The Return of The Dreck

The towering mountains glowed red.

The white, the blue-green, the beige, the black, the brown were melting into an orange ochre that melded with the brilliant setting of the planet’s star such that it was not possible to see where celestial beauty ended and terrestrial agony and death began.

The atmosphere crackled and snapped as the air began to change in its composition.
The thousands of generals and their aides assembled would soon be incapable of breathing.

The lava slowly flowed towards them in swift rivers that swept away tree, stone, and earth. The assembled body of the Imperial elite masked their minds. They calmed their minds. The primal, natural fear that threatened to erupt from each and every one of them would have been-if made known-disastrous.
Fear-in the presence of a Dreck-was suicide.

The young Valerian-Dreck prince struggled with his rage and spiraled towards the heavens to be away from them. He sent the congealing bolts of matter and light that coalesced around him and through him into the mountains miles away from the throng before him.
For a moment he had lost control.

How could they have failed? How could they have made his presence necessary?

He did not want them hurt. He did not want to kill them.

Yes, they had failed the Emperor.

But he did not want them dead: he had been to The Academy with the grandfathers of some of these men; he had seen their grandmothers as young maidens wooed; he had seen their fathers grow tall and strong and fit for The Service of his Emperor.
He had seen his friends, and then, their sons, grow old and die.

He would not destroy them. They had, however, through their incompetence and gross dereliction of duty put him in a situation:
He-and he alone –would have to face the Emperor and explain their continued existence.
He, and he alone-and infinitely worse-would have to face the Witch-Lord himself. His sire.

The Valerian-Dreck prince calmed his mind. He became present to the reality at hand: he stopped the movement of the molecules that were rapidly approaching the cadre of elites. The lava began to slow, then froze. A cool, bracing breeze began to cool the valley: he wanted the minds of these men to be sharp, without distraction.
He hovered above them, before them.
Gazing upon the stock-still generals he blanketed them with his attention. To a man there was a focused intention to conceal fear, weakness. Good. Their gallant-yet-feeble attempt to conceal their terror made it possible to spare them. The easily discernible-overwhelming, stark, raving- terror of the junior officers surrounding them contrasted powerfully.
The prince would spare them all.

He calmly, regally reflected into their minds such that there would be no confusion:
“96 STAN. I shall return. This rebellion will have been quelled, or not. If quelled, good. If not, I shall destroy this world, with you on it.”

The assembly of generals and their junior officers watched as the Witchling spiraled away. They all knew how fortunate they were.
Many had beloved wives, darling children, hopes, dreams that they desperately wanted to keep and to have and to hold forever.
They wanted to live.

They all thanked God that the Witchling had come, and not the Witch.

A door of the vast, sleek craft orbiting the planet opened as the Valerian–Dreck approached. He gently alighted within the well-appointed craft and greeted his people. He thanked them for their solicitude.
He dined in solitude. He regarded the world below him and hoped.

Seven billion men, women, and children.

Eleven thousand Imperial generals. Fourteen million Imperial men-under-arms. How could they have failed? How could they have put him in this position? How could they not know?
Had they not seen? Had they not heard?
Now, he would have to face the Emperor. And The Witch-Lord himself.
Perhaps he ought to have made all of this easier…it could be so much easier…

No. He couldn’t do that.

The Witch-Lord would have come to this world and taken the atmosphere. He would have deliberately ended the existence of every sentient and non-sentient being on the planet. He would have cleaved it in twain and altered its orbit.

He would have then sent it straight into the bright, beautiful star from whence it had come.

For the sake of Mercy he now had to prepare himself to see The Emperor, and The Witch-Lord.” Why do they live?” “Why have you disgraced Us?”…. “ Why do you bring shame upon your House?”

And the withering stare of his Lord. Being in the presence of his Lord, his father, who despised him.
All of this and more.

Regardless of the outcome here, The Witch-Prince would now endure the horrible, awesome attention of his Sire: for reasons unknown, the Dreck could not mask themselves from each other.

He would stare into a depthless, infinite, mirrored void in which lurked and lived his only and greatest fear: that he would see his reflection, that he, The Witchling would one day become The Witch.

