Terms of Enlistment

Chapter 13

When I was younger, I often dreamed of falling from a great height. The part of the dream that was most terrifying was the moment of weightless feeling just after I stepped out over the abyss—the second when I realized I was going to fall, and my stomach tried to float up inside of me. The dream always felt so real that I took it for the real thing every time, and I was always terrified when I plunged toward the ground, certain that I was experiencing the last moments of my life.

I would always wake up before hitting the ground, but in a way, my mind lived through my final moments hundreds of times. I remember feeling regret every single time—for things I had done, or failed to do, and for all the things I would leave unaccomplished. Sometimes I would think of my mother, and the sorrow that would be added to her already joyless life by surviving her only child.

This time, the dream is different. When I step over the precipice, I am in my battle armor, holding my rifle, and I am fully aware that I am merely dreaming. Still, the feeling of weightlessness is real, and so is the fear that grips my mind as my body falls into the darkness below.

This time, I don’t wake up before hitting the ground. This time, I crash onto the ground after a fall that seems impossibly long. I don’t blink out of existence, which is what should happen after a fall from such a height, a body shattered in a microsecond, just enough time for the brain to register a final shock before getting turned into paste. Instead, I am aware of the impact, the shock it sends through my body, and the way it seems to jar every molecule in me out of alignment. Nobody can survive a fall like that, but here I am, flat on my back, still breathing. Nothing seems to be broken—there is no pain at all, actually—and when I try to sit up, my body obeys instantly. My armor is unscratched, and my rifle still safely cradled in the harness on my chest.

Then there’s a bright light in my face, and I flinch. I feel hands on my shoulders, holding my upper body steady, and my brain finally decides to let go of the dream and rejoin the real world.

The bright light is the end of an optical wand, and it’s a scant inch away from my eyes. I’m flat on my back, and as I try to emulate the action in my dream and sit up, I make it about half an inch before a pair of hands gently, but firmly pushes me back into the horizontal position.

“Hold up there, soldier. You can’t do that yet, ‘less you want to undo all the patchwork.”

The voice sounds jovial, but professional, someone who’s used to giving advice and equally used to having it followed. The person standing over me is a woman in a TA Class B shirt, but I can’t make out her rank device, or her collar flashes. I try to speak, but my throat is parched, and all I can manage is a hoarse mumble that sounds nothing like human communication. The woman seems to be able to translate my utterance nonetheless, because she shuts off her wand, reaches past me, and brings a plastic cup into my field of vision.

“Water, cold, three ounces,” she declares, describing the item in mock military supply jargon. “Don’t drink too much at once. The patchwork in your abdomen is still tender.”

She brings the cup to my lips. I take a careful sip, then a bigger one. The water doesn’t even feel liquid as it runs down my throat, just a cool sensation coating my tongue and washing past my uvula.

“Better?” she asks. I nod in response.

“Good. Hold off on the speaking for a minute, okay? I have a good idea what you want to ask, so I’ll give you the rundown. If you still want to talk after I’m done, you can have at it. Deal?”

I nod.

“You’re in Regional Medical Center Great Lakes. You’ve been wounded in combat, and our doctors have stitched you back together. You’ll have to ask the medical officer in charge on details about your injuries, but as far as I know, you had a collapsed lung, and you now have about three feet of small intestine less than you had when you were brought in. You’ll be with us for a little while before we can release you back to your unit.”

She pauses for a moment and then gives me a curt smile.

“Now, do you have any questions?”

“Where’s the rest of my squad?” I ask.

“Not a clue. They brought you in from a different facility via medic flight. We had a bunch of other arrivals that night, but I don’t know who or where they are. You’re going to have to ask the medical officer in charge. I’m just the nurse.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Three days,” she says. “Two and a half, actually. They brought you in early Saturday morning, and now it’s Monday afternoon.”

“Shit,” I say. “Missed Monday morning Orders. The company sergeant is going to kick my ass.”

