Publication History:

Originally published on various dates in 2006 on the BattlestarCentral.com, this work of fiction remains the intellectual property of the author. All rights reserved.  Commentary, questions and constructive criticism are requested.  See the Comments section at the end of the chapter, or e-mail comments to RangerLord@rangerlord.net.  Thank you, and enjoy!

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The following ’story’ is an excerpt from the tenth chapter of the Battlestar Libra collaborative fan fiction project, hosted by BattlestarCentral.com. The chapter, titled "Before the Storm", is a retrospective into the histories of many of Battlestar Libra's main characters prior to the Cylon suprise attacks upon the Twelve Colonies. What follows is a glimpse into the background of one of my characters in the Libra tale, Colonial Marine Captain David Dedrick, formerly a grunt in the Federal Army of Scorpia Colony.

Comm Specialist David Dedrick knelt on the packed sand before his battlecomp, connecting cables that his rigger, PFC Dalton Trager, had just dropped for him. Although the battlecomp was portable and self-contained, whenever possible Dedrick connected it to the larger, more sensitive antennas they carried in the truck. While Dedrick and Trager rigged the comm center, around them PFC Ryan Stuckey and Corporal Mike Mitchell were securing the last of the tie-lines that held the comm tent securely in its place.

Dedrick stabbed an aluminum grounding rod into the sand, and then connected it to the battlecomp’s chassis with a braided copper lead. As he booted up the battlecomp he snapped his head forward with a practiced movement, causing his visor heads-up display to click into place. “Visor down!” he called to PFC Trager, letting his rigger know he was online and his vision was limited by the transparent display.

“Visor down,” Trager echoed back, while he wrestled a large dish antenna into place.

“Sandman!” Dedrick called, and Corporal Mitchell turned toward the comm specialist. “Tell the LT we’ve got an eye in the sky on Melendi’s hideout. Should have full intel in five!” From across the tent, the Corporal voiced acknowledgement and then ducked through the tent flaps to carry the message.

“Tray! Can we phone home yet?” Dedrick asked his rigger.

Trager responded, “Secure channel to Bat HQ… maybe ten minutes, Rick. Frakkin’ LT picked a bitch of a spot to set up. I’m getting’ all sorts of EM right outta the sand - it’s like we’re sittin’ over a texa bed.”

“Well don’t tell Sandman that, or his Malaxi ass will be up all night digging,” Dedrick answered. He glanced over at his rigger, watching him trying to isolate the satellite dish against the electrostatic interference from the sand. “Tray, you‘re gonna have to deep-spike the dish.” The rigger nodded, and headed to the truck for a longer grounding rod.

PFC Stuckey walked up behind Dedrick. “Tent’s up, Rick.” Dedrick turned to face Stuckey, looking at the PFC through the transparent HUD, its faint glow illuminating his face. Seeing that Dedrick was already online, the PFC asked “Whatcha got?”

“V/IR composite satellite image of El Akeem Fortress. I’ll have their sentries ID’ed and logged to the grid in just a sec…” A series of beeps sounded from the battlecomp, and the glow on Dedrick’s face shifted to red. He stopped in mid-sentence, then slapped his wireless mic into place with one hand while he hit the wireless send key with the other. He gave Stuckey the hand signal to guard the tent as he began speaking into the wireless.

“Alert! Enemy movement north of the CP! There’s a hotspot… Frak, they’ve got a vehicle! Perimeter, perimeter! Enemy incursion zero-one-five degrees, sixty meters!” Dedrick looked up, peering through the HUD readout at the tent beyond. Stuckey had a rifle in hand and had moved to the edge of the tent, eyes searching the darkness outside. With a flick of a switch, Dedrick blacked out the tent.

Outside, the hollow thump of grenades sounded, followed by the rising whoop-whoop-whoop of a personal alarm unit. Next came the calls of warning, a vocal alarm carrying through the camp on the cool night air.

“Gas! Code Yellow! Gas attack!”

Outdoor beer garden, Alexander Danby’s Bar, ten days prior to the gas attack.

David Dedrick leaned back, the wicker chair creaking as he did. “Kenny! It’s your buy!” As he spoke, Dedrick tugged at his friend’s sleeve, while at the table beside him Dalton Trager held up the empty beer pitcher. A slight breeze whispered through the beer garden, carrying the scent of salt air from the nearby ocean, mixed with the smell of steak kebabs slipping out from the restaurant next door.

Kenneth Kirimijian turned, digging a paper bill out of his pocket and stuffing it into Dedrick’s hand. “I’ll buy,” he acquiesced, “but I’m calling it a night.”

Dedrick passed the cash to Trager, who turned to flag down one of the waitresses, scantily clad in tropical prints and strategically-located flowers. From across the table, Ryan Stuckey called out, “Whatsamatter, Kenny? You muster out and allovasudden you can’t handle yer beer?”

