u," I said and kissed him on the cheek.
His smile was a more beautiful sight than any golden
ring could ever be. "I'd like to have this," I continued.
"Is that right, I mean, before I ..."
     He was too much of a gentleman to let me finish.
"I'd be honored if you keep it, Arlene, whatever you
decide. We need to get used to making our own rules
in our brave new world."
     This was unexpected talk from my big, fine Mor-
mon. "Does your God approve of that kind of think-
ing?" I asked him.
     He took my challenge in stride. "If those of my
faith are right, Arlene, he's everybody's God, isn't
he?" Then he returned my chaste kiss and left me to
my own devices.
     The next morning, at the briefing for everyone with
a Level 5 clearance or higher, I proudly wore the thin
band of gold on the chain with my dog tags. Fly
noticed it right away. I'll bet he was as glad as I was to
be back in uniform.
     Admiral Kimmel wore the face any CO puts on
when the situation is grave. So did the highest-ranking
officer the Marine Corps had in Hawaii, Colonel Dan
Hooker. When these men were officiating together,
the situation was plenty serious.
     "We are investigating the possibility of sabotage,"
said the admiral. "Fortunately, quick thinking on the
part of men and women who weren't asleep at the
switch kept our losses low and neutralized the zombie
threat. The navy is grateful for the help we received
from marine personnel."
     The two officers shook hands. The way these men
regarded each other, they put more into that hand-
shake than plenty of salutes I've seen in my day. It was
nice having officers who paid attention to details. The
same could be said of the man Admiral Kimmel
introduced next.
     Professor Warren Williams was in charge of all the
scientific work being done in Hawaii. It was difficult
to pinpoint his area of greatest expertise. He had
degrees in physics, astronomy, biology, computer
science, and folklore. His motto was taken from the
science fiction writer, Robert A. Heinlein: "Speciali-
zation is for insects."
     He had a sense of humor, too, which he now
demonstrated. "In his copious spare time, the admir-
al explains military terminology to me. I thought
'mission creep' is what we had yesterday when those
creeps got loose in Ackerman's lab." He earned only a
few nervous chuckles for that quip. The memory of
the dead was still too fresh.
     He changed the subject: "In normal times my
position would be held only by someone with a
certain degree of military training. A year ago I would
have described myself as a militant civilian." This
won him a few more chuckles. "Not since World War
II have so many ill-prepared eggheads been thrown
into the military omelet. But when there's no choice,
there's no choice. I may have taken my first step
toward this job when I first learned about the top
secret of the Martian moons. I was suspicious of the
Gates the moment I realized that anything might
come through them."
     He looked a little like Robert Oppenheimer. I could
imagine him working on the A-bomb. "The admiral
and I agree on how you can tell when you are in
perilous times. That's when people go out of their way
to listen to the advice of engineers." Only one person
laughed at this. Me.
     He covered other material about the operations of
the base, but his eyes kept coming to me. I didn't
think he was going to ask for a date. Fly and I had
proved ourselves too often, too well. I figured we were
first choice for the director's punch line; and we'd
better not have a glass jaw.
     He proved me right when the general briefing was
over and he asked to see the Big Four, as we some-
times jokingly called ourselves. I'm sure there were
adults at the base who resented a kid like Jill being
entrusted with material that was off-limits to them.
But if so, they kept it to themselves.
     Jill's growing up fast. There's nothing wrong with
that. I know it bugs Fly when men old enough to be
her father start giving her the eye. She's tall for her
age. She has one of those pouty mouths that drive
men nuts. I don't worry about who kisses that mouth
so long as the brain directly over it is in charge. In
between spilling demon guts all over the great Ameri-
can West, I took Jill aside and gave her the crash
course in birds, bees, and babies.
     Of course, she doesn't have to worry about any
sexually transmitted diseases. Medical science
marches on. But who would have thought that no
sooner does the human race eliminate AIDS than
along come monsters from space? In the words of the
late-twentieth-century comic, Gilda Radner, "It's al-
ways something."
     Anyway, Fly acts more and more like a worried
father where Jill is concerned. This can be a good
thing. It gave him that extra bit of fire when he saved
her in Ackerman's lab. But I don't know how to tell
him to let go when I can't solve my own personal
problems--Albert as a prospective husband.
     Albert is a sensitive man, a shy man. I don't want to
hurt him. I'd rather eat one of my own mini-rockets
than make him suffer. But I've spent my life being
true to myself. Now I don't know if it's concern for
Albert that makes me hesitate to accept his marriage
proposal ... or if I fear commitment to a man I love
more than I do a roomful of lost souls, the dumb
name the science boys have given the flying skulls. If I
survive our final missions, and Earth is secure once
more, will I be willing to give this man children? I
don't even want to think about it. Yet I know that that
expectation is implicit in his proposal. To Albert,
marriage without trying to have children only counts
as serious dating. Maybe I'm afraid of asking Fly to be
godfather to my kids.
     As the director led us into his inner sanctum, I felt
once again that the four of us had already formed a
strange family unit of our own. Maybe we were the
model of the smallest functional social unit of the
future--but make sure the kid has a good aim!
As I gazed at the gigantic radio-controlled tele-
scope, the long tube reminded me of a cannon, a
perfect symbol for combining the scientific and the
military. Williams stood in front of it, feet braced,
hands behind his back. He seemed more military at
that moment than the admiral and the colonel, who
stood over to the side, as if deferring to the scientist.
Before the director even opened his mouth I had
the sinking feeling that all our personal problems were
about to be put on the back burner. Again.



     10

     "Corporal Taggart," the director addressed
me. "How did you like your time in space?"
     I'm always honest when no life is at stake. "I always
wanted to go, sir. If you know my record, you're
aware I didn't get up there in the way I intended."
"If ever a court-martial was a miscarriage of jus-
tice, yours would've been," volunteered Colonel
Hooker, looking directly at me. "One good thing
about wartime is that it makes it easy to cut through
the red tape. I enjoyed pencil-whipping that problem
for you, marine!"
     "Thank you, sir."
The director returned us to the subject. "I bring up
the matter of fighting in space for a reason. We intend
to take the battle back to the Freds. We know that you
and PFC Sanders"--he nodded in Arlene's
     direction--"have a unique capacity in this regard."
I knew that vacation time was over. I also wondered
who the hell the Freds were.
     Williams let us have it right between the ears.
"Over a year ago, before I joined the team, this
installation received a coherent signal from space. No
other radio telescope picked it up. At first the men
who received it thought it was mechanical failure or
someone playing a joke on them. It could have come
from a small radio a couple of klicks away, but it
didn't."
     He took a moment to check the notes on his
clipboard. We all listened in rapt attention. I was
ready to learn something new about the enemy,
anything to speed up their final defeat.
     "They analyzed the signal," he continued, "and
established that it was a narrow-beam microwave
transmission. There were variations and holes in the
message. We did a sophisticated computer analysis
using the Dornburg system, the best satellite-and-
astronomy program ever developed. We were receiv-
ing a complex billiard-shot message that had been
successively bounced off seven bodies in our solar
system on its way to Earth. When we connected the
various holes and occlusions, the result was an arrow
leading straight out of the solar system, a line that
could not have been faked. The message had to have
originated outside the orbit of Pluto-Charon."
The director smiled. "Sorry if that was a bit techni-
cal, but it reminds me of what Robert Anton Wilson
said: that if we find planets beyond Pluto, they should
be named Mickey and Goofy. Charon is so small it's
really only a moon of Pluto."
     The admiral cleared his throat and stepped into the
act: "There was an unexpected snag in the, er, han-
dling of the data. The previous director decided not to
tell the government about the message. The members
of his team were divided in their sympathies as well."
Williams picked up the thread. "They were afraid
the military-industrial complex would turn the whole
thing into a big national security problem."
Arlene was standing right next to me and whispered
in my ear: "That sounds almost as bad as the Holly-
wood industrial complex."
     "Hush," I hushed her.
The director continued. "The scientists spent
months decoding the signal, but they made slow
progress. Then they ran into a little interruption: the
invasion came."
     "Duh!" said Jill in my other ear, so I hushed her,
too.
     Williams didn't hear their sarcastic remarks, and
the brass seemed to have been struck with temporary
deafness, which was fine with me. I hoped there
would be Q&A. I wanted to ask about the Freds.
Williams wasn't deaf, though. He reminded me of
the nuns when they caught us whispering during a
lesson. He frowned in our direction and became very
serious. "In the wake of the invasion, my predecessor
committed suicide. He blamed himself for not having
passed the information on to Washington. In his
defense, we might remember how certain agencies of
the government turned traitor and collaborated with
the Freds. Imagine selling out your own species to
things you've never seen, about which you know less
than nothing."
     So that was it. The Freds were what they called the
alien overlords behind our demonic playmates. I
wondered how that name got started.
     "I will never forget the traitors," Albert spoke from
depths of a personal suffering I hope never to experi-
ence. The director didn't mind this interruption. He
smiled and thanked Albert for his contribution.
That was all the invitation Arlene needed to get
into the act. "Did we ever break the code?" she asked.
"That happened after Director Williams took
     over," the admiral volunteered.
"Many members of the original team are still here,"
the director quickly added. "They weren't held re-
sponsible for my predecessor's decision."
     "We no longer enjoy the luxury of wasting our best
brains," Kimmel added.
     "We broke the code," said the director, returning to
essentials. "The message was not what we expected.
The alien message was a warning."
     "A warning?" Arlene echoed him. "You mean a
threat, an ultimatum?"
     "No," Williams continued softly. "The aliens who
sent the message were attempting to warn us about
the impending invasion. You understand, don't you?
There are friendly aliens out there, enemies of the
Freds who warned us about these monsters who've
invaded Earth. There's more."
     I could tell that he was enjoying this, but I couldn't
criticize him for his scientific joy. Part of his pleasure
came from the discovery of an attempt to help the
human race in its hour of need. But if he didn't get to
the point real soon, I was prepared to change my
evaluation of his character . . . sooner.
     He continued: "These friendly aliens seem to be
saying they are the ones who built the Gates on
Phobos; but we're not certain of that. We are certain
that they are inviting us to use these Gates to teleport
to their base. We have the access codes. We even have
the phone number. I mean to say they've sent us the
teleportation coordinates. So the next step is obvious.
We think it would be a good idea if certain experi-
enced space marines delivered a return message--in
person."
     At first I was afraid they'd leave me behind. I'm a
marine, but I've never been off-planet before. Of
course, that shouldn't keep them from using me. No
one else in the solar system has the experience of Fly
and Arlene. They need two more people on the
mission. I might as well be one of them.
     Arlene and I have agreed not to mention my
marriage proposal to the brass. We don't intend to
keep it a secret from Fly or Jill, though. There'd really
be no point to that. But I feel there was little point to
my proposal in the first place. I'm honored that she is
wearing my ring with her dog tags. I just hope it
doesn't end up hanging from her toe along with the
tag that goes there when a marine dies . . . and there's
enough of a body left for identification.
     I never dreamed I'd go into space. Now they're
talking about our leaving the solar system. I don't
know what to think. The brass, in their usual sensitive
way, told me there's nothing to hold me on Earth
except the law of gravity.
     Right after Director Williams dropped his bomb-
shell about the friendly aliens--and I'll believe it
when I see them--the brass told Jill and me they had
something important and personal to discuss with us.
Fly and Arlene were still reeling from the bombshell,
and the colonel wanted to see them privately.
So the director turned us over to a woman aptly
named Griffin, who took us to a little room where she
proceeded to give us a pop quiz. "Do you understand
seismographic readings?" she asked.
     "They show earthquakes," Jill piped up. "Do you
understand decimal points?" she threw back at the
woman in her most sarcastic voice.
     The woman named Griffin had a stone face worthy
of a Gorgon. She turned on a computer screen and
started bringing up charts and numbers. "I won't bore
you with the numbers," she said wearily. "Seismo-
graphic labs in Nevada and New Mexico detected five
jolts that could only have been the result of a nuclear
bombardment. The probable ground zero is Salt Lake
City."
     Jill and I looked at each other and saw our emotions
reflected in each other's faces. Jill tried so hard not to
cry that I couldn't stand it. I cried first, for both of us.
I thought about all those old comrades--Jerry,
Nate, even the president of the Council of Twelve.
They couldn't all be gone! I remembered two sisters
who seemed to have been touched by the hand of
God: Brinke and Linnea. I had helped them with their
study of the Book of Mormon. They couldn't be gone,
could they?
     I hadn't admitted it to myself but until now an
ultimate vindication of my faith was my certainty
that Salt Lake City had been spared. That seemed to
be incontrovertible evidence of the hand of God at
work. We were, after all, the Church of the Latter-Day
Saints. The whole point was our belief that the time of
God's direct intervention was not over. His hand
must still touch the world, else how could we be
preserved after such a holocaust?
     The Book of Mormon was still only a book, like the
Bible or the Koran or the Talmud. Surviving in a
world of real demons provided a sense of the super-
natural that could barely be approached by every
word of the First and Second Books of Nephi, Jacob,
Enos, Jarom, Omni, the Words of Mormon, Book of
Mosiah, Alma, Helaman, Third and Fourth Nephi,
Book of Mormon, Esther, and Moroni. The scientific
explanations carried only so much weight with me.
That we could witness today's events made every holy
text in the history of the human race seem more
relevant to modern man.
     If the Tabernacle had just been nuked, however, I
needed to seriously rethink the prophecies.
     Arlene looked fit and trim and beautifully deadly as
we went to Colonel Hooker's office. This was no time
for ladies first. I outranked her. I enjoyed outranking
a woman who was fit and trim and beautifully deadly.
The door was already open, and the colonel was
sitting behind his desk when I reached his threshold.
It had been a long time since I'd pounded the pines. I
stood in the doorway, raised my hand, and rapped on
the doorframe three times, good and hard.
     Colonel Hooker looked up with a grim expression.
God only knew how many of us were left in the world.
The best thing about being a marine is the pride,
which gets back to the question of how a rabid
individualist chooses to serve. When you're a marine,
you choose; and men you respect must choose you,
and respect is a two-way street paved with honor. Pity
the poor monsters who got in our way.
     "As you were," declared Hooker.
"Thank you, sir!" Arlene and I responded in
     unison.
We went into his office, and he offered us each one
of his Afuente Gran Reserva cigars. They were big
suckers. Too bad neither Arlene nor I smoked. He lit
up and ordered us to become comfortable.
     "I want to be certain you both understand the full
implications," he said. "This is a four-man mission.
The director has already pointed out your unique
qualifications. We might as well be frank about it.
This is not a mission from which anyone is expected
to return."
     I glanced over at Arlene without being too obvious
about it. Her face was an impassive mask. She looks
that way only when she is exerting superhuman
control. It didn't take a telepath to read her thoughts:
Albert, Albert, Albert.
     The colonel must have had a telepathic streak
himself. The next word out of his mouth was "Al-
bert." Arlene's mask cracked to the extent that her
eyes grew very wide. "Albert is my third choice for
this mission," Hooker went on. "I've chosen him
because of his record before the invasion and also
because he's a veteran of fighting these damned
monsters. Frankly, I don't think there are three other
human beings alive who have had experiences to
match yours."
     "Probably not, sir," I agreed.
"If I were superstitious," he went on, "I'd say you
lead charmed lives. We've come up with a mission to
test that hypothesis. It will take a bit of doing, but you
will have a ship and a navy crew to fly it."
"You said the marine operation is a four-man
mission," Arlene reminded our CO. I loved the fact
that she didn't say "four-person"--she never worries
about that kind of junk.
     "You'll be joined by another marine, a combat
veteran," Hooker told us. I was glad to hear that.
"Only marines go on this one. But we couldn't find
anyone else with your particular background. Before
you get acquainted with the new man, I have a present
for you."
     He reached into a desk drawer and took out two
white envelopes with our names on them. My turn to
be telepathic. The little voice in the back of my head
hadn't worried about this kind of stuff for a long time.
We'd been kind of busy staying alive and saving the
universe.
     But as I opened that envelope and saw the three
chevrons of a sergeant, I felt a kind of quiet pride I'd
almost forgotten. Those thin yellow stripes carried
more meaning than I could have crammed into a
dictionary. Arlene held her promotion out for me to
see, trophies of war. A PFC no more, she had a stripe
now: she was a lance corporal. Both the promotions
carried the crossed swords design of the space ma-
rines.
     Man, I felt great.