The nurse laughs softly. She reaches past me again, and turns on a light behind her. In the soft glow of the LED bulb she switched on, I can see her name tag and her rank device. She’s wearing corporal’s chevrons, and the tag above her right shirt pocket identifies her as MILLER C. We’re all just a rank, a last name, and an initial. I’d ask her first name, but she outranks me by three pay grades, and I don’t want to offend the person in charge of my medications for the next few days.

“You have a bit of stuff in your desk drawer,” she says. “Mostly the effects you had on you. See if there’s anything that doesn’t belong, and I’ll get rid of it for you.”

“My PDP make it?”

“Yeah,” Corporal Miller says. “You can’t kill those things, you know.”

She gets up from the chair on which she had been sitting, and straightens out her uniform shirt.

“I’ll leave you alone for a bit. There’s a call button right over your head if you need anything. I’ll be back with dinner in a little while.”

She gives me another curt smile, and leaves the room.

The room is entirely devoid of furniture except for the bed I’m in, a little white night stand beside it, and the display that’s hanging on the wall in a corner of the room. It’s as sterile an environment as I’ve ever seen outside of a PRC tenement.

I roll over onto my side and look at the night stand next to my bed. It has two drawers, and I reach over and pull open the first one. Inside is my dog tag on its ball chain, my PDP, the set of playing cards we all carry in rubberized trauma pack pouches, and the half-empty pack of breath mints I forgot I had stuffed into the right leg pocket of my armor before heading out to the drop ship. I reach up and touch the side of my face, where a fresh line of scar tissue leads from the corner of my left eyebrow to the back of my ear.

My PDP turns on at the first press of the button. I had it in my pocket throughout the last mission, and it seems impossible that the electronic gear has survived all the running, falling, and getting shot at, but there’s not a scratch on the thing. Even the battery is still at a full charge.

I check the MilNet link, the wireless network that connects all the military’s communication systems, and that every military PDP can access from anywhere on Earth and Luna. There are smaller MilNet nodes on Navy ships and Marine outposts as well, but they only synchronize with the rest of the network every few days. On the two inhabited bodies in our own solar system, however, the network is always in sync, and always just a tap on a PDP screen away.

The network is present, but for some reason, my PDP can’t connect to it. I can bring up everything that’s not reliant on the MilNet—my calendar, the technical manuals, the ballistic conversion tables, and the book reader—but every time I try to access something that requires network access, I get an error message, even though the PDP shows full network signal strength. MilNet works over satellites, and it’s always available, even on the top of the Himalayas or the middle of what’s left of the South American rainforest, but my PDP can’t connect to it, which means that the hardware has been locked out.

I want to send a message to the rest of the squad, and another one to Halley, but I’m cut off from the rest of the world, which is a rare experience. The Net terminals in the PRC apartments crap out every time a gnat farts in front of the government communications relay, but the MilNet link has been so reliable that the lack of connectivity feels a bit surreal.

There’s a remote on the table for the screen in the corner of the room, but I’m not interested in boring myself to tears with some insipid Network show, or the stuff they sell as news reports.

Since I can’t get in touch with anyone, I decide to use the opportunity to catch up on some sleep. I toss the PDP back into the drawer, and roll over to settle into a more comfortable position. The mattress is better than the one on my bunk at the base, the room is quiet, and whatever drugs I have in my system are making me sleepy.

When the door opens again, I wake up once more. The window in the room shows a starry night sky outside, which makes it a projection—there are few spots left on the continent where you can see stars at night, and I’m pretty sure the Great Lakes isn’t one of them, not with Chicago and Detroit nearby.

“How are we doing?” Corporal Miller asks. She’s carrying a meal tray in her hands.

“I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus,” I reply. “What’s for dinner?”

“For you, Liquid Nutritional Package Seventeen. Your choices are vanilla or applesauce flavor. I have to warn you, though. The flavor designations do not accurately reflect the taste experience.”

“I’m used to that,” I say, eyeing the nondescript white containers on the tray. “Ever tried BNA rations?”