“Same old story,” Mike Mitchell added in, “Ever since he and Maria split… he searches for the wellspring, but is too parched to drink.” Mitchell shook his head as he looked toward Kenny, then drained his beer glass.

“Damn, Sandman!” Stuckey interjected, “Do you have some wise-ass clan shit for every occasion?”

As Stuckey and Mitchell launched into their usual banter, Dedrick looked back at Kenny, only to find he was already working his way through the crowd to the exit.

Rising from the chair, Dedrick followed him, catching him by the arm. “Where’d that girl go? The one you’ve been mooning over all night?” Dedrick asked, “Did you ever go talk to her?”

“They left - her and her friend.”

Dedrick sighed. “Alright,” he said, knowing there was no way he’d talk Kenny into staying now. “Give me a ride back, it‘s late and we have to report tomorrow.”

“What’s up?” Kirimijian asked as they walked to his car.

“You been watching the news?” Dedrick asked. “That zealot, Melendi… he’s taken up residence in the old El Akeem fortress. Been running raids against the borderland settlements. The Quorum’s putting pressure on the Colony to take care of this mess, or they will. Looks like Bat 5’s getting the call.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, David, but I’m glad I’m not going out there with you.”

The two got into Kirimijian’s car, and headed home. A few minutes later, while they waited at a traffic light, Dedrick spotted something in the car ahead of them.

“Kenny! Check it out!” he said, pointing at the brownish-gold sedan. “Isn’t that the chick from the bar?”

Kenny peered into the other car, still waiting in the turn lane. “Yeah, that’s her… why?” He turned toward Dedrick, the look on his face revealing he already knew his friend was about to do something rash.

“Hang on,” Dedrick said, and he jumped out of the car. Traffic in the lanes beside him had begun to move again, but the turn lane was still waiting for the light. Dedrick crossed in front of Kenny’s car and quickly reached the driver’s window of the sedan. He tapped on the window, and a brief conversation with the girl followed. Then he ran back, climbing into Kenny’s car just as the signal changed.

“Well?” Kenny asked, his face a mixture of surprise and anticipation.

“Tower Apartments, number 22-C!” Dedrick grinned. “Oh, and that’s for not telling me…” he said, thumping Kenny on the shoulder, hard, “… for not telling me her friend is hot.”

Bat 5 comm tent: Specialist David Dedrick and PFC Ryan Stuckey

Outside the tent, the cries of alarm were now punctuated by the sound of automatic rifle fire. In the darkness of the blacked-out comm tent, Dedrick could no longer see PFC Stuckey, nor could he tell if PFC Trager had returned from the truck.

Dedrick knew he needed to get his hazard gear on - in fact he already had his hooded mask grasped in his left hand. His right hand, clad in a VR glove, danced across the input pad attached to his right thigh, while his eyes followed on the HUD visor. It took him only seconds to broadcast an alarm from the battle comp to all squad leaders, warning them of the chemical attack.

Swiftly, Dedrick released the chinstrap and flipped the HUD visor out of his way as he took off his helmet and set it on the sand beside the battle comp. He was turning his hazard mask over, opening the hood so he could pull it on when the pressure wave from a nearby blast hit the comm tent, accompanied by the hollow whoompf sound of an explosive charge.

With the HUD visor off, Dedrick could see the wall of the tent billow inward, lit from outside by the exploding ordnance. The heavy fabric struggled for an instant against the blast wave, then tore loose from its anchors. The roof and remaining sides of the tent swelled outward as the fireball rolled into the tent, carrying sand and deadly gas with it. Red-hot shrapnel, remnants of the gas canister, tore through the air. Silhouetted against the explosion, Dedrick saw Stuckey as the blast knocked him from his feet. The air was hot, and sour-tasting, and Dedrick clamped his mouth shut, holding his breath as he pulled the hazard mask over his head and sealed the hood.

Scrambling to his feet, his eyes stinging, Dedrick fought his way through the now-collapsing tent to reach PFC Stuckey. He hit the purge valve on his mask, shooting a harsh blast of compressed air through the breathing apparatus. He could still sense the sour taste in his mouth, coating his tongue, so he raised the lower edge of the mask and spat on the ground. Then he purged the breather again.

Though his vision was being obscured by tears as his body reacted to the irritant in his eyes, Dedrick still managed to get to Stuckey’s side. The last few feet he navigated more by feel and memory than by sight. Dropping back to his knees, he felt for Stuckey’s arm, raising the soldier’s upper body and resting it against his own. The man was making odd, bubbling noises that sounded like groans of pain. Dedrick felt past Stuckey’s shoulder, reaching his neck and finding that his hazard mask was gone. Through his gloves, Dedrick could tell that the PFC’s neck was coated with blood, but he could not see the wound. He called out for PFC Trager, but the gas mask muffled his voice and he received no answer.

