John Ringo: Manxome Foe

“We’re doing our best…” Bill and the lieutenant said almost simultaneously.

“Sir,” Bill added, grinning.

“I see that you and the lieutenant will have a lot to talk about on the trip,” the admiral said, standing up. “Start your recall. I want you under weigh in no more than two days.”

“Sir, that may be impossible,” Commander Coldsmith interjected.

“Say again?” the admiral replied.

“I’m not sure we can get all the personnel through pre-mission physical that fast, sir,” the commander said uncomfortably.

“Damn,” Miller interjected. “I’d forgotten about pre-mission physical. How could anybody forget pre-mission?”

“We try not to think about it, Chief,” Blankemeier said, nodding. “But that’s a real problem.”

Pre-mission physical was extremely… extensive. Its purpose — besides determining that the person was ready for the rigors of space flight on the Blade — was to ensure that the person that Earth sent out was, in fact, the same person Earth got back . It involved not just all the normal procedures of a physical, blood and urine tests, heart checks, etc., but extensive mapping of the person’s brain and body chemistry. The point was to ensure that the person who came back was not carrying any alien parasites or stranger beings.

Alas, certain aspects of such an intense physical were physically debilitating in their own right. Notably, the chemicals used for the brain mapping were similar in composition to those used for chemotherapy. With similar results. Headache, “flulike” symptoms and, most notably, the sort of nausea usually only experienced in really bad hurricanes at sea.

“Dr. Chet will, of course, be accompanying you,” the admiral said. “You can do pre-mission physical en route. You have, after all, nearly a month before you get to the AO. Takeoff by midnight Tuesday, Captain. With whatever Marines, SF and crew you have available. That’s a hard date.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Blankemeier said.

“Dismissed.”

Eric had taken his truck for the drive to the church. While he’d taken Josh over with him, he’d asked his brother to let him drive home on his own. He just needed some time.

After church all sorts of people had wanted to shake his hand. Too many of them had asked why he’d gotten the Cross and all he could do was repeat the mantra “I’m sorry, that’s classified.”

The Piersons had been one of the groups that stopped to talk to him. Mr. Pierson had just shaken his hand and nodded. Eric remembered he had been in the military but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where or when. Mrs. Pierson had hugged him and seemed to be tearing up. He wasn’t sure why. A lot of people had been that way. It was like they all really knew what had happened but he was pretty sure it was still fully black. Was she reacting to something he was radiating? Hell, he wasn’t that pessimistic.

He’d nearly panicked when Brooke Pierson shook his hand. She just made his mouth go dry. He hadn’t been able to say anything to her. He wasn’t even sure if he’d smiled. It was upsetting. He was usually suaver than that.

But the whole experience had shaken him on a really deep level. It wasn’t being worried about the mission. If anything, he was looking forward to getting away. It was just… the changes. Things he thought were solid as the mountains were suddenly… different. And he was pretty sure that the changes were in him, not the world around him. So which version of reality was real?

He slid a chip into the truck’s player and cranked up the volume, letting the soaring strains of Within Temptation wash over him as he lowered the seat. He had been a country fan before the mission and still listened to it from time to time, especially to Toby Keith and Clint Black. But at times like this it took the lyrics of Goth and metal groups to remind him why he did what he did.

“ ’Tho this might just be the ending of the life I held so dear, I won’t run, there’s no turning back from here…” he whispered to himself, folding his hands over the stubble on his head and closing his eyes. “ If I don’t make it, someone else will, Stand My Ground.”

He sat up, though, at a tap on his window. He’d deliberately parked at the very back of the church lot. Among other things, he knew he’d probably be cranking up the volume and he didn’t want to bother anyone. But if this was another well-wisher… They could damned well deal with it.

However, the person standing outside his window was Brooke Pierson. He turned down the chip-player and slid his window down, blinking in surprise.

“I always thought you were a country guy,” Brooke said, puzzled. “What was that?”

“ ’Stand My Ground’,” he blurted. “Within Temptation. It’s a Dutch band.”

“Oh,” Brooke said, still puzzled. “Look, we’re going to Aubry’s for brunch. Your family’s going, too. I was wondering if you wanted to come.”

“I thought we were going home for dinner,” Eric said.

“Change of plans?” Brooke said. “My mom asked your mom if she wanted to come and it sort of expanded from there. Anyway, that’s where we’re going. You coming?”

“Sure,” Eric replied.

“ ’Kay,” Brooke said, waving. “See you there.”

Aubry’s was a buffet style restaurant, a tradition in Crab Apple. It served “good ole time” food, which meant heavy on the gravy and “fixin’s.” As Eric filled up his plate he had to admit he’d missed it. Lord knows he could use the calories. And it was nice to see that one thing hadn’t changed.

“You can certainly put it away,” Mrs. Pierson said as Eric sat down with his second heaping plate.

“He needs it,” Amanda Bergstresser said. “He’s as thin as a rail. Probably because he goes out running every morning. How far did you go this morning?”

“Not far,” Eric said, taking a bite of meatloaf smothered in gravy.

“He told me he went ten miles,” Josh said. “I’m still not sure I believe him.”

“Like I said,” Eric replied, looking over at his brother, “not far.”

“Do you do a lot of running in the Marines?” Brooke asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Eric replied. “In my unit we do, anyway. Most Marines don’t run as far, but everybody does morning PT.”

“What unit is that?” Mr. Pierson asked.

“Bravo Company, Force Reconnaissance,” Eric replied, automatically. Nobody outside the Barracks used the term Space Marines.

“I was in the Navy,” Mr. Pierson said. “A bubblehead. Ever been on a submarine?”

Eric froze with a forkful of green beans in mid-air, then nodded.

“Yes, sir,” he said, thinking about the cover for his unit. “I’m… well, I’m assigned to one of the new littoral boats. I actually spend a lot of time in a sub, sir.”

“Do a lot of running around Sherwood Forest?” the vet asked, grinning.

“Sir, with respect, I’m not allowed to discuss any details of my missions,” Eric replied.

“But you know where Sherwood Forest is, right?” Mr. Pierson said, smiling.

“Yes, sir,” Eric replied. “It’s where the missiles are on a normal sub, sir. But I’m not allowed to confirm or deny that there are missiles on the boat I’m on, sir.”

“Gotcha.”

“He’s so mysterious,” Mrs. Bergstresser said. “He won’t even tell us why he got his medal.”

“Don’t push, Amanda,” Steve Bergstresser said quietly. “He can’t talk about it and it’s uncomfortable when you’re in that position.”

“But we’re not even at war ,” Amanda said. “And if he got a medal that means he was in danger . As his mother I’d like to know why .”