Virtues of War (19 page)

Katja couldn’t imagine it.

She stepped out of the direct sunlight, back into the cool relief of her apartment. Her eyes adjusted quickly as she shuffled around the room, running her hand along the backs of the furniture that had just been delivered that day. It was new, and of a style Merje said was very much the fashion. It had the name of some place in Italy, which she’d already forgotten, but she admired the clean, simple lines and elegant construction. Perhaps guests would complement her on it when she threw a party.

The very thought elicited a snort.

The entire apartment was built in a similar style. She’d rented it mainly because of its location—if she was going to get back into society she figured she had to be in the thick of things. There was something very appealing, almost military, in the straight lines and unadorned walls. She paused at the end of the couch and took in the entire room.

Home. This was her new home.

She’d slept late again, but couldn’t muster the energy to care. Not that anyone was expecting her any time soon. One of the beauties of being placed on medical leave—no obligations. The other was an increase in her drug dosage, which kept everything nice and quiet in her mind. She considered lying down for a nap, but then remembered that if she wanted to eat later, she needed to go shopping.

With a slow turn of her head she spotted the grocery bag. The drugs were good at keeping the nightmares at bay, but they made her feel like a simpleton. She had to focus on getting the bag onto her shoulder, and she held it tight as she carefully collected her Baryon and confirmed that the shopping list had been saved.

Out in the hallway, one other person was waiting for the elevator. Male, graying, extra weight in the midsection. He smiled at her. She smiled back, reminding herself that she wasn’t on duty. To him, she was just Katja, the pretty girl from down the hall. The elevator door opened and he motioned politely for her to enter.

“Nice weather today,” she said, attempting a casual conversation.

His face creased in a puzzled expression. “The wind storm’s expected to get worse.”

As the elevator descended, her mind jumbled with how to respond as a civilian would, and she pushed down the considerations of poor visibility and restricted tactical movement. The door opened to the first floor before she could form her response. The man smiled at her again and exited. She followed.

The sound of his shoes clicking on the marble floor of the lobby faded rapidly, and Katja listened absently to the soft brush of her own sandals as she walked slowly to the doors. They opened automatically as she approached, and the wall of heat from the unfiltered air crashed over her like a tidal wave. The blast surprised her, even scared her, and she gritted her teeth as nightmare images fought upward in her mind.

The dark, residential street on Abeona.

The house with the Centauri spotters. The explosion as the orbital bombardment obliterated it, and nearly killed her with the concussion.

She felt the drugs respond, and her anxiety began to fade. The images lingered for a moment longer, though, and with new clarity she remembered a dark form bending over her as she lay in the aftermath. Probably one of the medics, she guessed, reaching for her neck to check her pulse. Strange she’d never remembered him before.

With a deep breath she started down the sidewalk, blending into the pedestrian crowd. With her light dress and blonde bob she was just another girl out doing her shopping, she reminded herself. She was safe on Earth, safe at home.

* * *

The welcome cool of the market helped to lift her spirits, and she took her time selecting the various vegetables she intended to whip into a stir-fry. In this part of Longreach it was hard to find a bad piece of food, but she still indulged in the search for the perfect pepper. The sheer banality of her quest was soothing, and she was vaguely aware that she was even smiling as she finally made her selections.

At the bakery she took a different tack and randomly grabbed a baguette without inspecting it, trusting fate and whim to make the choice for her. The fact that she did this suddenly struck her as rather funny. She smiled as she headed for her final stop—the butcher’s counter.

A cleaver slammed down on the chopping block as one of the butchers expertly prepared a side of beef. The blade sliced cleanly through the hunk of meat, tearing muscle and sinew. Slabs of flesh lay on the red-stained wood. Not strewn and splattered, like the effects of her explosive rounds, but piled almost neatly. No blood seeped from the dead flesh. Unlike the living bodies that exploded with a pull of her trigger. Blood spraying across walls. Human beings, splattered like so much livestock.

