Solfleet: The Call of Duty (60 page)

The man dropped
his bag down beside the couch. Then the two of them sat down—him on the left
side of the couch as Dylan looked at it, her in the chair sitting caddie-corner
to its right—and began talking. Dylan watched their mouths closely, hoping to
make out a few words and maybe figure out what they were discussing, but he had
no luck.

He
knew
he
should have taken that lip-reading course in high school.

A few
minutes into their conversation the man reached down over the arm of the couch
and opened his bag. He pulled out a handcomp—Solfleet-issue from the looks of
it—activated it and made some adjustments, then moved closer to the girl and
handed it to her.

Things were
getting interesting.

Several more
minutes passed as they discussed whatever it was they were discussing, passing
the handcomp back and forth between them, but Dylan didn’t learn anything. The
man eventually took back the device and turned it off, but their conversation
continued for a while longer. Twenty more minutes at least. Perhaps thirty. The
girl eventually got up and went into her bedroom, but this time Dylan held his
eyes on the stranger, hoping that he’d do something before he got up to leave that
might provide some clue as to exactly who he was.

It soon
became apparent, however, that he wasn’t planning to leave at all. He pulled
his shoes and socks off, then took off his shirt—damn, he had a hairy chest!—and
set it aside. Then he took a small hygiene kit out of his overnight bag, opened
it, and set it on the floor in front of the couch. He lay back, then quickly
rolled over and reached for the kit as though his life depended on it. He missed
it, adjusted its position, then lay back again and repeated the exercise...twice.
After his hand plunged right into the bag on the third try, he lay back and
relaxed once more, seemingly for good this time. A few seconds later the
curtains closed and the living room lights went out.

Dylan
shifted his gaze to the bedroom just as the girl came out of her bathroom,
still in her panties but carrying her robe in her hand. She draped it over the
back of her dresser chair then walked over to her bureau and pulled on a loose
white tank top. Then, as she climbed into bed, her bedroom curtains closed and
the rest her apartment lights went out.

Dylan set
his binocs aside for the last time and finally went to bed. As he shed his
clothes and climbed in under the covers, he wondered what in the galaxy the
girl could possibly be involved in that would have brought that mysterious stranger
into her home. For reasons he couldn’t quite put a finger on, he suspected the
man was with the S.I.A.

But maybe he
was just being paranoid.

He caught
a glimpse of Shin as she collapsed motionless to the dirt. Then something
burned his thigh. He glanced down at it, and just as he realized that he’d been
shot, his right shoulder exploded in a burst of searing agony so intense that
he couldn’t even scream as he stumbled backward to the ground, dragging the
girl down on top of him.

“Sergeant
Graves is down!” Marissa hollered as she bent down to pull the girl off of him.
But she lost her balance and fell as well. She struggled to her hands and
knees, only to fall face down into the dirt again.

The world
was spinning. The battle raged on.

The pain
faded to numbness. He rolled onto his stomach, retrieved his rifle, and
staggered to his feet, determined to stay in the fight. But as he plodded
forward, unable even to raise his rifle, his head suddenly snapped back and his
knees buckled. He collapsed, his legs bent up underneath him, his buttocks on
his heels and his shoulders and the back of his head on the ground. Somehow,
through sheer force of will, he managed to sit up again, and he felt his own warm
blood flowing into his left eye and down over his cheek and neck.

Everything
slowed down and the world around him began to spin out of control.

Idiot!
Standing up and walking toward the enemy like that!

The world
faded until all was darkness.

* * *

“No!” Dylan
screamed as he shot up, his eyes wide open, hands grasping the sides of his
sweat-drenched head. As usual, it took him a moment to realize that he was safe
at home. But this time, just like earlier when he’d nodded off on the couch,
his head didn’t hurt—a sure sign that he’d gotten at least a few hours of
restful sleep before the nightmares returned to torture him. He reached for his
medication anyway—he wished he could have slept through the entire night, just for
once—but all he found beneath his fingers was the surface of the nightstand.
Then he remembered he’d taken the bottle into the kitchen sometime during the
day.

