He rotated himself until his
white line overlapped the other—both up and down, and left and
right—then hit the thruster.
“Bull’s-eye,”
he called as he shot through the marker, but the computer didn’t
agree. Apparently he had to not only reach his target but also hold
the position for a full five seconds. Deflated, Peter stopped
himself and again lined up with the dot. This time he flipped around
as soon as he started to move, ready to fire a counter-thrust when
he reached the marker.
He
was too slow on that try and used too much thrust on the next. He
pressed on, his frustration mounting, while the green dot slipped
around as if greased. Finally, he lost his temper. He swung his
fists in the air, cursing Mickelson, the marines, and the empty
space around him. But his tantrum didn’t get him any closer to his
target, so he gathered his strength and started again. All said, it
took five hours before he logged the first marker.
The
next marker came no faster; his teeth ached from clenching his jaw.
But Peter grew more adept, aiming with no more than a glance at his
compass. By the end he whizzed from point to point, nailing each of
the last three markers on his first try.
His
elation was short-lived. His low-fuel indicator blinked; his tank
was nearly empty. Mickelson expected him to use only half of his
gas, and Peter worried that he might be forced to do it all over
again. But he had nothing to fear.
The
moment he radioed in, light blasted him in the face. A white line
cut through the dark, expanded up to a full doorway, which was
suspended in empty space. Mickelson stood a foot in front of him,
amused.
“Gotcha,
huh?” he asked. “Good old active camo.” He grabbed Peter’s
air tank and hauled him aboard, where the rest of platoon was
waiting. “You’re head of the class now, Garvey,” he continued.
“These bums haven’t done a thing this whole time but get drunk
and watch you.”
Saul
stumbled forward with a beer can. “Stick this in your feeder
tube,” he said. To Saul there wasn’t a problem in the universe
that a few beers couldn’t solve.
— — —
“I
don’t understand why it has to be now,” Amber said. She was
trying to be angry, but her voice was tinged with melancholy.
“There’s
a war on,” Peter replied.
“I
know that,” she snapped.
They
hadn’t seen each other since yesterday, when Peter was enlisting.
It was morning now, and they sat on her porch steps, he in the
middle and she at the far end. Peter just found out he was leaving
tomorrow.
Amber
wouldn’t come to the door last evening, and sleepless, Peter had
looked in on her house several times through the night. Her bedroom
light was always on, her curtains drawn. In the early hours, he
chucked a stone at her window, like when they were kids. The
curtains moved—he was certain that she peeked out—but they
remained closed. Her light was still on at dawn, so Peter knocked on
the front door and persuaded her father to send her down.
It
was another half hour before she appeared. She was clean and fresh,
wearing a dress that hung no lower than a T-shirt and that was thin
to the point of translucency. No doubt she wore it to frustrate him.
I’m
doing this for us , Peter thought. So why am I the bad guy?
They
sat quietly on her porch for almost an hour. He couldn’t think
what to say and was terrified of saying the wrong thing. This was
his last day on Genesia; he wouldn’t get another chance.
“Come
with me,” he said, standing. “I want to show you something.”
“What?”
Amber asked, but Peter only motioned her to him. She stood
reluctantly and followed him down the steps.
He
turned down the sidewalk, and Amber fell in step beside him. They
walked past the small, well-tended houses of the neighborhood, then
turned in to the fields, which were deep with shadows from the low
morning sun. Twenty minutes later they reached a thin row of trees
that had been planted as a windbreak. Peter
white line overlapped the other—both up and down, and left and
right—then hit the thruster.
“Bull’s-eye,”
he called as he shot through the marker, but the computer didn’t
agree. Apparently he had to not only reach his target but also hold
the position for a full five seconds. Deflated, Peter stopped
himself and again lined up with the dot. This time he flipped around
as soon as he started to move, ready to fire a counter-thrust when
he reached the marker.
He
was too slow on that try and used too much thrust on the next. He
pressed on, his frustration mounting, while the green dot slipped
around as if greased. Finally, he lost his temper. He swung his
fists in the air, cursing Mickelson, the marines, and the empty
space around him. But his tantrum didn’t get him any closer to his
target, so he gathered his strength and started again. All said, it
took five hours before he logged the first marker.
The
next marker came no faster; his teeth ached from clenching his jaw.
But Peter grew more adept, aiming with no more than a glance at his
compass. By the end he whizzed from point to point, nailing each of
the last three markers on his first try.
His
elation was short-lived. His low-fuel indicator blinked; his tank
was nearly empty. Mickelson expected him to use only half of his
gas, and Peter worried that he might be forced to do it all over
again. But he had nothing to fear.
The
moment he radioed in, light blasted him in the face. A white line
cut through the dark, expanded up to a full doorway, which was
suspended in empty space. Mickelson stood a foot in front of him,
amused.
“Gotcha,
huh?” he asked. “Good old active camo.” He grabbed Peter’s
air tank and hauled him aboard, where the rest of platoon was
waiting. “You’re head of the class now, Garvey,” he continued.
“These bums haven’t done a thing this whole time but get drunk
and watch you.”
Saul
stumbled forward with a beer can. “Stick this in your feeder
tube,” he said. To Saul there wasn’t a problem in the universe
that a few beers couldn’t solve.
— — —
“I
don’t understand why it has to be now,” Amber said. She was
trying to be angry, but her voice was tinged with melancholy.
“There’s
a war on,” Peter replied.
“I
know that,” she snapped.
They
hadn’t seen each other since yesterday, when Peter was enlisting.
It was morning now, and they sat on her porch steps, he in the
middle and she at the far end. Peter just found out he was leaving
tomorrow.
Amber
wouldn’t come to the door last evening, and sleepless, Peter had
looked in on her house several times through the night. Her bedroom
light was always on, her curtains drawn. In the early hours, he
chucked a stone at her window, like when they were kids. The
curtains moved—he was certain that she peeked out—but they
remained closed. Her light was still on at dawn, so Peter knocked on
the front door and persuaded her father to send her down.
It
was another half hour before she appeared. She was clean and fresh,
wearing a dress that hung no lower than a T-shirt and that was thin
to the point of translucency. No doubt she wore it to frustrate him.
I’m
doing this for us , Peter thought. So why am I the bad guy?
They
sat quietly on her porch for almost an hour. He couldn’t think
what to say and was terrified of saying the wrong thing. This was
his last day on Genesia; he wouldn’t get another chance.
“Come
with me,” he said, standing. “I want to show you something.”
“What?”
Amber asked, but Peter only motioned her to him. She stood
reluctantly and followed him down the steps.
He
turned down the sidewalk, and Amber fell in step beside him. They
walked past the small, well-tended houses of the neighborhood, then
turned in to the fields, which were deep with shadows from the low
morning sun. Twenty minutes later they reached a thin row of trees
that had been planted as a windbreak. Peter
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