Six Years before the Storm

SFA Battalion Command Post

1.5 klicks southwest of El Akeem Fortress

Atenohtep Desert, Scorpia

Infirmary tent, early morning the day following the gas attack.

Specialist David Dedrick awoke to the sound of activity around him. He opened his eyes, but the shroud of darkness would not lift. Blind! He remembered, the events of the previous day pouring back into his consciousness, a brutal dream made real. Doc Slater had done all he could for David, as he had for the dozens of others who had survived the gas attack despite their exposure. The Doc had told him it was a crap shoot if he'd ever see again. Still, the LT had scheduled David to be among the first airlifted out to Theseopolis.

During his treatment he had learned the name of the chemical agent that Melendi's zealots had used against them, and its affects. He was, he supposed, lucky to have survived the attack. Certainly luckier than Stuckey had been. Dedrick considered the agony that his friend must have experienced, and cursed angrily against anyone who would be willing to inflict such horror upon another person.

One of the medics had escorted him to the latrine, and after washing him up had led him to the mess tent. At breakfast, there had been no shortage of comrades willing to help him, but once he was seated he asked to be left alone. He ate by touch and smell, making just a minimum of a mess, but found himself at a bit of a loss once he had finished.

"Looks like you could use this," a familiar voice said, stuffing a cloth napkin into Dedrick's hand.

"Thanks, Tray," Dedrick responded, wiping his hands clean, and then his face. "Doc Slater says I've got a chance this won't be permanent…" His voice trailed off.

"Shit, Rick, you're too stubborn to stay blind," Trager quipped. "Anyway, the way you've been hanging with Sandman, you probably don't need eyes." Trager paused, helping Dedrick to his feet. "C'mon, let's go," he said in a lowered voice. "There's something I want you to… be there for."

Trager led Dedrick out of the mess tent, and he once again felt the warmth on his face from a desert sun he could not see. Trager placed Dedrick's hand on his shoulder, and he grasped the material there so that he would not lose track of his rigger. For several minutes, they worked their way through the battalion's camp, the sounds of the soldiers' activities pressing in on Dedrick as he tried to identify them. When they arrived at a noticeably quieter section of the camp, Trager stopped.

Dedrick loosened his grip on Trager's shoulder. Following the sound of Trager's boots on the sand, Dedrick took a couple of steps aside, and found himself passing into the cooler shade of what must be a tent.

"We wait," Trager said, and the conspiratorial tone of his voice made Dedrick hold his questions.

Minutes passed, and Dedrick began to pick up the sound of voices some distance off. It seemed a crowd was forming, and from the jeers and catcalls that drifted to their position, it was not a friendly one. Another few minutes passed, and Dedrick could now discern a lot of what the crowd was calling out, and could hear the sound of marching feet upon the sand.

Someone was leading prisoners through the camp, zealot prisoners. The LT's counterstrike had evidently paid off. Dedrick tried to step forward, Stuckey's vain attempts to scream sounding through his mind, rage building in his heart.

"Easy, Rick," came Trager's voice. "Here, let me check and be sure you're presentable." There was an odd note in the rigger's voice, and Dedrick felt Trager's hands tugging at his uniform, and then the sudden weight of something being added to his belt. As Trager released him, Dedrick's hand went instinctively to his hip, and found his combat knife there.

"Wha…" the question began to form on Dedrick's lips, but the jeering crowd was close now, only meters away by the sound, and he'd momentarily lost track of Trager.

Another voice, one Dedrick didn't recognize, was saying "Awright, dogfaces, g'wan. Ain't nothin' to see here!"

Then came a voice he did recognize.

"Tray," the voice said in simple acknowledgement. Mitchell.

"Sandman," Trager responded quietly. "Y'know, we'll be in it deep when the LT finds out what happened here."

"Then he won't find out. We owe it to Rick."

Dedrick felt strong hands on his shoulders, and then Mitchell was saying, "Hey, brother, it's good to see you still among the living," as though Dedrick had heard none of their previous exchange.

Dedrick brought his arms up, locking his hands on Mitchell's arms. "What's going on, Mike?" he asked.

"I thought you would want to meet the enemy. I brought you one of the zealots we captured. She was with the solar truck that slipped in and launched the gas attack."

"She?" Trager asked, a sudden hint of doubt in his voice.

"The female of the species…" Mitchell began.

"Doesn't matter," Dedrick interjected. "The desert treats all as equals." Dedrick crossed his arms, saying, "Where is she? I want to see her."

Trager made a noise in his throat at Dedrick's reference to sight. Mitchell stepped away, and a moment later Dedrick heard the sound of unwilling feet being forced to walk toward him. He straightened his back, placing his hands on his hips, and turned his head in the direction the zealot soldier seemed to be. Zealot murderer, he silently corrected himself.

"Be my eyes, Tray," Dedrick said. "What is it that stands before me?"

"Damn… Rick, uh…" Dedrick reached out, faultlessly finding Trager's arm and squeezing it. Trager's voice steadied, and he went on. "She's a hottie, Rick, under the dust and the burka. Your height, slender, blonde…"

"She's the enemy, Tray," Mitchell said. "A sandviper, willing to poison men and watch them suffer and die."

"Right," Trager responded, seeming to recover from his first reaction to seeing how attractive the zealot soldier was. "About your age, Rick, maybe a few years younger. Slim features, blue eyes." Dedrick sensed that Tray had looked away. "Damn, Rick, you want me to grope her and tell you her breast size?" Trager's tone made it clear he didn't want to.

"Enough," Dedrick said. He stepped forward, catching the zealot soldier's scent, still vaguely feminine despite the dust and the heat. "You have taken my sight, taken the life of my friend…" Dedrick pressed in closer, felt his friends shifting uneasily on their feet beside him. "You…" he said, and paused for a heartbeat…

In a fluid movement, Dedrick drew his knife from its sheath, shifting the point upward and driving it into the zealot's ribcage. He felt Mitchell's hand clasp his wrist, but whether it was to stop him or guide him to his target he did not know.

Dedrick finished the sentence he had begun, "…give your life back to the desert." He gave the knife another thrust, driving it deeper into her chest. Tray had grasped him by one shoulder, the other arm around his chest, and was pulling him back. He felt warm blood flowing over his hand, running down his arm.

"Water to sand," he said.

Mitchell echoed him, "Water to sand. Life back to the desert."

The third voice, the one Dedrick didn't recognize, said, "C'mon, Sandman, let's take the body and clear out."

The female zealot had stumbled forward, and was leaning against Dedrick, her cuffed hands on his shoulder. As she sank to her knees, Dedrick did as well. She leaned forward, turning her eyes up toward Trager. A faint smile played across her lips, one that only Trager could see, and she whispered into Dedrick's ear.

"Are you alive?"