Here’s
To
Forgetfulness
Roger Johns
Kera
nudged me gently with her elbow and pointed toward the screenwall on
the far side of the bedroom.
“I
bet our furlough gets cut short.”
I
looked up from my book and watched as a breaking news story crawled
across the top of the movie she’d been streaming.
The
Center for Computed Tranquility was predicting that, within two hours,
the popularity of Provisional Government No. 87 would fall below that of Proposed
Government No. 88, triggering the need for two battalions of political
combatants to ensure that transitional hostilities would be carried out on an
evenhanded basis.
As
mandated by the Fairness in Governmental Change Act, one unit would be
charged with protecting members of the aspiring government and liquidating
representatives of the current regime. The other would attempt to maintain the
safety of the agents of the present administration while hunting down
operatives of the challenger faction deemed responsible for instigating the
unrest.
As
more details appeared on the screen, a duty summons scrolled through my
left visual field. I looked at Kera and arched a questioning eyebrow. She nodded,
giving me a lopsided smile. She was being called in, as well.
The
constitution specified that both sides in the coming changeover attempt
had to be staffed with equivalent forces, so a lot of elaborate calculations went
into making certain that opposing groups were as evenly matched as possible. And
because this meant Kera and I could end up in rival units, assignments were not
disclosed until all combatants were put into a pre-battle fugue state in order
to keep personal affinities from compromising the outcome.
Kera
stopped the movie and switched on the bedside light, then rolled onto
her belly. She looked up at me, disappointment clear on her face.
“This
is unfortunate. Just when we were…” She narrowed her eyes, studying
the inflamed area where the tubule from my henbane injector fed into my left
internal carotid. “That looks like it’s getting worse. Did you report it?”
I
shook my head. After Kera and I had become too physically involved to
think about anything beyond the rare ecstasy of each other’s unarmored bodies
and unbridled passions, mundane chores like filing a fitness-for-duty update had
slipped my mind.
“I
forgot and, for that, I blame you.”
A
wistful smile settled on her face. “Here’s to forgetfulness.”
She
pretended to raise a toast, then slipped from the bed and strode to
her equipment locker and began checklisting her way through the encasement
protocol for her battle armor.
I
examined the lesion in the mirror of my own locker. It was a localized
inflammation around the insertion site of the transdermal feeder tube. And Kera
was right. It was a bit redder, but it didn’t look serious. I shrugged
my shoulders and bobbled my head from side to side. My neck muscles felt
slightly stiff, but not enough to impede my ability to fight. Technically, I
should have reported it because such things were factored into unit parity estimates,
but doing so now, right after a duty summons, would get me tagged as a shirker—something
no one in my line of work could afford to have in their record. So, I slapped an
antibiotic patch on it, then started gearing up. I’d look at it again, after
this call-out was over.
From
across the room, I heard a pneumatic hiss as Kera topped off the
propellant in the injectors nested in the hollows above her clavicles. Because
political warfare was a nearly continuous process, licensed fighters like Kera
and I were required by law to remain conflict-capable at all times. To that
end, we were equipped with a pair of readiness injectors. One delivered a
continuous trickle of synthetic henbane, and the other pumped a precisely
calibrated dose of the inhibitor.
Henbane,
alone, provoked the uncontainable rage that guaranteed we all fought
to the limits of our ability, but it was slow to take effect and quick to
metabolize, so serum concentrations had to be maintained at battle-ready levels.
The inhibitor held the fury in check during our off-duty hours, but just barely,
and once its injector was shut off, the hunger for violence was no more than
two heartbeats away.
*
At
the deployment terminal, Kera and I learned we had been assigned to adjacent
troop transports for the trip into the governance district. The faint smell of
ozone and plasma leakage coming from engines of the fleet of vehicles was
energizing. Cradling her helmet in the crook of her left arm, she called back
to me as she headed for her boarding queue. Our eyes met and she grinned, and
then she ran the tip of her tongue along her upper lip, sending a spasm of
desire rippling through me. Maybe this would be a brief skirmish and we could
restart our holiday. Her free hand came up in a fluttery wave.
Before
I could finish raising my hand to return the gesture, the
fugue-state inducers attached behind our ears were remotely activated, triggering
the flow of transcranial current that caused my memories of Kera scatter and
wink out like fragments of a fading dream. The buzz of conversation briefly
stopped as everyone in the staging area gaped at the sea of suddenly unfamiliar
faces around them. I stared at my half-raised hand, wondering who I’d wanted to
wave to.
Minutes
later, my transport lurched skyward and the Kill Captain led us
through the fighter’s canticle, rhapsodizing the savagery of battle as we
chorused our response: “Save us from the shame of mercy asked or mercy given.”
At
the engagement frontier, I toggled the latch on my helmet causing the
padding to swell, snugging it around my shaved head, and a sequence of tones
counted me down to ready. The instant my boots hit the ground, I cut the flow
of the henbane inhibitor and the urge to annihilate rose inside me with
electrifying speed.
My
faceplate’s augmented reality overlay showed the location and movement
of my squad’s quarry—a trio of fleeing bureaucrats who had abandoned their
disabled flier and gone on the run. We rounded the corner of the nearest
building, in hot pursuit, as a team of opposing fighters assumed a protective
formation around the runners.
To
avoid innocent casualties, beam and projectile weapons were prohibited
inside the district, so we closed the distance and hand-to-hand combat commenced.
As
the fighting continued, I could feel the inflammation in my neck getting
worse. At some point, the muscle stiffness began to hinder my ability to turn
my head and, shortly after that, the swelling from the infection choked off my
henbane delivery duct, causing my rage to subside and my reflexes to slow.
Sensing vulnerability, my opponent unleashed a staggering uppercut that cracked
my helmet seals and tore the fugue-state inducers away from my scalp, allowing unredacted
memory to come flooding back.
Through
her faceplate I recognized Kera. Her next blow forced me to my
knees. She was so beautiful as she waded into me with her shining eyes and her
blood-smeared teeth, so glorious in the bravura of her blind, icy rage. With an
explosive kick, she split the lateral seams of my torso casing, exposing my
upper body, then she drove her arms forward, impaling me with her barbed,
serrated gauntlet blades.
“I
love you,” I whispered, shuddering with agony, privileged to gratify
her towering bloodlust as she roared her victory and then raised me high in a
salutation to her vanquished foe.
END
