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The Curse (Part 2)Automatic fire lit up the truck’s underside, and Toyer dived to the ground as sparks leaped around him. The others were not quite so quick to respond; one of the sniper’s bullets bounced off Corporal Welsh’s combat vest, knocking him off his feet, another tore Private Simmons’ rifle clear from his hands. Toyer emptied his clip at the truck; air exploded from its front tyres as they were ripped open, and once the other three marines had recovered, they added their fire to the target.
“Hold it! Hold your fire!” Bellowed Toyer.
While the others trained their rifles on the truck, Toyer rose to a crouch, and dashed forward. He peered underneath, and then after a moment, rose up to his feet.
“S’alright, we got him!” he called back. Looking past the truck, he saw two more guerrillas sprinting away into the distance.
“Bastards.” He muttered, and then tugged his microphone. “Sir, we’ve got a little trouble. It looks like some of them are circling around the block just east of us; one of them snuck right up behind our position. He could’ve wiped out all four of us if you hadn’t…”
Toyer stopped, and looked up towards the marines’ refuge in the office block. Another building adjacent to, and slightly behind it meant that most of the bureau was obscured from view. He realized quite abruptly that no one from inside could possibly have seen the dump truck, let alone what was underneath it.
“Sir, are...” said Toyer quietly, “are you still in the bureau?”
The sound of gunfire continued past the wreckage in front of them, but through Toyer’s earpiece, there was nothing but silence. After a long pause, he heard Private Simmons shouting.
“Sir, they’re coming through!”
Just ahead, to the side of the bureau, two of the Landrans ran into view. To Toyer, the world seemed to become strangely dim, and quiet. The other three marines cut the guerrillas down within seconds; a third ran into sight, leaping over the bodies of his comrades, and firing wildly with a submachine gun. Toyer was standing still, almost lost in his own thoughts, when the bullets ricocheting around his legs snapped him back. An instant later, the Landran died staggering backwards as gunfire poured into him.
“Squad three!” yelled Toyer into his microphone, “Push forward, God damn it!”
Simultaneously, Toyer’s group, and the four on the opposite side of the building, ran forward into the fray. Weaving between the broken piles of debris, they attacked the guerrillas in front of the bureau from both sides; who caught in the crossfire, didn’t last long. The Landrans that were far back enough to withdraw, did so, but for the ones within firing range, there was no mercy. Within a minute, the entire north end of the square was clear.
Toyer leant against a lamppost, wheezing, and looked up at the rest of the unit through the bureau’s windows.
“Sir!” he shouted.
It was loud enough for Deist to hear without a headset.
“Report, Lieutenant.”
“Sir, Squad three is intact.”
“Fine. Return to your positions on the flanks, and hold.”
“But, sir…huh, how-”
“Just do it, Lieutenant.”
Toyer stared up at Deist through a shattered window frame. Something was happening that he didn’t understand; the hair on the back of his neck had prickled, and some small part of him was beginning to feel fear for the first time in years, but he trusted in his commander to do what was best. He gave a nod, directed his men back to the sides of the building, and disappeared from view.
OH GOD
OH GOD IT HURTS
PLEASE
PLEASE
“All right everyone.” Deist said, addressing the unit, “Stay sharp. We’ve stung them, but it won’t take them long to recover.”
Squad one and two stayed on fire cover, and squad four joined Toyer and the others down on the street to protect against any further attacks from the side. Every member of the unit that could fire a gun had taken their position, and crouched waiting, and watching.
Outside, the sun had begun to set, and the air was growing thick, and murky. Deist made his way back to the rear office; the three other wounded had been moved out to the side of the bureau, leaving Barber more room to look after Tommy. Deist walked in and found Barber kneeling on the ground wearily mopping his face with a towel.
“I need to talk to you. Something’s…” Began Deist.
Barber coughed, and then took the towel away.
“Jesus Christ.”
On first appearances, it looked as though someone had tipped a bucket of red paint over Barber’s head, but as he stooped down, Deist saw clearly that it was blood, and it was practically streaming from his eyes, nose and mouth.
“What happened?”
“It’s Tommy.” Gasped Barber, as he wiped the blood off with his hand.
OH PLEASE
I CAN’T TAKE IT
IT HURTS SO MUCH
Deist already knew. He didn’t know how, but deep within his own thoughts, something was calling out to him. Someone was calling.
“Tommy.” Whispered Deist.
