Part Six

2074 DEMIOS
Running the joint was a bit of an exaggeration, but Captain - soon to be Major unless he really screwed up something - Cooper Hawkes would have been amused to hear his old squadron commander say so. Or at any rate, he would have been pleased on any one of the days when things were going reasonably well and he was feeling good about his assignment as Supply Officer to the Demios Air Base. At that particular moment, though, up to his nostrils in delinquent paper work and with twelve earth movers not where they were supposed to be to begin work on the second expansion leg of the new space port, Hawkes was less than thrilled with any of it. They used real paper for their paper work on Demios, too. The permanent spacenet links had not yet gotten out that far and electronic interfaces were used only for the most serious of military emergencies. A category into which things like the right sized fatigue shirts did not fall. Nor did missing power shovels. It was a major headache, in Hawkes' opinion, and it was taking all he had not to throw something breakable - preferably valuable - against the wall of his cramped and cluttered office. Groaning at the pile of requisition forms on his desk, Cooper saw his gold oak-leaves slowly disappearing into the Demios sunset. Right at that moment, he was not all that sure he minded much.

Hawkes looked out his window. The air base looked much different than the last time he had been there, during the war, but the landscape itself had an oppressive sameness about it - dry, dusty, scrub filled hills surrounding arid, unrelenting plains. Except for about two weeks after the rainy season, when everything around him burst into bloom, Demios remind Cooper of nothing so much as a Philadelphia land fill. Still, he could not look out that window in the administration building, or see the diner across the parking lot from him, without remembering the two months he had spent there ten years earlier. He could not forget the living, and he could not forget the dead. It pleased him, oddly, to know that the Marines he and the Fifty-Eighth had buried piecemeal during that two months they had been stranded had all been exhumed and buried, again, in a pretty cemetery just to the north of the main airstrip. Hawkes visited there often.

The Demios assignment had actually been McQueen's idea. Even after the original Fifty-Eighth had been dispersed or mustered out, Colonel McQueen had still kept a close eye on the careers of those of his pilots who had remained in the Marine Corps. The inevitable downsizing after the war had limited assignments, and promotions, for even the most medically fit and qualified pilots, and McQueen knew that Hawkes was going to have to get some serious administrative experience under his belt if he expected to advance. The fact that the younger man was an In Vitro in a Corps filled with natural borns also in need of choice assignments was going to hold him back unless he was very clever and very aggressive. McQueen knew Hawkes had the ability to be both.

"Supply? Sir, I don't want to be no fuckin' supply sergeant," Hawkes had groaned into his beer when McQueen had told him about the opportunity on Demios.

"Supply Officer," McQueen corrected him patiently. "You're a Marine captain, Cooper, this is not a demotion. There is a lot of responsibility with the position, plus a staff. And as a pilot, you're uniquely qualified; Demios is, after all, an air/space base."

"But supply?" Hawkes did not quite whine.

"Under most circumstances, I would tend to agree with you," McQueen said. "But Demios is an up and coming assignment. The base is extremely valuable, strategically. The projections have it tripling in size in the next five years. You're going to need administrative experience if you hope to advance in peacetime, Cooper, and opportunities like this won't come every day. And off-world experience is going to be an important factor with the review board as we become more and more space based. Besides, you already know the place. Between your war record, your previous experience on Demios and what strings I can pull, I think I can make this happen for you, but those strings won't be there forever. You have to decide what you want to do with your life."

Hawkes' brief flirtation with the idea of rejoining civilian life had been just that, a brief flirtation. When the war finally ended, and he had to decide for good, there had been no question. McQueen never even had to ask him what he wanted to do. He was staying. The Corps was the only home he had and what experience he had had outside of it was not something to which he cared to return, once he really thought about it. McQueen had always been right on that score. Likewise, Cooper had agreed to the Demios gig, in part because of his faith in his old commander's judgment, and in part because the idea of returning to Demios in a position of some authority kind of tickled him. Even if it meant a desk job - he was wise enough to know that a desk job was in his future at some point, anyway, if he continued to advance in the Corps. There just was not a lot of need for fighter pilots. Unless there was another war.

He missed the flying. He missed the flying a lot. And he hated the paper work with a passion he had previously reserved for the Chigs. But Hawkes found, to his surprise, that he both enjoyed, and had a talent for, the wheeling and dealing required to keep a base like Demios running. The old man liked him, in a vague sort of way, and after some initial difficulties, his staff had come to respect him. There had been the usual flack, at first, about an In Vitro getting the assignment because of affirmative action and political ass-kissing; McQueen had warned him to expect that and to ignore it. But Cooper's street-wise ingenuity and his willingness to roll up his shirt-sleeves and actually work had finally won him the respect, if not the undying love, of even his bigoted old supply sergeant.

