h 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 fiancÙ.
     "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