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The wind smelled of burning and decay.
I flew through war-stained skies, the air fouled by columns of greasy black smoke rising to the heavens. Beneath the steel-gray span of my right wing there slid the artillery-shattered remains of some nameless forest. Beneath my left stretched a vast grassy plain, scorched and littered with the smoldering detritus of war.
The attack came without warning. A pair of AH-64 Apaches suddenly popped-up from their places of concealment behind folds in the scarred terrain beneath me, chain guns yammering as they caught me in a merciless crossfire. I howled as the high-explosive shells sleeted into me, blasting huge holes in the delicate vanes of my wings. Control destroyed, I found myself spiraling helplessly down toward the ground.
I hit hard, the impact shredding turf and sending gouts of the plain's topsoil in all directions. A few awful moments as I fought to drag breath back into stunned lungs, then I wobbled to my feet and scanned the skies, waiting for the Apaches to close for the kill. But they had vanished.
Then I heard the reason why. A purring, chittering noise overlaid by a breathless whine of power came to my ears, and closed an icy fist of fear about my heart. The first M1A2 rounded a small hill moments later, so close that I was able to pounce upon the tank before it could bring its main weaponry to bear.
Talons screeched against superhard Chobham armor as the 68-ton behemoth snarled and bucked beneath me like some enraged beast, its tracks throwing grass and soil in vast waves as it fought to free itself from my grip. Desperately I breathed azure flame down upon the machine, dull camouflage paint blackening and peeling away to reveal gleaming metal. The tank responded by firing an antipersonnel charge skyward, to burst a moment later and rain flaming white phosphorus down upon my back. I hissed in pain as I felt it eating its way into my torn wings but clung grimly, my talons searching for a way to tear out the machine's mechanical life. . . .
. . . .I never saw the second tank. Suddenly something like the fist of God slammed into my side, punching through armor like so much wet cardboard. The impact sent me tumbling across the plain, to finally slide to a halt amid scorched, blood-slicked grass.
Waves of agony surged through me. I tried to rise, but could not get my hindquarters to respond. An icy chill began to creep into my bones as I felt my life running out the gaping hole in my side. Through a red haze I saw my scorched and scarred adversary reorient itself and begin to turn. The tank brought its main armament to bear, the 120mm Oerlikon smoothbore settling with slow, deliberate care to aim right between my eyes. . . .
FLASH.
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My eyes snapped open to stare at an unfamiliar ceiling as my hands scrabbled frantically for a weapon. Then I blinked, groaned, and sagged back down upon the sweat soaked sheets. I laid there, motionless as my pulse slowed to something approaching sanity, then slowly got up and sat on the edge of the bed. I stared down at the slightly-worn hotel room carpet, my elbows on my knees, my fingers tangled in my hair.
Just a nightmare.
Finally I straightened, my eyes flicking to the bedside clock. At least two hours till dawn. I sighed, then lurched to my feet and trudged into the bathroom. I relieved myself, then turned to the sink, the tile floor icy beneath my bare feet as I filled the basin with steaming-hot water. I splashed my face several times, then propped my hands on the edge of the sink and stared at my dripping image in the mirror.
A nightmare, or a warning?
A corner of my image's mouth quirked upwards sardonically. As if I needed warning. I shook my head and sighed, then reached for a towel.
There was no way in hell I'd ever get back to sleep, so I spent the remainder of the night at a 24-hour diner several miles up the road, staring into a cup of coffee and wishing for something stronger. The thin grey light of a Georgia winter dawn found me back in the motel lobby, downing still more java and waiting for the crew to come trudging in.
They finally did, with the shaggy bulk of Austin leading the bedraggled pack. None of us, flight crew or support, felt particularly chipper after arriving well after midnight, but Austin and Company had been stuck with the job of fitting a 92-foot wide aircraft into a 95-foot hangar long after the rest of us had left to find someplace to sack out.
Without so much as a glance at me, Austin made a beeline for the coffee urn, pouring himself a large Styrofoam cup's worth of the bitter brew. Wordlessly he plunked down in the seat opposite me, and proceeded to down most of the cup's scalding contents before even acknowledging my presence.
