ntists are around to
observe that," I said, pointing. A piece of zombie
brain continued to flop around on the floor with a life
of its own. I'd noticed this phenomenon before. It
seemed to apply only to the better rank of zombies,
the ones with a shred of initiative left.
     "She was a fast one," said Arlene, nodding at the
woman we didn't save. "If I were wearing my boots,
I'd grind this to pulp," she sneered at the blue-green
brain matter that seemed to be trying to crawl away.
She didn't step on it. Instead, she wasted ammo.
I could relate. Quick as that, we were both back in
killing mode. Then we heard another scream--one
we both recognized right away. Jill!



     8

     "We've got to save her, Fly!"
     Arlene had recognized our kid, too. We'd both
started thinking about Jill that way--as our responsi-
bility. We hadn't gone through all this crap just to let
her die now.
     "Come on!" I shouted and headed toward the
sound.
     When we returned to the corridor, another zombie
was waiting for us, a male. This was one of the
talkative ones. He didn't babble about the Gateways
and the invasion. Instead, he kept repeating, "Write it
over and resubmit." I didn't give him a chance to
repeat his mantra. Arlene had our only gun, but I
was angry at not having been in time to save the
woman in the next room. Sometimes I like to get
personal.
     I felt the skin crawl between my shoulders as I hit
the blue-gray face with my right fist. Marines were not
meant to touch this reeking leather that once was
human skin, but I was too angry to care. The sound
of the nose cracking did my soul a world of good.
Unlike Arlene's prey, this one was slow. I could
have moved a lot slower, but adrenaline surged
through me as I did something I'd never done to any
of these bozos: I gave it the old one-two with straight
fists. No karate, no fancy side kicks, no special
training. I just pummeled that damned face in a
sincere effort to send it straight back to hell, where
it belonged.
     "Fly!" Arlene was right behind me.
"Be with you in a second," I said.
     "What about Jill?"
Shit. How could I have been sidetracked so easily?
There are certain drawbacks to being a natural warri-
or. "Take it," I yelled, resuming the twenty-yard
dash--thirty? forty?--to save Jill. I measured dis-
tance in kill-ometers. I didn't bother looking back as I
heard the solid, satisfying sound of Arlene putting a
round in the zombie's head.
     Arlene stays in good shape. I never slowed down,
but suddenly she was running right beside me. We
found a dead guard slumped against the wall. Recent
kill. Blood still trickling down his arm onto his M1.
Dumb-ass zombies didn't relieve him of his satisfac-
tion. I grabbed the weapon without slowing down,
and then Arlene and I slammed through a pair of
unlocked doors, ready for anything.
     Anything consisted of a zombie ripping open a
sawbones with the man's own surgical instruments. I
fired off six rounds of .30-06 little round scalpels that
opened up the zombie a lot more completely than
he'd managed to do to the doctor.
     "I can save him," said Arlene, noticing the conve-
nient medikit at the same time I did. In Kefiristan,
she'd had plenty of experience treating abdominal
wounds. Before I could say diddly, she was on her
knees, scooping up the medical guy's intestines and
shoveling them back into the patient. Fortunately, the
guy had passed out; and just as fortunately Arlene was
really good at handling slippery things.
     Jill was my responsibility--if it wasn't already too
late to save her. As if on cue, she screamed again. I
gave a silent prayer of thanks to Sister Beatrice, the
toughest nun I'd had back in school. She always said
the only prayers that are answered are the ones you
say when you truly want to help someone else.
I humped. I hurried. I tried my damnedest to
fly. ...
     Jill was still alive when I got to her. I almost tripped
over the head of Dr. Ackerman, staring up at me with
a really surprised expression. I did slip in the blood,
and dropped the M1 as I careened right into the back
of the biggest freakin' zombie I'd ever seen. The creep
had cornered Jill and was trying to get at her with a
blasted meat cleaver. She was holding him off with a
metal chair, like a lion tamer. She'd taken shelter in a
tight corner, which gave her an advantage: he couldn't
swing the cleaver in a full arc, and she was able to
avoid him by sidestepping the blade.
     I slammed hard into the back of her lion, and he fell
forward. Jill jumped out of the way and shouted,
"Fly!" That was all, just my name, but she crammed
so much gratitude into that one syllable she made me
feel like the cavalry, Superman, and Zorro all rolled
into one.
     "Run!" I shouted, now that she had a clear escape
route.
     "No way!"
The brat liked giving me lip. It was hard to be mad
at her though, because she was trying to retrieve the
weapon from the floor. The big, hulking zombie was
slow, but he didn't seem interested in giving us all the
time in the world.