Tommy was still lying on the floor of the office. He was now motionless, and silent, and his eyes were shut but flickered as though troubled by dark dreams. Deist shut the door to the office, then reached forward and clutched Barber’s arm.
“I want you to tell me,” Said Deist, his voice cracked and low, “what the hell is going on. I can hear things, in my mind. I keep thinking about, about…”
“About Tommy.”
Deist’s grip around Barber’s arm tightened.
“Tell me.”
Barber chuckled, but it was so bitter, it almost sounded as though he was sobbing. Deist let go of his arm, and stared at him.
“Commander,” he said at last, looking up, “have you ever heard of the C.G.P.?”
Deist had heard of it. He’d heard the rumours, and he’d heard the horror stories passed around the mess halls. And then after all of that, he’d read the memorandum issued by Command which confirmed every rumor and every story as being cold, hard truth. Not everyone found out about it at the same time, military communication being what it is. For Deist, it was just over five months ago that he had first heard of the Confederate Ghost Program.
I’M SORRY
I DIDN’T MEAN TO
I’M SORRY MOM
“What are you, what are you saying, that he’s, he’s a…”
“He’s a telepath.” Said Barber.
Deist sat down onto the floor, and looked vacantly at Tommy.
“He’s not part of the program, sir, but he’s grade A material, that’s for damn sure. If this were five or, or ten years ago, then I’d put this down to combat stress. Fatigue. I could write the whole thing off as some kind of trauma induced hysteria, and I’d be confident that I’d made the right diagnosis.” Barber said, shaking his head, “But this is now. And the existence of telepathy had been proven, scientifically.”
He emphasized the last word, as if to warn off any irrational or superstitious fears his Commander might have had.
“All of this,” he continued, gesturing at his own bloody face, “it’s all him. It’s some kind of telepathic fallout.”
“But it’s impossible.” Said Deist, “They screened everyone. They started screening babies; they’ve already done everyone in the military. What happened three months ago, when the unit had theirs?”
“His…ability, had been suppressed. Every trace of it; there was no way it could have been picked up.”
“How do you know that?”
Barber’s bleeding seemed to be easing up, and he dabbed his nose with a clean corner of his towel.
“Because he told me.”
Deist stared back, saying nothing.
“Commander, he’s been…communicating with me. In the same manner as I think he’s been communicating with you, and perhaps some of the others, but because I’ve been right next to him the whole time, well, the best way I can think to put it, is that I’ve heard more of the message.”
Leaning back against the office desk, Deist nodded.
“All right. Go on.”
“Sir. Tommy had no idea that he was telepathic when he signed up with the Marine Corps. He was born on one of the fringe worlds; his mother was also a telepath, and somehow, for some reason, she had the foresight to teach him to suppress his talent at an early age, push it deep down where it couldn’t be seen, not even by an encephalogram. She was relentless; she’d beat him or starve him if he showed any sign of it during his daily life. She wasn’t a bad woman, but she was desperate, terrified that anyone might find out what he was. I don’t know if the C.G.P. existed back then, but she knew that the moment his ability was identified, his life would be over.
But at some point, she died. I don’t know how it happened, but I think Tommy was maybe only five or six at the time. He grew up in a hostel, went to school, and as he matured, his memories of his mother, and of his childhood faded away. He became a bright, energetic kid, who liked to draw and tell jokes, and who had no idea of what he actually was; and eventually he set his sights on the Corps. He in fact joined up out of a need to protect others, something that developed when he was still in the hostel. There was a young girl-”
“Jayna.” Said Deist, and looked into Barber’s eyes. “I know this part. He…told me.”
Barber nodded, and looked on as Deist reached in deep, and tried to remember.
“He took care of her, like a surrogate parent, but then one night they, they found her body in a dumpster. She’d been raped, and I blamed myself. I-I should have been there.”
“Sir.”
Deist glanced up, suddenly realizing what he’d just said. Not “he blamed himself”, but “I blamed myself”. “I…”
Images suddenly flashed into his head: a girl’s face, smiling and laughing, a dog-eared cuddly toy with one of its arms ripped off, and an alley, filled with police, and flashing lights.
LEAVE
MUST LEAVE
MUST LEAVE NOW
Barber cleared his throat, and carried on.
“It was ironic that his mother tried so hard to make sure he wasn’t caught, and then under his own steam, he ran right into the lion’s jaws, so to speak; straight to the same Confederacy that she was so terrified of.”
“But if his ability was buried for all of these years, then what’s happening now? Why is he using it?”
