Stevers
Tue 29 Apr 2008, 0452, Tue 29 Apr 2008
Private Stevers began to pull a centerfold that had been taped up above his bunk, had a change of mind, then smoothed it flush against the wall again. He’d better not. Casualties had been high in the ASF, the 47th had been no different, and there was no telling who this centerfold or bunk belonged to before he was assigned to the Force. He unholstered his pistol and set it on a shelf before sitting down on the bed. He looked around him.
Everything was familiar, but somehow different. He recognized the same colors, equipment, beds, hell: the sheets were the same as back in boot camp. But something was different here: these beds once held people that considered this their home, not just a place they were passing through like the Camp. Little things told stories: the photograph tacked on the wall nearby, the wilted plant on the shelf beside his pistol, an abandoned sock under the bunk across the way. What – better yet who – was behind these? Were they still alive, or had the Bane gotten to them?
The crack-rumble of a mortar fire broke in the distance. Close, but not close enough to call an alarm: he flopped back on the bunk and shut his eyes. The mortars continued, and if he forced his mind he could almost hear a crowd clapping.
A crowd clapping. His memory stirred: a bar near his house, a year before the invasion. Music blaring. The chill of a drink as he held it. Chalmers bragging to a woman at his left. A crowd clapping to the music, and a woman among those dancing to that music:
Like a gift from the heavens, it was easy to tell
It was love from above, that could save me from hell
She had fire in her soul, it was easy to see
How the devil himself could be pulled out of me
There were drums in the air as she started to dance
Every soul in the room keeping time with their hands
Earth, United States, 2007. Nickelback.
Another explosion broke his train of thought.
He stretched out in his bunk, shut his eyes, and muttered:
We sang to the wind as we danced on into the night.
Everything was familiar, but somehow different. He recognized the same colors, equipment, beds, hell: the sheets were the same as back in boot camp. But something was different here: these beds once held people that considered this their home, not just a place they were passing through like the Camp. Little things told stories: the photograph tacked on the wall nearby, the wilted plant on the shelf beside his pistol, an abandoned sock under the bunk across the way. What – better yet who – was behind these? Were they still alive, or had the Bane gotten to them?
The crack-rumble of a mortar fire broke in the distance. Close, but not close enough to call an alarm: he flopped back on the bunk and shut his eyes. The mortars continued, and if he forced his mind he could almost hear a crowd clapping.
A crowd clapping. His memory stirred: a bar near his house, a year before the invasion. Music blaring. The chill of a drink as he held it. Chalmers bragging to a woman at his left. A crowd clapping to the music, and a woman among those dancing to that music:
Like a gift from the heavens, it was easy to tell
It was love from above, that could save me from hell
She had fire in her soul, it was easy to see
How the devil himself could be pulled out of me
There were drums in the air as she started to dance
Every soul in the room keeping time with their hands
Earth, United States, 2007. Nickelback.
Another explosion broke his train of thought.
He stretched out in his bunk, shut his eyes, and muttered:
We sang to the wind as we danced on into the night.