     11

     I didn't feel so great when I met the fourth
member of our team. He was an officer! After all the
big buildup about our unique status as space marines,
they go and saddle us with a freakin' officer whose
experience couldn't compare to ours, by their own
admission. After mentally reviewing every joke I'd
ever heard about military intelligence, I cooled off.
Some wise old combat vet once said not all officers are
pukeheads. Funny, I can't remember the wise old
vet's name.
     Captain Esteban Hidalgo did bring some assets to
the mission. He was a good marine, with high honors
from the New Mexico war. That was on the good side.
Plenty of combat experience, but mainly against
humans.
     On the debit side, there was everything else. In five
minutes I had him down in my book as a real
     martinet butthead. Admittedly, five minutes does not
pass muster as a scientific sampling, but Hidalgo
didn't help matters by the way he started off.
"One thing you both need to know about me up
front," he barked out. "I don't fraternize. I insist
upon military discipline and grooming. I demand that
uniforms be kept polished and in good repair."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It was as if the
past year had just evaporated. Never mind that the
human race was facing the possibility of extinction.
We had rules to follow. Throughout history there have
been examples of this crap. If an outnumbered army
starts to have success, it is essential that the high
command assigns a by-the-book officer to remind the
blooded combat veterans that victory is only a secon-
dary goal. Respect for the command structure is
what's sacred.
     I could feel Hooker's eyes on me, watching every
muscle quiver. Maybe the whole thing was a test.
Fighting hell-princes was a walk in the park, obvi-
ously. Defeating the ultimate enemy could go to a
fellow's head and make him forget the important
things in life, like keeping his shoes spit-polished. I
could just imagine us in the kind of nonstop jeopardy
Arlene and I had barely lived through on Phobos and
Deimos while Captain Hidalgo worried about the
buttons on our uniforms.
     "I've studied your combat records," he said. "Ex-
emplary. Both of you. A word for you, Sergeant
Taggart. On Phobos and Deimos, you almost made up
for your insubordination in Kefiristan."
     Why was Hooker doing this? I wanted to rip off
Hidalgo's neat Errol Flynn mustache and shove it
down his throat. But I took a page from Arlene's book
and arranged my face into an impassive mask equal to
anything in a museum. Hooker scrutinized me
     throughout this ordeal. So did Arlene.
Finally hell in Hawaii ended, and we were dis-
missed. We had a lot to do before the final briefing.
We had to go rustle up Albert and Jill. Turned out she
could be part of the first phase of our new mission, if
she wanted to be. She was a civilian and a kid, though,
so no one was going to order her. And I was certain we
would all want to say our good-byes to Ken. Mulligan,
too.
     I insisted that Arlene and I take the long way
around to finding our buds. It may only be residual
paranoia from my school days, but I felt better about
discussing the teacher outdoors. They don't bug the
palm trees this side of James Bond movies.
     "So how do you feel about our promotions?" Ar-
lene asked.
     "Every silver lining has a cloud," I replied.
"I could feel how tense you were in there about our
new boss."
     "You weren't exactly mellow about Albert."
"Mixed feelings, Fly. I'm weighing never seeing
him again against his joining us on another suicide
mission."
     "If Hidalgo has anything to say about it--"
"Let's talk, Fly. I know you as well as I know
myself, and I think you're overreacting. Just because
the man is a stickler for the rules doesn't make him
another Lieutenant Weems. Remember, Weems broke
the rules when he ordered his men to open fire on the
monks."
     She had a point there. Arlene had been on my side
from the start of the endlessly postponed court-
martial of Corporal Flynn Taggart.
     My turn: "There's nothing we can do if this officer
is a butthead." I'd never liked officers, but I followed
orders. It annoyed me a little that Arlene got along so
well with officers.
     "I'll tell you exactly what we're going to do," she
said, and I could tell she'd given the problem consid-
erable thought. "You are too concerned over the
details, Fly. I don't care if Hidalgo wants my uniform
crisp so long as it's possible to accommodate such a
request without endangering the mission. All I care
about is that the captain knows what he's doing."
"Fair enough, but I'll need a lot of convincing."
Arlene chuckled softly. "You know, Fly, there are
some people who would think we're bad marines.
Some people only approve of the regulation types."
"We saw how well those types did on Phobos."
"Exactly."
     "Now we're going back. So stop holding out on me.
You were gonna say something about Captain Hi-
dalgo."
     She frowned. "Simple. While he's deciding if we
measure up to his standards, we'll be deciding if he
measures up to ours. This is the most serious war in
the history of the human race. The survival of the
species is at stake. My first oath of allegiance is to
homo sapiens. That comes before loyalty to the corps.
We can't afford to make any mistakes. We won't."
I got her general drift, but I couldn't believe what I
was hearing. "What if Hidalgo doesn't measure up to
our standards?"
     We'd been walking slowly around the perimeter of
the building. She stopped and eyeballed me. "First we
must reach the Gates on Phobos. We weren't the
greatest space pilots when we brought that shoebox
from Deimos to Earth. You may be the finest jet pilot
breathing, but we can learn a few things about being
space cadets. We're just extra baggage until we're back
on our own turf. That's when we'll really become
acquainted with Captain Hidalgo."
     "God, who would've thought there'd come a day
when we'd think of that hell moon as our turf!"
She gave me her patented raised-eyebrow look.
"Fly, we're the only veterans of the Phobos-Deimos
War. And the only experts."
     She was keeping something from me. I wasn't going
to let this conversation terminate until she fessed up.
"Agreed. So what do we do about Hidalgo if he
doesn't measure up?"
     "Simple," she said. "We'll space his ass right out
the airlock."
     "You don't have to go to Phobos, Jill."
I appreciated Ken telling me that. "I want to go.
Arlene and Fly wouldn't know what to do without
me. Besides, they couldn't have saved me without
you."
     "That's true," said Fly.
Ken was sitting up in bed. He'd wanted to see us off
from his wheelchair, but he'd been working hard and
had tired himself. His face was a healthy coffee color
again. When he was first unwrapped, his skin had
been pale and sickly. They unwrapped him in stages
so for a while he had stripes like a zebra as his color
returned. Now he looked like himself again, except for
the knobs and wire things that they hadn't taken out
of his head yet.
     "I'm grateful to all of you," he said. "Especially
you, Jill," he added, taking my hand. "But you're so
young. You've been in so much danger already. Why
not stay here where it's safe?"
     "Safe?" echoed Albert.
"I should say safer," said Ken.
     Arlene brought up a subject that Albert and I had
avoided: "Before we left Salt Lake City, there were
people who thought it would be better for Jill to stay
there."
     Ken coughed. He sounded really bad. I brought him
a glass of water. "I feel so helpless," he said. "You
only need Jill's computer assistance on the first leg of
the mission. If only there were some way I could help
by long-distance."
     "You've put your finger on the problem," Fly told
him. "We can't anticipate everything we're going to
need. Too bad Jill is the best troubleshooter for this
job."
     "Just like before," I reminded everyone. "You
should take me to space with you, too."
     "That's not part of the deal," said Arlene, sounding
like a mother.
     "We should be grateful for this time together,"
Albert pointed out. He was right. The only people
with Ken were Fly, Arlene, Albert, and me. The
mission would start tomorrow morning.
     "If only they had launch capability in the islands
here," Ken complained. "They should have been
better prepared."
     "We're fortunate they have as much as they do,"
argued Arlene. "There's everything here except the
kitchen sink."
     "The kitchen sink is what we need, and it's at Point
Mugu," said Fly. "Thanks to Ken, we have a launch
window."
     "I never thought I'd do windows," Ken rasped
between fits of coughing. "I always say that when you
take off for a body in space it's a good idea for your
destination to be there when you arrive! It's also nice
to have a crew to fly the ship. The primary plan to
return Fly and Arlene to Phobos has all the elegance
of a Rube Goldberg contraption."
     "I don't even feel homesick," said Arlene. Every-
one laughed.
     Ken had paid us back big time for saving him from
the spider-mind. He was smarter than I was about lots
of things. I also realized he cared about me; but I
don't think he realized how much I wanted to go with
the others.
     "There's a fallback plan?" Albert asked.
Ken smiled. "The less said about that the better, at
least by me. Before you depart, I want to talk to Jill
some more. I have some suggestions for her return
trip."
     "I want to go to Phobos," I said.
Every time I said that, Arlene repeated the same
word: "No."
     Fly sounded like a father when he said, "Believe
me, if there were any other way, I'd never dream of
taking Jill back into danger . . . well, greater danger,
anyhow. We do need her for this."
     "We're all needed," said Ken in a sad voice. "We'll
all be needed for the rest of our lives, however short
they may be." He looked at me again. "But I agree
with you about one thing."
     "What?"
"It's important to fight to the end. Sometimes I
forget that."
     "After what you've been through--" Arlene began,
but he wouldn't let her finish.
     "No excuses," he said. "I've been too ready to give
up. But then I think about the terrible things these
monsters have done to us, and it makes me angry. We
will fight. So long as there are Jills, the human race
has a chance."
     I saw a tear in his eye. I was going to say something,
but I suddenly couldn't remember what. Instead I
went over to Ken and hugged him. He held me and
kissed me on the forehead.
     "You know, as long as we're all together again,
there's a question I've been meaning to ask," Fly
threw out.
     "Shoot," said Albert.
"Bad choice of words around marines," said Ken.
"Civilians," said Arlene. She made it sound like a
bad word.
     Fly asked his question: "I keep meaning to ask one
of the old hands around here: why are the master-
minds behind the monsters called Freds?"
     "I know, I know," I piped up. "I heard that
sergeant gun guy talking about it."
     "Master gun, hon," Arlene corrected. When she
didn't sound like a mom she sure came off like a
teacher.
     I finished up: "Anyway, that man said a marine
named Armogida started calling them Freds after he
took a date to a horror movie."
     "I wonder what movie it was," wondered Arlene.
"Well, maybe we should start calling our heroic
young people Jills," Ken brought the subject back to
me. "I can't change anyone's mind, so let me say I
hope your mission goes well."
     As I said, I appreciated Ken worrying about me. He
just didn't understand how important it was to me
that I go along. Fly promised I'd get to ride a
surfboard.



