1630 hours
Kylen entered the indoor firing range, a long cement block building at the
far end of the base. She flexed her neck from side to side and rolled her
shoulders, attempting to relax muscles still tense from a long session with
the cartographers. Up until ten minutes ago she had been supposed to report
to the driving course to take her 'final' in the sedan: Kylen had been
learning defensive driving and escape techniques in a number of different
vehicles.
Not that it made a whole lot of difference in her life. She didn't have a car
of her own to drive, and with her daily assignments, she hadn't set foot off
the base in almost two weeks. Kylen supposed that there really wasn't all
that much to do off base that she couldn't do behind its walls - not in the
day to day - but it was the idea that they didn't allow her any real free
time that was beginning to frustrate her. What she had only recently learned
was that her entire schedule and any changes in it - her entire day - had to
be approved through Major Howard. She determined to call him tonight and ask
for three hours to herself to get her hair done, take a bubble bath, and
watch a three-hankie movie. I'll bargain down to ninety minutes, she
thought. But I'll start high.
This was not the first time that Kylen had been called to the firing range.
She usually never knew the reason until she arrived.
"Whatcha got for me, Gunnery Sergeant?" she asked.
"Well, Ma'am, that's why we called you. We were hoping you could tell us,"
was the reply. Gunnery Sergeant Valenzuela was an obvious career Marine - not
an ounce of fat and ramrod straight. Kylen speculated that his hair was
probably graying at the temples, but there was no way to be sure because he
wore it cut high and tight. She had worked with him before. In fact, he had
instructed her in small arms, coaching her through the rugged process of
'snapping in'. He had spent days teaching Kylen how to assume the correct
posture to fire her weapon. Balance, breathing, and concentration - all with
her arms held out in front of her body. It had been grueling and downright
painful. She clearly remembered the Gunny's low growl in her ear: "If you
think your shoulders burn now, just wait 'til I sit on them."
Kylen might only be a participant in the High Risk Personnel Program, but
damn if Gunny Valenzuela was going to let any person onto his range without
them knowing and following proper firearm safety. And damn if any of his
students were getting off of his range without making the grade. Gunny would
make damn good and sure of that. His charges would snap in until _ he_ got
tired of watching them.
Kylen had risen to his challenge, qualified as a 'Marksman', and was now
certified to carry a concealed sidearm when given courier duties between
Quantico, DC, and DamNeck. Well, that was the plan - only she had not yet
been asked to deliver anything.
"Follow me, Ma'am. The technical staff are already on the range," Valenzuela
said, turning on his heel and entering the fire line proper. Kylen had
invited him weeks ago to call her by her first name. And he did so on the
rarest occasions. On equally rare occasions he had referred to the Technical
Engineers as 'propeller heads.' This evening he was obviously all business.
No fun tonight, she thought.
"Hiya, Kylen Alexa Celina." It was a familiar voice.
"Hiya, Martin Aalto Guilio," she replied in kind, following the young
InVitro's custom of using every name that a person had been given. Martin
stepped forward to give her a hug. Even though they were both training and
working at Quantico, she seldom saw him, and wasn't really sure what the
powers that be had him doing. This was not the first time that she had seen
Martin at the range. The propeller heads had a method to their madness, and
only called Kylen and Martin in as a team for a specific reason.
The Tellus and Vesta survivors had been forced to use Chig technology in the
mines. The Silicates had not been able to use the equipment, which functioned
on principles of bio-electronics. AI's had no "bio" to go with their
electronics - and therefore Chig weapons, tools, and instruments were useless
in their hands. Only so much scrap. When they hired me three months ago, I
had no idea that my specialty would become Chig power tools, Kylen thought.
In fact, the Corps hadn't considered it in the beginning either. But one day
when the propeller heads ran into some problems, someone had gotten the
bright idea to call in someone who had actually used the stuff. Kylen and
Martin had the right clearances. They had been able to identify the purpose
of at least two previously unknown instruments, and even though neither one
had actually used the tools before, they were able to give a fair
demonstration of their function. Almost a year of using Chig technology had
given them a finesse and a level of confidence that the engineers had yet to
achieve.
You don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that being able to
use the enemy's equipment could be a real asset on the battlefield. Soldiers
have done it on Earth since the beginning of time. Kylen had been able to
figure that out all by herself.