That this meeting would transpire was a foregone conclusion. This, plus the task at hand would require strength and focus. He would need rest: unlike the Dreck who could never rest nor sleep, he could rest, in a fashion.

He stepped over to the large window facing upward and outward to regard the ocean of stars surrounding him. By slow degrees he cleared his mind and released himself of the bonds of space and time to visit a wonderful, magical world where he would replenish his spirit, restore his soul.

Once there, he breathed easy, deeply.

He walked across lush, verdant fields, his feet bare on the rich, fragrant soil. He ran his fingers through gently undulating amber waves of grain. He uplifted his face to behold a sky rich and deep in its blue, and to be touched, caressed by a warm and soft wind warmed and animated by a beautiful, beloved, long-ago vanished star called the Sun.

Almost all of The Children of the Diaspora had this deeply imprinted ability, this race-memory, this innate talent to assuage their profound sense of the loss of their ancestral home and each other: they had developed a way to commune with each other and to be together though they had been scattered across the stars and throughout the known worlds.
During these times of quiet, joyful communion, the Valerian-Dreck prince could only feel a profound sense of sadness for the only two creatures in the known worlds whom he otherwise dreaded, the only two creatures in the known worlds who could conceivably destroy him, do him harm: the Emperor and The Witch-Lord.
Neither of them had ever been to this place.




Deep, deep in The Ancient Time far, far and long gone, The Original, The Ancestors had seen their wonderful star, The Sun, verge upon red. It was soon to envelope the solar system and all the Life in it.

The Original, in Their great wisdom, had discerned this coming catastrophe soon enough to adequately prepare for it: they pin-pointed other stars, other worlds which could sustain not only human life-but all life as they knew it.

They constructed millions upon millions of vast crafts capable of transporting themselves, the beasts of the air, land, and sea. They made provision to carry away with them vast quantities of the air, water, and the earth itself; all flora, all fauna, basically, everything would be taken with them, next to nothing would be left behind.

After several Earth centuries, they were ready, and they calmly fled.

They went in their hundreds of millions to hundreds of worlds of different sizes and compositions-but all capable of sustaining life comfortably-within their galactic reach.

The Titanic undertaking was colossally successful: billions were properly and happily relocated and restored to the business of “normal” life.
However, given the very scope of the enterprise, it was only natural for mistakes to have been made.

One case in particular was tragic.

The case of the world named Dreck.

A terrible mistake about that world’s suitability for life had been made.

The atmosphere was toxic and super-heated, and the surface itself was scorching. The instruments on the crafts carrying several million human beings critically malfunctioned upon entry into the atmosphere.

There were a scant hundreds of thousands of survivors.
Of those doomed people, only those who could double and treble the nascent psionic powers possessed by The Original would survive: only those who could transform the very chemicals of the atmosphere into breathable oxygen with the power of their minds would survive; only those who could control their physical position relative to the surface with their minds (to stay off of it), who learned, in other words, to fly, would survive.

Only those who could stay awake long enough, for forever, to focus their constant attention to these tasks would survive.

There were very, very few who could do all of these things.
There were very, very few survivors.

Those who did survive were doomed to a nightmarish existence of never-ending sleeplessness and hyper-vigilance that eventually warped their minds and fundamentally changed their relationship with reality and their own humanity.

They and their doomed progeny became living and breathing embodiments, reflections of the merciless and cruel and insane world to which they had been tragically sent; and they would be ever-after known by all others by the name of that world:

The Dreck.



Word had been sent to the Valerian-Dreck Prince: the rebellion had been put down in less than 80 STAN hours.
Less than a billion people had been destroyed. A great deal of critical infrastructure had been either spared, or only lightly damaged. This meant that the resource-rich world would still be of great value to the Emperor and the Empire.

This was excellent news.

While mop-up operations would probably continue for some few short days, the Prince would now be able to focus on administrative matters that would not entail his personally killing billions of people: there would, of course, be reports to be reviewed; rewards of titles and lands to be awarded to senior officers; there would be wives from amongst the vanquished population (only the most beautiful and accomplished) to be gifted to the junior officers and their most outstanding men.
The disposition of prisoners and other such minutiae he would leave to the generals.




The golden Beauty embraced him.

She was beautiful, as She had always been.