     12

     The last thing I needed was a brand-new
monster, fresh off the assembly line. For this, Fly,
Albert, Jill, Captain Hidalgo, and I had traveled all
the way to the mainland? For this, we'd taken a
voyage in a cramped submarine meant for half the
number of personnel aboard? (Of course, the sub
seemed like spacious accommodations after the shut-
tle we'd built on Deimos.) I mean, I was all set to
encounter new cosmic horrors when we returned to
the great black yonder. Arlene, astrogator and
monster-slayer--I'm available for the job at reason-
able rates! But none of us were prepared for what
awaited us in the shallows off good old California.
The military airfield at Point Mugu is about five
miles south of Oxnard. When we passed the Channel
Islands, Captain Ellison told us we'd be offshore--as
close to land as the sub dared--in about thirty
minutes. Of course he used naval time. After spending
years in uniform, I'm surprised I prefer thinking in
civilian terms for time, distances, and holidays.
The trip had been uneventful, except for Jill has-
sling me about what a great asset she would be to the
mission if we took her to Phobos. I finally got tired of
her and suggested she bug Captain Hidalgo. After all,
he was in charge. Too much of Jill and I thought our
marine officer might be willing to space himself.
Hidalgo handled Jill very well. He simply told her
that her part of the mission would be finished at the
base. He also reminded her that Ken had gone to a lot
of trouble to work out a plan for her return trip, and
she didn't want to let him down, did she? Then he
wouldn't listen to her anymore. In some respects
Hidalgo was more qualified to be a father than Fly
was. But that didn't prove that he had what it took to
save the universe from galactic meanies. That was sort
of a specialized field.
     I'd never been aboard a submarine before. I dis-
liked the odor. In working hard to eliminate the
men's-locker-room aroma, they had come up with
something a lot worse, something indescribable--at
least by me.
     The captain of the sub was a good officer. Ellison
was plenty tough and well qualified for the job. He
was almost apologetic when he explained how we
were expected to go ashore.
     "You're kidding," said Albert.
"Surfboards," repeated Captain Ellison. "We have
four long boards for the adults and a boogie board for
the . . ." He saw Jill glaring at him and choked off the
word he was about to say. "The smaller board is for
Jill. It was especially designed for her body size."
"Neat," said Jill, mollified. "It's just like Fly prom-
ised."
     "Why are we going in by surfboard?" I heard myself
ask.
     Fly shrugged. He'd found out about it before Jill or
I had. That didn't mean he approved.
     Hidalgo had a ready answer. "So the enemy won't
find a raft or other evidence of a commando raid."
I should have kept my mouth shut. I was the one
telling Fly to hold off on passing judgment. But I
didn't seem able to keep certain words from coming
out: "You think these demons can make fine distinc-
tions like that, the same as a human enemy in a
human war?"
     Captain Hidalgo believed in dealing with insubor-
dination right away. "First, this is a decision from
above, Lance Corporal. We will follow orders. Sec-
ond, there are human traitors, in case you don't
remember. They might be able to make these distinc-
tions. Third, we will not take any unnecessary
chances. Fourth, I refer you to my first point. Got it?"
"Yes, sir." I said it with sincerity. He did have a
point, or two.
     When Jill got me alone--not an easy thing to do on
a sub--she said, "Hooray. We get to surf!"
     "Have you ever ridden a board?" I asked.
"Well, no," she admitted, "but I've been to the
beach plenty of times and seen how it's done."
Oh, great, I thought.
     "Have you?" she asked.
"As a matter of fact, I have. We've just left the ideal
place to learn. Hawaii. They have real waves there.
You can get a large enough wave to shoot the curl."
"Huh?"
     This was looking less and less promising. I ex-
plained: "The really large waves create a semi-tunnel
that you can sort of skim through. You've seen it in
movies."
     "Oh, sure. But we won't have waves that large off
L.A., will we?"
     She was a smart kid. "No, we shouldn't. We'll be
dropped near a beach north of L.A. This time of the
year, with no storms, the waves should be gentle."
Jill wasn't through with me. "How hard can it be to
hang on to our boards and just let the waves take us
in?"
     She had me there. It wasn't as if we needed to show
perfect form and win prizes. We simply had to make it
to the beach. The equipment and provisions were in
watertight compartments. They'd float better than we
would. Each of us would be responsible for specific
items, and they'd be attached to us. All in all, getting
to shore should be a relatively simple matter.
Only trouble was that none of us had counted on
the appearance of a brand-new monster.
     Actually, there had been intimations of this new
critter on the last day Fly and I had spent on the beach
at Oahu. When the admiral noticed the lone cloud
drifting in, there was no reason to doubt that we were
looking at a cloud. Later, when Fly and I noticed the
black triangle cutting through the water, we naturally
assumed it was a shark. We didn't pay any attention to
the sky. If we had, we would have noticed that the
cloud had disappeared. We might have wondered
about that.
     When the sub surfaced as close to shore as Ellison
was willing to go, the Big Four gathered for our last
adventure. It was a strange feeling that Jill was not
going all the way. Hidalgo would replace her when we
reached the spacecraft.
     I didn't want Jill to accompany us on a journey that
might be a suicide mission. On the other hand, I
didn't like the idea of leaving her behind in California
doom. Hidalgo had assured Big Daddy Fly and me
that the plan for Jill's return to Hawaii was foolproof.
Ken would never have said that, though the plan was
his. Guarantees like that are offered by fools.
The plan, however, hadn't taken into account the
fluffy white cloud descending toward the water as we
paddled around on our fiberglass boards. We were
outfitted in our wet suits, floundering around in the
calm area, waiting for some wave action. Fly was first
to notice the cloud coming right down to the surface
and then sort of seeping into the water. Not vanish-
ing. Not evaporating. "Seeping" was the only way to
describe the cloud as its color changed to a vague
green and it sort of flowed into the water.
     "What the hell was that?" asked Fly.
"It's right in front of us," observed Hidalgo.
"That's unnatural," shouted the sub's captain from
the conning tower. He was too decent a man to
submerge again until he knew we were all right.
"Maybe it's weird weather," suggested Jill quite
reasonably.
     I could believe that. So much radiation and crap
had been bombarding Mother Earth that she might
have some surprises of her own. But after fighting the
alien denizens of hell, I was suspicious of anything
unusual. When I saw a shark fin appear right where
the cloud had joined with the ocean, I became a lot
more suspicious.
     By then Hidalgo and Albert had caught the first
wave. They were on their bellies, on their boards,
paddling with their hands. I'd told everyone to go all
the way in to shore without standing up. The boards
would keep even a natural landlubber afloat.
The rest of us caught the next gentle swell that
would take us toward the beach. That was when I saw
three fins circling the spot where the cloud had gone
into the water.
     Naturally, I thought they were sharks. That was
adequate cause to worry. The fin of a surfboard and
its white underbelly looks like a fish. The paddling
hands and kicking feet attract attention, too. It wasn't
as if our team was made up of people who could surf
their way out of danger; and the waves weren't provid-
ing anything to write about.
     "Shark!" I shouted. The others started repeating
the call. We would have continued thinking the fins
belonged to separate creatures if they didn't start
rising out of the water. What appeared to be long
black ropes writhed up out of the sea. Hidalgo and
Albert paddled furiously to change direction, but the
current continued drawing them toward the thing.
As the huge creature continued to rise, I expected to
make out more details. But it seemed to bring a fog
with it. The mantle surrounding the thing was the
same white as the cloud.
     Within the mist, I could see fragments of recogniz-
able objects. A slight breeze was blowing in toward
the shore, but the fog didn't dissipate. The stuff hung
on like sticky cotton; but gaps did open up where I
could see more.
     A claw. An eye. A large glistening red opening in a
larger dark surface that seemed to open and close.
Could this be a mouth? None of us needed to know
that answer all that badly. The entity constantly
shifted. I got a headache from trying to focus on it.
One moment the black surface seemed to have a
metallic sheen. The next moment the surface rippled
as only a living thing could do. All through my
attempt to see what we were fighting, the mist re-
mained a problem, changing in density but never
going away.
     Most of our weapons were secured in the water-
proof packages, but Fly had put a gun in a plastic bag
and zipped it inside his suit. He got it out with
admirable speed and started firing at the whatsit.
He'd picked out a nice little customized Ruger pistol
for this part of the mission. He could be like a kid in
the candy store when let loose in a decent armory;
and Hawaii currently had a lot more in its arsenal
than ornate war clubs,
     He felt better after he'd fired off a few rounds. I felt
better, too. Near as I could tell, the horrible inexplica-
ble thing from the sky felt absolutely nothing. Fly
demonstrated his skill, again, for what it was worth.
Although he was behind Albert and Hidalgo, his
bullets came nowhere near hitting them. Every shot
went right into the center of the roiling mass--and
probably out the other side if the monster had the
power to discorporate, which I was ready to believe.
Fly got off all his shots while lying on his belly and
hanging on to his board. He really is very good at
what he does.
     Suddenly someone got off a shot that made a
difference. A sound of thunder from behind, a
whistling-screaming over our heads, and an explosion
that knocked all of us off our boards.
     Ellison had the largest gun and he wasn't afraid to
use it. The shell struck the creature at dead center. I
wasn't sure this monster could be killed, but the
submarine captain's quick thinking made the new
menace go away.
     Jill literally whooped for joy. She waved back at the
submarine, but I doubt they saw her. I barely saw her.
We were surrounded by mist from the explosion. So
much water turned into steam that I wondered if the
shell had set off something combustible in the mon-
ster. Maybe we were receiving residue from the sticky
cloud-fog stuff. One thing was certain: we wouldn't be
doing any scientific analysis out here.
     Hidalgo performed his duty: "Everyone sing out!
Let me hear you."
     "Sanders!" I shouted back at him.
"Taggart!"
     "Gallatin!"
"I'm here," Jill finished the roster.
     "Name!" Hidalgo insisted, and then took a mo-
ment to cough up some water.
     "I'm Jill. Sheesh."
"Last name!" Hidalgo insisted.
     "Lovelace," she finally relented.
Meanwhile, the sun was climbing in the morning
sky. I was getting hot inside my wet suit. The sub was
now far enough behind us that it counted as history.
Before us was the future, where the breaking surf
became white spray to cover the white droppings of
seagulls. I'd never been so happy to see those scaveng-
er birds. Some things on the home planet were still
normal.