“Yes,” she says. “My hometown is PRC Houston-23. Trust me, this stuff here is gourmet food compared to welfare chow. Just pretend it’s a milkshake. You’re on liquid diet for the next few days, by the way. Doctor’s orders.”

“I’ll try the vanilla. Any idea why my PDP can’t get onto the network in here?”

Corporal Miller shrugs.

“Not a clue. I’m not a network tech. The Information Support group at your home battalion is in charge of your access. You may want to check with them when you get out of here. Maybe your toy is broken after all.”

I know that it’s not the PDP, but I just shrug in return. If Corporal Miller knows why they killed my link, she’s not willing to tell me, but I have my own theories.

“Have your dinner, and call me if you need help.”

“I’m going to have to hit the head before too long,” I say. “I’m guessing you don’t want me up and running around.”

“No, I don’t,” she smiles. “There’s a relief tube on the right side of your bed. Use it at your convenience. Your bowels are empty, by the way, so don’t worry about the other thing. That won’t be an issue for a while.”

“Good to know. Thank you, ma’am.”

She leaves the room, and I take a sip from the container in front of me. Liquid Nutritional Supplement Seventeen tastes as bland as unadorned rice cakes, but there is a vague vanilla aftertaste to it, so I take Corporal Miller’s advice and pretend I’m sipping on a milkshake.

Piss tubes, liquid food, solitary room, and no MilNet access, I think. This will be a long week.

The next two days are filled with meals, physical evaluations, and long stretches of boredom. As the medication levels in my system are reduced, I’m no longer in a constant state of pleasant sleepiness, and the lack of entertainment even has me turn on the screen in the corner and watch some Network news.

On the morning of my third day of rehab, I have a visitor. Just as I am finished with my breakfast—I’ve graduated to mushy corn cereal—the door opens, and a TA major in full Class A uniform walks in.

“As you were,” he says jovially, as if I was going to toss my blanket aside and jump out of bed on the spot at the sight of the golden leaves on his shoulder boards.

“Good morning, Major,” I say. At first, I guess he’s with the Medical Corps, but then I see the branch insignia on his uniform. They’re the crossed muskets of the Infantry. I scan the fruit salad of ribbons above his left breast pocket automatically, and see that he has very few combat-related awards. There’s the Combat Drop Badge, Master rank, but that’s something every TA trooper in a line battalion earns within two years of service. He has a marksmanship badge with a Rifle and Pistol tab, both the lowest rank. Most TA troopers in our company elect to not wear the marksmanship badge unless they have scored Expert, the highest rank, which most of us do. The ribbons and badges on a Class A uniform are a soldier’s business card, and this Major’s card says “pencil pusher”.

“Good morning, Private,” he replies. He looks around for a chair. Failing to spot one, he walks up to the side of my bed and adopts an awkward position that looks like he’s not sure whether to stay formal or relaxed.

“My name is Major Unwerth. I’m the battalion S2.”

“Yes, sir.” The S2 is the officer in charge of intelligence and security. I’ve not had dealings with any of the brass that inhabit the Pantheon, which is what the troopers informally call the battalion headquarters building.

“I have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind, Private.”

“Of course not, sir.”

“Do you recall what happened last Saturday?”

“Of course I do. We were sent into a PRC up in Detroit, and they shot the hell out my squad. Sir,” I add.

The Major isn’t exactly out of shape, but he doesn’t have any hard edges, either. He looks soft, and I feel a sudden dislike for him. Maybe it’s the way he looks down on me, like I’m a different, inferior species, or maybe a defective piece of machinery.

“Well, that covers the basics of it,” the Major says. “Let me ask you something specific. Do you remember firing a thermobaric warhead from a MARS launcher in the course of that mission?”

“Yes, sir, I do.” I suddenly understand why the Major is here, and why my PDP doesn’t have access to the MilNet all of a sudden.

“And can you tell me who authorized or ordered you to fire that particular warhead?”

“I did not receive a direct order to fire that launcher,” I say. “We were told by the platoon leader on the way to the objective that lethal force was authorized in self-defense. They were shooting at my squad, we had several people down, and I defended myself, sir.”