She held his hand as they walked through the forested gardens of the crystal-domed valley, the gardens of Her family.
She loved him, though she knew his mind and the horror contained within him better than he did. He had come from her. There was Love and Kindness inside of Her child. He had come from Her.

She would help him, the world.
She saw across The Arc of Time and knew that Good would prevail.
He could not bewitch Her, his mother, his Angel.

She only loved him. This was Her nature.

“Do not fly about. This may frighten her. You have a lovely voice. Use it…”
He laughed.
“Perhaps you should have “said” that, Mother.”
It was natural for Her to think into the mind of Her child. She blushed. “Do not be clever.”
She laughed.
“Do not cast a spell upon her. You need not do this. Your lives will be so much better if she knows you, if you trust her.”
She stopped and regarded him. “Please. In this, do as I say.”
He held Her hand and basked in Her love. “I love you.”



He cleared his mind and released himself of the bonds of gravity.

He let his feet no longer touch the ground.

Acorns and leaves and small stones orbited around him in ellipses as he rotated in the beauty of a beautiful world.

The daughter of a Baron stared into the sky and regarded him.

His mother had explained to her that he was different, that he could love, that she could love him.

He was faraway. He was obviously the son of a Valerian.

The young woman was known as The Beautiful One to her people, the Valeria, known throughout the known worlds as beautiful, kind, caring, The Far-Seeing.
The blood that ran through her veins was the same blood that ran through the veins of the kind woman that she trusted, that had shown to her a bright and beautiful future.

The enormous attention that suddenly swept across her and focused upon her was shocking.
The objects floating around him clattered, fell to the ground.
She had seen.

“I am here.”

He swept down to her.

“Do not cast a spell upon me.” She was fearless. And it was immediate.

“I never shall. I promise.”

“I will love you, give you children.”

The kindness that flowed from her, that she directed into his mind was overwhelmingly beautiful, bright, shining.

“Forget your pain. You, they, we, my Darling, are good.”
_________________________________________________________________

Their magnificent children brought Joy and Goodness to the worlds.


Pain and suffering ended, The Empire went away.

__________________________________________________________________

All of The Children of The Sun knew Happiness.

And they were happy.

They were good to each other, they were no longer cruel to each other.


All of the Kindred, all of the Children, even the Dreck, had returned.

When He Walked

They could not find Him.

He should have been there, in that cave, where they had seen the Romans put Him, His body.

The huge stone, the huge stone that they had put there had been moved, should have still been there.

They had watched them put Him into that cave. They had watched them do it.

They had watched them crucify Him.

They had seen the agony that He had suffered as He walked up that hill.

Golgotha, for them, and the rest of The World.


They watched Him die there.

These three beautiful women understood, had seen, who He was, what He was.


They thought that they might wash His body, cleanse Him, honor Him.

He had loved them so much.

They loved Him.

They could not find Him. He was not there.

They were heart-broken. He was gone.



They were overjoyed when they found that everything that He had said to them is


True.
They had none of them known such happiness, such rapture.

He was The Truth and The Word.


They saw Him walking.

The Disc

It was bright and it warmed him.

He could not look at it.
It was far too bright.

It would have destroyed his ability to see the beauty that it had created, made possible, long before he had arrived.

But he had come from it, so he loved it-the warmth that it gave to him; the beauty it showed to him; the goldening and the emeralding and the diamonding and the sparkling movement of the wonderful trees that was so enrapturing.

The green grass and the soft winds and the warm water; the very air itself- everything and everything and everyone had come from it, this mixture of hydrogen and helium.

He, everyone that he knew, everyone that he loved was animated dust from this star, the star that was too beautiful to gaze upon. He loved it so much.

It was so wonderful, such a wonderful creation by his Creator.

There was true wonder, happiness to be known in this world.

He was happy.

He was glad that he could see it, perceive it.

He loved The Star, The Sun.

The Letter

Dad, Kayla,

I want you to understand.