     13

     "What do you mean you hate zero-g?" Ar-
lene asked with genuine surprise.
     "Just do," I said.
"You never told me that."
     "You never asked."
Arlene was not an easy person to surprise. I wasn't
sure why the subject had never come up. I wasn't
deliberately holding out on her. Jill laughed--the
little eavesdropper.
     "You never cease to amaze me, Fly Taggart," Ar-
lene continued. "Here we've traveled half the solar
system together."
     "Now, that's an exaggeration," I pointed out, un-
willing to let her get away with--
     "Hyperbole," she explained, showing that she'd
been an English major once upon a time.
     "Yeah, right," I said. "We've only done the hop
from Earth to Mars and back again."
     "Some hop," Albert replied good-naturedly.
"Please, Albert." Arlene put her foot down. "This
is a private conversation."
     "Private?" Jill echoed. "Inside here?"
"Here" was the cockpit of a DCX-2004. It had been
christened the Bova. From the outside, it looked like a
nose cone that someone had stretched and then added
fins along the bottom. But when you got closer and
saw it outlined against the night sky, you realized it
was a big mother of a ship. Even so, it was cramped
for four of us in a space designed only for the pilot
and copilot. Hidalgo was outside the craft, taking the
first watch. He'd warn us if a certain large hell-prince
woke up. He would also let us know if anyone showed
up who could fly this baby.
     Plan A had worked fine so far. We were all alive. We
were in the right place. So what if the others--people
we'd never seen--were late? So what that they were
supposed to be here ahead of us? Plan A still beat the
hell out of plan B.
     We figured it was only right to let Jill see the inside
of her first spaceship. She hadn't stopped hinting she
wanted to come along. We weren't going to lie to her
about having calculated the weight of our crew to the
last ounce. The ship's mass factor could accommo-
date Jill. There was even room if we didn't mind
being very crowded instead of only really crowded.
(Elbow room was already out of the question.)
Of course, all this would be academic if we didn't
get our navy crew. None of us could fly this tub.
Whether the crew showed up or not didn't change one
fact: Jill wasn't invited on the trip. It was as simple as
that.
     One advantage to showing her the interior of the
ship was that she could see for herself that there was
absolutely nowhere for a stowaway to hide. At times
like this I was grateful the bad guys hadn't figured out
how to manufacture itty-bitty demons. The pumpkins
were as small as they got. So if a guy was in close
quarters he didn't have to worry about Tinker Bell
with mini-rockets. Life was good.
     The Bova was a lot bigger than the submarine. That
didn't mean we had any space to waste inside. Looked
to me as if the primary function of the ship was to
transport tanks and fuel. Human beings would be
allowed to tag along if they didn't get in the way.
Anyway, Albert had a ready answer to Jill's chal-
lenge about the lack of privacy: "When the CO is
away," he told her, "the men can shoot the shit." I
never thought I'd hear Albert talk like that, but then I
realized what a decent thing he'd done.
     This could be the last time any of us saw Jill. Albert
was treating her like one of the men. She knew how
religious he was. For him to use that kind of language
in front of her meant something special. Jill smiled at
Albert. He returned the smile. They'd connected.
"Look, Arlene," I said, attempting to wrap up our
pointless conversation. "When they advertise the
honeymoon suites in free fall, I'm not the target
audience. I wouldn't try to make love in one of those
for free. On Phobos, whenever I went outside the
artificial gravity area, I had a tougher time from that
than anything the imps did to me. If the ones I
encountered in zero-g had known about my weakness,
it would have been another weapon on their side.
Hey, I don't like bleeding to death, either. That
doesn't stop me from fighting the bastards."
"No, Fly, it doesn't," said Arlene, touching my
arm. I noticed Albert noticing. He wasn't very obvi-
ous about it. I don't think it was any kind of jealousy
when Arlene was physical with another person. Al-
bert's affection for her was so great that he couldn't
help being protective.
     "I never mentioned the weightless thing before," I
went on, more bugged than I'd realized, "because I
didn't want to give you cause for concern."
     She switched from the tone of voice she used for
kidding around to the steady, serious tone she used
with a comrade. "I never would have known if you
hadn't told me," she said. "You're a true warrior, Fly.
Your hang-ups are none of my business unless you
decide to make them my business."
     We sat there in close quarters, sizing each other up
as we had so many times before. She was quite a gal,
Arlene Sanders.
     "What's it like?" Jill asked.
"What?" I threw back, a little dense all of a sudden.
"Being weightless," Jill piped in. She thought we
were still on that subject. Can't blame her for not
realizing we'd moved on to grown-up stuff.
     Arlene returned to teacher mode. "Well, it's like at
the amusement parks when you ride a roller coaster
and you go over the top, and you feel the dip in the pit
of your stomach."
     "Like on the parachute ride," Jill spoke from
obvious experience. "Or when you fall. That's why
it's called--what did Fly call it?"
     "Free fall," I repeated.
"I don't mind that for a little bit," Jill admitted.
"But how can you stand it for--"
     "Weeks and weeks?" Arlene finished helpfully.
Jill bit her bottom lip, something she did only when
she was thinking hard. Right now you could see the
thought right on her face: Do I really want to go into
space?
     "You become used to it," Arlene told her.
"Yeah," said Jill, not really looking at us. Like most
brilliant people, she thought out loud some of the
time. She was staring at the bulkhead, probably
imagining herself conquering the spaceways. "I can
get used to anything."
     Then she looked at each of us in turn. First Arlene,
then Albert, then me. Finally the reality sank in. We
were going to separate, probably forever.
     "You can't leave me," she whispered, but all of us
heard her.
     "We don't have any choice," Albert replied almost
as softly.
     "But you told me people always have a choice," Jill
wailed at the man she'd known longer than any other
adult. "You're always talking about free will and
stuff."
     "I don't want to split up," said Albert. "I'm wor-
ried about you, but I know you can take care of
yourself."
     "I don't want to take care of myself," she almost
screamed. The ship was soundproof, so she could
make all the noise she wanted to without waking the
demons. But as I saw her face grow red in anguish, I
wished Arlene and I were still arguing about zero-g.
Anything but this.
     "You can't fool me," she said, addressing all of us.
If looks could have killed, we would've been splat-
tered over the acceleration couches like yesterday's
pumpkins.
     Then she let us have it with both barrels: "You
don't love me!"
     It's not fair. After everything we've done together,
they want to get rid of me. I'm a problem to them.
They won't admit it. They'll say they want to protect
me. I'll bet everything in the world that's what they'll
say next. It's for my own good, and they don't want
me going into danger again. Blah, blah, blah, blah.
What can we run into in space that's any scarier
than the sea monster that almost got us when we were
surfing in to shore? What could be more dangerous
than when I was almost crushed like a bug when I
helped save Ken from the spider-mind and the steam
demon on the train? Or when I was driving the truck
and the two missiles from the bony almost got me?
(Poor Dr. Ackerman called those things revenants.
Boy, he sure came up with some weird names. He said
all the creatures were like monsters from the id. I
wonder what he meant.)
     It's not just about danger. Everywhere is dangerous
now. Who says I'll make it back to Hawaii alive? Even
if everything goes according to plan, the return trip
will take weeks. I might be safer going into space with
them. But grown-ups don't want to have a kid around,
'specially not a teenager, so they lie, lie, lie.
They won't even admit how much they need me.
After we reached shore, we didn't simply walk to the
rocket field. I helped a lot. When it looked as if we
might not get in, Arlene reminded everyone of Plan B.
Ken was right. Plan B is a joke.
     Plan B called for them to get on one of the alien
rockets as stowaways. I threw a fit when I heard about
that. They thought I was upset because they wouldn't
let me come along. And they think I'm a dumb kid! I
pointed out they could never stay hidden all the way
to Mars on something as small as a rocket.
     Phobos and Deimos are very small moons, but they
are a lot larger than an alien rocket. Fly and Arlene
hadn't even managed to stay hidden on the Martian
moons. They'd told us about their adventures so
many times I could recite the stories backwards. If
they couldn't avoid the demons on Deimos and the
former humans on Phobos, they wouldn't be able to
stay hidden on a spaceship all the way to Mars--and
Arlene has the nerve to tell me not to think about
stowing away on this ship? She must think I'm really
dense.
     I wonder if they're mad because Captain Hidalgo
agreed with me that stowing away on an alien ship
was stupid. He prefers taking his chances on one of
our own ships to "climbing into bed with the devil,"
even if we have to fly it ourselves. But then it was Fly's
turn to point out that without the navy guys, we can't
even try to take this ship up. He's done so many
impossible things already that I guess he knows what
a real impossibility looks like.
     Maybe I'm better off without them. If they don't
want me, they don't have to bother with me any
longer. Getting here wasn't easy. Getting inside was
even harder. Who was it that jammed computer
systems and electronic devices? The person I saw
reflected in a window sure looked a lot like me! We
hardly ran into any monsters until we entered the
base. (Maybe they were all on vacation.) The ones
inside seemed to be asleep. I'd never seen them sleep
before. I didn't know they slept at all. Poor Fly and
Arlene were all set to shoot 'em up, but they didn't
have any moving targets this time.
     Poor Fly.
Poor Arlene.
     I won't pick on Albert about this. He's not as much
a nonstop marine as they are. But I didn't think
Albert would ever leave me. Until now I was sure he'd
figure out some way for them to take me along. How
can he abandon me? We've been together since Salt
Lake City. I guess none of us expected to be alive this
long.
     Now I'm supposed to go back to Hawaii. I always
wanted to see Maui.
     I wish they'd just tell me they don't like me
anymore, or that they never liked me. I never wanted
a family. I didn't mind being an orphan. But now I
feel what it's like to have a family. We've had some of
it. I don't want it to end.
     I'm so angry I don't know what I want. They won't
see me cry, though. I won't let them see me cry.
I knew it would come to this. It would be my job
because I'm the woman, the adult woman. Fly be-
came so much like a real father to Jill that he couldn't
put his foot down. All he could do was spoil his
darling little girl, the apple of his eye.
     So I have the thrill of playing Mom. Jill was born
difficult. It was completely against her nature to make
this kind of situation easy.
     "We are leaving you here," I told her, "because we
do love you. It's time you have a reality check. You are
not a child. You are not a little girl anymore. You have
proved yourself to all of us. We know it. You know it.
This is no time to start acting like a little girl."
"Then why--"
     "Shut up!" I cut her off. This was no time to be
diplomatic, either. "Don't say one word until I've
finished. You were right about not trying to stow away
on an alien ship when we have other options. But we
wouldn't have let you join us in sneaking aboard an
enemy craft, and we won't let you come with us now
because we will be in combat sooner or later."
She stared at me with the kind of fixed concentra-
tion that meant only one thing. She was trying to hold
back tears.
     "You can do anything you want, Jill," I said, trying
my best to sound like a friend instead of Mommy.
"You're a woman. You can marry, have babies, take
up arms, join what's left of the real marines--the
ones on our side--and fight the traitors. Society has
been destroyed, Jill. You'll have a hand in shaping the
new society. You're staying behind on Earth. The rest
of us may never see home again. You're probably
more important to the future of mankind than we are.
But hear this: you cannot come with us! Do you
understand?"
     She looked me in the eye for several seconds. I
thought she wanted to kill me. Then she said very
slowly, "I understand."
     I believed her.