“It was the physical trauma of being shot,” asserted Barber, “I’m sure of it. It triggered something; somehow, his own survival instinct overcame all of the restraint, all of the inhibition that his mother had programmed into him. He’s not even doing it consciously. His subconscious mind is reaching out, calling for help in a language that it’s never properly used; that’s what’s causing all of these phenomena.”
Deist stood up, and sat on the desk. Tommy’s face was drenched in sweat, his skin drained of all color.
“He screamed,” Muttered Deist, “That’s when I first heard him. You were holding him down, and he screamed.”
“Sir,” Barber said softly, “Tommy doesn’t have any lungs. He couldn’t scream even if he wanted to.”
“But…”
“Like I said. Telepathic fallout. I’m not an expert on psionics,” said Barber, dabbing a wet rag on Tommy’s forehead, “far from it. But I know that the C.G.P. is supposed to use some sort of dampening procedure to restrict telepathic abilities. That’s how they can control their…recruits. Tommy doesn’t have anything like that, not anymore. Without any control, without any restraint, he could kill us all.”
PLEASE
PLEASE SOMEBODY HELP ME
I DON’T WANT TO BE ALONE
For a short while, Deist did nothing. But then he stood up once more, a bleak expression across his face, and his right hand drifted slowly, almost unwillingly towards his sidearm.
“Well then, there’s only one thing we can do.”
Barber looked up at his commander, and smiling softly, he shook his head. “Sir, please, you know you can’t.”
“The hell I can’t. He’s endangering the rest of the unit. I won’t risk twenty-eight lives to save one. He’s, he’s…”
“What? A freak?” said Barber, “Is that what you’re going to say?”
Deist unfastened the strap to his holster, and gripped his pistol.
I PROMISE
I PROMISE I’LL DO BETTER
JUST MAKE IT STOP
“He’s…”
“Sir. It’s Tommy. For God’s sake, it’s Tommy!”
Deist’s head sank, and he slowly sagged against the desk, his eyes closed.
“Oh Jesus.”
It had been a long time indeed since Ingo Deist had shed a tear. Now, it was as though he was dying inside; the feelings of loss, bereavement, of regret, the feeling of a broken heart, tortures he had never once suffered during his own life, he now felt through Tommy’s.
“Oh Jesus. I can’t…I can’t get him out of my head.”
Barber rose to his feet, and gently put his hand on Deist’s shoulder.
“I think, somehow he’s reaching out to you more than the others. He respects you; you’re his authority figure, perhaps even his father figure.”
“Hah, a father figure.” Said Deist with a sardonic grin. “He could have picked better.”
“Sir, there’s something else,” Barber said with a growing urgency, “We have to go. We have to get out of here, I don’t care what our orders are, these are extenuating circumstances, if ever there were any. We’re not going to last until reinforcements get to us. If we stay here, we’re going to die, I can feel it.”
Outside, darkness was seeping across the skyline, and the low streaks of red and peach were retreating towards the horizon. The sounds of gunfire had stopped, even in the distance.
“Sir.”
Deist rubbed his eyes, and stared down at Tommy.
LEAVE NOW
PLEASE LEAVE NOW
PLEASE LEAVE NOW
“Yes. I think that would be wise.”
Fastening up his sidearm, Deist gazed out through the office window. “I don’t want this going out to the men, about Tommy.”
“Sir, take a good look,” said Barber.
As Deist watched his unit at their posts, he noticed three of them were wiping blood from their noses. Another was breathing hard, and clutching her stomach in pain.
“I think they already know. Even if they don’t know the whole story, they will soon.”
Deist sniffed, and nodded in acceptance..
“All right, gather your gear, put a stretcher together and get ready to move out.”
He could sense it. Barber was right; it was more than the simple feeling of dread that comes from waiting for the enemy to attack, it was a certainty, and every one of them felt it. It was time to leave. Walking briskly into the bureau, Deist squinted out into the night; the fires that were still burning threw floating ash into the inky blackness above, and away in the distance, away in the darkness, something roared.
“Listen up ladies and gentlemen. We’re pulling out, as of now. I want this done quickly, and very cleanly. Squads three and four hold your position on the flanks until the rest of us have made it out the back, then pull back to join us. Lawton, Le Good, Stocker and Frykman, I want you four to give Lieutenant Barber a hand moving the wounded. All right, squads one and two, move out!”
