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“The brass at Division is throwing fits over Detroit, Sergeant. The civvies are up in arms. They’re still putting out the fires, you know. That rocket took out twelve million adjusted dollars of government property, and thirty-seven civilians. You’re out of your mind if you think the battalion can sweep that one under the carpet.”
I feel like crying for the first time in many years, and there’s nobody in the room to witness it, so I give in to the urge and let the tears come freely.
How much can one person push their luck? I wonder. She’s survived a lot of dangerous missions, collected a Medal of Honor along the way, and never even thought about quitting, even when she had full retirement offered to her on a silver platter. They blow off half her leg, and she shrugs and goes back to work a few weeks later. This is her job, and she will do it until they shoot something off the medics can’t replace.
We look at each other across the table. Something strange has happened since Friday. She’s still my sergeant, and I’m still her private, but somehow our relationship has changed. We’re still as far apart in rank and position as we were before we dropped into Detroit, but on a certain level, we’re equals. In a way, I feel closer to her than to anyone else, even Halley.
It feels weird to see my civilian stuff again. It’s my last tangible connection to my old life. One of the sets is the ensemble I wore when I went to see my father—a half-sleeved shirt, a pair of jeans made out of synthetic cotton, and a thin hooded jacket in inoffensive gray. This is flimsy stuff that costs just a few dollars to produce, rags for the peasantry. When I try out my old clothes, I suddenly feel inferior, unworthy, out of place. In a way, I’m back to being nobody: no longer a TA trooper, and not yet in the navy.
She looks a lot more feminine this way, and the strands of hair framing her face greatly soften her chiseled features. She’s an attractive woman, and if she wore a set of glasses, she could pass for a librarian instead of a soldier, if she wore clothes loose enough to conceal her rock-hard warrior build.
It’s a bit weird to think of her as Briana instead of Sergeant Fallon. A week ago, addressing her by that name would have been inappropriate chumminess and borderline insubordination. Now we’re just two people, no longer bound by the complex rules dictated by military tradition and protocol.
My squad mates are the closest thing I’ve ever had to siblings, and if I have one regret about jumping ship and joining the navy, it’s giving up my new circle of friends.
I don’t want to rely on a MilNet message, where she can’t see my face or hear my voice, to explain why I blew up a building with maybe hundreds of people in it just to save my own life. I’m still not entirely sure I can justify it to myself.
I’ve seen pictures of Earth taken from space, but a mere image doesn’t come close to conveying the sheer size and majesty of the planet.
I watch as she walks through the hatch and into the hallway beyond. There’s definitely nothing wrong with the way her backside looks in a flight suit.
The idea of rendering a planet uninhabitable just to pry off a competing species seems ludicrous, but after my experience in Detroit, I know the military is going to do precisely that.
We embrace one last time, ignoring the looks from passing crew members. Halley kisses me, and then gently pushes me away with the palm of her hand against my chest.