The woman in front of her pointed out which of the steaks she wanted, and the server expertly picked it out, weighed it, and began wrapping it up. No blood spurting as she frantically pressed a bandage against a neck wound. Holding it tight even as she struggled to get another sealant-gel pack from her medic-kit. Hot, thick blood seeping through her fingers, pouring out the life of the young trooper in her platoon whose name she’d never even learned.

She’d only been in command for a few hours. How could she possibly know all fifty of them?

Katja leaned her hand against the clear glass of the butchery counter, vaguely aware as her shopping bag fell to the floor. She clenched her stomach muscles, unable to stop the dry heaves that spasmed upward. The drugs dulled the images of the boy’s eyes, staring up at her in shock and terror, those eyes above the last pulses of his blood oozing down her hand.

Firm hands gripped her shoulders.

“Miss, are you all right?”

She opened her eyes, turning her gaze away from the rows of flesh piled behind the glass. A uniformed security guard had a hand on her shoulder, and was observing her with concern. She stared back at him, begging him to understand.

“I didn’t even know his name,” she said, the words catching in her throat. “There wasn’t time. Wei was dead, and we had to move.”

The guard’s expression turned wary.

“Miss, I think I’d like you to leave the store.”

Katja stepped back, forcing him to release his grip on her shoulder. Her foot nudged into the dropped shopping bag, causing her to stumble. He reached out sharply for her. She knocked his hand away with a single swipe of her arm. She shuffled her feet clear, crouching into a combat stance. Her eyes flicked left and right.

Other shoppers stood at a very respectful distance, staring in shock. Behind her, the butchers backed away from their tools. She realized her arms were up for defense, and she slowly lowered them. The normally bustling market had descended into an eerie silence.

And all those fucking civilians, just staring at her.

Another guard joined the first, hand resting uneasily on his holstered stun gun.

Target priority, far guard with hand on gun, double-tap.

Near guard, multiple center-mass and back away.

Butchers, cover and keep them clear of their blades.

Her fingers went numb as the drugs surged to life within her, deadening her resolve. A wave of fatigue washed over her and she slumped in her stance. The first guard inched closer.

“Miss, I need you to leave. Now.”

She nodded, stooping to collect her shopping bag. The guards took station at her sides, each holding an elbow and steering her subtly but firmly toward the exit. She was allowed to pay for her groceries, then escorted well away from the premises.

Outside, the heat blasted her again. She kept her eyes down and moved through the crowds of faceless civilians under the glare of the sun. She felt like there were eyes on her, not from the people she passed, but from
somewhere
. Twice she glanced over her shoulder, thinking someone was following her, but then chided herself for her paranoia.

She was a decorated veteran. Terran security forces didn’t follow veterans. At least, not usually. She’d heard rumours that Astral Special Forces were occasionally called in to quietly clean up embarrassing messes made by veterans. But surely some spilled groceries wouldn’t count. She glanced over her shoulder again, quickening her pace.

No one spoke to her, not even in the elevator as she rode back up to her apartment. These people had their own petty concerns, she realized. Nobody cared about her. She was just getting paranoid.

The sun had moved while she was gone, and the apartment was no longer flooded with light. She dropped her shopping bag on the floor and crawled onto the couch, reaching for the new Baryon she’d bought on a whim. It was the newest social gadget, promising unlimited ease in staying connected with friends.

It had seemed like an exciting idea at the time—all those friends she was going to communicate with on the Baryon, just like all those friends she was going to invite to that big bash at her new apartment. She sighed shakily as she activated the device. What friends? Anyone she could think of from her old life—before the war—seemed hollow and irrelevant. What could she possibly talk about with any of them?

Why would she want to?

To her surprise, there were three messages waiting for her. The first was from Jack Mallory—how had he found her so quickly? He wrote about his new ship in the Research Squadron, and how it was a lot of work but nothing like getting shot at. Katja was touched at his efforts to keep in contact, but his cheerful message only reminded her of the sad truth. She was unfit for duty. This kid pilot was home from his first war and already back out into space. She was incapable even of manning a surface garrison without causing an incident between the Astral Force and the Army.