One by one, the marines at the windows darted from their posts, and hastened out of the bureau. Harris and Makenna, with wounded legs, were practically carried out, as was the blinded Private Sharlot, who didn’t take very kindly to being thrown over her squad mate’s shoulder. Tommy had been loaded onto a stretcher, and Barber and Le Good carried him quickly out into the heavy night air. In less than half a minute, the bureau was empty, and half a minute after that, the first two squads had gathered with the wounded in the parking area to the rear of the building. Deist was the last out, but before he could contact the other two squads, Toyer’s voice came rasping into his ear.
“Sir, we’ve got hostiles! At least forty, coming in from the south, and east! They’ve got a fucking walker with them!”
“Pull back, now Lieutenant! Squads three and four, pull back!” cried Deist.
On the other side of the office block, they heard it. Something that roared. Weapons fire split the air, heavier and louder than anything that they’d heard before. The third and fourth squads came sprinting around from the sides of the building, and Toyer waved his rifle in front of him.
“Go! Go!” he screamed.
Like a disturbed herd of animals, the 172nd broke into a sudden run; and from somewhere behind followed the unmistakable sound of a mechanized walker. A terrible cheer erupted, as a huge mob of Landrans spilled around the sides of the block, and started after them. Bullets ripped past the marines, and impacted against the rubble around their feet. One found its mark in Private Frykman’s back, and as he fell, he dragged the wounded Harris down to the ground with him. A dozen rifles and machineguns were brought to bear on their struggling bodies, and while the rest of the unit ran on into the night, the two of them died in a hail of chattering gunfire.
NO
On and on the unit pushed, but with their wounded, they were not fast enough. To their sides, a dozen shadows darted past, leaping across paths and over cars.
“They’re overtaking us!” Yelled Toyer.
“They’re going to catch us in the middle!” panted Deist, and stole a fleeting look behind him, “Where’s that damn walker?”
He quickly got his answer. Private Richmond was running at full pelt; he’d thrown away his gun, and was gripping Sharlot across his shoulder with both arms. A whistling sound arced above him, and suddenly, the road in front of him exploded; he rolled to the ground, Sharlot tumbling on top of him. Something that was twelve feet tall leered down at them, something with two legs, and gattling machineguns instead of arms. Richmond held Sharlot close, and thanked God that she couldn’t see, as the walker opened fire.
NO
Too many of the Landrans had passed them, some had fallen to the reckless, desperate shots of the marines, but not enough. From the darkness directly ahead of them, nozzle flares lit up the street as the shooting started again. As though slapped down by some giant hand, Toyer flew spinning onto his back, a chunk of his shoulder blasted away. Deist dived onto his front, and got ready to clear a path, but it was too late. They were surrounded.
NO
The Landrans didn’t stop firing. There were forty or fifty of them closing in, all armed; from behind, above the mob’s heads, the walker bounded forward, it’s legs groaning and clicking, it’s gattling arms pointed out in front, ready to roar. There was no remorse, no mercy, no such thing as a prisoner of war.
Deist gave no order to return fire, or to grab cover; every member of the unit was already doing it. Orders were of no use any more, instinct reigned once again; they would not die as men and women, but as animals, gasping, shrieking, and clawing and clinging onto life until the very end. Tommy lay unmoving on his stretcher, cast to the ground in the midst of their last stand. Deist could see his face, and thought back to the night of the bar brawl. He remembered Jayna, even though he had never met her, and thought of all the people that Tommy wanted to protect, all the people that he could have saved.
NO
NO MORE
NO MORE HIDING
“I’m sorry Tommy.” Spat Deist through gritted teeth, as a bullet pierced his elbow.
NO MORE HIDING
NO MORE HIDING
I WANT TO SHOW YOU SOMETHING
And then, silence. The fear that had been so thick, and so penetrating only a moment ago had lifted. Deist had shut his eyes tight, and upon opening them, he saw nothing at first but a white blur, as if waking from some long slumber, but soon the mist began to clear a little, and looking around, he saw his platoon. They were lying on the ground, and looked so tranquil, it almost seemed as though they were asleep. Toyer was there, to Deist’s side, and was clutching his arm, but wasn’t wounded in any way Deist could see. As he turned around, he saw all of the others in turn. He saw Barber, and Le good, and Stocker. And then he saw Tommy. Tommy was lying on his back, with his hands behind his head, and he was staring up at the sky. Deist pulled himself off the ground, and moved closer to look at him; he was smiling in that way that he always did, as though no matter what problem was coming around the corner, he was going to make it through in style. Deist reached out a hand, and through the haze, it seemed that Tommy turned to look at him, and laughed. He laughed like a boy.
