War Machines

1

     A flag, white with a big red leaf, snapped from the pole in the breeze. I knelt at the base of the slender metal flagpole with my mother's gardening trowel in one hand and Spaceman in the other. Father had stepped on Spaceman, nearly fallen, and twisted his ankle. He'd said a bad word, yelled at me to clean up my toys, and limped away, leaving Spaceman lying, broken on the floor. Even at six years old, I understood what a broken body meant. Spaceman was dead.

     Once I'd cried myself out, I'd come out to the flagpole to give him a funeral, like we'd done when our cat went to kitty heaven, before the Bad Things came and we had to move. Even now, I knew Mother and Father were afraid of the Bad Things. We'd had to leave our nice house and move into a crowded building with a lot of other families. They were noisy. I hated it. And now my only friend was dead.

     I'd taken a box of matches, dumped the matches into the trash, and placed Spaceman inside the box. Now I reverently placed Spaceman's coffin into the hole I'd dug. "Goodbye, Spaceman," I sniffed, wiping at my tears. "You were a good friend. I'll miss you." I carefully used the trowel to replace dirt over Spaceman's grave.

     I never noticed the van that pulled up to the curb, never heard the door open. I knew nothing at all was amiss until the hand clamped over my mouth and the strong arm went around me, picking me up and carrying me, struggling and terrified, into the van.

****

     "Wake up, sleeping beauty!"

     I groaned, opened one eye, and eyed the grinning face inches from my own. "There's this amazing invention," I told the face. "It's called 'mouthwash.' You should look into it, Matthews, your breath stinks."

     Captain Jim Matthews rolled his eyes. "If my breath were minty fresh you'd just try to kiss me, J. Now get up off your back before someone mistakes you for a hooker and tries to screw you."

     "This damned outfit screws me enough, thanks." I swung my legs over the edge of my bunk and sat up, carefully removing the monitoring pads from my skin. For once, I welcomed the feel of the sticky pads, the cold metal floor of the drop ship beneath my bare feet. The unpleasant sensations were grounding. The damned dream was still strong, just starting to fade from my head. I hated it. Intellectually, I knew that, once upon a time, I'd had a name, not just a letter and a group designation. But that was a lifetime time ago. My letter and group designation had been earned and paid for with blood, sweat, and pain through years of grueling training. Only the strong survived in Terra Omega.

     Years of mental discipline quickly flushed the dream from my mind. I stood up, padding across the cool metal deck toward my locker. I yawned widely in my captain's face as I passed. Didn't actually need to, but it was always fun to bait Matthews. He didn't seem to notice, face still buried in his tablet, probably looking at mission specs.

     Through the armored walls, I could still hear the sound of the engines carrying the powerful hovercraft through the sky. My watch told me that only four hours had passed since we'd boarded and settled down to catch some sleep. That was ominous. We were way too close to human settlements. No wonder they'd requested a squad with a Terra Omega operative. "We there already?" I asked as I began to pull my equipment out of its locker.

     Matthews scoffed. "Nah, I just wanted the pleasure of your company, J, because I know you're always so pleasant in the morning. Of course we're there, asshole. We're about five miles out. Get ready to lock and load."

     "Yes, sir." I stretched the kinks out of my body as I worked on my equipment. First came my armor, all sixteen pounds of it. The dull grey Alpha armor was hardened alloy, strong, yet thin. The padding beneath it was designed to wick moisture away from our bodies, or so they said. Still left you feeling like you'd spent time in a swamp after a hard fight. Next was my com, consisting of an earpiece, microphone, and the tiny transmitter/receiver that was the actual communications unit. The thing was heavily encrypted and designed to take a beating. A padded helmet and combat face shield with a heads-up display for real-time tactical readouts were next. The whole kit was rigged for bio-monitoring so my medic could check my vitals at a glance, including my all-important rift energy readings. I had a number of weapons, most of which I kept in my personal portal. My favorite and primary weapon was one that looked, at first glance, like a massive medieval broadsword. A closer look revealed the barrel of the rifle along the back of the blade, with a trigger and magazine. The big-bladed rifle was hell on the battlefield, good for long-range or close combat. I'd heard a rumor once that it came from some kid's video game. It was probably true. I also had my pistols, some more bladed weapons, and plenty of ammo. I didn't need to check on the rest of the items in my portal. Having my own personal pocket dimension was one of the many perks of being what I was, and I always kept it in perfect order. I could reach in and pull out anything from a weapon to ammo to a med pack to a nutrition bar without even thinking about it because I knew exactly where everything was. And only I could reach it. Being Terra Omega was like having your own personal invisible storage trailer at your fingertips.