     14

     I can see clearly in the moonlight, and I wish
for darkness. If I can see them, they can see me. As I
stare into the face of the minotaur, I remember how
my wife died: one of these things killed her. Our
families were so sympathetic. We had a big funeral.
The neighborhood we lived in wasn't a war zone yet.
She'd been caught outside in no-man's-land. For her,
it was no-Mrs.-Hidalgo-land.
     We hadn't told our families we were getting a
divorce. We both came from strong Catholic families.
So we put off telling them, and then one of the
demons made our wedding vows come true--the part
about till death do us part. She hated me at the end,
with the kind of hatred that comes only from spoiled
love. It became so bad I couldn't even look at her
anymore.
     I was standing outside the DCX-2004, waiting for
our navy space crew, so this seemed like a good time
to be honest with myself. Colonel Hooker didn't know
what went on between my wife and me. I never told
him I was suicidal for a while. It wasn't something I
was proud of: I was suicidal before the minotaur
slaughtered her; I wasn't suicidal afterward.
Everyone was at the funeral, assuming a grief I
didn't feel; all of them assumed I'd devote the rest of
my life to avenging the woman I loved. A marine is
supposed to be at home in a world of hurt. There's no
personal problem that can't be solved by picking up
an M92 and doing your part for Uncle Sam. Right. Si.
But my military operational specialty was killing an
enemy that could shoot back. I wasn't prepared to
find out that my wife had aborted our child. Until that
moment, I had no idea how much she detested being
married to a marine. She said my loyalty to the Corps
came before my love for her and I'd treat our son the
same way I'd treated her.
     I didn't know I had a son until after the abortion.
Then I looked at her with a hatred I'd never felt for
any human enemy, and a hatred I've yet to feel for
these devils from space. At that moment I felt like
apologizing to all the opponents I'd ever wasted.
I thought about killing her. I even started to formu-
late a plan. Then the monsters came, and our personal
problems went on the back burner for a while. I was
off fighting the war to begin all wars, and she was safe
at home, just waiting for a big red minotaur to turn
her into a taco with special sauce.
     The timing on all this was interesting. If she'd had
the abortion after the invasion and said she couldn't
bear to bring up our child in a hell on Earth, I would
have been pissed but I might have been able to forgive
her. No, the timing was lousy ... for her. I was called
up right away, so I wasn't around for her to realize
how much I'd turned against her.
     I was only a little suicidal on the mission against the
arachnotrons. Leave it to the military to come up with
a name like that. We called them spider-babies. We
called ourselves the Orkin squad. We did a fine job of
exterminating them.
     When I returned home and finally had it out with
my wife, the marital battlefield seemed like a restful
picnic. She gave me a bunch of feminist crap. I told
her she was a spoiled brat who obviously hadn't been
punished enough when she was growing up. I was
mad. She didn't like my attitude.
     Then I saw a side of her that completely surprised
me. After you've been married to someone for years,
you'd think you'd pick up on the important aspects of
that person's character. I'd never had a clue that she
felt the way she did until she accused me of always
sucking up to the Anglos! She insisted that I was a bad
Latino. In her mind, I suppose that made her a
wonderful Latina.
     I'd never thought about my ethnic identity all that
much, even when I was growing up. I tried not to pay
attention to it. Sometimes it struck me funny the way
the American media always presented the problems
of the cities as black versus white, as though all the
colors in between didn't matter. Now we have new
colors to worry us--the bright colors of the scales and
leathery hides of the invaders. The devils.
     Of course I had experienced my fair share of
prejudice. I first came to America as an illegal immi-
grant. I wasn't here for the welfare, but I wasn't
willing to wait in line forever. I came to America for
the dream. I came to work and go to college.
I met a young lawyer who was sympathetic to what
I was trying to do. Pat Hoin was her name, my first
Anglo friend. She encouraged me to take advantage of
one of the periodic amnesties when illegals could
become legal. I did just that.
     She thought I might have a bit too much pride for
my own good. There was truth in that. Although I'd
grown up in Mexico, I came from a very proud
Spanish family. My father was so intent that I marry
"someone worthy" that he helped drive me away from
home. How ironic the way things turned out. He
finally accepted my wife. Then she turned out to be
treacherous.
     The last time I saw Rita, we argued about anything
and everything. Nothing was too trivial. After she
exhausted the subject of my emotional failings, there
remained the cosmic threat of my snoring. She failed
to convince me that my snoring was on a scale with an
army of zombies shuffling through the old community
cemetery.
     Somehow I had a last shred of feeling for her. When
I reached out to touch her for the last time, she
screamed that I was never to touch her again without
permission.
     I stormed out of there, leaving the next move to her.
Here was the world coming to an end, and we couldn't
take a break from our own stupid soap opera. So when
I saw her face in the open coffin--they'd recovered
only the top third of her body, but that was the
important part for any good mortician--I looked
down at her with such a grim expression that her
sister, misinterpreting my solemnity, took me by the
arm and whispered, "You'll get over it. You'll find
someone else like her."
     Only marine training prevented me from laughing
out loud. As was the custom of our families, we took
turns kissing her cold lips. It was the first time I'd
enjoyed kissing her in a long time.
     Now I'm supposed to be back on the job, working
to save the human race. Well, why not? I don't
suppose we're any worse than this big, bloated mino-
taur snoring in front of me. Let's see, now, Taggart
and Sanders call it a hell-prince. The brain boys back
at HQ call it a baron of hell.
     I know a minotaur when I see one. Wait a minute.
I've heard the others call it a minotaur, too. I know
Jill did. She's quite a kid. A bit sullen and stuck-up
but that's to be expected when you're fourteen. I kind
of like her. She's strangely honest. She could grow up
to be an honest woman. Anything is possible.
They have their chance to say their good-byes now.
If the navy doesn't show, we'll probably never make it
out of here alive. We'll try to stow away on one of the
enemy ships, however slight our chance for survival.
Our chances won't be good even if the navy space
crew joins us, but at least the odds will be worth
betting on.
     If we make it to Phobos, then Taggart, Sanders, and
Gallatin will become my headache. I wish I had a
different team. Their combat records are fine. I'm not
worried about that. I'm concerned about taking a
triangle on the mission. Sanders and Gallatin want to
screw each other's brains out. I'd have to be blind not
to notice that. The mystery is where the hell Taggart
fits in. I'm sure it's somewhere.
     I don't need this crap on a mission. That's why I
have to be a hard-ass. I'm going to keep them so busy
that they won't have time to fool around. I'm not
motivated by what happened to me with my wonder-
ful, loving, faithful wife. I'm sure that's not it.
The mission is what concerns me ... us! It has to.
It's too damned important for lovesick marines to
mess up. However slim the chances for success, I must
guarantee maximum commitment.
     Funny. Now that I'm thinking this way, the mission
just got a boost in the arm. My grandmother believed
in good omens. Up ahead, washed in moonlight,
tiptoeing around our sleeping monster, it sure looks
like the navy has arrived.
     I'll never admit this to Fly but right at the end, I
almost cried. Jill finally stopped arguing. She came
over and hugged me. Then, without saying a word,
she did the same to Fly and Albert. I was stunned. She
stood in the open hatch, her back to us as if she
couldn't decide if she wanted to do something.
She turned around and said, "I'll never forget any
of you." Then she did the most amazing thing of all:
Jill saluted us.
     Of course none of us returned the salute. We're all
conditioned marine robots. Mustn't ever break the
precious rules. There are rules about who and when
and what and where to exchange a precious salute. If
Jill took seriously my offhand comment about joining
the marines, she might earn the right to dress the way
we do and perform the rituals. Maybe she'd wear a
high-and-tight if she proved herself macho enough to
earn the right, like me. Like me.
     I didn't return her salute. But I made myself say,
"Thank you, Jill. You are a true hero."
     Then that spry little teenager walked out of my life.
As she clocked out, the new cast of characters clocked
in. Hidalgo came bounding up those same stairs like a
kid who's gotten everything he wants for Christmas.
For a moment, I didn't recognize him. It was the first
time I'd seen him smile. He had the face of a man who
believed in the mission. Absolutely.
     He brought us a fine crew to pilot the barge. God
knows how they arrived here. I hadn't seen any of
them in Hawaii. When I asked where they'd been, I
was rebuked with my least favorite word in the
English language: "classified."
     I didn't press the subject. I would have been happy
to press their uniforms if that was what it took to keep
everyone happy. They'd been outfitted with brand-
new flight suits, combat boots, inflatable vests, hel-
mets, gloves.... They looked a lot better than we
did. I'd have liked to know how they did it.
Fly's big grin reminded me of arguments we used to
have about luck. How he could live through what he
had and not believe in good luck was beyond me. The
moment we found all the demon guards asleep, I
started believing in luck again. I'll take good omens
where I can find them, too. Maybe the doom demons
are becoming careless when we can penetrate a base
so easily. That means we just might win the war.
The woman running the show inspired confidence:
Commander Dianne Taylor. She was five feet four,
weighing in at about one hundred pounds, with
beautiful hazel eyes. I felt that we'd traded in a young
female computer whiz for an older female space pilot.
There was another woman on board as well, the petty
officer, second class. For some time now, I hadn't
been the only girl among the boys. I loved the fact that
men with SEAL training had to answer to a female
PO2.
     "I'm a big enthusiast on the history of space flight,"
Commander Taylor addressed the latest member of
the Big Four. "This ship is the latest generation of the
old DC-X1 Delta Clipper. Basic principles remain the
same."
     "That's why we have faith in them," volunteered
Albert.
     "Exactly," replied our skipper happily. She was a
natural teacher. That could take some of the boredom
out of the trip. "The fuel is the same for the 2004 as
for the first in the series--good old hydrogen per-
oxide."
     I laughed. She raised an eyebrow in my general
direction and I answered the unasked question. "I was
thinking I could do my hair in it." She returned the
laugh minus some interest: she allowed herself a
smile.
     "Or we can fuel up with hyper-vodka and have
martinis with what's left over," she suggested. "Well,
just as long as we all understand what the primary risk
will be in taking off."
     "What's that?" asked Hidalgo as if he'd missed
something.
     Taylor pointed at the monitors on which we'd
watched Jill slip away to safety or death. We could still
see the recumbent forms of various hell-princes and
steam demons.
     "When we begin our launch procedures," she said,
"they are going to wake up. And then our principal
goal in life will be to keep them from blowing us up."