As if reading his mind, said sergeant popped his grizzled head in the door at that moment.

"Found 'em," he said.

"Yes!" Hawkes breathed with relief. The man could only be talking about the missing power shovels, it was the only topic that had interested either one of them all day. "Where are they?"

Supply Sergeant Calvin Parker looked at his commanding officer blandly. "Stanos," he said.

Hawkes face fell. Stanos was a moon around Ixion, several day's steam. He needed those shovels day after tomorrow, not enough time to get to Stanos, retrieve the equipment, and return, even if tiny Stanos willingly handed them over, which was not likely.

"But I also found nine shovels on Taris that aren't being used at the moment. That's only sixteen hours away."

Hawkes could have kissed the man. Nine was not twelve, but it was better than zero. And it might buy him the time he needed to spring his shipment loose from Stanos, replace the Taris shovels, and complete his order without significantly impacting the construction schedule or pissing off the new Admin Officer. The S-1 was a freshly minted Major who was married to his schedules, and who did not trust the In Vitro Supply Officer. The feeling was mutual, but Hawkes did not want any avoidable grief.

"Go get 'em." He did not even hesitate.

"I'm gonna need something to deal with," Parker said. Hawkes sighed. Nobody was going to hand over nine two-track power shovels, even equipment they were not using, even with a promise of return or replacement in a couple of days, without significant inducement to cooperate. He knew that. Shipments were just too precarious on the outlying worlds, any supplies or equipment that fell one's way were hoarded aggressively. Especially if one had not actually requisitioned them. Well, he needed those shovels. And he had laid by certain "incentives" against just such a contingency. He pulled open his top desk drawer and handed Parker a key card.

"There are six cases of scotch in the back room of the warehouse. Take two. Try not to barter away all of it."

"That's the old man's stash," Parker warned him. Hawkes shrugged. He would worry about replacing, or explaining away, the missing two cases of scotch, later. Right now, he needed shovels. And shovels he would get. He said as much to Parker. The sergeant grinned.

"Aye, sir." He turned to leave, then turned back again. "Oh, yeah, and before I forget? We just got a shipment. Eleven hundred cases of toilet paper. Where do you want me to put 'em?"

Cooper closed his eyes in pain, but refrained from the obvious answer. Where the hell in his already crowded warehouse was he going to store eleven hundred cases of toilet paper he had not been expecting? He glanced up at the sky outside his window. It was clear, high wispy clouds lending only the barest shading to the oppressive yellowy-blueness. It hardly ever rained on Demios at that time of year. "Take some with you to Taris. Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll need toilet paper more than scotch. Throw a tarp over the rest and leave it on the tarmac, for now. Did we get any of that 'grow shit' the old man wants for his damned tulips?"

Much to Hawkes continual annoyance, his base commander was an amateur horticulturist, whose prized flowers refused to grow in Demios' highly alkaline soil. Half Cooper's days, it sometimes seemed to him, were spent trying to fill the old man's requests for bizarre forms of soil enhancers, manures and hybrid seeds and bulbs. It was enough to make him pray for war. The latest "experiment" for boosting Demios' agricultural capacity involved a new fertilizer made from, of all things, Chig feces. The Chigs, Cooper had it on good authority, thought the whole thing was riotously funny. He frankly could not blame them much.

"Yep, six cases," Parker shot over his shoulder as he left. Hawkes smiled. He had only expected two. The old man would be ecstatic. Six cases of dehydrated Chig dung and nine out of twelve earth movers might just save his ass, and his career. If nothing else, it would give him something to laugh about with the rest of the old Fifty-Eighth when they were finally all together, again, at Nathan West's wedding. Cooper had put in for the leave six months ago and he looked forward to seeing them all again even more than he did to his promotion. He did not want anything to screw it up. He glanced at the invitation still pinned to his bulletin board. Then he sat back in his chair with a satisfied smile. Even the never-ending piles of paper could not dismay him in that moment. He was immensely pleased with himself.

DELIVERANCE
Wang returned to the Saratoga before McQueen did. In fact, Wang never did make it back to Earth. Fully conscious and breathing on his own by the time he made transfer at Groomsbridge 34, Wang had requested that he be allowed to recover there, in the hospital associated with the John Glenn Space Port. No one denied him, he was a hero, after all. They were all heroes. Again. The civilian prisoners had been safely recovered, Corps Command was thrilled, the Five Eight forgiven. And anyway, by the time they got a launch window back to Earth, he was almost well enough to return to the Saratoga.

