of time. We tell ourselves to say good-bye to our lost ones so we can move on. The truth is that's the biggest bunch of nonsense, and it eats at the spirit. It's impossible to let go. The human heart wasn't designed for good-byes. We were designed for forever. Death wasn't part of the original plan.”

“Then how do I keep going, Father? I feel like I'm coming unraveled. The flashbacks and nightmares won't stop. I barely sleep anymore. I'm becoming afraid to try.”

“You don't. At least not like you're thinking.” The father folded his hands across his stomach and filled his chest with air. “Instead of moving on, think of making space in your life for your pain. You have to do life with it. Give it a place at the table. Tell it, ‘You're welcome here.' Only then can you begin to heal.

“Someday, we will all come to the end of ourselves. It's inevitable, even if the scientists say otherwise. I happen to believe in life after death, and if you ask me, the best stuff happens on the other side. On this side, we have the misfortune of outliving some of the people we love. More than I really care to think about, honestly.” The father closed his eyes. “I overheard a bit of your discussion with Katia, the woman who just left.”

“I didn't know.”

“Don't feel badly, Promise. Do you mind if I call you that?”

“No, not at all.”

“Katia has seen her share of loss too. A parent losing a child is one of the worst kinds of loss imaginable. For her the cycle of life was reversed. Your occupation guarantees you a double portion, probably more than that.” The father looked genuinely hurt for her. “I'm afraid it's simply impossible to move on from death. You must learn to move with it.”

“I don't know where to begin.”

Father Francis opened his arms wide and smiled. “That, my dear, is why you came to me.”

“And you believe a tattoo can make a difference.”

“Absolutely! I've staked my livelihood upon it. And His.”

“I suppose you have.” Promise's eyes went to the disk. “You've seen my Marines. What do you suggest?”

“Script, possibly.” He frowned. “A lot of names get tricky. We'd have to make them small and the small ones don't age as well … unless you want your body covered with janes and jacks, space will be an issue. What about a symbol? Maybe something you shared in common with your sisters and brothers.”

Promise raised her left shoulder. “How about my unit patch?”

“Hmm, it has possibilities. Snakes are a staple of the industry.”

Promise caught the edge of a memory. She was a child, sitting on her father's lap. They were reading together from an old picture book. There were trees and animals, and a new sun was high in the sky. A snake and a man were talking to each other, and it wasn't going well. The next spread showed them fighting. She hadn't thought of it in years.

“What if I incorporate a field of stars into the background, one for every fallen soul?” Father Francis looked pleased.

“I think I'd like that.”

“What if I work them into a pattern of concentric circles, like this?”

Promise nodded.

“Good. Give me half an hour to draw it up. Help yourself to my library. I've always loved the printed word. Given the choice, I'll choose carbonscreen every time. Room Two is down the hall, second door on the right. There's fresh-brewed caf and a nice selection of iced beverages. Please take your pick.”

Room Two was an oasis. Soft blues and greens covered the walls. The holographic ceiling swelled with clouds, and a flight of birds passed overhead. A slight current stirred her bangs and fresh caf filled her nostrils. Stringed music played as she doctored a cup with heavy cream and sugar. It was strong. The good stuff, she thought. She sat and the chair reclined, and molded to her back and legs. The heated seat was an added bonus. As she relaxed she noted the piece of framed art on the wall. At first, Promise thought it was a holographic still. A closer look made her think twice.

The scene depicted two armies enjoined in battle. Not all the soldiers were human. And everything was slightly out of focus, as if an optic had rendered the entire piece from a real battle, or perhaps a reenactment, and the optic hadn't known what detail to focus upon, so it ended up rendering the entire scene slightly out of phase. Even so, the details were as real as they were gruesome. Corpses were piled everywhere. Explosions and debris filled the air. The carnage was near-total, which made the man in the center of the painting seem at odds with his surroundings. He stood on a small hill, and his arms were outstretched and soaked with blood. Survivors on both sides were gazing up at him in shock. His face was a collage of browns, greens, blacks, and whites. His eyes were full of pain and they appeared to be looking straight at her. The plaque at the bottom said:

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the daughters and sons of God.”

The great Mediator,
Promise thought.
One of the holy triumvirate.
Promise's father, Morlyn Gration, had believed in the Mediator, Maker, and Sustainer, what he'd called the three-in-one. “God is never alone, and because God is with us neither are we.” He'd taken that belief to the grave. Promise wondered if her father was now in the presence of some great spirit. Perhaps looking down upon her this moment. She'd certainly never sensed his presence. And right now she wished she could in the worst way.

When it came to dogma, her father had been as devout in his faith as her mother was uncommitted. They'd agreed on little else except their love for each other and for her. Somehow they'd made it work.

Maybe that's where I got my love for doing hard things. Then Mom died. Then they came.
She'd never forgotten the day her father died and she'd tried everything imaginable. It flashed to life. Her hands began to shake, so she set her cup down, and rubbed her hands together.

One of the alien soldiers in the painting caught her eye. It wore a cross around its neck. His neck? Her neck? Its features weren't what you'd call masculine or feminine. Would aliens be male and female or something else entirely? She thought if other sentients were out there, then the God of heaven must be their God too.

How do you serve something that you can't see? Or talk to. How do you tolerate a God Who tolerates so much death?
She closed her eyes but found no answers there. Moments later she fell asleep.

 

Twenty-six

MAY 12
TH
, 92 A.E., STANDARD CALENDAR, 1522 HOURS

REPUBLIC OF ALIGNED WORLDS PLANETARY CAPITAL—HOLD

JOINT SPACEPORT MO CAVINAUGH

Beating feet across the
hot tarmac of Mo Cavinaugh gave Promise time to order her thoughts. They'd shifted beneath her like tectonic plates. Crashed together. Pushed up jagged questions she didn't want to face. The problem with learning something new was you were obligated to do something about it, ply the new knowledge, gain more intelligence (intelligence in the military meaning of the word and an officer of Marines had better be on the evolutionary ladder and on the upward bounce).