     Jill leveled the M-1 at our problem and pulled the
trigger. Nada. Either Jill was doing something wrong
or the gun had jammed. Zombie was still fixated on
her, even though I was behind him again. Jill looked
at me with a hurt-little-girl expression as if to say I
gave up a perfectly good metal chair for a gun that
doesn't fire?
     The bad guy still had his cleaver, and he had plenty
of elbow room now, so he could swing the thing and
add Jill's head to his collection. It pissed me off that
all my heroics had only made Jill's situation worse. I
did what I could. The big hulk was standing with his
feet just far enough apart so that I was able to kick
him in the groin. I wished I had on my combat boots
instead of sneakers. I wished he were alive, as the
dead ones are only mildly bothered by that kind of
action. But it was the best I could manage.
     The big bearded mother turned his head. That was
all Jill needed. She held the barrel in both hands and
swung the weapon so fair and true that it was worthy
of the World Series. The wooden stock cracked
against the zombie's neck. He was thrown off-balance.
As he tried to turn his head, I heard a snap: Jill had
done something bad to his old neck bone. Good girl!
The zombie fell to his knees. Before he could get
out of his crouch I karate-chopped the back of his
neck. No time to play George Foreman now. So far,
Jill and I had merely slowed him down. Time for
something more permanent.
     Jill had the same idea. No sooner did I body-slam
the hulk into a prone position than she yanked the
cleaver away from him and started swinging it at his
head.
     "Hey, watch it!" I shouted. "You almost hit me."
"Sorry," she said, almost as a gasp. But she kept
swinging that wicked blade at the peeling, rotten flesh
around the zombie's neck and head. I wasn't about to
tell her she didn't have the strength to finish the job.
The zombie wasn't getting up, and I intended to make
sure it stayed down.
     As I retrieved the M1, I realized that no other
zombies were showing up to bother us. There was
something eerie about Doc Ackerman's head on the
floor, staring at us. (A marine isn't supposed to use a
word like "eerie," but it was freakin' eerie, man.)
I picked up the M1. So it had jammed for Jill. So
she'd used it as a club. It's not like she'd smashed it
against a tree. I cleared the bolt. What the hell, we'd
give it another try.
     "Excuse me," I said to Jill, busily trying to return
the favor to the great decapitator. The meat cleaver
was a little dull. And Jill just didn't have the necessary
body mass. She offered me her hatchet. I declined.
I fired the M1 once, point-blank. The head came
apart like a ripe cantaloupe. The blood that poured
out was a brand-new color on me.
     "The gun jammed," she insisted.
"I know."
     "I didn't do anything wrong with it!"
"I'm not saying you did. Knocking the gun around
probably unjammed it."
     "Well, I just want you to know it wasn't my fault
that I couldn't fire it."
     There were times when Jill went out of her way to
remind me she was a teenager. I really wasn't in the
mood for her defensiveness just then. God knew how
many more zombies were roaming the installation.
We had to get back to Arlene. And I was worried
about Albert. We'd become like a family.
     At some moment in my military career I'd become
used to the stench of death. I could probably thank
the Scythe of Glory and their Shining Path buddies
for that. But I would never get used to the sour-lemon
zombie odor; and the strongest whiff of it I'd had in a
very long time scorched my nostrils as the head of the
dead zombie leaked at my feet.
     When I threw up, I knew the vacation was over.
I am Ken. I once was part of a family. They're all
dead now. I once took long walks every day and rode a
bicycle. I swam. I ate food off plates and drank wine. I
sang. I made love.
     Now I am a cybermummy. A Ken doll. They have
taken off the bandages and removed some of the
objects from my flesh, but I feel that the aliens have
made me less than human. Dr. Ackerman thought the
opposite; but I don't feel more than human. Dr.
Williams, the director, says they will bring me back to
normal, but I don't believe him. The director puts
nothing above the importance of winning the war. I
am more useful to him now where I am, remaining
what I am. The medical team tries to keep its findings
from me, but I can tap into all their computer
systems.
     They say they can overcome my physical weakness
quite easily. They can stop feeding me intravenously
and slowly acclimate my system to regular food again.
Simple brain surgery would restore full mobility, but
there is a risk--not to me but to their project. The
alien biotech in my head could be altered or lost in the
course of getting me back to normal. So they take
their time.