“I guess you did, rather vigorously.” Major Unwerth purses his lips briefly.

“The problem is one of proportion, Private Grayson. You used a highly destructive hard shelter demolition warhead on a civilian target—government property, at that. There were significant civilian casualties in that building due to your self-defense measure.” He pronounces the last two words with just a hint of mocking emphasis in his voice. I conclude that I definitely don’t like him.

“We’re supposed to protect and defend the citizens of the NAC, Private. Blowing the hell out of a civilian high rise isn’t exactly the kind of thing that makes us look like we’re doing a good job at that.”

I feel the heat rising in my face.

“What the hell do you suggest I should have done, Major? You have the telemetry from our computers, don’t you? Should I maybe have asked them politely to stop shooting at us from that particular spot?”

“You could have responded in a more proportionate fashion, I think,” the Major says. “There were other weapons than thermobaric rockets available to you.”

“Well, I was sort of in a hurry, and I didn’t have time to read labels, sir.”

“That’s a pity,” Major Unwerth says. “I’m the one who has to mop up the mess with the media and the division brass, and believe me when I tell you that I’m not pleased about that.”

I couldn’t give less of a shit about what you’re pleased about, I think. I briefly consider saying that thought out loud, but then decide against it. He’s near the top of the battalion food chain, and I’m all the way at the bottom. Whatever they have in store for me, I don’t want to compound it with a disciplinary offense.

“I was doing my job, Major. My squad was getting chewed up, and I stopped the threat. That’s all I have to say about that.”

I feel anger flaring up inside me. This jackass with his crisply ironed Class A uniform and his desk jockey ribbons was probably in C2 back at Shughart when we were getting shot up by the locals in Detroit, and if he witnessed the battle at all, it was from the perspective of the drop ship cams and the ground telemetry from the squad leaders. He wasn’t around when we were chewed up by heavy weapons fire out of the blue, and he wasn’t at the receiving end of the thousands of rounds the locals sent our way that night. He didn’t have to drag someone half a mile through a contested urban battlefield lousy with pissed-off hostiles. For just a moment, I have the urge to grab him by the lapels of his immaculate uniform, and drive my forehead right into the middle of his face.

The Major apparently senses my sudden shift in emotions, because he backs off from my bed just a little.

“Well, there’ll be time for a thorough review later,” he says. “We’ll debrief with your squad leader and the rest of your team when you get back to Shughart.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” I say. “Then we can figure out which genius made us walk back to the civic square with half the squad dead or wounded. That was really fun, getting shot to bits.”

Major Unwerth’s eyes narrow. My response seems to have triggered some authority reflex in him, because he straightens up and puts his hands behind his back once more, elbows out, like he’s standing at parade rest.

“When I last checked the personnel files, Mister Grayson, you were a private in the first squad of Bravo Company’s first platoon. I don’t recall you being present at any of the staff officer meetings, so I’m going to assume that’s still the case.”

I don’t answer, and just glare at him.

“You’re in the Territorial Army, and you’re bound and required to follow orders from your superior officers, no matter how much you personally disagree with them. If that’s too much of a challenge for you, let me know, and I’ll inform the personnel office that you’ve changed your mind about serving your term of enlistment.”

I know that he’s full of it—the TA doesn’t release anyone from their service contract after the completion of Basic, unless they get shot up enough to make the medical treatment too expensive. For major fuck-ups, they just give court-martials, and lock people up instead. I don’t have the desire to discuss the Uniform Code of Military Justice with this pencil-pushing asshole, however, so I say nothing. Major Unwerth takes my silence as a sign of acquiescence.

“Now, when you are released from this facility, you will be transferred back to Shughart, where you will report to the Company Sergeant the instant you’re back on base. If you get in after hours, you’ll report to the CQ. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir, it is,” I reply.

“Good.” He looks around with obvious distaste on his face. I don’t know whether he doesn’t like the comparative luxury of my single-occupancy room, or whether he feels that he has debased himself for arguing with an enlisted grunt who doesn’t even have a rank device on his collar yet.