I felt the corner of my mouth curving up into a sympathetic smile. "That bad, huh?"
Austin snorted, then shook his head tiredly. "Shee-it, Sarge. Glad there wasn't another coat of paint on those hangar walls, else we'd never've gotten that momma in there." He slugged back some more coffee. "We didn't get to the motel till around 0400, and now we gotta go right back out again."
"Really? I thought the contractor was going to handle the fuel cell inspection."
"They are," Austin sighed, "but their specs are out of date for our planes. I brought the updates with me, but I gotta walk through 'em with the guys that're gonna do the work." He started to sip his coffee again, realized he'd emptied his cup, and made a quick detour to the urn for another load. "Sarge, as soon's I'm sure them guys know which end's up I'm gonna release my crew to get some more shut-eye. That okay?"
I nodded. "Fine with me, Austin. How long do you think this'll take?"
Austin rubbed his bristly jaw with a work-scarred hand. "Well, assumin' these guys can tell up from down and there's nothin' wrong with the fuel cells, I'd say we'll be done by tomorrow evening."
"Good." I smiled, a trifle grimly. "That gives me time to run some errands."
I glanced once more at the scrap of paper, then at the house. It was a modest little suburban split-level, built sometime within the last ten years and nestled amongst other, similar homes in a quiet neighborhood. I experienced a stab of envy as I studied it, then snorted quietly as I realized the absurdity of the emotion.
I locked the car and trudged up the walk, turning the collar of my coat up against the raw winter wind. There was a buzzer by the door so I pressed it, and a few moments later the door opened. The woman's eyes widened as she spotted me, her face breaking out into the sunny smile that I remembered so well. "Michael! What the hell are you doing here?"
I smiled slightly in return, my eyes measuring the lines in her face, the splashes of grey in her honey-colored hair. "Passing through. Thought I'd drop in and visit." I paused. "May I come in?"
"What? Oh! Sure! Come on in!" Still smiling, she stepped to one side, then turned to call into the house. "Tom? Come on out here and see who's come to visit!" She then led me toward the living room sofa situated in front of their fireplace. I sat, my eyes quickly taking in the small fire burning upon the hearth, the various pictures upon the walls and mantelpiece, the modest furniture while she found a seat opposite me, her eyes studying me. "How long's it been this time? Three years? What're you doing these days?"
"Roughly three years. Same old stuff."
She grimaced. "You still doing that spy crap? When're you going to get tired of that junk and get yourself a real job?"
I felt a twinge of irritation, but was saved a reply when a thin young man wandered into the room. "Who is it, Mickey? Oh. Hello, Mike." Tom smiled from near the kitchen entranceway, but as usual his eyes were wary of me.
I ignored him after a curt nod, for the real reason for my visit came running into the room behind Tom in a flurry of stubby legs at that moment, to slam to a halt as their owner caught sight of me, huge blue eyes growing wide and solemn.
"Oh, look who's here!" Mickey quickly moved forward to scoop the young child up into her arms, then turned to show her to me. "Anna, this is your Uncle Mike! Would you like to say hello to him?"
Anna didn't reply, simply continued to gaze at me soberly, seeming to study me with all her soul. Within myself, a conviction grew.
"Anna?" Mickey glanced curiously at her daughter, giving her a little bounce to get her attention, but Anna's eyes remained fixed on me. "That's odd," my sister smiled, embarrassed "most of the time I can't get her to shut up."
Mickey set Anna down, but the toddler remained where she was, watching me. Sensing something, my sister frowned, but I gave her a slight smile to reassure her. Turning, I reached into the bag I'd brought with me and pulled out a toy. "I thought she'd like this. Picked it up in the Caribbean."
"Oh!" Mickey snatched the toy out of my hand with a nervous motion and showed it to her silent daughter. "Look, Anna, it's a puppet! Do you know what this looks like? It looks just like a shark! Oh, look at all those teeth!" Making mock-growling noises, my sister used the hand-puppet to make little grabbing motions at her daughter's nose. Anna giggled, distracted at last, and hugged the plushy toy to her cheek.
Things seemed to loosen up a little after that. Mickey played with Anna a little more while Tom quietly went into the kitchen to make coffee. Once the coffee was served, my sister and I sat around awhile and talked about this and that while Tom kept Anna entertained.