Father Francis Tullivan was on to something about making peace with death.
Our mutual friend. He got that right.
Maybe she'd have a summit and agree to peace talks. Greeting death with a kiss? That didn't sound appealing. Neither did growing old with bad memories weighing her down.

She'd nearly spilled her guts in the father's chair during two consecutive sessions, each close to two hours, as he'd pounded color into her skin. They'd talked about the church, the state, her Marines, her nonexistent love life, and even her parents. Father Francis was careful not to pry. When he finished, he'd slathered her skin in balm and clear wrap. Standing before the mirror, she felt lighter than she had in years.

“It's perfect.” She tried to hold back the tears, and turned her shoulder for a better view.

“Let them come, child. Remember, it wasn't your fault. You were doing your duty. They were doing theirs.”

Promise inhaled sharply. She'd heard the exact same words only days before, from the most unlikely source. General Granby's vid.

Because it wasn't marked priority it had sat in her queue for the better part of a day. It began, “Send one downrange for me, girly.” A still of Great-Grans filled her screen, and then Promise hit
PLAY
. “Didn't expect me, did you? I wouldn't either if I was you. Make that your first lesson. Don't outgrow your britches.” After that, Grans got straight to the point. “Watch your six, Lieutenant. Politicians have long memories. You just blipped on their scanners like an inbound hostile.” Grans elaborated a bit, and then listed their mutual enemies.

I have enemies … in my own star nation.

Grans told her to grieve Sergeant Morris's death and not to hold herself responsible.
Not likely.
“Not your fault, Lieutenant. Don't even go there. You were just doing your duty, and so was he. Don't forget that.”

Don't even go there. How do I not go there? Why do we talk about there as if it's a place?

“Well, I'm off for the country,” Grans said. “My home away from home isn't far from here. The alpha unit and I have thought about downsizing for years. Each time we come close the memories convince us not to.” Granby thought hard before saying more. “I may never see a uniform again. God only knows. Well, it doesn't matter anymore. Maybe it's time I put my big house to use.” Granby brightened visibly. “Drop by sometime. Make that an order. And let me know if you ever need my help … such as it is. Good hunting, Lieutenant. Granby, out.”

As Promise rounded the corner of the building, she stepped from the shadows and into the blinding sun. She raised her hand in time to avoid the mech coming straight at her.

*   *   *

Her ride up was
a Starburst-class medium-range orbital shuttle, nicknamed the Blowfish. The body was more a cylinder than a plane or wing, which made the bulbous cockpit and nose look out of place. Crewed by five, just like a Marine Corps platoon. The engines took up the ship's entire aft compartment, and dozens of stabilizers poked out of the hull.

About two shuttle lengths away, Promise caught sight of a familiar profile. No, make that two. Lance Corporal Kathy Prichart and Private Race Atumbi were standing nearby, just off the middle hatch of the medium-range intersystem transport, watching passengers disembark. Atumbi was manning an empty hoversled. Kathy held a datapad and was wearing shades. Then she pointed to a tall Marine wearing tan utilities, and nodded to Atumbi. The newcomer stood in the shuttle's hatchway, and set his bags down to don his beret.

Now Promise was close enough to see the stranger's gross features, and they looked out of place. The nose was flat and smoothed-over, and the jaw was too big for the head. Too-pale skin more fitting for a corpse than a Marine. Kathy waved to Promise as the newcomer hit the bottom of the stairs. His name tab said
MARGOLEASE
. He wore a number of service ribbons and medals, including a purple heart surrounded by three stars and two suns. Promise's brows shot skyward. That was five total wounds-in-combat; stars for the injuries and suns for the fatalities. Resurrections were rare enough. But twice? It was only then Promise put three and two together.
Margolease has five WICs and he's been jumped twice.
That explained his appearance.

“And who do we have here?” Promise met Margolease's gaze directly even though she wanted to stare at him in the worst way. The man seemed to notice and dipped his head. His salute was as crisp as any she'd seen, and lightning fast.

“Sergeant
Jesus
Margolease, reporting for duty, ma'am.”

“He's your new platoon sergeant, ma'am.” Kathy held up the datapad. “His transfer papers just arrived.” Kathy raised her shades and gave Margolease a once-over. “You're a lot to take in, Sergeant.”

“Lance Corporal! Watch your mouth,” Promise said. “Please forgive her, Sergeant. She should know better.”

“Lieutenant.” Margolease's tone spoke volumes. “Take a good look at me. Can you blame her?”

The man has a point.
“Maybe … still doesn't make it right … or respectful. A man with five WICs has a story to tell and the right to tell it whenever he pleases. Drinks on me, anytime.” Promise frowned. “Except not today. I'm being kicked off-planet.”

“Rain check, then.” Margolease extended his gloved hand. His grip was firm, measured, and Promise suspected carefully restrained. She held it a moment longer than protocol dictated. “I bet you crush rocks with that, Sergeant.”

“Not quite, but I'm an undefeated arm wrestler.”

“I'll remember that,” Promise said as she looked into his eyes. They were his most human feature, though the left one was off somehow.

“The cornea and most of the rods and cones were destroyed in an explosion. The doc saved the eye but the optics had to be replaced.”

“Zoom-capable?” asked Promise.

“Yes, with a micro-HUD hardwired to my brain.”

“Really? Can you download telemetry or sync with your armor?”

“Negative, ma'am. Thank the Congress and the AI Acts for that.”