When Earth Force had discovered that human beings could 'trigger' the gel,
word had gone out to start collecting samples of weaponry - and anything
else the Chigs used - for analysis and testing.
One of the biggest problems was the bio-conducting gel. It didn't seem to
have a very long shelf-life and seemed to denigrate over time and exposure to
oxygen. The weaker the gel, the weaker the power of the weapon or implement.
So far the attempts to replicate this gel on Earth had been only partially
successful. The results were positive, but yielded only a weak response. The
mass spectrometer showed at least one trace element in the gel that was not
found in the Earth solar system. The Techies had been trying to track it down
for months..
"Try out the drills," the Captain ordered. He belatedly remembered that he
was dealing with civilians. "If you please," he amended. "The ones on the
right first, please."
Martin and Kylen stepped up to the line and picked up the drills as
requested. They checked the distance setting automatically. They had no idea
what the markings meant literally, but had learned through use how they
corresponded with results.
"You may drill at will," Valenzuela instructed.
Kylen gave the Gunny a 'you've-got-to-be-kidding-me' look, and could swear
that - even though not a muscle in his stern expression changed - he winked
at her. Kylen and Martin fired up the drills. The one-meter end setpoint was
not achieved. The beam was pale and petered out at about eighteen inches.
"These ain't gonna cut through Jack," Kylen called up to the Techies, who
were now upstairs in the observation room.
"Try the drills on your left," the Captain ordered over the intercom.
Kylen and Martin scraped the gel left on their hands and arms into a
container and closed the lid. It was almost useless, but still not to be
wasted. Picking up the next drills, they checked the distance setting and
then placed their hands and arms into the sleeves. They felt for the grip
inside and slid their middle and ring fingers into place. That was one of
the tricks to using the equipment: It was never designed to be triggered with
the index finger and didn't work well - if at all - if you tried to use it
that way. There evidently wasn't enough myo-electric activity to activate the
mechanism. It took time and practice for a person to build up coordination
and reaction times using the other fingers.
Martin stepped back and looked into Kylen's partition. Kylen turned to look
at him wide-eyed. The difference was remarkable. They both felt it - even
without firing up the drills. She threw back her head and looked up to the
observation area. "Where did you get this?" she demanded. "Where did you get
this gel?"
"We hoped that you might like it," Valenzuela said, smiling ever so slightly
to his charges. "Fire up the drills, please."
Kylen pointed the tool downrange. A brilliant blue beam snapped out of it.
Hot, precise, lethal, and exactly one meter in length.
Valenzuela's reaction was self-satisfied: "Oh, my, my, children. Ain't we all
just cookin' with gas now?"
Kylen laughed outright.
(Two)
11 April 2065
0900 hours
As she looked out through the porthole, Captain Shane Vansen took a moment to
count the vessels that surrounded the Saratoga. The carrier had been on the
move for a week and the task force ships seemed to be somehow breeding and
multiplying before her eyes. Commodore Ross had been making even more
frequent walkarounds. Maintenance crews were busy everywhere. Flightdecks
twelve and fifteen had been cleaned down to the rivets and then Boss Ross had
inspected them himself. Loading bays three, seven and eleven had also gotten
the once-over. The Saratoga was expecting company. Something was up. One by
one, Lieutenants West, Damphousse, and Hawkes joined her at the window.
"Do you see?" Nathan West asked softly, pointing surreptitiously out into the
sky at a ship on the edge of visual range.
"Hmmm."
"What?" Cooper Hawkes asked.
"The Gator Navy," Shane whispered out of the side of her mouth. It was an old
Marine term. The Gator Navy was the name for those ships that years ago had
been specifically designed for - and used exclusively by - the Marine Corps
for amphibious landings. The concept had evolved from earth warfare into
space, but the name remained unchanged. Onboard those vessels there were
elements of a Marine Expeditionary Unit - maybe even a complete MEU if the
ships kept multiplying out there.
"What's going on, Shane?" Vanessa probed.
"I know as much as you do - our orders. That's all I know," she responded.
Not for the first time she was forced to admit that she heard McQueen's words
coming out of her mouth.
"Our orders are the same as they've been for damn near five weeks," Nathan
groused. "Perimeter duty. Filling in the blanks. Dammit, Shane, how long are
they going to keep us out here like this? New pilots - nuggets - could do
this job. We fill in open slots for other squadrons, handle dust-offs and
supply duty, and pick up scut. Reinforce us or break us up, for god's sake."
