a Tomorrow Series fanfic
by Technomad
Chapter One: Return to Hell.
I didn't want to go back.
It wasn't like other things, where you may decide that giving a party the flick, or not seeing a movie, is what you feel like doing at that particular time. "Not wanting to go back" was like something huge, almost outside myself. And I wasn't the only one who felt that way.
When the New Zealanders broached the idea of us returning, so soon after we'd been plucked from what would have been certain death, I saw how my friends reacted. We all looked like we might have if we'd seen a lorry barreling down on us at 100 KPH with noplace to get away.
At first, we didn't know what to say. On the one hand, we'd already done enough. Some would say we'd done more than enough…that we'd earned a rest if anybody had. The attack on the shipping in Cobbler's Bay alone would have earned us medals, if we'd been in the regular military.
On the other hand, our families were still being held captive, and our country was in dreadful need. Most of it, save only a small corner of the far southeast, was under the heel of the invaders. And, whether we liked it or not, we could feel our country calling to us. New Zealand was nice, but it wasn't home. There were times I'd have given anything I owned, or anything I could have had, just to see the sun rising over the paddocks of my home station, or walk down the main street of Wirrawee again. It was like an aching hole in my heart.
I wasn't the only one who felt that way. I'd found Fi crying more than once, and she'd told me that she just wanted to be home. The boys were also homesick, even though the big tossers were too proud, and too male, to cry openly.
When Colonel Finley came to talk to us, I suddenly had an epiphany. "All right, I'll go back," I told him, "but on conditions." The others all chimed in, supporting me. I felt very proud of my friends. We have our differences, and there are times when I feel that they'll all drive me stark staring mad, but at bottom, we're a team. We're mates.
He was startled; he'd apparently expected us to be so devotedly sheeplike that we'd just follow his adult wisdom, without even presuming to question him or think for ourselves. Unfortunately for that idea, Major Harvey had destroyed any faith we'd ever had in adult wisdom or competence, all by himself. And Fi, clever Fi, had done some very interesting reading, and had shared the good parts with us.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"Well…for starters, we want uniforms. Australian, New Zealand, we don't care. Much as I hate to admit it, those bastards at Stratton had every legal right to imprison or execute us. We were waging war, out of uniform." That was Fi's contribution. "Just give us some clothes that say that we're legitimate combatants. If I'm caught again, I want to be able to claim prisoner-of-war status, instead of being stood up against a wall and shot out of hand."
"But even a uniform isn't a guarantee," Colonel Finley pointed out.
"Yes…but I'd rather have that chance than none at all." Colonel Finley nodded, reluctantly granting Fi's point.
"While we're on that subject," Lee spoke up, "I'd quite like some false ID. Our names are in their records, and we're all under sentence of imprisonment or death already. If we're nabbed, I'd far rather go into the bag as 'Joe Wang' or something like that; it'd be safer. If we had ID saying we were Kiwi or Australian military, giving false names and addresses, they also couldn't retaliate against our families." He looked troubled for a second; he was clearly remembering his little brothers and sisters, and wondering how they were doing. I longed to comfort him, but this wasn't the time or the place. I also wondered how my parents were getting along.
"Very well. We can arrange uniforms easily enough, and we can run you up some very convincing identification papers saying you're New Zealand Army. Anything else you want?" By now, Colonel Finley was looking like he was wishing he'd left us well alone. That made at least two of us.
"Guns." Homer said it a second before I could. Homer may be an arrogant, chauvinist jerk, but nobody ever said he was stupid. "I'm bleeding-well tired of having to depend on whatever we can scrounge up. I want some serious firepower and training in how to use it to best effect."
"But we'll be sending you in with commandoes from the New Zealand SAS…" Colonel Finley protested.
"Don't you know 'the best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley?' We had to learn that poem in school," Fi said, her innocent air concealing the mischief I could see in her eyes. "We've learned, the hard way, not to trust anybody outside our own little group too much." A shadow passed over her face, and I knew she was remembering poor Chris. Chris, who died because we didn't love him enough. That was one load of guilt I'd carry until the day I died…which didn't look all that far off, at all.
If I'd known just what I was letting myself in for, I think I'd have begged off somehow. Maybe said I was sick, or even preggers. Lee would have been happy to help with that, as would that utter tosser Adam. Of course, then I'd have had to deal with the consequences of that. Sometimes, all choices are more-or-less bad.
Whether I should have or not, I went along with the group on this. The Kiwis came through for us in real style, I'll give them that. A few days later, we were admiring how we looked, togged-out in real Australian Army uniforms. We were all privates, but none of us really felt like putting him- or herself forward for higher rank. Homer might have, but he knew we'd have laughed him to scorn. Among ourselves, we were pretty much equal. Whoever had the best ideas would lead, until someone else came up with a better idea.
We all had new names, and they let us pick them out ourselves. Homer, that big tosser, wanted something long and jaw-breaking, but finally went with "Homer Pappas," since he was so unmistakably Greek. Lee chose "Lee Wong," so as to not be seen not reacting to his "own name" if he were caught. Kevin fancied "Kevin Watson," since he'd been teased about having the same last name as the Great Detective, and thought he was more the sidekick type.
Fi and I giggled endlessly about it between ourselves. Like most girls, we'd played with our names over the years, but this was for real. Fi finally chose "Fifi Labelle," which I thought was hilarious, and I took "Amber Spaulding," for no real reason.
Then came the guns…and the training. Oh, dear God, the training! I'd always fancied I knew my way around with guns, but after the first few days, I knew just how stupid I'd been to think anything of the sort. Our instructors were patient, but absolutely merciless. They had us out on the range, or disassembling and re-assembling the guns, for hours every day. We learned several different sorts of rifles, including ones used by the Australian and Kiwi military, the Yanks, and the invaders. They also made sure we were all checked out thoroughly with pistols, submachine guns, and shotguns. However, I was pleased to note that we were all becoming much better shots than we'd ever been before.
That wasn't all we learned, by any means. We were taught how to use night-vision devices, how to use quite a variety of radios, how to disable armoured vehicles, how to set explosive charges, and how to aim and fire rocket-propelled grenades and mortars. By the time they were done, a month from when we'd started, we could hardly recognise ourselves. We'd gone in thinking we were tough, and we were…but we came out intelligently tough. We were as ready as we would ever be.
When they dropped us back in Australia, we were supposed to be nothing but support for the Kiwi SAS team tasked with destroying Wirrawee Airport. The Kiwis were nice to us, but treated us as the children we'd been not too long before. They went in without us…and didn't come back.
I was surprised, but not too surprised. This was part-and-parcel of what had happened to us again and again since the accursed day of the invasion. Every time we'd been told we could depend on others, they'd turned out to be disappointments. At least this time we were very well-found for armaments and supplies, and in Hell, we could hole up and plan our next move without too much chance of being caught. All we had to do was make sure that nothing was visible from the air; sometimes the other side did send a helicopter flying over, but I think they were short of aircraft.
We did go out sometimes, if only to keep track of what was going on. Radio reception in Hell was all but nonexistent. And on one of our expeditions, we ran across something…no, someone…who turned out to be very interesting, indeed.
(Author's note: I was really not very happy with the way the Kiwis treated Ellie and her friends. Would it have been that much trouble to give them uniforms, false identification papers, some training, and weapons, before sending them back there?
Hence, this story. I'm going to see where it takes me. I hope you all like it.)