“That will be all for now, then,” he says, and turns to leave the room. “I will be back later to take a full statement from you. As you were, Private.”

Some motivational visit, I think as the door closes behind him.

I get a trip out of the room later that day, which lifts my mood. Corporal Miller has procured a powered wheelchair for me, and after a short introduction into the fine points of power chair operations and hospital traffic rules, she accompanies me on my first trip out of the room.

“Where do you want to go?” she asks as we wheel along the corridor. The hospital is as sparsely appointed as my room—stainless steel furniture, white walls without decorations, and carpeting in cheerless slate gray.

“I don’t know. Is there anything worth seeing in this place? Some place that has a bit of color to it?”

“There’s a rec room on the top floor, and a cafeteria at the ground level. You can try your hand at some solids if you want. The doctor says your intestinal fusing should be up to it by now.”

“That sounds awesome,” I say. “Do they have anything worth eating?”

“Oh, yeah. There’s your regular Army variety of breakfast pastries, and three varieties of coffee,” she says with a little smile. “We spare no costs to provide our guests with culinary variety.”

“Let’s go, then. I’m dying to chew something for a change.”

The cafeteria is a bit more cheerful than the rest of the facility. There are some baskets with synthetic flowers set up on the sills of the projection windows. The scene outside of the windows is a serene lakeshore, which probably doesn’t even remotely reflect the true scenery outside. There’s a meal counter on one side of the cafeteria. The room looks like a smaller, cozier version of the chow hall back at Shughart. There are small tables all over the room, each just big enough for two people. A few patients are milling about, all in the same green two-piece hospital outfit I’m wearing.

As I roll over to the meal counter, Corporal Miller keeping pace by my side, I hear a familiar voice from one of the tables.

“Grayson, always heading straight for the chow.”

I turn to see Sergeant Fallon at a nearby table. She’s sitting in a powered chair of her own, and there’s a cup of coffee and an empty plate in front of her.

“Hey, Sarge!”

I alter course and veer over to her table. She gives me a tired-looking smile as I pull up.

“I thought you were done for, Grayson. When they put you on the stretcher, you didn’t look too good.”

“I felt like I was going to check out,” I confirm. “The doc says I took two flechettes through my armor. One nicked the left lung, and the other went through my lower intestines.”

“Ouch,” she says. “That ought to be good for a Purple Heart.”

“I doubt that very much,” I say. “I just got chewed out by the battalion S2 for putting a MARS round into that high rise. I doubt they’ll give me any medals any time soon.”

“Major Unwerth? He’s a worthless fat-ass. I punched him in his stupid face once, back when I was platoon sergeant, and he was still a captain. I still can’t believe they promoted that useless pile of blubber.”

She looks up at Corporal Miller, who has followed me to the table.

“You can leave him with me for a little while, Corporal. Go and take a break or something, why don’t you?”

“Sounds good to me,” Corporal Miller agrees amiably. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes or so. Don’t try to do any push-ups while I’m gone, okay?”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “If you go over to the counter, would you mind grabbing something for me?”

“Any preferences?”

“Whatever looks good,” I say.

“No problem.”

Corporal Miller walks off, and Sergeant Fallon watches her with tired eyes. The sergeant looks diminished somehow, as if she left part of her substance on the street back in Detroit. I look down at her leg, the one that I know was mangled by machine gun rounds back in the PRC, and I recoil a little when I see that it’s no longer there. Sergeant Fallon’s right leg ends just below her knee, and the surplus material of her hospital trouser leg is neatly folded up and pinned to the thigh.

“Yeah, it’s gone,” she says when she notices my reaction. “The round turned the bones in my lower leg into shrapnel. There wasn’t enough left to piece together. They already fitted me for a replacement. I hear titanium alloy is much better than bone and tissue, anyway.”

“I thought you got an automatic discharge for an injury like that,” I say.

