Postby Godly Paladin » Wed Oct 05, 2005 2:51 pm
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His heart had lurched into his mouth during the ‘terminal moment’, as the pilot slang termed it. That horrible, awful second when all the systems died, and the mech’s smooth hover turned into a helpless descending spiral. The pseudoptics had winked out, the controls had gone stiff in his hands, the reassuring vibrations and rumbling of the engines and auxiliary systems had vanished, and the faint hissing of the life support system had faded away. Now he was sitting in the utter dark of the cockpit, encircled—trapped—by ten-foot-thick armor plating and a tangle of machinery. Nothing could have been more isolated.
During the actual combat, only seconds before the enemy’s fire had found him, there had been a wide array of thoughts and feelings pulsing through his mind and heart. The entire spectrum of emotions that only combat could give you: exultation, fear, hate, anger, vengeance, despair, sadness, sympathy, revulsion… The terminal moment had swept them all away.
His grip on the flightsticks went slack, and he sagged back into the plush chair, hands covering his face and head inclined downwards. This was it: the last heartbeats he’d imagined a thousand times in his mind. Only here it was different from lying on your bunk, staring up at the wireframe supports above you and trying to visualize what it would be like to die. Despite what you were seeing in your mind’s-eye, you were safe and sound in bed. Whenever you started to make yourself uncomfortable you could just shrug it off. It was just conjectures and thoughts. But you couldn’t shrug off reality.
Images zipped through his mind like a veritable whirlwind.
An unfinished letter to his estranged parents, nestled away underneath his mattress back at the cruiser. In its tear-stained pages were written his heartfelt regret and pain at the rift that had formed between them. All it lacked was a final sentence, a signature, and a stamp. A few seconds’ work, yes, but he had put it off, loathe to damage his pride by crawling back to them. Now they would never see it.
His novel, the product of countless little sessions: a sentence here, a paragraph there, a page when he could get the time. It was secreted on a lone computer disk and hidden away in his pack. Why hadn’t he ever tried to get it published? Because he didn’t want to be rejected. Now it would never have a chance.
That wonderfully attractive and heartwrenchingly sweet girl from the Supply and Ammunition Corps. He’d always watched her easy smile, her glittering eyes, her long hair, her confident walk, her companionable air from afar—just a nod in the corridors, a pleasantry in the mess hall, a halting word or two in the lounge. He’d never been able to get the nerve up to actually talk to her, despite the constant back-slapping encouragement of his lancemates. How many opportunities had he been given to strike up a conversation? To just bite the bullet and give it a chance? To forget the embarrassment of a cold shoulder and make a move? Now it would never happen.
And then there was another matter, something entirely more serious than anything else that had previously touched his mind. Where was he going? All alone in the mech, with death possibly only a heartbeat and a breath away, the afterlife seemed a bit more important than before. The images changed: a childhood church; a huge, highly decorated Bible nearly as large as the small child who turned the pages; a group of college kids sitting in a circle in an empty classroom at a university, each one sharing their testimonies and experiences; a base chaplain’s gentle exhortations.
He’d been a religious type once—your standard Christian kid in a standard Christian family. That had all changed, though, over the passage of time. He’d gotten accustomed to just saying he was a believer when asked and living his life like he wished the rest of the time. He’d even been part of an ECSA group during his university days, but his testimonies had just been extrapolated tales of a past lifestyle that had decayed to shreds.
The military had swept away those final shreds with uncaring efficiency. Jesus was for weak people who couldn’t control their own destiny, the Bible was for those so pathetic that they couldn’t direct their own lives. God was a fairy tale designed to keep the populous in line. The new generation—the Star Generation—didn’t need such fabricated deities and stories to give their lives meaning. They were a strong generation, accustomed to fighting for their goals and making their dreams reality. They would take mankind to a new height, propelling the race to its proper position as master of the galaxy. No god was needed for such a generation. There was no life after death, anyway.
It all sounded great in the parade grounds; it gave you so much pride and nationalistic fervor when you heard it while gazing at row upon row of mecha, tanks, soldiers, and the general might of the army. Now it seemed rather frail, and there was no assurance in it. Too late, though, just like everything else.
Impact.
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She stumbled down the final steps of the stairway that switchbacked up the apartment complex and out onto the quiet street, sobbing heavily. The tears had only flowed for a few seconds, but already her purple turtleneck was dotted with salty wetness; she wrapped her arms around herself tightly and backed up against the concrete wall of the building opposite the apartments before letting herself drop down to the sidewalk, her eyes shut tightly and lips pressed together. Hushed little gasps and sniffles punctuated the silence.
By anyone’s standards she was exceptionally pretty—by the majority’s opinion she was nothing short of gorgeous. Her simple sweater and jeans weren’t very daring or vogue, possibly, but she regularly caused minor traffic accidents and sprained ankles because of her face and hair. Lusciously fine, brown tresses that dropped down past her shoulders and curled only at the ends; an uncomplicated hairstyle that seemed to be both unobtrusive and eye-catching at the same time. Eyes that were quick and bright, constantly catching light and sending it dancing; straight, perfectly white teeth that flashed every time she smiled. In summary, a vision who had no trouble securing the attentions of every male in the room and the grudging admiration—or jealousy—of all the females.
It was odd, then, that she should choose the man she had chosen. Maybe it was the fact that he came closest to being her male equivalent as far as appearances went; maybe it was the fact that he had hordes of women vying for his attention and was somehow more desirable. She didn’t really know why herself, but the reality was that she didn’t feel like she could live without him.
He didn’t physically abuse her maybe, but his verbal attacks were just as damaging. He tormented her constantly, demeaned her, insulted her, and criticized her. But…she kept coming back to him.
Finally she opened her eyes and looked up at the sky. It was overcast, with just enough sunlight creeping through the cloak of clouds to create a dull ambience. The wind had picked up suddenly, knifing through the streets and slashing unimpeded across intersections and down alleyways. All around her now there was the whistling and howling of urban breezes. She smiled a tight-lipped, bitter smile. This is just like when Father left.
She’d been just short of her seventh birthday when it had happened, but—of course—she could remember it perfectly. You just didn’t forget things like that, ever. They’d argued with each other all the way back from the camping resort. With every passing hour the tones of their voices rose and there had been more and more insults traded and curses tossed around. She had sat there in the back seat, helpless, with no escape route from their fighting. An hour or two after they had gotten back home, the climax had arrived, and he had charged out of the house, never to return.
Everyone had thought that she’d recovered marvelously. Within a few days she was back at school, and within a month it appeared that everything was normal again. But it wasn’t. Not deep inside.
Around her thirteenth birthday it had started, and she just couldn’t help herself. Her thoughts had turned constantly to romance, to ‘love’—or at least how a young girl saw it. Soft kisses, warm summer evenings and warmer embraces, walking hand-in-hand down a leaf-littered sidewalk. Having someone to hold you at the end of the day.
A few years of empty daydreams later—just after she turned sixteen—she realized that she had the mysterious power to actually make her dreams more than just longings. She discovered that all it took was a smile, a laugh, a tilt of the head, a fidget with her hair, and she could have anyone at school she wanted. Now she really could have the soft kisses, the embraces, and someone to hold her when she was sad and tired. Whenever she needed it. And she needed someone now more than ever, now that the harsh memories of that day were welling up in her heart.
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Preceding was copyright 2005 Godly Paladin.
~Nick