He tossed his
blankets aside, climbed out of bed, and headed that way without bothering to
put anything on. As he walked through the living room he realized that he wasn’t
limping and that his leg didn’t hurt anymore. He also noticed that the curtains
were backlit where they hung across the windows and the sliding door. Had his bedroom
been as bright just now? Could it be dawn already? He hoped not. He wanted to
go back to sleep.

He walked over
to the curtains, pulled back the edge and peeked out, and felt relieved to find
that it was only the moonlight. He glanced up at the clock and saw that it was only
a little past 26:40 hours—barely twenty minutes before midnight. He still had
the whole night ahead of him. Plenty of time to get a good night’s sleep. But
the outdoors looked peaceful and inviting at that moment, so he decided to go
down into the garden for a while first, just to sit under the glowing moons in
the cool breeze and enjoy the peace and quiet.

He went back
into his bedroom, pulled on a pair of jeans and his Flyers jersey, then slipped
on his shoes and headed outside.

The air had
cooled some more since earlier in the evening but the tall plants with their
thick foliage that lined the garden’s perimeter held back most of the breeze,
so the clothes he’d put on were sufficient to keep him warm without a coat. The
larger of the moons shone full and bright at its zenith, so only the most
brilliant stars were visible. Its smaller brother, on the other hand, hung low
in the deep purple sky, barely visible between two of the neighboring buildings
and mostly obscured now by distant charcoal-gray clouds. Most of the flowers
had retreated into nocturnal dormancy, but their sweet fragrances still
perfumed the air. Faint sounds of battle echoed in the far distant foothills
and served to remind him that somewhere out there military training continued
without him.

He chose a
bench near the center of the garden where two paths intersected and sat down in
front of the spot-lit ivory stone statue that watched over it from atop its
marble pedestal. The intricately detailed statue of a tall, overly muscular
man, probably one of the myriad of Cirran gods, holding a slender young woman
in his arms—her meager clothing torn almost completely away and her legs
wrapped loosely around his hips—while he kissed her bare, ample breast and made
love to her. Which god and/or goddess the statue represented, he couldn’t say.
The Cirrans had so many of them, who could keep track? Carolyn, who’d always
been interested in art and culture, had probably researched it, but he’d never
really cared enough to ask her. One thing was certain though. It didn’t leave
anything to the imagination.

He closed
his eyes and drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with fresh, cool, cleansing,
flora-scented air that seemed to revive and relax him at the same time. He
began feeling truly refreshed, almost as if he’d finally gotten that full night’s
sleep that he’d been coveting for so long. He found the garden so soothing and
peaceful in fact, despite the sounds of the distant mock battle, that he felt
as though he could remain there forever. Or even longer.

Strange. The
nightmare that had awakened him yet again—that same nightmare that had played
itself out over and over in his sleeping mind—had been so much more vivid this
time than ever before. So much more real. Why would that happen? Why, when all
other dreams and nightmares faded away over time, would this one only grow more
coherent?

“Hi.”

Dylan leapt
to his feet and whirled around to face the voice’s owner, crouching low,
prepared to defend himself against the invisible enemy and if necessary, to
kill it. He was all Ranger now. There was no pain.

The sudden silence
that met him told him that whoever had spoken had frozen in his or her tracks, still
hidden in the shadows. But then time resumed its flow and the voice quickly
broke that silence. “I’m sorry,” it said meekly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
It was the voice of a young woman, or perhaps of a teenage girl. Might it be
her?

Dylan
straightened and partially relaxed, but remained ready to defend himself if he
had to. “That’s okay,” he replied, embarrassed at having been caught off guard
like that. No one had ever been able to do that to him. Well, not since Tamour
anyway.

The girl
appeared as little more than an indistinct shadow as she approached through the
darkness, coming up the path from the direction of the building adjacent to his
own. “Couldn’t sleep through the war games?” she asked.