     15

     "We'll do a cold takeoff," said Taylor. She
seemed to know her business, but I didn't like the way
she stressed that word, "cold." When I was a kid, the
first strong impression I had from television was of
the Challenger space shuttle blowing up. My parents
had rented a documentary on the history of space
flight. I remembered the white-porcelain appearance
of the craft in the early morning. A frosty morning,
the announcer told us. They'd never launched in such
cold weather before. Some of the engineers, it later
turned out, were concerned about icing. They were
worried about certain wires.
     The green light was given. The shuttle blasted
off ... and into eternity.
     I wondered what our naval commander had in
mind other than running a taut ship. She told us:
"Normally we'd give the Bova a half hour of foreplay.
A cold launch is when we start everything at once,
flooding the engines with liquid oxygen. The risk is
that the lox could pump through the lines so fast
they'll crack. The good part of this risk is that the ship
will be ready to launch in ten minutes. We are in the
period of our launch window. The weather is on our
side. The enemy is still asleep."
     "Like you said, starting the ship will wake them
up," I said.
     "That's right, Taggert, and that's why we'll take
only ten minutes instead of thirty to get ready. Those
plug uglies down there are going to investigate. I'm
hoping they're as dumb as they look."
     "Yes, Commander Taylor," Arlene marveled, as
awareness dawned. "They may think it's their guys in
the Bova."
     "Sure," agreed Steve Riley, joining us in the engine
room. He was Taylor's radar intercept officer. Of
course, he had to go through all that navy stuff with a
superior officer before joining in the conversation.
And they call us jarheads.
     Riley had a neat little mustache, same as Hidalgo. It
twitched a little when he became colorful: "By the
time they realize we're not part of a scheduled bogey-
man flight, they'll be toast from our thrusters."
"Even dummies might figure it out with thirty
minutes to work in."
     "So we don't give it to them," Taylor summed up.
"We could station a sniper in the hatchway in case
they wise up," Albert said.
     "Too dangerous," countered the skipper. "They
might return fire."
     "We're sitting on a Roman candle," I contributed.
Suddenly I was very glad we'd sent Jill away.
"We have another problem, too." Taylor generously
shared her apprehension with us--the mark of a good
leader. "Along with passing up the luxury of a thirty-
minute warm-up, I've decided not to use the start-up
truck."
     "What's that?" asked Albert.
"You probably saw it when you were sneaking in
here. It's got a big plug the ship can use to get a charge
for the blastoff. You may have also noticed that one of
the cyberdemons is almost using it for a pillow."
"We call 'em steam demons," Arlene threw in
     gratuitously. (She probably doesn't think I know a
word like "gratuitous.")
     "I like that," said Taylor. "By whatever name, I
prefer that it remain asleep."
     "How can we take off, then?" asked Arlene, ex-
changing glances with me, her fellow expert on seat-
of-the-pants rocket design.
     Riley and Taylor exchanged meaningful looks
as well--pilot-to-copilot looks, how-the-hell-are-we-
going-to-make-it-work-this-time looks.
     "We can start off our own battery," said Lieutenant
Riley.
     "I'm no rocket scientist," commented Albert and it
took me a moment to realize our somber Mormon
had made a joke. "But won't that drain the battery?"
"Yes, it will," admitted Taylor, "but not to the
point of doom." It was funny how that word "doom"
kept cropping up in everyone's conversation.
"It'll be like we were on a submarine," said Riley.
That wouldn't be very hard for us.
     "Run silent, run deep!" Arlene got into the drift.
"Yes," said Taylor. "We'll use a minimum of elec-
tronic devices in the ship. No radio broadcasts, no
radar, no microwave. You'll be eating your MREs
cold."
     "What about light?" asked Albert.
"We have a good supply of battery-powered lan-
terns," Taylor said in a happier tone.
     It didn't sound all that bad. I remembered the flight
from Earth to Mars when they took me up for my
court-martial. The trip was under a week. So what if
we had to do it this time sitting in the dark most of the
way? The trip might feel like an extension of our
Hawaii vacation. There was nothing wrong with rest-
ing up before going through the Gate on Phobos. God
only knew what we'd run into this time.
     God only knew if we'd survive the takeoff.
The crew was the bare minimum, but it would do
just fine for our purposes. It also meant there were
enough acceleration couches for everyone. The Bova
was cramped enough as it was. Along with the skipper
and her copilot, we had Chief Petty Officer Robert
Edward Lee Curtis and Petty Officer Second Class
Jennifer Steven. Across the gulf of different services,
we felt like comrades. We were the same rank. There
were only three regular crew members.
     Back to space for Arlene and me, though I never
would have believed we'd voluntarily return to
Phobos. I wondered what the chances were of passing
by Deimos on the way to Mars, now that Deimos was
a new satellite of Earth. Not our fault! We didn't drag
it out of the orbit of Mars. We only hitched a ride.
As we neared the countdown--what do you call a
countdown to the countdown?--I started to worry. I
blamed my anxiety on my stomach. Many portions of
my anatomy could make peace with zero-g, but my
stomach would always be a stubborn holdout. When I
finally admitted the truth to Arlene, I was speaking
for my stomach.
     One member of the crew, Christopher Olen Ray,
was going into space for the first time, and the other
guys were giving "good old Chris" a hard time about
it. He couldn't have been older than his early twen-
ties. He was worried about the g-forces of the takeoff.
The first time is something to write home about. The
way I look at it, that part is over quickly. Weightless-
ness lasts and lasts when some rich guy hasn't spent
the money to keep your craft doing a full revolution
so that you can enjoy the benefits of centrifugal force.
If this continued, I'd risk a good thought for the
Union Aerospace Corporation. At least they were
willing to spend some of their filthy lucre.
For better or worse, Commander Taylor gave the
order to start the ten minutes that would feel like
eternity. The old tub made a lot of noise when it was
turned on. From my uncomfortable position on the
acceleration couch I had a good view of a monitor. I
saw the big ugly bastard right next to the ship wake
up. Hell, the retros were noisy enough to wake me
up. Hell-princes were so damned big that I found it
fascinating to watch the thing fight the gravity to
which we little humans are so accustomed. The pon-
derous minotaur stumbled as he got up, as if he had a
hangover. I laughed. Doom demons bring out my
mean streak.
     Commander Taylor made sure that "all her babies"
were securely fastened into their seats. This marine
"baby" felt constricted by his safety harness. Then the
ship started to quiver as it came alive, the fuel
beginning to course through its veins. The vibration
shook me in the marrow of my bones.
     Suddenly I couldn't tell if the roaring came from
the ship or the intercom, which was picking up sound
effects from our playmates outside. Were they pissed
off? Were they saying "Top of the mornin' to you?" (It
was past midnight.) After all this time, I still didn't
have a clue when these critters were happy or sad. A
roar is a roar.
     We had ringside seats, but there was nothing we
could do if the monster squad decided to freak out.
The navy had its pet marines all trussed up. I didn't
like the idea of playing sitting duck, but I understood
that all we could do was stay put on top of our giant
bomb.
     On the screen, a large spider-mind scuttled over to
the hell-prince. I didn't like that. If Ackerman's
theory of broadcast intelligence turned out to be
correct, it didn't change the fact that the spiders were
the "smart" ones . . . and right now we needed all the
dumb ones the enemy could spare.
     Time was on our side. We didn't have that much
longer to wait. I could hear Taylor and Riley running
through the checklist. They spoke with the kind of
precision that assured me we were in competent
hands. I'd hate to die because of someone else's
negligence. The little voice in the back of my head
whispered that I had Viking blood in my veins,
because I'd rather die with a battle-ax in my gut than
fouled up by some numb-nuts who meant well but
pulled the wrong switch.
     As I heard the steady voice of the copilot announce,
"Minus three minutes," I felt pretty good about the
situation. These guys had a clue what they were doing,
all right. Once we were under way they'd put on their
oxygen masks and I wouldn't be able to listen in.
Passengers didn't need to wear oxygen masks back
where we were hog-tied, but there were emergency
oxygen tanks in case the ship lost pressure.
I couldn't keep my eyes off the monitor where the
big creeps were running around in search of some
kind of authorization. That was why I was so happy to
hear Riley say, "Minus two minutes."
     "How you doin'?" asked CPO Curtis.
"Fine," I returned.  I couldn't see much.  If I
stretched my head at a really uncomfortable angle I
could make out Arlene's legs.
     "We're ready to weigh anchor," he threw back.
"Minus one minute," contributed the copilot. I was
ready to believe we'd at least get off the ground. The
monitor showed the return of the spider-mind as it
pushed past the minotaur. The steam demon was
close behind.
     The intercom crackled with horrible screeching
sounds--probably some alien code. It gave me a
headache even before we lifted the Bova to greet the
stars. The most inspiring part of the blastoff was
watching the spider-mind get caught in the rocket's
bright orange flame.
     As quick as the commander could push a button,
the demon guards were no longer a concern. Now it
was the monsters of gravity and pressure that
presented the obstacles. I felt them sitting on my
chest. I'd been spoiled by easy takeoffs from Mars.
Leaving the virtual nongravity of Phobos or Deimos
didn't even count. I'd forgotten how much rougher it
was to escape from the gravity well of the old mud
ball.
     It hurt. I had to reteach myself how to swallow. The
pressure gave me the mother of all headaches. When I
tried to focus on anything, my vision blurred. The
vibration was outside and inside my head. Closing my
eyes, I thanked the sisters of my Catholic school
childhood for delivering Taylor and Riley.
     We could watch our assent on television monitors. I
would have preferred a porthole. But the resolution
on the screens earned its description in the procure-
ment file: "crystal clarity."
     Blasting off when we did was like rising up into the
endless night. Strapped to my couch, I could tell that
the Bova was leaving the atmosphere only by watch-
ing the stars stop blinking. They were steady, white
eyes spread out across the black velvet of space.
Arlene didn't think there was any poetry in my soul
because I never talked this way to her. She'd been an
English major once. I forgave her for that. What more
could I do? She rated head honcho in this depart-
ment. The best way to cover my ass was to keep poetic
feelings to myself.
     It was good to think about anything other than the
physical strain of the liftoff. The boosters boosted. We
shook, rattled, and rolled. I thought about how much
work the commander and her radar officer must be
doing without the assistance of ground-based sup-
port. No one to ring up on the phone and ask about
bearing and flight plan. We were on our own.
The little voice in the back of my head chose that
moment to raise an annoying point: what if the bad
guys blew us out of the air? At no point in our
discussions had anyone considered that possibility.
Not out loud, anyway. Oh, well, as long as I was at it, I
could worry if it might rain.
     An old filling started to ache in the back of my jaw.
Great, maybe I could find a demon dentist! The
shaking was starting to get to me. Intellectually, I
realized the ship was holding together. It takes a lot of
power to climb out of Earth's gravity well. Emotion-
ally, I expected all of us to fall out of the sky in a
million pieces.
     I went back to thinking poetic thoughts.
And then it was over. The good part was over. The
vibration stopped. I noticed I was sweating like a
pinkie after fifty push-ups. Then all the weight that I'd
worked so hard to put on simply disappeared. Free
fall. Falling. Zero-g. Zero tolerance for zero-g. My
stomach started a slow somersault while I remained
immobile.
     Marine training to the rescue again! That, and the
fact I deliberately hadn't eaten before playing space
cadet. With applied willpower, I could put up with the
rigors of space for the little week it would take to
reach Mars.
     Then the voice of Commander Taylor pronounced
our fate. I heard it loud and clear. She wasn't using
the ship's intercom. That was one of the luxuries we
were giving up for this trip. But she had a loud voice,
and everything was wide open so the sardines in the
can wouldn't be lonely. Her words traveled the length
of the ship: "We made it, boys. Now hear this.
Reaching Mars shouldn't take longer than a month
and a half."



