Gene Wolfe - Home Fires

Despite the noise surrounding them, Chelle’s gasp was audible.

Skip grinned. “They don’t hear much of that. Most of those new lieutenants want to stay right here, so there was that. Still another thing was that a second lieutenant my age would look silly.”

Chelle said, “You’re going up there.” It was not a question.

“I am. I’d been holding out for a captaincy, telling them I wouldn’t enlist without it. General Le Tourneur called me in. He’s the Judge Advocate General, the Armed Service’s top attorney. We must have talked for an hour or more, but main things were that he was going to make me a major, and as soon as I was actually out there I would be promoted again, jumping a grade to full colonel.”

“You were going to call me.” Chelle’s voice quavered. “You said that.”

“I was. I wanted to tell you where I was going, and why.” Skip paused again, waiting for a question; but none came. “I can’t tell you what planet they plan to send me to. That would be secret even if I knew it, and I don’t. The why…” He shrugged. “I suppose it’s obvious enough.”

“I’d like you to say it just the same.”

“All right. I want us to be about the same age. It won’t be exact, I know; but we’ll be a lot closer than we are now. My hair will be a little grayer and a little thinner. You’ll be a middle-aged woman. If you want me, I’ll be yours for the asking. If you don’t…” He shrugged. “I’ll try to find something else to live for.”

Tooley said, “What about the firm? You’ll be creating one hell of a vacancy.”

“Ibarra can run things in my absence, and do it about as well as I could.” Skip was brusque. “As for me, I’m a senior partner, and I’ll remain a senior partner. There are hardnosed statutes protecting the rights of men and women who go into the armed services. If you don’t know about them, I advise you to bone up on them.”

He turned back to Chelle. “A court will void our contract if you try hard enough. Mick can tell you all about that. You may have contracted with him or someone else by the time I’m sent home. I realize that. If you haven’t—well, you know. Now it’s goodbye until then.”

“Not before I kiss you. Get out of the way, Mick.”

Tooley slid to the end of the seat and stood, and Chelle slid as he had, rose, and embraced Skip. “I can’t make a kiss last twenty years,” she told him, “but I’m going to try.”

It was in fact a long, long kiss. When it was over, Skip turned and left the café.

Chelle followed him and stood on the sidewalk watching him—his bright blue dress uniform made him stand out—and heard not a word when her heart poured from her lips. “I didn’t want to tell you, but now you can’t hear me. And they’ll be after me, whoever it was that hired Ortiz and his gang. You wondered why they wanted you? Why they sent Achille for you, to bring you back to them? It was because they wanted me, and you should have seen what they did to me when they had me, trying so hard to drag out Jane Sims and everything she knew.”

A woman like a small, gray mouse touched Chelle’s arm. “You’re talking to yourself, darling. Did you know it? Talking out loud?”

“Bad, mad Chelle!” She nodded, smiling. “I’m psycho, that’s why the Army doesn’t want me anymore. Only I was really talking to somebody, to that major in dress blues. See him? He’s crossing the street now.”

“Yes. Yes, I do, darling. He can’t hear you.”

“That’s the good thing about it.” Chelle’s smile was still there. “If he could hear me, he’d come back and we’d be miserable all over again.”

She turned away from the mousy woman. “They think I’ve got part of Jane Sims’s brain, Skip. That’s the EU, because I think it was them, and the Os, because they sent poor Rick. Only I don’t. All I’ve really got is her left arm up to the shoulder, only I feel her in me sometimes just the same, so I’m psycho and the Army won’t take me back.”

He had vanished among hundreds of other pedestrians. She stood beside the mousy woman for a moment longer, and another moment after that, before she turned away and began to walk.

The fat man who kept pushing past me was God, and Charlie. Or was Charlie, who was God. When you’re a little kid, you think your father is God. That’s wrong, but maybe I went too far the other way. Where the hell’s Charlie now? I have to tell him I want to go on his picnic.

Most of all I want to get out of this city, get away from the dirt and cold and these gray-faced people. I’m turning into one of them, and I’d rather be dead.

Maybe you go to the dream-world when you’re dead, maybe that’s what death feels like. Tell me, Jane? Can you hear me? You’re dead, so what’s it like? Do you see the white pigeons, white pigeons falling from the sky, all speckled over with their own blood? People are so damned cruel.

I didn’t run out on Skip because he tried to make me happy, I ran out because he thought that horrible thing he did would make me happy and after that I knew I could never trust him anymore, that when he gave me something there might be dead kids behind it, might be anything behind it, any kind of murder.

I killed Mort Pununto. I know I did. They were all saying afterward that they hadn’t aimed at him, that they’d made sure they missed. I’d aimed for the middle of his chest, and what I aim at, by God I hit.

So I looked in the truck where they’d put his body, and there he was, Master Sergeant Pununto, the best damn noncom I ever saw. And he didn’t look one fuckin’ bit like he was asleep. He looked dead and he was dead, and there was my bullet hole in the middle of his chest three buttons down and no other bullet holes at all. And I knew then why they had put me on the firing squad.

Goodbye, Mort! Sometimes I see you in my dreams. I guess I always will.

You and Skip.

Is the Army a kind of death? Or is death a kind of enlistment? If it is, we all enlist, even if we don’t want to.

We’re sick of this life. Was I sick of winning the fencing tournament, sick of being the star pitcher on the softball team? No, sick of being out of college and in a world where I couldn’t do any of that, sick of living with Skip in a studio apartment. Sick of waiting for him to come home so I’d have somebody to bitch at. We weren’t going to last a year, and I knew it.

So I joined, and then he wanted to contract and I said sure, darling, you wait for me.

The Army seemed so damned glamorous then. And damn it, up there it was glamorous! We were us. That was the big thing. We were us, and we could tell an officer to fuck off if we wanted to, because what was he going to do? Lock us up where the Os couldn’t get at us? Some fucking punishment! Not that we did it a lot. Our officers were fighters, or most of them were.

So was Mort Pununto and I killed him.

He enlisted. He was sick of whatever it was he’d been living in the EU, so he signed up for a job he must have known would get him killed within a year or two. He signed up for death.

Skip’s a fighter, too. I was surprised, on the boat. Skip with a subgun, jumping the rail with the gun in one hand; we used to call them rattlesnakes, those little short-barreled subguns.

I should’ve known. How many battles in court, risking disbarment, risking everything to set some scumbag free? Then blam! He came back to our stinking studio and he’s signed on with Chet Burton. God knows I didn’t know much, but I knew who Chet Burton was, the guy the celebrities went to when it was win or die and blood on the knife in their car.

So he was higher than Johanna, so I rained on his parade. But he was always a fighter.