"Shane, we were awarded the Presidential Unit Citation - even after the peace
talks - and they still treat us like scut-dogs. No, this is all too weird."
Damphousse voiced something that had obviously been bothering her, and when
Phousse said something was weird, the Cards listened to her.
West tried to shake the chills that Phousse had given them all. "Hell, they
don't even send us a new CO," he complained.
He looked over at Shane, who had been the acting CO since her rescue from
2063 Yankee. Well, except for a month when one Lieutenant Colonel McNamara
had shown up - and promptly got her tail waxed by a Chig scout with a chip on
its shoulder. Phousse had been able to return the favor. Scratch another
Chig, and McNamara was on a transport to The Nightingale before you could
sing a chorus of Auld Lang Syne. "You know what I mean," he said, hoping to
cover any unintended insult.
"Man, I'm glad I don't have to live on one of those," Coop whispered, looking
now at two "Gator" ships visible in the distance. Compared to those ships,
the Saratoga was a hotel.
"Let's hope it stays that way," Shane mumbled. She then turned her attention
to West. "You forget the third and forth options, West. They haven't busted
us, and they haven't court-martialed us yet either. Lay low and keep your
mouth shut," Shane said. Now, how many times have I heard that? she
thought.
"Man, oh, man. You sound like the Colonel more every day," Cooper bitched.
The Captain gave the Lieutenant a pretty fair version of Colonel McQueen's
famous "Look." It was totally unconscious, but it was there nonetheless.
Vanessa Damphousse laughed softly. Coop was right. Shane had taken on more of
McQueen's mannerisms since he had been gone. Instead of fading away with the
distance of time and space, the familiar gestures and expressions were
appearing with increasing frequency. Plus the fact that Cooper Hawkes, who
had had the rather dangerous habit of referring to the Colonel as "McQueen" -
even in the man's presence - now only used the term "The Colonel." The
Wildcards could always tell just which colonel Cooper was referring to by his
tone of voice. Cooper has a special tone of voice for Colonel McQueen,
she thought.
Cooper, unfortunately, misinterpreted Vanessa's light laugh. He thought it
was directed solely at him, and he had no idea what she would find so funny.
Such things still drove him crazy.
"Oh, come off it, Phousse. And you too, Shane. It's been months, and besides,
Broden is dead anyhow," Coop said irritably. Admiral Broden had wanted to
bring the 58th up on charges following the screw-up on Anvil. He had really
wanted their hides. Cooper had mentioned the unmentionable - a subject they h
ad studiously avoiding discussing for almost six months.
"Jeez, Cooper. Shut up," Vanessa snapped.
"What? What did I say?" he complained, throwing his hands in the air. "Like
it's a secret or something? It's the truth, anyhow."
Vansen looked meaningfully at West and cocked her head towards Hawkes. The
message was clear: Handle this, Nathan.
"Come on, Cooper. Let me 'splain something to you." With that Nathan
unceremoniously steered Cooper away from the group, whispering intensely into
the young InVitro's ear.
(Three)
12 April 2065
Henderson Field
0530 hours
The sun was fully over the horizon when McQueen crested the hill to the east
of Henderson Field. Morning or evening - whenever he worked it into his
schedule - the Marine Corps standard 3.5-mile run was once again easy for
him. He had been stretching the distance, and was now up to 5 miles. Standard
gravity and decent air were not things to be wasted.
After zigzagging around space for three weeks, sending hokey communications
and laying down trails that even an AI would find hard to track, the 'Hue
City' had met up with her three sister ships. McQueen's MEU, the
Twenty-third, had been in synchronous orbit over Demios - over the airfield,
in fact - for nine days. McQueen had spent eight of those days on planet. He
had the officers of his command drilling elements of the MAGFT in rapid
deployment and vertical envelopment. It was called "kicking in the door." The
Colonel had sweetened the pot: Units that performed well were given
forty-eight hours liberty - such as it was - on the planet.
The insertion trajectory brought most of ISSCVs within visual range of the
Eisenhower salvage operation. The Marines hit their LZs fired-up and ready
for payback. All units had performed well - had earned their meager liberty
- and there had been very little bitching about going through the motions one
more time.
