Original material based on stories and characters by Project Aces. The author claims no for-profit ownership over them.
Thy Enemy As Thyself (Knight)
Chapter 3: The Exhumed
12 May 2016
Santo Matteo Federal Penitentiary
Interrogation Room
121 mi. WSW of Mante, Emmeria
"Good morning, sunshine. You sleep well?"
"..."
"Me too. And it's such a beautiful day out too. Wish we couldn't just be stuck in here talking like this, you know?"
"..."
"Well, good to hear. Anyway, says here you're a flyboy. Should I call you Nemo, Captain?"
"..."
"Seeing as how there are plenty of things I can call you when the camera's not watching, we'll just go with Nemo to start. How's that sound?"
"..."
"Okay then, Nemo. So how have your new accommodations been? I take it your roommate has been gentle?"
"Captain Nemanja Dragovic. Stovakno Ratno zrakoplovstvo. Serial 057-1241."
"At least you're not telling me to go dance with the angels. Oh well, I've got all day."
Years Earlier
Antic Barri, Distrito Capital, San Salvacion
Her name was Alicia, she was a good apple from a bad tree, and I was told to say hello to her, as I needed a friend my age.
Weeks turned into months and saying hello and goodbye to her and maybe helping her clean up tables was as far as I'd gotten.
More than the demands of my job, I was always at a loss as to what I would tell her, or what to talk about. I would formulate vague phrases, one-liners from movies or soap operas, but could never bring words to part through my lips. Before long I'd even given up on these quarter-hearted efforts and we ended up keeping apart like naturally repelling magnets, but at least I wasn't too pressured to make contact.
In fact, I had come to enjoy life at the bar more than I did at home, at school, or planewatching. The soldiers, mostly grunts stationed in and around town or transiting back to Erusea, had taken a liking to my music and were always ready with requests. On rare occasions, one of them would give a toy airplane or soldier, or football player trading cards as "tips" if I played well enough. And I even found myself learning Erusean through conversation better than my teachers' new curriculum could.
Of course, this meant eventually being asked about my family, and how they were doing. I found myself stunned to silence or stuttering the first few times, but I learned how to dodge the question or simply reply that they were doing well. The questions stopped afterward. Maybe they knew I was another war orphan, but at least they also knew not to dig deeper into that wound.
Meanwhile, the soldiers tipped the barkeep with vouchers for more premium goods, which afforded him foodstuffs not accessible to "commoners" like me and my uncle. Those were mostly cooked to feed the soldiers who washed them down with imported Erusean wine and liqueurs, although there was enough food left to have freshly-made portions available to the barkeep's family and I.
It was better than stale sandwiches and dry cereal at my uncle's apartment. More and more it seemed my "wages" were more for appeasing his drunken temper rather than helping us stay alive. As long as I stayed at the pub though, I could keep him comfortably out of sight, out of mind. And I would keep the little trinkets the soldiers gave me clutched tight in my jacket on the way home after dark as if to ward off whatever evils lurked in the erstwhile empty alleyways.
If this was the kind of military occupation that we read about in history books, then it seemed the routines of reality were more tolerable than the nightmare fantasy. The routines helped me cope with the nightmares I had already lived through.
At least until one autumn night, when the sound of screeching tires just outside the bar caused me to stop my music like a needle pulled off a phonograph.
That evening my "shift" was interrupted by the arrival of what appeared to be overloaded army jeeps followed by an increasingly loud commotion outside the bar that caused the sullen army grunts inside to stand up and take notice. I could hear shouting. I could understand the few words I could hear in the din thanks ironically to the Erusean language lessons. Rank-pulling, slurs, grown men literally angry over the spilled beer and the clinking of shattered glass.
Alicia and I instinctively squirreled away behind the counter, where her father had just put out a clean set of drinking mugs. We huddled close to him, and he seemed to give a steely-eyed stare at the newcomers while placing his hands over us like a lion protecting his cubs. The bar was cramped enough with all its usual patrons. If things escalated too far then none of us would be safe.
In the end, the army soldiers left with a little struggle, a sign for the ones inside not to put up the same. The few that remained slithered out as the new group walked in with an unstoppably confident stride. I curled up under the counter and out of view as some of them took seats and began barking out orders for drinks like they were talking to their wingmen in flight.
A tall blonde pilot and a dark-complexioned woman that appeared to be his girlfriend or his wingman, or both, took a seat near the back, where a communal guitar once reserved for improvisational performances sat gathering dust since the beginning of the war.
One or two of these particular soldiers had dropped by the bar every now and then for a beer, receiving glares and backhanded compliments from the "land dwellers" of the army. Only now had they decided to show up en masse, like someone had crossed the line with their quips.
Everyone knew who they were, with their confident stride and their imposing jackets.