“Not if you have that big-ass medal on the blue neck ribbon,” she replies. “Then you can get away with shit. I even get to kill two officers per year, no questions asked.”

I laugh and shake my head.

“In that case, I have one to get rid of, if you haven’t hit your quota yet.”

“Next time that asshole stops by, you ask him for a Legal Corps officer in the room, and you don’t say a damn thing until they get you one, you hear?”

I should have thought of that myself, I think.

“I will. He wouldn’t even tell me what happened to the rest of the squad, and I can’t get on MilNet to send messages.”

“No shit?” Sergeant Fallon leans forward. “They locked out your PDP?”

I nod, and she shakes her head in disgust.

“Don’t say a thing without a legal beagle nearby, Grayson. They’re setting you up to take the heat for something. You didn’t do a damn thing wrong back in that shithole, so don’t let ‘em.”

“I’d say that’s out of my power, Sarge.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that. Where’d they quarter you in here, anyway?”

“Unit 3006,” I say. The low-level sense of panic I had been feeling since Major Unwerth’s visit is growing suddenly.

“Stratton and Paterson are dead,” Sergeant Fallon says, her voice suddenly flat. “Hansen is in rehab with a new shoulder joint. Everyone else is back at Battalion already, but as far as I know, they’re keeping our squad confined to quarters for now, like we’re some sort of freaking penal unit.”

“My fault, I guess,” I say. “Shouldn’t have used that rocket. Shit, I didn’t even realize I had a thermobaric loaded. I just aimed the thing and let fly.”

“And you know what, Grayson? I would have done the same fucking thing, and so would anyone else in our squad. Don’t even think twice about it. They got some bad press from the Networks, and now the public liaison at Battalion is all in a panic. It’ll blow over.”

“I don’t know, Sarge. The major seemed pretty set on pinning that tail on me.”

“We’ll see about that,” she repeats. “I may just have a word or two with him. We go way back, Major Unwerth and me.”

“If they toss me in the brig, just let the rest of the squad know I’m not a fuck-up, will you?”

“Don’t worry,” she says. “They try to fuck you over, the whole battalion’s going to know about it, trust me on that one. We don’t throw our own to the wolves to appease some candy-ass civilian brass.”

Her words make me feel a little more at ease, but I still feel as if there’s a sword hanging over my head. Sergeant Fallon has a lot of pull in the battalion—there aren’t many living Medal of Honor winners in the service, and she’s a prestige item, like a trophy in the battalion showcase—but she’s still just a Staff Sergeant.

“Is it true that you got to pick your assignment when they gave you that medal?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Sergeant Fallon says. “That’s part of the package. You get a yearly bonus for the rest of your life. They give you a nice blue flag in a nice wooden case, and even the brass have to salute you. And if you want reassignment, they have to grant it. You can’t ask to be a starship captain, of course, but if I had wanted to be a tank driver or drop ship pilot, they would have sent me off to armor or aviation school.”

“And why didn’t you?”

“Didn’t want to leave my guys,” she shrugs. “Different service would just mean different kinds of crap. I like sticking with the crap I know. I guess I didn’t want to feel like a recruit all over again. Shit, can you imagine a Staff Sergeant going to Fleet School? Sit in a classroom with all those green kids just out of Basic?”

I try to imagine battle-hardened Sergeant Fallon sitting in a lecture on interstellar travel or shipboard safety, with all the other students staring at her Medal of Honor ribbon, and I shake my head with a smile.

“Why didn’t you pick retirement? Take your bonus and go home?”

Sergeant Fallon looks at me as if I had just suggested she should strip naked and dance on the table.

“Retire to where? You think anyone musters out after sixty months? Do you know the retention rate in the military?”

I shake my head.

“Ninety-one percent, Grayson. Ninety-one out of a hundred service members who make it to Month Sixty end up re-enlisting. You think you were going to take the money and run after five years?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“The money they pay out? That’ll pay for shit outside in the real world. You get out as an E-3, maybe E-4, that’s half a million dollars for five years. That kind of money means you don’t qualify for public housing, and it’s not enough for anything bigger than a broom closet in the suburbs. It sure as shit isn’t anywhere near enough for a slot on a colony ship. And even if you could go back to the PRC, what the hell kind of reception do you think you’ll get as former TA?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “My father was TA, but he got kicked out early. I don’t know any other veterans.”