Demios had changed a lot since McQueen had last been there. It was a
completely operational base again, and rapidly becoming larger than it had
been before the Chigs had captured it almost eighteen months earlier. There
was construction on planet, and there were salvage operations out in orbit. A
lot was going on. Graves Registration had set up four cemeteries, and two
more were mapped out. During his trips around the planet, McQueen had noted
that these were strategically located: If human dead spooked the Chigs, well,
some of the tactical "sweet spots" on the planet would give them the creeps
for decades to come.
One thing that he had noted with interest and curiosity: While cleaned up and
serving customers again, the X-1 Diner was remarkably unchanged. McQueen
wondered how - in the face of two major planetary bombardments and the
absolutely vicious combat that had twice surrounded the airfield - the
building had remained standing. Even more extraordinary, the sign on top of
the building had survived intact. They hadn't even had to repaint it. It was
the oddest thing.
The Colonel slowed his pace to begin to cool down. The Hue was to leave orbit
at 1900 hours. There would be time for one last 'all-the-water-that-you-want'
shower. Then Captain Chan would have coffee waiting, and work would begin.
The last of his Marines would have to be shuttled back to the ship. The final
details of the embarkation would need the once-over. There would be last
minute communications to review, and he had his own gear to get together.
There might just be time to run over to the X-1. Time to grab one more burger
and some french fries with gravy. McQueen positively relished walking into
that place and ordering all the food he wanted. It was hot, and it was served
on heavy white plates that clanged when the waitress slapped them down on the
counter. Almost nine months earlier in this diner, he had found the 5-8 bent
but unbeaten. They had been close to starvation and ready to face death. It
gave him a feeling of pride in their incredible accomplishment to sit at the
counter and eat all he wanted. It was always the same. The feelings never
left him.
McQueen finished his exercise, the sun warm on his back and casting his
shadow out long in from of him as he ran.
12 April 2065
1600 hours
Chan was aware that McQueen was not at the portholes - that he was not
watching the ants eat away at the carcass. It was part of Marshall's job
after all: to know where the Colonel was at all times. But the fact that
McQueen was not glued to the windows didn't mean that Chan would classify the
Colonel as being in the 'eyes closed' camp (those who did everything they
could not to have to look at the wreckage). McQueen had taken a look at the
scene on the way down to the planet eight days ago, and that had been enough.
No, McQueen had just seen everything that he had needed to see the first time
around, and was now seated comfortably (as comfortably as one could get) in a
seat by the airlock, reading something in his personal handheld. The man read
a lot - a whole lot (and reading on a 'personal' was a pain in the rear) -
but Marshall had never had the nerve to ask him what it was that he read.
Colonel McQueen did not invite that sort of familiarity.
Captain Marshall Chan had been assigned to McQueen's command in January and
had worked along side the man almost 24/7, and what he did not know about the
man - let alone understand - could fill Chan's own personal handheld. Not
that the Colonel was difficult - far from it. Colonel McQueen laid out his
expectations in a clear manner, concise and to the point. He was prepared.
McQueen did not bluster, BS, or shift blame. He wasn't given to raising his
voice, and only bitched when bitching was deserved. McQueen didn't expect
Marshall to read his mind and had, once or twice, even gone so far as to say
"Thank you" or "Well done" when Chan had anticipated him. Chan felt that he
should be more than satisfied with this assignment - he had worked for far
worse - but he still had a vague feeling of being somehow out of step.
When he had gotten the assignment, Chan had discreetly asked around, trying
to find out some more information. He had tried to better learn how to deal
with the man - just to find a way of making contact. No one had been very
helpful. Everyone knew who McQueen was, and his reputation for getting things
done, but nobody seemed to really know anything about him - nothing solid or
meaningful. Colonel McQueen remained a closed book. In three months, Marshall
couldn't remember ever having seen the man smile, but the Colonel could be
quick with a one-liner, and Chan had heard him laughing out loud in the
desert late at night. The Captain had never seen the Colonel send any mail,
but he had received several items - even boxes - from some place in
Massachusetts. Chan had observed that McQueen would eat whatever was served
without complaint, but that, when given a choice, he showed a preference for
vegetarian dishes and packed carbos. But on Demios the man had eaten at least
one meal a day at the greasy spoon. And had paid out of his own pocket to eat
red meat, fried food, and heavy desserts loaded with sugar and fat. Chan had
been mystified.
Captain Chan returned to his seat next to Colonel McQueen, who nodded his
acknowledgment. The Colonel had looked up from his reading, so Marshall
decided to risk it. After all, they worked well together - they both knew it.