The seven-star roundel on their right sleeves was the mark of the Erusean Air Force. Squadron insignias were posted on the ones opposite, and personal insignias and other customizations on the back differentiated each pilot from the other.
Most of those that had taken their seats were crew. The rest, mostly pilots, gathered around the side wall under faded framed posters of local shows. A loud-mouthed man of considerable girth had begun scribbling on the walls, egged on by the crowd around him. I made my way to the edge of the bar and stood up on a spare barstool by the wall, taking care not to fall over as I observed what they were writing. Now that I could hear what they were saying I could better understand the Erusean they were speaking, or at least the more important words.
Like numbers. The scribbling on the wall had been organized into a table with names and symbols of airplanes. This was obviously their kill total.
Some of them counted to two, others counted to four. When one of them hit five, there was a loud cheer and I was almost knocked off my feet when an anxious pilot in the back of the crowd snapped back onto the counter to demand a bottle of sparkling wine from the barkeep, who anxiously complied.
The bottle's contents were then quickly expended in a raucous celebration on the lucky pilot that became an "Ace," as the barkeep informed me. The count then resumed for the next pilots in the group. I scurried off the countertop and back into a corner by the stairs the moment they counted to four lest I get knocked off by an increasingly drunken crowd.
The celebration, thankfully, was repeated only once or twice before the end when the man - the squadron adjutant according to the egging on dealt by the pilots - declared it was time to announce their leader's results.
They turned their attention past me to the pilot in the corner, who had begun strumming the guitar. I took a half-step out from around the corner I hid behind, my gaze drawn to him along with theirs.
This time the count went far past five as the adjutant went down the wall with the same marker squeaking with every symbol drawn. They went past ten, twenty, the counts slowly buried in applause and cheering as the fat man continued past thirty and forty.
When the man - the squadron adjutant according to egging on dealt by the pilots - finally stopped, he announced that their Yellow Thirteen had shot down three more planes today, bringing his total to sixty four.
Only now, after everyone had settled in, did I freeze up in fear. The number rang a bell in my mind that it should not have.
Thirteen's attention, however, had been diverted to me. He asked why I was trembling, and told me not to be afraid. He beckoned me over, mentioning how he heard there was a kid that played a skillful harmonica at this bar.
I almost stumbled over, taking small steps with the eyes of the entire bar like a thousand spotlights at a recital. I didn't feel like I had a choice, not when he and his friends easily manhandled people twice their size. He strummed the guitar, picking and tuning each string to make them sound just right.
And without any cues, he began to play a new song. One I hadn't been asked to play since I started at the bar.
The instant he strummed that first chord, I knew exactly why.
It was a song I knew by heart. The kind of song that people played to lift their hearts in times of deep despair. The kind that embodied the hope at the bottom of the box of horrors.
By some freakish coincidence, it was the song my father played that very night. And I suddenly remembered every note, every flourish to play on the harmonica.
Every memory I thought I had finally buried.
As the song played on, I remembered life before the war changed it. Happier, quieter days. The calm before the storms of past and present.
When the song finished to polite applause from the pilots, he gave me a pat on the head and ruffled my hair and told me I played like a natural before his companion walked up to him, holding two mugs of beer that she acquired during the performance. I could sense the two of them knew each other more than their professional relationship suggested from the smiles they gave each other, and slowly slunk away the moment his glance met hers.
The moment I turned away it seemed like everything else seemed to melt in the periphery too, as I suddenly sought the darkness outside. The refreshingly cold breeze away from the searing spotlights.
The moment I stepped out of the doorway I began running and didn't look back. Away from the sanctity of the lights into the crevices of the barely-lit city, away from the evils I knew into the ones I didn't. Away from the somewhat-lit route that I used to get back home at night into the areas that the occupation forces didn't feel the need to keep lit.
I kept going until I had gotten far enough away from the Sky Kid Pub that nobody could hear me break down in an alleyway under the weight of the revelations.
I realized too late that I had just befriended the man responsible for the death of my family. No amount of money or ration vouchers would ever bring them back or earn their forgiveness for my betrayal.
And my mind had been thoroughly consumed by a maelstrom of emotion that I had no idea how to deal with what I'd just done. The only solace in the storm seemed to be a low rumbling that shook me out of my trance. But that rumbling grew louder and louder, and I quickly realized this was something happening in reality. Something was approaching me in the darkened township and I had to escape before I found out what it was.
I darted out of the alley hoping to somehow navigate the maze back to the safety of the pub only to find myself frozen in the monster's blinding gaze before I even crossed the street.
I stood frozen in its lights as it made a low metallic growl, whimpering under my breath for mercy or a merciful end.
Suddenly, a soldier popped his head out of a hatch near the front of the vehicle's hull and exclaimed something to the effect of recognizing me. But rather than go after me, he seemed to converse with whoever else was inside for further orders. After a moment, he climbed fully out and scanned the perimeter, keeping a hand by his waist as if a crying child was the bait of some kind of ambush.