“There’s a reason for that, Grayson. Shit, we just killed a few hundred welfare rats last Saturday night. How do you think they feel about the military right now? The TA gets sent out every time the welfare cities get out of control. What do you think will happen to you if you show up back home with your shit in a duffel bag, and a government bank card with a million Commonwealth Dollars on it?”

I chew my lip at that. What she says makes perfect sense, of course, and I feel like an idiot for not having thought about this before. There are no recent veterans in our PRC—people who leave for Basic never come back. I always figured it was because they didn’t want to come back, not because they couldn’t.

“No, we were all locked in the moment we signed that paperwork in Basic. You can’t go back home after five years, and you don’t have enough money to do anything else, so you sign for five more, and then five more. Before you know it, you’re a lifer. You go for the ten-year bonus, then the fifteen-year bonus, and then you figure you might as well stick it out for twenty.”

She looks at me and circles the rim of her coffee cup with one finger.

“They know that most of us are going to keep re-enlisting. And seriously, what the hell are we good for in civilian life? I spent the last eleven years as a combat grunt. I know small-unit tactics. I know how to blow up shit and kill people. Can you see me working as a commissary clerk somewhere?”

“No, I can’t,” I say. “You’d scare the fuck out of the civilians.”

“That’s no longer our world, Grayson.”

“Well,” I say. “Guess I better get used to the thought of becoming a lifer. Unless they court-martial me, and kick me out.”

“What do you want to get out of the military? What would you ask for if the President put that medal around your neck tomorrow?” Sergeant Fallon asks. She studies me with a slight smile, as if she already knows what I’ll say.

“Seriously?”

She nods in reply. “Seriously. Private Grayson, Medal of Honor. Sky’s the limit. What would you do with that ticket?”

I don’t want to answer, because I don’t want to sound like I’m not loyal to my unit, but I find it hard to be dishonest with Sergeant Fallon. So I tell her the truth.

“I’d ask for a slot in a space-going service. Navy, Marines, whatever, as long as I get to go into space.”

“No shit? Sergeant Fallon raises an eyebrow.

“No shit.”

“Well, that’s the only way people like us are ever going to get off this shitty rock. I should give you a speech about how the other services suck, but truth be told, I don’t blame you one fucking bit.”

When Corporal Miller takes me back to my room, I feel a little better. My recently fused internals are processing the solid food without complaint, and I’ve picked up a few spare donuts to carry back to the room, a reminder of Basic that’s almost making me nostalgic. All things considered, I’d gladly be back at NACRD Orem right now, trading jokes with Halley, and listening to Sergeant Burke drone on about the structure of the different military branches. We had to hit the quarterdeck several times a day, and I racked up a lot of miles on my running shoes, but things were decidedly simpler back then. Nobody was shooting at me, and I didn’t have the threat of a jail term and subsequent dishonorable discharge hanging over my head.

“Friend of yours?” Corporal Miller asks on the elevator ride up.

“She’s my squad leader,” I say. “Do you know where they quartered her?”

“Same floor, unit 3022. Hey, you guys can get together and play cards or something. You know how to work that chair now, and you don’t need me to baby-sit you, I suppose.”

“Am I allowed out?”

“Sure,” Corporal Miller shrugs. “This is not a jail, you know. You need to stay in this building, but you can go out for a stroll in the hallways any time you want. There’s a rec room on the top floor, and the chow lounge is open twenty-four hours.”

“Excellent,” I say. “So much luxury. I won’t want to leave, you know.”

“Hey, that’s just part of the Army’s generous benefits package. Every day a holiday, and all that.”

I laugh out loud.

“Yeah, and last Saturday was fucking Commonwealth Day, fireworks and all.”