     16

     I wonder which star in the sky is their ship. I
may not be able to see it from this position, hiding
behind an old Dumpster and watching monsters play.
Their play is the worst thing I've ever seen.
Fly would be especially angry if he knew I'd already
thrown off Ken's schedule for my return. He'd scold:
"Jill, how could you be so stupid? Every minute
counts when you're using a timetable. That's why it's
called a schedule, you stupid bitch."
     No, he wouldn't call me a bitch. I like thinking he
would. I'd like to think I bothered him enough he'd
want to call me bad names. I'm calling myself a stupid
bitch because I wanted to see the ship take off. I
waited until it was out of sight. Then I went the wrong
way.
     I had a good excuse for going the wrong way. The
monsters went ape when they realized the Bova wasn't
supposed to take off. The spider that was fried by the
ship's jets must have been important, because several
other spiders showed up and wasted all the minotaurs
in sight. They tried to waste a steam demon as well,
but the thing was too fast for them. I never thought
anything that big could run so fast.
     While the monsters were busy killing each other I
was able to slip away. Everything would have been
fine if I'd been going in the right direction. As part of
the plan, the navy guys left supplies for me along the
return route. Ken planned the first leg of my trip to
cover the same ground they followed on their last leg.
When I found myself at a convention of bonies and
fire eaters, though, I realized I'd made a boo-boo.
They didn't notice me; but I could see them clear as
day. I wished the moon would go out so I could do a
better job of hiding!
     Some of the monsters naturally fought each other,
but the bonies and fire eaters had a truce going. The
same couldn't be said for the demon caught between
them, one of the chubby pink ones Arlene likes to call
pinkies. I couldn't help feeling sorry for the thing. The
bonies--Dr. Ackerman called them revenants--were
all lined up on one side in a semicircle. The fire
eaters--also known by a really weird name, arch-
viles--were lined up on the other side, completing
the circle. A bonfire blazed between them.
     The fire eaters could control their fire better than I
realized. They'd send out thin lines of flame that
would burn the pinkie's butt. He'd squeal. Fly always
said the pinkies made him think of pigs.
     The pinkie would jump over the fire and run
straight for the bonies. They made a sound that was
half rattling bones and half choking laughter. They
couldn't use their rockets without spoiling the game.
They seemed to have picked up a trick from human
bullies on a playground. They used sticks to beat and
prod their victim. One had an actual pitchfork he'd
probably stolen from a farm. When the pinkie turned
to run away from his tormentors the bony poked him
in the ass with the pitchfork. If it hadn't been so sick, I
would have laughed. But there was nothing funny
about the pink demon finally falling right into the
center of the fire where he grunted and squealed and
died. I wondered if the bonies and fire eaters would
eat him.
     I wondered if they ate.
As they gathered around their roasting pig, I snuck
away. If I could retrace my steps to the base and work
my way around the perimeter, I might be able to pick
up the route that Ken had mapped out for me. If I
believed any part of what Albert did, and God was
looking down, my only prayer was to get back on
track. If the monsters were going to kill me, I wanted
to be doing what I was supposed to before they ripped
out my guts.
     When Arlene gave me the big lecture about growing
up and taking responsibility, she didn't say anything I
hadn't already figured out myself. I could have said it
better than she did.
     Growing up was about dealing with fear. One night,
when Arlene and Albert went to the supermarket in
Zombie City to find rotten lemons and limes, Fly and
I had a long talk. He asked me what I'd be willing to
do in a war. He wanted to know if I'd be willing to
torture the enemy, even if the enemy happened to be
human.
     I never stopped thinking about the questions he
asked. When I disobeyed his orders about the plane
and refused to fly to Hawaii without Fly and Arlene,
I'd grown up. I wouldn't let down my friends. That's
all there is to it. On the Bova, I felt they were letting
me down. It was easier for Arlene to tell me she didn't
want me coming along because I'm not trained than
for her to say she loved me.
     Fly and Arlene just don't know how to say they love
somebody. Albert knows how. I'm learning how. I'll
bet all the ammo in the universe that Fly and Arlene
will never learn. But it doesn't matter. I love them.
Even though they're gone, I won't let them down.
So as I look up at the night sky, wondering if they
are one of the stars, I promise them that I won't get
myself killed until I'm back with the plan. I'll be a
good soldier. Just so long as I don't have to do the
really weird stuff.