As usual, I kept quiet except for small encouraging noises while Mickey talked, listening to what was behind the words rather than the words themselves. Surreptitiously I studied my sister as she went on about the weather, her work, all the little worries that so fascinate civilians, confirming to myself what I already knew.
My sister was human, so purely so that I found myself uncomfortable in her presence. But then, I'd known that for as long as I could remember. I shook my head slightly in a vain effort to rid myself of bitter memories.
The feeling of something gently gripping my right leg wrenched me out of my reverie. I looked down to see Anna there, hugging my calf and staring into my face with a very un-childlike intensity.
"Aw, isn't that cute? I think she likes you."
I made polite noises to my sister, and didn't tell her my suspicions that neither like nor dislike had anything to do with it. I looked back at my niece for an interminable time, then smiled at her. She responded with a small smile of her own, then shyly hid her face against my trouser leg.
I nodded to myself, then started as if I had just remembered something. With an abrupt motion I glanced at my watch. "Well, I'm afraid I'm going to have to get back to the airport. Maybe we can have lunch tomorrow?"
My sister's face fell, but she quickly recovered. "Well, of course. I'm sorry if we made you late for something."
"No, not too late." I smiled wryly as I stood. "Not yet, anyway." We made arrangements, then I got out of there as quickly as I could, leaving my sister standing in the doorway, looking slightly forlorn as she waved goodbye.
For a house less than ten years old, the window latch was insultingly simple. I discarded the strip of stiff plastic I'd slipped the catch with, then carefully worked the window open the handful of inches that I needed. A moment of concentration, an instant of twisting pain and pressure, then I was springing upwards onto the sill and squeezing through the now-huge gap.
I paused on the inner sill to listen to the sounds of the slumbering household, but heard no reaction to my invasion. I then darted forward, flitting across the dimly-lit room to perch upon the rail of the crib that was the room's sole piece of furniture.
Anna was awake, and staring up at me.
I waited, cringing inwardly, for the screech of terror that any human child would make when she realized what was sitting above her, a howl that would tell me that both my hopes and my fears had been for nothing.
There was indeed a cry, but of joy, not fear. Stunned, I didn't react as small hands still thick with baby fat reached to lift me down from my perch, placing me gently if clumsily onto the blankets. She began to pet me, and I hurriedly folded my spines down flat as her eyes drank in my gleaming form, a happy gurgling noise pouring from her lips as her chubby little hands patted at my armored length. I studied her in turn, with a mixture of satisfaction and sadness, wondering just how I was going to handle this new problem.
The decision was taken out of my hands when I realized that a glow no human eye would ever see was beginning to emanate from the child. Shocked, I watched that aura begin to grow brighter; slowly at first, then more swiftly, its dull crimson hue beginning to slide rapidly up the spectrum, almost eye-hurtingly bright now as it rose past sapphire and reached for the blue-black of purest power.
No! I grabbed at that glow with my own power, wrestled with it, frantically bound it with skein upon skein of blue-black filigree, wrapped it, damped it, smothered it.
The glow about the little body guttered, then slowly faded to darkness. I continued to weave pattern after pattern about her, Anna's eyelids drooping sleepily as my spells began to take effect.
"I'm sorry, little one, but this is the way it must be, if I am to keep you safe." I sighed quietly, studying the now-slumbering child. "Perhaps someday you will find it in your heart to forgive me. I know that I will never forgive myself."
I gazed upon her inert form for a moment more, allowed myself the luxury of running my talons through her fine golden hair, then set about weaving one last pattern. One of forgetfulness. I would not have her dreams haunted by those strange longings that had tormented me in the days of my own youth.
Another moment of silent study, another moment of quiet regret, then the door latch rattled softly. Instantly I was out of the crib and darting behind the window drapes as the bedroom door slowly swung open.
"Anna?" A pause, then I heard my sister moving to the crib to check on her daughter. There was a rustling of cloth as Mickey pulled the blankets back over the sleeping child, then she left the room, the door closing with a quiet click as I wormed my way back out the window.
Goodbye, Anna. . . .