She deleted his message.

The next one was from Breeze. It was a sickly sweet note saying how she’d heard that Katja had been put on medical leave, and how much she hoped for a speedy recovery. Katja deleted it with a stabbing motion.

Bitch
.

Although it did make Katja think for a moment. What was up with that guy? Chuck Merriman’s cameraman, and now Breeze’s date to the party? Kit Moro—that was his name. He’d made a point of speaking to her at Thomas’s place. It had been a weird conversation. She’d have to search the network for more info on him.

The final message was from Merje. It was written in her sister’s usual acid wit, with a link to a news story that had aired two days ago. It was the first of Chuck Merriman’s follow-up stories on the glorious Emmes family, and naturally it focused on their father.

Katja watched the minute-long piece with idle interest, curious to see her father’s public face. The story followed his leadership over one of the Army’s mid-sized formations, a storm banner, in a simulated peacekeeping operation on Mars. Cutting back and forth between interesting military movements and an interview with the stern-faced veteran, Katja had to admit that it was a very flattering piece. Storm Banner Leader Emmes cut a striking figure, ardent in his support for Terran policy, and modest in his own heroic achievements throughout a forty-year career. It was the image of her father she remembered from childhood.

It was the image she’d always wanted to emulate.

Sitting up, she pondered the Baryon controls, eventually figuring out how to search for a contact. Fairly quickly she found the coordinates for SBL Günther Emmes, and, taking a deep breath, pressed to call.

The hand-held screen lit up moments later with her father’s face.

“Hello?”

No doubt he’d seen her name when his device rang, and his neutral expression sapped her confidence. But what had she expected from the man, laughter and joy?

“Hi, Father,” she said. “I saw you on the news. Very nice story.” He stared back at her, expression unchanging as he slipped into speaking Finnish.

“Populist propaganda, but necessary to help rebuild the military’s reputation,” he said curtly. “I was honored to do it.”

She paused, trying to collect her thoughts, and to switch her brain over to communicating effectively in her second language. At least the language part came easily.

“Father,” she said. “I… I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Go ahead.”

How to summarize what she was trying to say? She couldn’t even make sense of it herself. He continued to stare at her expectantly over the screen, and she decided to go for the direct approach.

“Father, did you have trouble coming home, after your first real mission?”

She braced for the scornful retort. She was surprised by his face suddenly softening into a thoughtful expression.

“Are you having trouble?”

She didn’t really want to tell him about the incident in the market.

“I don’t know,” she replied, “but I think so.”

She had his full attention now, she could tell.

“Have you caused any trouble?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Well, except I think I’m a vegetarian now.”

He nodded. “Have you spoken to your own medical corps?”

“Yes, and they’re trying to help me.”

“That’s good, but Katja Andreia, ultimately you have to help yourself. War is a nasty, brutal business, and it’s not for the weak.” She hated how his simple words could carry so much damnation in them.

“I’m not weak,” she replied. “I’m trying, but I don’t know what to do.” His face was hardening again, she could see. “What did you do?”

He thought for a moment. “I separated the two worlds. What happened in one world didn’t affect what happened in the other, and I understood that the rules were different in each one. That’s how I could be an effective soldier, and an effective father.”

Katja pondered his words. She suddenly wondered just how well her father had really coped—though at least he hadn’t made a scene in a public place.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” he said firmly. “Each soldier has to find his or her own way to deal with it. In the end it comes down to personal strength. Those who have it, survive.”

She could feel the tears coming very close to the surface and she furiously fought them down. She wasn’t going to cry in front of her father.

“I am strong,” she said. “You have no idea.”

He was unimpressed. “I just hope the Astral Force hasn’t wasted ten years of training and resources on an opera singer.”