     Meanwhile, I am plugged into the computers and
confined to my bed, except when they risk placing me
in a motorized wheelchair. I do not complain about
this. I do not tell Jill when she comes to visit me. She's
my most frequent visitor. I don't complain to Flynn
or Arlene or Albert when they check up on me. These
are the people who saved me. They care about me. I
see no reason to make them worry.
     Keeping my own counsel is a trick I learned when I
was very young. I don't tell anyone how much I want
to be the man I was. My favorite uncle used to take his
family to Hawaii for vacations. He'd tell us all about
it when he visited, and I wanted so much to come
here. The irony is that here may be one of the last
places on Earth where things are still as he remem-
bered, and I can't go out and see them while there is
still time.
     I access all that I can on Hawaii. The screen flickers
and tells me that Hawaii is a group of islands stretch-
ing for over three hundred miles in the middle of
the Pacific Ocean. I bring up information on how it
was discovered by Europeans; and then I read how
it became the fiftieth state of the United States.
I remember my uncle saying the most popular fish
here is difficult to spell, and I find an entry for it,
and I realize my uncle was an honest man:
     humumunukunukuapuaa. I read all about King Ka-
mehameha and envy how he could get around the
islands so much more easily than I ...
     I grow tired of feeling sorry for myself. I don't mind
being useful. I'm not certain that's the same thing as
doing one's duty, but I don't really care. This could be
the last stand of the human race. But I hate the lies.
All the military is good at doing in a crisis is lying. I
would never talk about this with brave soldiers. They
don't want to hear about it. There is no point in
discussing it with cynical senior officers, especially
those who have decided to use me without being
honest about their intent.
     I like my new friends. They have honor. They look
out on the world with a clean vision that no amount
of dirt or blood can obstruct. They think they are
fighting for individualism. For freedom. If the human
race survives, they will face a serious disappointment.
I have accessed the files. There are plans.
     Perhaps I am closer to the future than those who
rescued me. I am trapped inside myself. Maybe some-
thing deep inside me died when I was in the clutches
of the invaders. Before they altered me, I would have
been horrified to discover human plans for a New
Eugenics to build the future. This is not a plan of the
human collaborators. The traitors have their own
genetic plans for "improving" that part of humanity
the new masters will allow to survive.
     The New Eugenics is a plan devised by our side.
The good guys. The ones fighting the invaders. Who
knows? Maybe they will deliberately create more
computer adjuncts like me! It's a dead certainty that
they will begin making breeding decisions for the
survivors on our side. Warriors like Flynn and Arlene
will be spared this nonsense. They were born to die in
battle. They are too valuable to use in non-military
operations. I have accessed plans for them. They
don't know it yet, but their time on Earth is limited.
Very few people have their skill as space warriors.
Flynn is Flash Gordon. Who is Arlene? Barbarella?
Marines Taggart and Sanders will follow orders
even when it involves facing hundred-to-one odds
and near-certain death. I'd like to imagine some
bureaucrat, human or otherwise, telling them with
whom they should go to bed and how many children
they are expected to have. They will be spared this
future Earth that I believe to be inevitable, no matter
which side wins. Times of crisis are made in hell--
and made for the kind of man who has a plan for
everything.
     Jill and I are to remain on Earth! If Albert is
fortunate, he will go with Fly and Arlene. He is too
religious a man to stay. Where would he turn when he
found out there's no side for him? Would he try to
return to Utah? He doesn't know about Utah yet.
He'll probably find out today.
     They have a lot to cover today. The service for
Ackerman and his staff was held this morning. I
watched it on the monitor. So much has happened
since yesterday.
     First, the admiral will pretend there was a possibili-
ty of sabotage even though the video recordings show
that the killings were the result of simple carelessness
on the part of one of Ackerman's staff. Plain incompe-
tence led to the holocaust. Those tapes remain classi-
fied, naturally. The possibility of a traitor does more
for gung-ho morale than an admission of incompe-
tence. I can hardly fault our new leaders for being
students of history.
     Besides, my friends will be receiving a big dose of
declassified material relevant to their next mission.
They shouldn't be greedy for too much declassified
material all at once. It causes indigestion. Besides,
their marine colonel will be giving them a nice
dessert.
     I should have a better attitude about this. The other
side is so terrible that we should forgive our own
shortcomings. Isn't that what they said when they
were fighting Hitler? The doom demons, as Jill likes
to call them, are perfect enemies. In the name of
fighting them, we can do anything we want. No, it
isn't fair to say we want to do terrible things. We will
win by any means necessary, as Malcolm X used to
say.