Paul Wang was now at the head of the small group standing in the ISSCV loading bay. The air with high with tension. Commodore Ross watched the Wild Cards as the cargo hold of the ISSCV settle into its slot and wondered for the umpteen time whether this welcoming committee was the best idea. But there was Nathan West looking at him, and it was too late now to second guess his decisions. He nodded. West hit the button on the outside of the hatch and it snapped open. Then West stepped back as Ross came forward.

Lt. Colonel Tyrus Cassius McQueen walked to the open hatch and stopped, surveying the faces before him. His seabag slung over one shoulder, he smiled faintly, and stepped down off the ledge. No hint of a limp, the artificial leg was solid beneath him. He dropped the bag onto the deck and faced the Commodore.

"I wanted a wooden peg-leg, but the docs wouldn't go for it..."

"I'm damned if I know what the hell you're doing back here," Ross said gruffly. "What do the damn Chigs have to do, blow your fool head off?" McQueen smiled a little more and held out his hand. Ross grasped it, fiercely. "Welcome home, Ty."

The two men stood there, sudden moisture glinting in eyes that said things their mouths could not. Then McQueen nodded and Ross stepped back. He turned to the Wild Cards. For a moment, no one moved, they all just stood there, frozen. It was Paul Wang who finally stepped forward.

"Welcome back, sir."

McQueen clasped his outstretched hand, and for a moment, nothing happened, then he pulled the younger man a little closer, and gripped him around the neck. "My God, I thought I'd lost you," he husked. "I thought I'd lost all of you."

That was all it took. They were all around him, then, laughing, talking all at once.

"They wouldn't tell me anything much in the hospital," McQueen admitted. " So I don't really know what happened. I still don't know the details..."

"We've got a *lot* to tell you, sir," Vansen agreed, tears damp on her cheeks.

"How's your leg, sir?" Hawkes asked, almost shyly. McQueen looked thoughtful.

"The leg is good," he agreed. "I'm thinking about gettin' one for the other side." The Wild Cards tittered.

"Is it, like, an AI leg?" Hawkes pressed on. The others squirmed with embarrassment, but McQueen did not look perturbed by the inquiry.

"A little bit," he agreed. "It looks just like my other leg, actually, except it's got this little door where the docs can access the electronics."

"So if we wind it up, do you run around in circles?" Wang asked. Laughter filled the loading bay.

"No," McQueen replied, "but I can get public radio on it, if the wind is right... Oh, and before I forget," he added through their laughter. "They gave me a couple of weeks leave before I had to report so I went and visited your families," and he pulled a small handful of envelops out of his flight suit. "West, Damphousse," he handed out letters. "Your sister's baby is beautiful," he said to Vansen, handing her a letter, too. She beamed at him. "And I went and stood in left field for you atWrigley..." Wang's eyes filled up, again, at this. McQueen glanced a little sadly at Hawkes, then, but the boy just shook his head.

"I got you back, Colonel, that's all I want..."

It was a moment before McQueen could speak. Nathan West put his hand in his pocket and pulled something out. "Sir?'

He dropped the contents into McQueen's hand. It was the ID tag, the picture of West and Kylen Celina. McQueen looked a little bemused.

"We still passing this around?" he queried with a small smile.

He touched the tab at the top to access the message. A young woman's voice said, "I believe in you." Then, "I believe in all of you."

McQueen did not put it in his pocket. Glancing past West, his eyes settled on Ross, who was making a supreme effort not to watch them, to give them all some privacy. McQueen nodded to West, who looked, smiled, and nodded back.

"Commodore," McQueen said. Ross turned and looked at him. McQueen stepped up and extended his hand.

"I believe this belongs to you, sir," he said, placing the tag in Ross' palm. The man looked down at it and his eyes, dangerously full for the last ten minutes, threatened to spill over. He knew what this was. And he knew what it meant. He understood what McQueen, what the Wild Cards were telling him. He swallowed hard.

"So what are you all standing around here for!" he growled, closing his hand around the icon. "We've got a war to win!"

McQueen smiled. He turned to grab his seabag, but Hawkes already had it. With a nod to the others, he led them out.

The End

The sequel to this story is Critical Distance also avaliable at this site.

Sheryl Clay
© 1996