As if he had just been born, Deist awoke painfully back into the real world. His unit was still around him, but now they were bleeding, and filthy, and wracked with pain; and someone was crying. It took Deist a moment to realize that it was him. Toyer was lying in the dirt, twitching as if being electrocuted. Barber lay mere feet away and was stooped over, vomiting mouthfuls of blood and struggling for breath. Every member of the platoon writhed on the ground, as though the subjects of some hideous torture. The Landrans were standing around them, agog at the unholy spectacle before them; some merely stood with hanging jaws, others fearfully traced religious symbols in the air with their hands. But others pointed, and laughed, and waved their fists in triumph, and suddenly Deist felt anger as he had never felt before in his life. It was more than anger, more than rage; it was fury. It was Tommy’s fury. Deist squirmed amidst the trash on the ground, even as his own throat filled with blood, and looked across at him. Tommy’s eyes were wide open, and suddenly he screamed.
The air grew freezing cold. Sounds and smells and vision blurred together into a horrific mesh; the noise coming from Tommy’s mouth was white; it was blood, and pain, and the scent of long dead flesh. Like a shockwave, it ripped outward, unseen, and unheard, but felt, in every bone, in every nerve, and in every cell. Somehow it passed harmlessly through the contorted bodies of his unit; it passed through their flesh, and through their minds, rushing onwards and outwards, and leaving the marines, it reached the Landrans. Deist could barely see what was happening around them; none of the marines could. But what they did see was something they would forever wish to forget. Bodies were deformed and broken, as though the playthings of some monstrous, invisible child. Guns leapt into the air, filled with sudden life, and vicious intent, firing into the guerrillas until they were empty. The air whined as metal was rent, and the colossal walker collapsed to the ground, an ugly, twisted parody of itself. Fear returned, but not for the marines. The Landrans died cursing, and wailing, they died as flesh melted, and was set alight, and warped into shapes unimaginable. For a hundred yards in every direction, they died. All of them; every Landran who had attacked Tommy’s unit perished that night. There were none left to tell the tale.
And just like that, it was over. When the 172nd awoke, perhaps an hour had passed, perhaps two, they couldn’t be sure. The nightmarish urban landscape of New Ciranna stretched around them, and they looked at it as though they were seeing it for the first time. The night air had become warm and still, but the stench of death seeped through it, surrounding them. Nothing stirred, and there was no sound to be heard at all, not the murmur of a breeze, not the rustle of litter. The gunfire had stopped, and as the marines dragged themselves to their feet, they saw the remains of their enemy; it was a level of butchery that they thought could only exist in nightmares. And yet, they were not driven to madness by it, or reduced to nauseous fits. They had already been through the worst of it, and now they looked on the carnage as men and women who knew that despite the horror of it all, it signaled the end of their ordeal. It was over.
Gradually, each of them turned their bloodied eyes inwards, towards Tommy. He was dead. They knew that he had gone, just as they all now knew that it was he who had saved them. Every memory of his was now theirs to keep, every hope and fear, now theirs to feel. They stood in the shadows then, and honored their friend; some mouthed his name, some remembered his voice and his laugh. And some wept, not for pain, or trauma or fear, but out of simple grief. They had lost their brothers and sisters that day, and the toll at last was paid. When they were done, they gathered themselves, and without a spoken word between them, they began to prepare for the day ahead.
Eleven hours later, when the Confederate reserve troops finally arrived, the sun had returned to its high perch, and was scouring the blasted metropolis once again. Walking in from the north, the reserve troops found five pyres, still burning, piled high with the bodies of the enemy. They discovered the remains of a combat walker, obliterated by an explosive force they could not fathom. When they arrived at the plaza, they found the 172nd Confederate Marine Platoon sitting in the sun, watching the southern side for any signs of activity. Their dead had been laid out in the shade, and covered with blankets. After receiving Commander Deist’s report of the situation, the Captain of the reserve forces radioed back to Shin Tor, and then promptly relieved them. The reserve troops quickly took up the marines’ former positions, and prepared to push on south; after the platoon had collected their dead and their wounded, they formed up and began their journey back north, and out of New Ciranna City.