     9

     By the time I joined Fly and Jill, I could
breathe easy again. It was Fly and Jill. He saved her. I
knew the big lug would. There was no way I could
have left a man bleeding to death when I had the
training to save him.
     Of course, the navy's security forces were swarming
everywhere by then. I didn't mind that two of the first
of Kimmel's finest were Mark Stanfill and Jim Ivey,
my poker playing buddies (Fly wasn't in our league).
When everything's gone to hell in a hand basket,
personal ID can make the crucial difference in wheth-
er somebody panics and pulls the trigger. Ackerman's
facilities had been turned into a zombie cafeteria, and
that was enough to make anyone panic.
     Fly, Jill, and I were hustled into a decontamination
chamber. After all the contact we'd had with these
creatures I almost laughed at precautions this late in
the game. Then again, I shouldn't criticize Hawaii
Base for being thorough. It would be a kick in the ass
if we defeated the enemy only to succumb to diseases
already coursing through our bloodstreams.
     In the evening, I saw Albert at dinner. He was a
worse poker player than Fly because he couldn't keep
emotions from marching across his face.
     "Arlene, are you all right?" he asked, noticing Jill's
smile a second later. "Are all of you okay?" he added.
"We're fine," Fly assured him, grinning.
     "We needed the practice," Jill added.
"Stop giving him a hard time," I told the other two.
"Don't mind these kill-crazy kids, Albert."
     "Hey!" Fly protested, still smiling.
"Seriously, Albert, after all we've done together,
this was no big deal." I noticed that other tables
frequently occupied by now were only half full. The
death toll hadn't been that high, considering the
surprise element. All the zombies were accounted for,
and wasted. (At least Ackerman kept good records.)
The only explanation for the sparse crowd was that a
number of our comrades had been put off their food
by a first sloppy encounter with the drool ghouls. So
we could have seconds if we wanted.
     Albert sighed and joined us. The tables were set up
cafeteria-style, and our little group tended to gravitate
together. We were so taken with Ken that he'd proba-
bly belong to our little supper club if he ever ate solids
again.
     "I didn't hear about the zombies until I returned,"
he said almost apologetically.
     "How was town?" asked Jill.
"I was shopping." Those innocuous words came
out of Albert freighted with an extra meaning. I
wasn't the only one who heard it.
     We ate our Salisbury steaks in silence. I finished
and started to get up with the intention of depositing
my tray in the proper receptacle. I figured my figure
didn't really need the extra calories of seconds, after
all. Albert was only starting to eat, but he abandoned
his food. And Albert is a growing boy.
     "Do you mind if I walk with you?" he asked. The
style was definitely not him. I couldn't help noticing
Jill's eyes burning into him. She sensed something
was up. Fly was busy paying close attention to his
pineapple dessert.
     "Sure," I said. For one moment I let wishful
thinking override the rational part of my brain. I
wanted to believe that Albert had changed his mind
about our sleeping together. I'd forgotten that where
this big, wonderful guy was concerned, the most
important aspect of sleeping together was the dream-
ing that went along with it--and the promises.
I don't know what surprised me more. That he'd
come up with a ring during his shopping expedition,
or that he put it to me with such direct simplicity:
"Arlene, will you marry me?"
     I'd opened the door to this when I made a play for
him. If I had a half a brain, I'd have realized what my
interest would mean to a man of this caliber.
We stood together next to a perfect facsimile of a
World War II era poster proclaiming, "Loose lips sink
ships." He watched me closely, especially my mouth,
waiting for words promising his own personal salva-
tion or damnation. I'd have been happier if he'd
looked away. Suddenly I wasn't as brave as I thought I
was.
     "Albert." I only got the one word out. His expres-
sion spoke volumes. He'd certainly wrestled with all
the problems haunting me. I wouldn't even insult him
by bringing them up.
     "That ring . . ." he began.
"It's beautiful, but I couldn't dream of accepting it
until... I mean, I need to think ..."
     It was like one of those comedies where the charac-
ters talk at cross-purposes. Who would think a simple
gold band could present a greater challenge than
escaping from the Disney Tower?
"I'd like you to keep it," he said. "You don't have to
think of it as an engagement ring, or anything you
don't want it to be. I don't expect you to wear it, if
you're not sure. Arlene, you mean so much to me that
when you offered what I couldn't accept, I had to
respond in my own way. I had to let you know how I
feel."
     Reaching out to take his hand was the easiest thing
in the world, until I felt the slight tremor in his palm.
It took all my courage to gaze into his eyes and say, "I
can't tell you now. You must understand."
     "Of course I do."
"Thank you," 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 minut