This has nothing to do with anything that you have ever said or done: you’ve done nothing but give me love and kindness. I love you so much. I’m so sorry. You have both been there for me when I had nothing, bereft of everything.
I owe you the explanation.
Dad, I didn’t tell you how bad the drugs that they gave me made me feel. I’m sorry. I feel like I snowed you. But I so wanted to be better, not to disappoint you anymore. I wanted them to work. I did try, I tried so hard. I’m sorry. You and Mummy gave me so many wonderful gifts, but I have squandered them. I apologize.
I hated the drugs. I was crawling in my own skin. I was so amped all the time-and you know that I’m the last person in the world who needs to be amped. The sleep-meds helped me to sleep, but I’m so tightly wound that they had to keep increasing the dosage. I was on a roller coaster-up and down. I didn’t feel better. I just felt strange, weird. I couldn’t tell my psych because she would have had me locked up. I was totally trapped.

I am, I am totally trapped. I’m sorry.

I tried, I swear, I tried so hard, please believe me, I just couldn’t keep taking them.
I tried hooch, booze, for a little bit, but that didn’t work either: I felt worse.

The dreams are becoming so much more frequent. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about the dreams. I never liked them. Kay, you know, from when we were little that I hated them, that I knew that everyone hated them.

Me.

For having them. I wished they would stop. I hate them, too. I’ve always hated them. They won’t stop. I’m sorry.
I wake up and I ask God why, why did He do this to me? Why do I have to See the terrible things people have done to each other, See the horrible things that they are going to do to each other?
What did I do? I must have done something, I must have. But I don’t know what.

He wouldn’t have done this to me if I had done nothing wrong. I wish I knew what I have done. Then I could ask Him for forgiveness. But I don’t know.

I go to sleep in total dread of what I will See when I want to See nothing.
I hate Seeing.
I’m tired. I’m tired of asking why. The redundancy of people’s cruel actions is in my face, day, and night. Dad, Kay, please understand.

I can never rest, that’s what I’m trying to say. I just want to rest, have peace.

I told you about Her.
I want you to be happy.

I’ve not known happiness or peace since I was six.

I wish I could share with you the wonderful things She has shown to me. There is so much more than I have seen here.

We’re like two-dimensional creatures in a three-dimensional world.

She’s wonderful. I never See terrible things anymore. She tells me that I will never see these things again. And I haven’t.

There are so many wonderful places, and the world is so vast, so beautiful.

She has shown to me worlds that are beyond my ability to describe. All of the stars and the worlds around them, all of the places that we see but don’t, the fields of green grass that feel, the beautiful trees that love, the structures of light and sound that are like gold and silver that remind me of cathedrals, what cathedrals are. Sights that are deliciously textured, music-but everything is music and wondrous-with the beautiful fragrance that I have only imagined but now understand is real: the wonder of reality.

I know that you don’t like hearing about these things, but She needs me, She loves me.
She knows about the pain that this may cause to those whom I love, but She says it will pass: She loves me, too. I don’t want you to be angry with Her.

She says that we can be together, that She can give to me what I will never know here: peace.

She’s so beautiful, so kind, so warm.
Please be happy for me. She gives me warmth, peace. She’s exceptionally intelligent: we have extraordinary conversations regarding anything and everything.
I can talk to Her about anything, and She still loves me.
Even though I am… like, what I am, like this.

With Her I’m not ashamed anymore, She’s not ashamed of me.
I love Her.

I have my concerns, but She asks me if I want to stay here, in this place, like this, or be with Her. Forever. In peace. She says that we can rest together, in peace, forever, I believe Her.
To rest in peace forever with Her, as opposed to no rest, no peace. I'm so tired.

All that She wants from me is me.

She has shown me a way, a way to be with Her, the most glowingly bright, beautiful creature that I have ever encountered. Anywhere.

She says that it will only hurt for a few moments, then, we can be together.
And we can be happy. I can be happy.

I can finally know Happiness.

She says that She can give me Happiness.

I won’t be alone anymore.

I’m afraid that She has become impatient.

All of my papers, account numbers, bank names, locations, Will, et cetera, documents of any significance are in the upper-right hand drawer of the bureau next to the desk in my office at my place. It will be unlocked. I believe everything is fairly self-explanatory, and I’ve already made you both joint beneficiaries on everything that I have here. I believe things will go smoothly- just have your I.D. and the certificate from the state when you go to close things out.

I love you.