------------------------------------------
“That was some fine work you did down there, Ingo. A pity you lost as many as you did, but you gave it back to them in spades, and that’s to be commended. The situation’s finally starting to look good for us, and there are more platoons on the way. It’s only a matter of time now till we get this thing under control, but I want you to know that you’ve helped lay the groundwork for it. In terms of a unit’s first assignment, I have to say; I’ve rarely seen a kill ratio as impressive as the 172nd’s. They’re a fine bunch of soldiers. You should be proud.”
“I am, sir.”
It had been two weeks. Upon their release from the infirmary at Shin Tor, the nineteen surviving members of the 172nd had been shuttled to the Pine Teal orbital platform, some two hundred miles above the planet’s surface. There they’d received a complete medical examination, and after a period of rest, were now awaiting the orders for their next assignment.
Admiral Sanders’ office was decorated with photographs of his military career; he’d spent his life roving from planet to planet, and now he seemed to have little left of the energy from his youth. The pictures were reminders, more than just mere souvenirs; reminders of what he had to go through to finally get that quiet, simple life he had wanted for so very long. He’d never told a living soul how much he hated being in the military, but Deist knew. The Admiral gave a sigh, and reached into his desk drawer.
“Oh, this is yours. Hope you don’t mind, but I asked the quartermaster to let me see it first; I was just curious.”
He dropped a thick, sewn patch onto the desk in front of him; Deist leaned down, and tentatively picked it up. It was circular, with an image of a single red eye against a yellow background. The number 172 was darned into the border around the edge, and framing the eye above and below, in broad black stitching, were the words:
TOMMY’S CURSE
Deist turned the patch around in his fingers, and stared solemnly at it.
“The ones for your men haven’t been done yet, so you can talk to him if you want it done differently…”
“No, it’s fine,” said Deist, “…it’s perfect.”
“Interesting choice of name for your unit. Any particular reason for it?”
Deist shook his head, and smiled slightly. “Not really, sir. If that’s all…”
Admiral Sanders rose arduously to his feet, and offered his hand.
“That’s all Ingo. Your orders should come through in the next day or so, and I’ll keep you posted about any potential transfers into your unit. Good day Commander.”
“Yes sir.”
Reflexively shaking the Admiral’s hand, Deist then slipped the patch into his tunic pocket, and walked out.
It was another busy day on yet another orbital platform. Officers chased their men from bars on the promenade, traders peddled exotic wares to passers-by, and technical crew worked on in the background. Deist stopped alongside a wide view panel for a moment, and stared out into space. Landra Minor shone up at him from below, a great dome of glowing blue and swirling grey. Away in the silent distance, cargo tugs drifted to and fro.
No one knew. They had made sure of that; every fleshy monstrosity borne of that night had been incinerated; the walker that had been bent in ways that not even an industrial press could have done, had been reduced to scrap by detonator charges. Deist had written in his report of a ferocious battle, during which his unit had repulsed wave after wave of the enemy, but no one could ever know what had really happened during those five hours in New Ciranna, nor would they.
And now, they waited. Elsewhere on the station, Barber was thinking back to a summer camp years ago that he had never visited in his life. Toyer was remembering the words to a song that he had never heard, but which made him feel safe, and tired. Private Le Good had recently discovered an aptitude for drawing that he had never possessed before. Deist could feel all of them. It was Tommy’s legacy to his buddies. He had saved them, the way he had always meant to do, and in finally doing so, he had left something with them. A gift: nothing as powerful as his own, but it would keep them safe, and it would make them remember him. It was to be their secret. Even now, as Deist stood, and people passed by, he could hear words that hadn’t been spoken; a color here, a scent there; things that didn’t make sense now, but would, in time. Soon others would join them, and eventually they too would receive the gift. As long as they were together, as long as they were a unit, then even death could not separate them; not one of them would ever be forgotten.
But now there was a task ahead. They had seen through Tommy’s eyes, and knew for the first time that there were such things as monsters. They hid in plain sight, and when they didn’t slaughter people wholesale, they killed them little by little, day by day. They wore the skins of the corrupt, of the deceitful; they dressed as guerrillas who murdered young men and women light years away from their homes and their families. They spoke with the voices of faceless men who raped and killed young girls; and they screeched in alien tongues, hiding in the shadows, and bearing claws like scythes. The 172nd had a name now, and they had a responsibility that they could not ignore.
Ingo Deist rubbed his fingers against the emblem in his pocket, and gazing out into the stars, he thought in a language that he was only just beginning to understand.
WE’LL GET THEM FOR YOU TOMMY
I SWEAR
WE’LL GET EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM
Back to Part I
Back to CounterPoint
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