"What are you reading, Sir? Is it study or pleasure?"
McQueen considered for a moment before answering: "Pleasure." He did
appreciate that Chan was part of his staff. He could have done worse. The
Captain was good. Maybe a touch too conservative - but then the man is
infantry and not an aviator.
After the second day, he had never had to tell Marshall Chan anything twice.
The younger man ran excellent interference, was a fine liaison, and the
paperwork was done on time. In short, Captain Chan played well with others
and never ran with the scissors.
Ross would make the effort, McQueen thought. General Wierek and
General Green would. McQueen hadn't thought about it before, but now
realized that he had kept Chan at a distance. He did not choose to share his
selection of reading material, finding it difficult to open up to that
extent, but he decided that it just wouldn't be fair or helpful to continue
to ignore the Captain's overtures.
"Are they making any progress?" McQueen asked quietly, jerking his head
toward the remains of the Eisenhower.
"A little... They must be... Its been over a week ... Its just so damn big," Chan
responded. He had never served on a carrier, and the size amazed him. The
wreck of the Eisenhower was a sobering sight. Demios had been a very near
thing, and the ruin only served to remind anyone who saw it how close Earth
forces had come to complete annihilation. Chan shook his head unconsciously.
"I've spent all of my time in the infantry, Sir - not all that much time in
space - and I've never seen anything like it before," he admitted quietly.
"It certainly gets your attention."
"Nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won,"
McQueen said.
"They'll use all of it they can." Marshall stated the obvious. For decades
all Earth spacecraft had been designed utilizing the modular concept. Not
only did Hammerheads have interchangeable parts, but also all ships were
interchangeable with any ship in their class. Parts, electronics, tools, and
instruments - whole sections of the Ike would find their way into the
remainder of the Earth Force carrier fleet. The resources were just too
valuable.
"No matter how reality based ... you'd think it would give some people the
willies. Having parts of that ship bolted into your own," Chan admitted. He
was torn about this. As an adult, and a military man, part of him considered
the idea of haunted ships childish. Frivolous. But he also had to admit that
if, in the future, he was traveling in a module that had been part of that
broken dead beast; he would rather not know it.
"You believe in ghosts, Captain?" McQueen asked wryly.
"Two and a half years ago I didn't believe there was life on other planets.
I'm not so quick to discount things that I haven't seen," Chan responded
honestly.
McQueen gave a rather curt nod of assent. I don't suppose any of us are,
McQueen speculated to himself.
He is right, thought McQueen. If people find out that they carry parts
of the Ike, there will be stories and 'sightings.' People are going to claim
to see and hear members of the Eisenhower crew - to hear the sounds of the
battle. Forgetting totally that their ship used to always make strange noises
- forgetting that they are tired, wired, and have a gallon of adrenaline
shooting through their systems.
"On the other hand," Chan continued. "Maybe the purpose of the lingering
spirits... If one believes in such things... Maybe the spirits will be
protective. They might be helpful and do everything they can to keep the crew
safe, and to warn them to prevent this from happening again." As he looked
into McQueen's impassive face, the Captain felt suddenly exposed and more
than a little foolish.
McQueen did not immediately respond. The Eisenhower represented a mistake - a
bush-league mistake. McQueen, unfortunately, was not baffled as to how such a
mistake could have been made. People became overconfident, forgetting the
details and neglecting the basics. The wreck and her pieces spread out
throughout the fleet would give everyone a hard object lesson. But he did
recognize that if people were going to entertain such fantasies as haunted
flightdecks then he preferred Chan's take on things. It certainly wasn't the
strangest thing he had heard in his career.
"If ghosts want to hang around, then at least let them be useful," he said
ironically. The Colonel was letting the Captain off of the hook. McQueen
almost smiled.
"Aye, aye, Sir," Chan said, relaxing a bit. He paused briefly before
continuing in a more self-contained vein. " The ideas - the images - have
power. Memories have power. Maybe it is just the way we feel about these
things - how we deal with things from our past."
"Hmmm," was all McQueen said. The Colonel felt like he had memories enough
for several lifetimes.
Now we have it. Time. The past, present, and future, McQueen thought.
This is a major difference between InVitros and Naturals. He had noted
this difference before, and was just beginning to grasp the meaning and
significance: The two races dealt differently with time.