Your Son, your Brother

Children on An Altar

The revolting stench of petrol and burnt flesh that hung in the hot, dry, still air should have turned his stomach. But it didn’t. Not anymore.
He was glad to be away from what had been a walled family compound, if only for the few minutes it would take to complete the radio-check, give a status report, and await any news or orders from Command.
Now unconsciously ever-vigilant, Chad was “relaxed” as he strode towards the Hummer, various sub-programs deep in the foundation of his mind furiously processing, continuously assessing any and every motion of any object or shadow; any change in sound or sounds; any “feeling” of imminent danger. It had been the business of his long-ago vanished, ancient ancestors to survive in dark forests and vast savannahs filled with creatures that were much stronger and faster than they were. Creatures that wanted to kill and eat them.
These ancestors had bequeathed to him a set of instincts that-though long dormant-were now thrivingly alert: he was totally aware of his surroundings, and his body would be prepared to either fight to the death, or flee like the wind to preserve his life if the need arose.
And there were things out there that wanted to kill him. This was a matter of fact.
He reached their Hummer. The appointed time arrived, and he completed the radio check: it still worked, HQ was still there, and they knew that he was still alive. There was nothing to do now but wait for word from The Great and Powerful Oz (the Colonel-or actually, an NCO who spoke for Him). Chad broke out his metal canteen cup, rooted around in his ruck for the jar of instant coffee, some packets of non-dairy creamer, and some sugar. He blew the sand and dust from the cup and mixed a healthy dollop of coffee with the rest to kill the bitterness. He poured half of it into his mouth and began to chew. He followed up with a quart of water and repeated. The adrenalin from the last several hours was wearing off, and he knew neither how long he had been awake, nor when he would sleep again. Thus, the jolt.
Chad eased himself into the Hummer to escape the direct rays of the sun, pulled his weapon in behind him, and lit a smoke. He removed his helmet and began to stare into the bright blue canopy which vaulted far above the sadness below it. He regarded the sky and considered that there were billions of people under that same sky who were living “real life” in a world that was becoming less and less comprehensible to him with each and every passing day. In that world, life didn’t seem to include the ever-present reality that death could sweep in out of nowhere at any time for anyone. A delusion. If he made it home, he wondered what it would be like now that he knew, understood the ephemeral, fragile, unpromised nature of life.
But he wanted to go home, to that dream world. But when and if he ever saw home again was totally and absolutely out of his control: a large swath of Southwest Asia; the continent of Africa (or Europe); and a vast ocean separated him from it, and only the powers-that-be could return him. And only when they saw fit: he was already past his ETS, the date upon which he should have been already honorably discharged from the army and sent home.
Were he to let all of this truly sink in, it would have driven him insane. So, he didn’t.
He quickly sought another topic of internal discussion and found one.
Something safe, eternal, non-temporal:
Why was it first, the first one? The others seemed to be so well-grounded in nuts-and-bolts common sense: “Listen to your Mom and Dad”- Chad was finding out all the time how important this one was. Much grief would have been avoided had he heeded it more consistently. “Don’t go around murderin’ folks”-speaks for itself; “no stealin’, thievin’”; “no spreadin’ rumors, lies”; “Keep your mind and your mitts off of your neighbor’s stuff-especially his wife”; and, if you are married, “don’t cheat”. These all made good sense, and had they been adhered to by far more people, the world would have been a much better place.
So, why was “you shall have no other gods before me” first? Narcissism? He was, after all, God Almighty, so…why not? Who had a better claim, or more of a right to some self-absorption than He did? Right? Or did it “just happen” to be first?
Or was it a warning? A profoundly important and dire warning. Like Mom’s constant and, ultimately, unheeded warnings against playing with fire when he had been a little child. And as painful as the mild burns on his little fingers had been, the consequences were-thank God-nowhere near as catastrophic as they might have been.
He had discovered for himself the painful consequences of disobeying commands of hers the nature of which he could not grasp, could not understand.
Her warnings had been all about love and protecting her child.