He then shouted something in Erusean, that it was clear around. It was a slight relief, as it meant they didn't consider me a threat, which then meant they weren't going to gun me down at least on sight. They dimmed the lights, and I found myself in a world of pitch black before my eyesight adjusted to reveal the shapes of the buildings lining the streets.
The soldier climbed down from the tank, approached me and gave me a quick patdown before asking me where I lived. I spouted out my building's cross street and they told me reassuringly that they would give me a ride home just this once. They also asked if I wanted to ride outside or inside. I didn't feel I had a choice but to comply.
He then helped me in, and I climbed through the hatch. The tank was one of the smaller ones I'd seen them using, almost the size of an armored personnel carrier with an oddly-shaped turret attached to it. I had to squeeze through and stay pressed against the back of the cockpit, as there was barely enough space for the gunner with the driver sitting further forward.
I held my coat close as the tank revved back into motion, its treads grinding across the old streets. Once the tank got back into motion, they began conversing about their late shift or patrols.
It felt like I was deep in the metal belly of a small monster crossing through the dark crevasse of the old city. My sweat felt like its stomach acid eating away at my skin even as its steel bulk protected the three of us from larger threats. I clutched the inner pocket where my haul had been stashed, hoping that the night's earnings wouldn't betray me any more than my instincts did earlier.
Eventually the gunner decided to strike up conversation with me. He knew Salavan well, so I could understand him.
He mentioned that his driver recognized me as the harmonica player from the pub, to which I nodded. He mentioned it was a fortunate coincidence, which was why they decided to help me get home rather than leave me on the street, or worse.
He asked me why I was out on the street so late instead of at the pub, to which I simply responded that a group of pilots came in and caused a fight.
The co-driver nodded and mentioned an expletive. He then said he knew exactly who those pilots were.
According to them, they were the squadron assigned to defend the cannon after the Eruseans seized it. They fended off any and all opposition that tried to retake it. They recently moved out of Erusea and took up residence at an improvised forward operating base around Lake Oronell.
I told him there wasn't a base around there, but the driver continued to explain.
Before the war, the city began construction on a highway running along the opposite end of Oronell from my old house to make it easier for out-of-towners to reach the airport in nearby San Profetta. The city's mayor bragged about it, even though it would completely bypass our part of town.
The freshly-paved stretch of straight road along the lake's northern coast and the tunnels that ran under the nearby hills made the perfect runway for an impromptu airbase. Being just that much closer to the front saved more fuel from flying from their old base deep in the Erusean heartland. But they couldn't use the main airport as it had already been reserved for larger planes such as transports and fuel tankers, and the leadership did not want to have too many valuable targets concentrated in one place.
Under the shelter of the cannon was the safest place they could be, barring an act of sabotage. And with allied raids no longer a possibility thanks to the cannon's range, the squadron became the ones travelling to great distances to fight.
When we arrived at the cross street I asked for, the gunner swerved the turret left and right to check for threats before allowing me to exit through his hatch.
The driver quipped as I climbed out that if I was nice enough to the pilots like I was to his comrades, maybe they could take me out to see the base after school.
Once my feet were planted on the cobblestone street, they told me that they'd take me to jail if they caught me out here again before telling me to run on back up to my apartment. I nodded as much as my head would allow from its bowed state and ran into the entry hall of the first building I could find, sprinting up the flight of stairs.
I hid just out of sight on the darkened second floor landing, with a good view of the front entrance. I pressed myself to the ground and slid forward a little to watch the silhouette of the tank by the door, hoping that neither of the little tank's crew members decided they wanted to accompany me up to my room and tuck me into bed.
I could hear them chatting among themselves just above the sound of my heart pounding in my chest, then the clunking of metal and the roar of a motor before the tank rode off into the night.
The fading sounds of the tank engine didn't relieve me of the stress, though. It was a good thing in a way, as it drove me to get up, dart back out onto the sidewalk and into the building next door where we actually lived.
The lack of my uncle's presence in the room as I closed the door and hastily bolted it behind me was the first relief I'd gotten all night, if only for the night.
The very fact that he was gone was reason enough for me to not question why. I scooped out the night's earnings with quivering arms and laid it on the table before backing away from it as if it was contaminated, before retreating to my bedroom and locking the door behind me.
I don't remember how long I stayed awake that night crying into my bedsheets.
The only thing I could accept when I forced myself to go to school that morning was that I was going to eventually have to do something about an enemy I could now put a face on.
To Be Continued...
A/N 1: I'd like to thank everyone who followed/faved this story since the last chapter came out. With a more familiar locale I'll try not to be as infrequent in the future, at least between this and Monsters.
A/N 2: The "minitank" that Nemo is riding is, perhaps appropriately, the AMX-13.