     17

     "Back on Phobos again--where a zombie
     once was a man!"
"What the hell are you doing?" asked Arlene.
"I'm singing," I said.
     "That's not singing," she disagreed.
"It's official Flynn Taggart caterwauling," I said.
"No, it's singing," said Albert, venturing where
angels feared to tread.
     "Are you making a wise move?" Arlene asked her
would-be fiancÊ.
     "Probably not," he agreed wisely. "But I recognize
the song Fly has made his own. He's doing a zombie
version of 'Back in the Saddle Again.'"
     "Thank you, Albert," I said. "When I invited you
to join the Fabulous Four, I knew I was selecting a
man of exquisite judgment."
     "That's not exactly how I remember our little
adventure in Salt Lake City," Arlene corrected
me.
     I had the perfect answer for her: "Back on Phobos
again . . ."
     "Cease and desist, Flynn Taggart," she said, putting
her hands over her ears. "We're not even on Phobos
yet. Can't you wait and sing it there, preferably
without your space helmet?"
     "You can't fool me." I was firm. Besides, I'd already
waited close to a month and a half--a lot longer than
I'd originally planned on spending in this rust bucket.
That had something to do with the fact that fuel was
in short supply these days, thanks to the aliens, and
something to do with the kind of orbit we were using,
which made the usual one-week jaunt to Mars six
times longer, which had driven me to singing. "We
did not leave Phobos in shambles, like Deimos. There
may still be air in the pressurized areas."
     Arlene interrupted: "Along with pinkies, spinies,
ghosts--"
     "And a partridge in a pear tree." I wouldn't let her
change the subject. "The point is that if the air's on, I
can sing."
     "The one weapon we didn't think of," Arlene
agreed at last.
     "Do we have any idea what the Phobos situation is
like?" asked Albert, real serious all of a sudden.
"No," I said, ready to postpone my performance.
"But whatever it is, it will be more interesting than
one more second inside this ..." I stopped, stumped
for a good obscenity.
     "In the belly of the whale," Arlene finished for me.
She was getting biblical on me.
     "I'm ready for battle," Albert admitted, almost
sadly.
     I took inventory of our section of the deluxe space
cruiser, letting my eyes come to rest on my last candy
bar. I'd used up my quota of Eco bars, the ones with
the best nuts.
     "Know how you feel, marine," I said to Albert.
"We're all getting antsy. That may be the secret of
preparing a warrior to do his best. Drag ass while
delivering him to the war and he'll be ready to kill
anything."
     "With a song if need be," contributed Arlene. I'd
found a new Achilles' heel in my best buddy: my
singing voice. Maybe she had a point. I could just see
a pumpkin deliberately smashing itself against a wall
to escape from my perfect pitch. An army of imps
would blow up a barrel of sludge themselves and die
in glop and slop rather than let me start a second
verse. Yeah, Arlene might have something there.
I didn't elaborate on any of this because our fearless
leader chose that moment to join us. All the marines
were awake on the bus. That was what it felt like--a
bus.
     The little voice in the back of my head could be a
real pain in another part of my anatomy. It reminded
me that this situation was strangely similar to a time
in high school when three of us were the only ones
awake in the back of the band bus--I was in the band;
I played clarinet.
     I was interested in a certain girl who happened to
prefer a friend of mine. Her name was Noelle; his
name was Ron. Bummer. But we had a nice three-way
conversation going when our teacher suddenly came
to the back of the bus. Old man Crowder. We called
him Clam Crowder because he looked like something
you'd pull out of a shell, and you wouldn't get a pearl,
either. He just wanted to make sure that nothing was
going on that was against the rules. The darkness of
the spaceship, the kidding around of three friends, the
arrival of the man with the rule book--all that was
enough for me to be unfair to Captain Hidalgo. Time
to snap out of it.
     We no longer lived in a world of high school
football games. Now the pigskin only covered ugly
pink demons who didn't need a rule book to spoil a
day's fun.
     I hadn't been able to stop thinking about Arlene's
potential threat against Hidalgo, that she'd get rid of
him if he got in the way of completing the mission. I'd
never heard her talk like that before. I had known how
daring she could be from the first time I met her,
when she went at it with Gunny Goforth to prove she
was enough of a "man" to wear her high-and-tight. I
knew how smart she could be from Phobos where she
left her initials on the walls for me, a la Arne
Saknussen from Journey to the Center of the Earth, so
I'd realize whose trail I was following.
     Put smart and daring together and you have a
combination that spells either patriot or traitor. I'd
studied enough history to understand that it could be
difficult to tell them apart. When your world is up
against the wall, you have to make the tough choices.
It's priority time. No one ever likes that.
     Even if Hidalgo happened to be a martinet butt-
head he was still our CO. Whatever chances we had
for a successful mission rested on his shoulders.
That's what pissed off the dynamic duo of Arlene and
me. I wanted Hidalgo to be good. I didn't want him to
screw up. I wanted him to be a man I could trust, a
competent man.
     As I sat with my back to the wall, and watched the
captain's profile as he chatted amiably with Arlene, I
wondered what he would do if he realized how she felt
about him. Maybe he'd shrug and just get back to
doing his job. A man who does a good job doesn't
have to worry about his back unless treacherous
skunks are around. There were none of those under
his command.
     "Do we know which Gate to use?" Albert asked
Hidalgo.
     I almost answered. Had to watch that--chain of
command.
     Hidalgo answered: "You remember the director
gave us the access codes and teleportation coordinates
for one of the Gates." He smiled at Arlene and me.
"You heroes need to work out among yourselves our
best route to the right Gate once we land. Command-
er Taylor will get us as close to it as is humanly
possible."
     For a brief second I thought he was being sarcastic
when he called us heroes. Arlene and I could be
telepathic at times like this. The same thought flick-
ered in her eyes. The next second the feeling passed--
for me, at least. Hidalgo had spoken straight from the
heart.
     "You men," he said, and Arlene warmed up at that,
"are the valuable cargo on the Bova." Same as the way
we treated Jill as a case for special handling on the
road to Los Angeles. "When we hit Phobos, I'll need
the best intelligence you can provide."
     "Conditions may have changed," said Arlene.
"Yes. Or they might be the same as when you left.
Whatever they are, you two are better acquainted
with the situation than any other humans alive."
I was glad that Arlene was participating in this
discussion. "When you came over, we were discussing
whether there'd still be air on the different levels."
"We'll wear space suits regardless," said Hidalgo.
"If everything goes according to plan, we have no idea
what's waiting for us on the other side."
     "It's a mission of faith," Albert pointed out, and no
one disagreed. "We must assume those on the other
side will have the means to keep us alive. We can only
pack so many hours of air. If we find ourselves under
pressure we could save some of our own air for what's
on the other side of the Gate."
     "We'll be under pressure even if there's air," Arlene
joked, reminding us about the doom demons.
     "Maybe not," said Albert. "The devils may have
abandoned Phobos Base."
     "Sorry to burst your bubble, Albert," I said. "I'm
surprised Arlene didn't remind you of what we dis-
covered about the Gates. No matter what you take
with you, you wind up naked on the other side. So
you're dead right about having faith in the aliens on
the other side."
     "True," said Arlene. "That's been our experience.
But we'd feel foolish if we didn't prepare and then
found out for the first time that a Gate trip doesn't
mean a strip tease." My buddy had a point.
     "We've been lucky up until now," said Hidalgo.
"We know the enemy has ships going back and forth
between Phobos and Earth. The Bova uses a TACAN
system, beaming out a signal showing them the bear-
ing and distance of the ship. We may be the low-
budget special, energy-wise, but we're not flying
blind."
     I hate flying blind.
"Are they using Deimos for anything?" asked Ar-
lene.
     "Not so far as the director and his team have found
out. You two did such a good job of wrecking it that
they may have given up on it."
     "Outstanding," said Albert. 'Course he was looking
at Arlene instead of me.
     "We've been fortunate not to run into the enemy,
but space is big, isn't it?" The way Hidalgo said that
made me wonder if he was making a joke.
     The next moment he did! "You know, Lieutenant
Riley told me a funny one," he began. I noticed that
he'd been pretty chummy with the radar intercept
officer, but why not? Same rank attracts, especially
between services. I'd hit it off with Jennifer, the PO2.
I rarely called her by her last name.
     Whatever the reason, it was good to see Hidalgo
being human, even if we had to listen to his joke:
"How can you tell the difference between the offense
and defense of a doom demon? Give up? You can't
tell any difference because even when we're kicking
their butts, they're still offensive."
     Discipline and duty pay off. I made myself laugh.
There should be medals for this kind of service.
After the officer joke, Hidalgo left us alone. I was all
set to resume my song, figuring anything would go
down well after that joke.
     Arlene headed me off at the pass. "Albert," she said
quickly, "have you found any good books to read in
the navy's box?"
     "Lots of old books," he said. "The one I've read
twice is Bureaucracy by Ludwig von Mises. He wrote
about freedom when the only threat to it was other
human beings. He said capitalism is good because it
'automatically values every man according to the
services he renders to ... his fellow men.'"
"No friend of socialism, is he?" asked Arlene.
Albert didn't hear the playfulness in her voice. He
gave her a straight answer. "The book was written
during World War II. He uses Hitler and Stalin as his
two perfect models of socialism in practice."
Arlene was up on the subject: "They didn't kill as
many people as the demons have, but not for lack of
trying."
     I contributed my bit. "Back at Hawaii Base I
overheard a female lab tech say what has happened is
good for the human race because the extermination of
billions of people has made the survivors give up their
petty selfishness and band together for the common
good."
     "Jesus Christ!" said Arlene.
I noticed Albert didn't even wince any longer when
she talked that way.
     "Not everyone fights for the same things," said
Albert with a shrug. "We do."
     "Close enough," I agreed.
"Let's have a toast," said Arlene. "Something bet-
ter than water."
     "I have something," said Albert. While he pushed
off in the direction of his secret stash (Paul had given
him some good stuff), Arlene went over to her couch
and dug out a book she'd been reading from the box.
She'd always been very adept at maneuvering in free
fall. I stayed put.
     When she got back, I admitted, "I wish they had
more of those magnetic boots so they could spare me
a pair."
     "The navy doesn't have enough for its own person-
nel," she reminded me. "Just be grateful we have a
skeleton crew or there wouldn't have been accelera-
tion couches for us."
     "Yeah, tough marines don't need luxuries like a
place to park our butts. We don't need internal
organs, either. Just stack us up like cordwood in the
back of the bus."
     "Bus?"
"You know what I mean. What do you have in your
hand?"
     "Cyrano de Bergerac," she announced, holding a
volume up. "I didn't expect to find my favorite play in
the navy's box. Since I don't have Albert's memory, I
want to read you the ideal passage for my toast."
While she flipped the yellowing pages, Albert re-
turned bearing gifts--a soup-bag. His big grin told me
the content of the bag was anything but soup.
"Found it!" chirped Arlene. While Albert prepared
the nipple we would all use to partake, she read to us:
" 'I marched on, all alone, to meet the devils. Over-
head, the moon hung like a gold watch at the fob of
heaven; Till suddenly some Angel rubbed a cloud, as
it might be his handkerchief, across the shining crys-
tal, and--the night came down.'"
     She cleared her throat and said huskily, "May we
bring down the eternal might of space upon the
enemy."
     As I took a sip of Burgundy wine, I felt that we were
the Three Musketeers ready to fight the demon pukes
... in whatever form they might take.



     18

     Fly was right. We were back on Phobos again,
where a zombie once was a man. We didn't see any
zombies this time. I was glad about that. They re-
minded me of Dodd. It's bad enough losing a lover
the normal way without seeing him turn into a
shambling travesty of someone I once loved. In my
nightmares I still heard him calling: "Arlene, you can
be one of us."
     They say you can't go home again. But you can
return to hell if you're crazy and you deliberately take
a one-way ticket to Phobos.
     The crew of the Bova had acquitted themselves
admirably when it was time to deliver their cargo to
the infernal regions. Phobos is so small that it's a real
challenge to a space pilot. Deimos was a tougher port
when it was still in its orbit around Mars. It was an
unseemly rock covered by protrusions that could rip a
ship if you miscalculated the angle or speed. Phobos
was much smoother and rounder--more what we
     Earthers expected of a moon.
"How can they call something only ten miles long a
moon?" Taylor asked as she did the painstaking
maneuvers to rendezvous with Phobos. We were only
a few miles away, matching orbits with the little black
patch blotting out the stars. I counted myself fortu-
nate that the commander had agreed to let me come
up front to watch us "return." Our new pukehead
friends kept joking that Fly and I were coming home.
All the kidding may have made it easier to swing the
invitation for Albert and me. He was as happy as a
kid as we stood together in the hatchway and saw
what the skipper saw.
     There was no need to strap down when the gravity
field of Phobos was virtually nonexistent. The artifi-
cial gravity areas produced by alien engineers had no
effect on the rest of this glorious piece of space rock,
especially not to Commander Taylor who had to do
the stunt piloting.
     Back in the UAC days, her job would have been a
lot easier. The boys on the ground would send up a
shuttle and bring us down without the ship even
needing to land. Now the idea was to keep from being
seen. There didn't seem to be any lights or activities
on this side of Phobos. A good sign. I was hoping that
if the moon hadn't been abandoned we might at least
have reached it during a period when most of the bad
guys were away. I wanted to laugh at the thought of a
skeleton cr