Dylan still
couldn’t make out any of her facial features, but when he saw the Solfleet uniform
his hopes began to grow. Then she finally stepped out of the shadows into the
moonlight and dashed those hopes just as quickly. Her uniform was Army green
and black. Her dark hair and shorter height confirmed it wasn’t her, and then he
recognized her as the young woman who worked in the apartment complex’s
management office as Solfleet’s liaison to the local housing authority. She was
carrying her duty jacket over her arm and her long, straight black hair was flowing
freely down her back.

“Actually,”
he responded as he relaxed more completely, “I didn’t hear the war games until
I came outside.”

She stopped
beside the bench. “Mind if I sit with you, Sergeant Graves?” she asked.

Dylan
gestured toward the bench, inviting her to do so. He waited for her to sit down
first, then joined her. “You work here in the office, don’t you?” he asked her,
just to start a conversation. There was nothing he hated more when crossing paths
with someone familiar than that uneasy silence that occurred when neither he
nor the other person knew quite what to say.

“That’s
right,” she answered with a polite smile.

“That’s how
you know my name.”

She nodded. “Right
again.”

“You didn’t
just get off work, I hope.”

“No,” she
answered, grinning as if the very idea were totally ridiculous. “I stayed home
all night after work, so I didn’t bother to change.”

“I see.” Now
what? It was his turn to speak. He had to say something. She was waiting. But
what? “So what are you doing out this late at night?” he finally heard himself
ask, cringing inside at how lame a question that was even as he asked it.

“I like to go
for a walk before I go to bed,” she answered graciously. “Sometimes I go
swimming, too. What about you, Sergeant? What are you doing out this late?”

“Please,
call me Dylan.”

She smiled. “All
right, Dylan.”

He smiled
back. “I woke up and looked out the window. I guess you could say the garden
invited me out.” He looked around and added, “It’s really peaceful out here at
night.”

“Yeah, that’s
why... Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, realization filling her voice. “I didn’t mean
to disturb you.”

“No, you’re
not disturbing me,” he assured her as his eyes met hers. “In fact, I’m glad to
have the company.”

“Are you
sure?”

He smiled
again. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“All right,”
she said, returning his smile.

She wasn’t
the blonde who lived across the courtyard, but she was a very pretty girl in
her own right. Her features were warm and beautiful, and Dylan quickly became
aware that an attraction—a physical attraction, of course—already seemed to be
forming between them.

“You know,”
she was saying, “since we’re out here together, I’ve been wondering about
something and I’d like to ask you a question...if you don’t mind.”

“What kind
of question?” he asked.

“It’s about
your family.”

“My family?
You mean my wife, my parents, or my ancient ancestors?”

“Actually, I’m
not sure if it’s about your family or not,” she explained, backstepping a
little bit. “That’s actually the question. I’ve been wondering if you’re
related to Captain Richard Graves of the
Excalibur
.” Dylan gazed at her
without expression. “The ship whose crew made the first actual face-to-face
contact with the Cirrans back in sixty-eight when they tried to rescue one of
their shuttles?” she further clarified. Maybe she’d mistaken his Ranger’s
silent suspicion for a lack of understanding. “You know, the one the Veshtonn destroyed
during the cease-fire.”

He
scrutinized her features very carefully, paying particular attention to the
color of her slightly almond-shaped eyes, and it only took a moment for her to
realize what he was doing.

“They’re not
violet,” she told him. “They’re green, and I’m not wearing lenses.”

“I’m sorry,
but...”

“I know. A
Solfleet soldier can’t be too careful. Especially one who’s stationed in
this
system. But you don’t have to worry, Dylan. I’m not a Cirran traitor or a
Sulaini spy. I’m as Terran as you are. Besides, I’m in Solfleet myself, remember.”

“Anyone
could get their hands on a uniform if they really wanted to,” he pointed out.

“True, but I’m
not just some stranger who walked up to you on the street, am I?” she
countered. “You recognized me the minute I stepped into the light.”