Naturals chewed on their past, their childhoods, old slights and remembered
triumphs. Like dogs with their bones, Natural-borns not only hid their past
away, they guarded it and dug it up just to look at it. They worried over it.
They had to make sure it was still there - to make sure that the past hadn't
disappeared in the night. They would rebury it - only to look for it again.
They loved their past even when they hated it.
InVitros, on the other hand, never forgot where their pasts were kept,
because the past was never buried, and generally was not something treasured
or even considered with any fondness. There never really was a past, because
most InVitros seemed to carry everything with them, refusing to let it go. It
was all they had, so it was never released: It was always there. The
staggering weight of the past bogged everything down. InVitros didn't worry
about the past because they never allowed it to become the past.
Consequently it was difficult to move forward. InVitros stood in the
perpetual heat of a silent sun - 360 degrees of light in an emotional desert.
They never stepped away from their pasts because their own shadows surrounded
them on all sides.
McQueen sensed that the issue of the past - and to some extent memories -
would always be different for InVitros. All genetic humans had to learn a
handful of universal lessons. InVitros learned a lot of the same lessons, but
there were differences that might never be surmounted due to the physical age
at which things were learned and the responsibilities that were carried at
the time - the expectation people had of life. Most Naturals still learned at
a parent's knee: Life came is small doses, a bit at a time. His life - and
the lives - of the majority of InVitros had been different. InVitros did not
learn life lessons from fairytales inside a protected place. The cattleprod
was not a childhood memory for the majority of Natural-borns and it was
certainly not a universal race memory.
And Natural-borns worried about the future incessantly. They talked about it
enough, but years ago in the mines, people hadn't even been able to dream
about a future. McQueen had been almost seven years out of the tank before he
had heard InVitros talking about anything farther out than twenty-four hours.
Goals and plans were something dreamed of, perhaps, but the tools to
formulate them weren't accessible - InVitros had never been taught. McQueen
understood that had changed for the last generation of InVitros: They hadn't
been decanted under the shadow of death - hadn't been born over their open
graves. He had seen that even for someone Hawkes' age it was different.
Cooper seemed to be beginning to believe in a future.
It seemed to McQueen that the biggest difference between the races was that
whatever Natural-borns were doing, part of their minds seemed to be elsewhere
- except during the heat of combat. They did not seem to be looking for
something else exactly, but rather some other "time." It appeared that
Natural-borns were always moving - or wanting to move. They were looking for
some time behind them or out in front of them somewhere. He had seen them do
it even during sex. What was here - what was now - was never enough. They
always seemed to want somewhen else. They counted on the future. They
bet against it. Natural-borns seemed to McQueen to spend a whole lot of
energy concentrating on phantoms ... times and events that were other than now
. Times that, in a sense, didn't really exist. It was all ghosts. InVitros
believed in what they held in their hands.
Most older InVitros never integrated the past, and the concept of a real
future was usually shaky - if not beyond comprehension. They almost always
lived in the moment. What should be behind was still inside of them, and what
was out front did not and would never exist. Life itself was always a trial:
InVitros somehow stood still. Most still did not own their future anymore
than they owned their past. It all belonged to someone else.
McQueen realized that both views of life might be - and probably were - equal
lies and therefore equally dangerous. Maybe there was no one simple truth in
being human. It was all about ownership and attachments, both literal and
metaphysical.
There was a something 'zenlike' to be said for living in the now. Aspects of
it appealed to McQueen. But during his assignments in Japan, McQueen had
noted that even Buddhist monks planted gardens and harvested for the future -
at the same time they were quoting passages from texts written thousands of
years earlier. They dealt with the past, present, and the future, but owned
none of them - and all of them - at the same time. Balance wasn't simple.
There had been a time in his life when McQueen hadn't thought about such
things. He suddenly missed that time.
He turned back to his reading. Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. "The first
rule is to keep an untroubled spirit." McQueen gave a snort of
self-derision. An untroubled spirit was something he had obviously yet to
accomplish. He did, however, feel secure in his belief that he did very well
in respect to Aurelius' second rule: "To look things in the face and know
them for what they are."
McQueen had looked at the Eisenhower once - that was enough.
Previous : Holding Up The Sky Book Two Pt 5-6
Back : General Fiction
(One)
9 April 2065
Quantico, Virginia,
USA
Saratoga
(Position classified)
Demios
ISSAPC 3297
Enroute from Demios to the Hue
Next : Holding Up The Sky Book Three Pt 4-6