Chad pulled a peanut butter granola bar-his favorite (sent to him by The Cool and Wonderful Mom)-from his cargo pocket and began to munch. He retrieved a cardboard-backed, plastic-encased issue of Playboy from his ruck. He considered Miss March. She was beautiful. Gentle and kind. Thoughtful and caring, with a wry sense of humor. Her wonderful parents had carefully and lovingly attended to all of her physical, emotional, and spiritual needs: her’s was the countenance of a girl who was at peace with herself, with the world. And that world was a sane and well-ordered world. She enjoyed fine art, staying healthy and fit, cooking, and metaphysical inquiry: their conversations might last for hours. And she adored children, volunteering regularly at a nursery school in the village.
And he was returning to her, glad to be alive, the sleek, late-model Mercedes convertible gliding upon the wonderfully smooth, flawless road home; the warm, fragrant summer air a blessing as he moved through the beautifully-wooded hills. Work had been good. Another wonderful week of doing important and valuable things, things that people needed done, things that made their lives better. It had been challenging, fun, and, at times, difficult, but had nothing-nothing at all-to do with hurting anyone, killing anyone.
The woods gave way to a clearing filled with flowers, gardens she had assiduously cultivated. She was there, waiting for him in the door of their brightly painted Victorian home, surrounded by the gardens and towering, stately trees.
He gave to her flowers that he gladly brought to her every day. And she gladly accepted them as she always did.
And they were happy.
The wondrously beautiful composition of divinely-animated stardust embraced and kissed him, her mere existence proof that life was more than the aggregation of tragedies that it so often seemed to be.
She took his hand as they entered their home, captivating him with the mellifluous tones emanating from her lovely throat as she began to tell him of her day. Soft, golden light cascaded into the home she had so richly and tastefully decorated; the delicious aromas of some of his favorites wafted from the kitchen; and the beer that she handed to him was ice cold.
Chad was basking in the pleasure of being alive when a shadow suddenly appeared and quickly overtook this carefully and lovingly constructed world, extinguishing it.
It collapsed in upon itself and receded into the recesses of his mind.
“Hey, Preacher.” It was Chad’s Ace Boon, Dana.
“Hey, Elvis.” Though Dana was known by many of his loyal fans and supporters (and a few jealous detractors) only as Elvis, Chad only called him that when he was mildly annoyed with him.
Dana bore no remarkable physical similarity to The King-he was very blond with green eyes-but he hailed from the same neck of the Tennessee woods, had the same twang, and-probably most importantly-all the girls seemed to lose their minds in his presence.
Likewise, Chad was known to many as The Preacher only in small part due to his substantial ecclesiastical knowledge: he was not much of a proselytizer, but his grandfather was an ordained Baptist minister. It had been Dana who had let that cat out of the bag some time ago when, after Chad had graciously declined to partake of the delights of Victory Drive down at Fort Benning, the guys had ribbed him mercilessly. Dana explained that it was a matter of religious scruple.
Of course, Chad was glad to have them think him a tower of unflappable moral rectitude rather than have them know that he was just plain too shy: he would have been perfectly happy just to have held a girl for a while, kissed her, maybe. “One last time”-just in case-before his very first jump at jump school. The thought of his chute not opening had seriously crossed his mind: he had been scared, but all of the men in the Army he admired had wings on their chests, and his admiration of their fearlessness and various other attributes compelled him to emulate them.
Dana set his weapon down, leaning it against the Hummer. “Any news from The Wizard?”
“Nope. All is quiet on the western front.”
Dana laughed, “Don’t go jinxin’ us, Homey. Hey! You’ll never guess who I found out’s here!”
“Who?”
“Country!”
“”Country”…”Country”?! Carver?! From Basic?!”
“Yeah, man. Alive and well. Even got ‘em some stripes. Been at Bragg all this time.”
“Really? Bragg?”
“Yep. Don’t you remember? 11 Bang-Bang, Airborne Infantry. He’s been there longer than we have.” Their military intelligence and language training had been considerably longer than Country’s infantry school.
Chad smiled with genuine affection: Country had been a hoot, always laughing, cracking everybody up with his razor-sharp wit, with the Drill Sergeants always at him, vociferously casting doubt upon the authenticity of his G.E.D.:
“You ain’t got no G.E.D.!!! You too damn country to have a G.E.D.!!! Who you tryin’ to fool?!! You can’t even spell “G.E.D.”!!!”
Actually, Country was extremely intelligent, and could have done anything with a proper education, but the Worthies of a bygone era knew that it would have been extremely bad for business (mind-bogglingly lucrative business) if children who looked like him were ever educated. So they weren’t. And the tradition had lived on.
“So what’s he up to?”
“Same as us. Just in an “eleven bang-bang” kinda’ way: “fightin’ to keep our country free”.
They both laughed.
“I mean where’s he at right now?” Chad asked.
“Down yonder, by those humvees.” He was pointing at a cluster of vehicles a couple of hundred meters away. He lit himself a smoke. “He had some kinda’ formation to go to.”
“A formation? Out here? What for?” Chad was surprised: his and Dana’s outfit didn’t do a lot of the formation thing.
“To take those pills.”
“Pills? What pills?”
“You know. Homey, that stuff that’s supposed to “bond with our DNA at the chromosomal level” or some such crap, to block the chemical and nerve agents.”
Chad was incredulous. “What?! They put them in formation to take that stuff? Why? It’s voluntary.”
“For us it is. And get this; they think it’s all approved and safe.”
“Who told them that?”
“The Powers-That-Be.”
“Dude, they can’t get our pay straight-remember how they thought you were in Germany for the first six months we were at DLI, and you had to mooch off me half the time we were there?”
Dana replied ruefully “I do indeed, Homey. It was a dark and terrible time.”
“And now they want to play with our chromosomes? Are they high? What happens when all these guys start comin’ up with all kinds of freaky diseases; goin’ back home and makin’ babies with two heads? What then?”
“Beats me. I just know that I got ripped a new one a couple of days ago for saying “too much” about it. I was supposed to let you know that this info is on the low. I forgot. My bad.”
“No problem. Thanks, man. Good lookin’ out. But why would they do that, though?” Chad wondered.
“Who knows? There might be some money in it somewhere.”
The two patriotic young Americans-barely old enough to legally drink-were truly mystified: This was significant, large, too huge to consider-for the time being-in all of its myriad implications and potential ramifications.
So they didn’t.
“Jesus.”
“Yep.”
Dana broke the heavy silence that ensued, “Hey, Homey, how we doin’ on the fly-stuff your Mama sent. I do swear that that woman is “all that” and a piece of buttered toast.”
Chad smiled, “Yeah, she’s cool. We’re good. What’s up?”
“Man, I got us two-yes, two-cartons of smokes for a bottle. That stuff is worth its weight in gold, Dog.”
“Sweet! Good smokes, right?”
“You know it. So I’m off to the bazaar. I’m kickin’ it with Country and his people. Get yourself an MRE and let’s roll-they’re makin a fire. Bring your hot sauce.”
“Cool. Wait. I was gonna eyeball that compound one more time, just in case. I was only there for a second. Did you see anything?”
“Nothin’ good.” Dana’s face darkened, “Nothin’ but folks livin’ in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s all kinds of tore up in there, Dog.”
“Thanks, man. I’m cool. See ya in a minute.”
“Airborne.”

The dust in the shattered compound had settled, but the smoke had not yet cleared. The horrible smell remained. Dana had been right: there was nothing for them here. Who had done this? “Them”? Or “Us”? It mattered not a jot to the dead.
The angle of the sun was different as well: that’s probably why Chad found the little girl buried in rubble that the others had missed. The light made her eyes sparkle amidst the debris.
She was silent as he gently removed the heavy, jagged stones and brick from her tiny body. Her beautiful little face was remarkably untouched-this had given him a bit of hope, hope that was crushed when he saw her broken, bloody little torso.
She was beyond repair, and his heart was broken. A medic wasn’t going to fix this; a teleporter to Johns Hopkins wouldn’t have fixed this. He should have known from her eyes: crystal-clear, alert-yet somehow, distant. He had seen it before, a final kindness.
No pain.
She was four, maybe five. He hoped she didn’t understand what was happening, what had been taken from her. He wasn’t going to let this happen to her in loneliness and fear. She was probably cold.
He removed his gloves and gingerly cradled her.
She regarded him with a child’s frank inquisitiveness and curiosity. Her eyes were bright. She touched his face and managed a wan smile.
And she was gone.
Unbearable pain.
And sadness.
Then, a final kindness.

He felt nothing.