He held Stuckey by the shoulders, repeating again and again through tears that weren’t entirely caused by the gas, “Hold on, Ryan. Just hold on, man. Help is coming.”

His blurred vision spared Dedrick the harsh sight of Stuckey’s true condition. Pink foam covered his lower face, gurgling out of his mouth as he tried to scream. Blank eyes stared upward, unmoving as the nerve agent destroyed his muscle control, and blistered by other chemical agents in the gas. His exposed skin was quickly turning whitish and gooey, and where he bled from shrapnel wounds the flowing blood seemed to fizz as it contacted the contaminated air.

Dedrick still held on to his fellow soldier, still told him that help was coming, even as Stuckey shuddered and died. Around him, the light from the flares high above the CP was slipping away, as the dark of night was replaced by the black void of blindness. Dedrick heard the crunch of boots on the sand behind him, felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see who it was.

There was nothing there but the darkness.

Three soldiers trudged up the rock ravine between grotesque spires and arches of rock, carved by the wind and the ages. They carried their rifles at the ready, but paid little heed to the terrain around them. A hundred meters ahead, a lone figure picked his way through the boulders that littered the ground. His manner of movement was fluid, blending with the fading night. The three who trailed behind him were clearly struggling to keep up.

“Who’s the new guy think he is, the Ghostwalker?” Janovic asked, making reference to a popular wireless video drama.

“He’s clan,” Hedgewick replied, as though that explained anything, everything about the man.

David Dedrick worked his way through the rough terrain, holding back slightly so the other two SFA grunts wouldn’t fall behind. His kept his mouth shut at the talk of clans - he had Scorpia clan blood in his veins, even if it was from four generations back. He had inherited enough of the nomad look that it occasionally caused him trouble. He didn’t despise his lineage, but neither did he embrace it. The liabilities it brought cancelled out any benefits, and it simply was. He accepted it as a fact of his existence.

The fourth man disappeared from their view around a twist in the ravine, and the three soldiers quickened their pace. They were breathing hard as they fought against the rough ground, and often they stumbled and sent pebbles skittering across the wind-smoothed bedrock. Dedrick seemed to be having as difficult a time of it as his companions, but much of his ‘trouble’ was intentional. The other two didn’t seem to notice.

Janovic was a Corporal, and the leader of their fire team. Hedgewick had been busted back to Private, for reasons unknown. Word from some was that he couldn’t keep his head out of his ass, while other’s said he couldn’t keep his dick out of the LT’s daughter. Dedrick didn’t know, didn’t care. The two of them were jerks, three years into their first tour, and Dedrick had been the FNG since he’d finished Basic six months back. That was, until Burwell’s weapon had malfunctioned eight days ago, and he’d been sent to the Army Hospital in Theseopolis. That was when they’d picked up ‘Ghostwalker’ - he was the frakkin’ new guy now.

They reached the point where the fourth man had disappeared, and found that the ravine floor no longer rose before them, but rather dropped away in a steep, twisting course. Dedrick raised his hand, clenched into a fist, and the three soldiers froze. The ravine was deserted. Nothing moved there but the wind.

“Get down!” Dedrick hissed, dropping to a crouch. The two soldiers behind him did the same, driven by their distrust of the new guy, the soldier who was clan. “He’s here,” Dedrick whispered, “probably close enough to reach out and scratch your ass.”

At that moment, the three of them were struck in the neck, in rapid succession, by pebbles thrown from behind them. Janovic and Hedgewick both stood and turned, cursing. Dedrick stood as well, one hand held where the pebble had stung his neck, but when he turned to face the new guy, he was laughing quietly.

“PFC Mitchell,” Janovic raged, “what the frak do you think you’re doing? We’re on a sweep, and you’re playing cat-and-mouse, and throwing rocks.” The Corporal paused. “Zeus! What am I gonna do with you? This ain’t kindergarten, sand dog! Now get back on point, and flush this bastard out so we can all go home.” Janovic stood, hands on his belt, waiting for Mitchell to answer.

Over Janovic’s shoulder, Mitchell traded a sympathetic glance with Dedrick, then shouted “Sir, yes sir” to Janovic. Swift as a cat, Mitchell dodged through the three soldiers and began trotting down the twisting ravine. Somehow, even at that pace, his footsteps were little more than whispers lost in the wind.

The other three soldiers fell in, already struggling to keep up.

Specialist David Dedrick

Dedrick had turned at the sound of boots on the sand, and then felt a hand grip his shoulder firmly. Next came a muffled voice, “David, you all right?” The hands that belonged to that voice grasped Dedrick under the shoulders, raising him to his feet. He wiped at the lenses on his hazard mask, but in his heart he knew it wasn’t the lenses that blocked his vision.

“Stuckey…” Dedrick croaked.

“Stuckey’s done for!” came the reply, louder now. It was Trager, his rigger, and the PFC must have been yelling through his breather. “We’ve got to get full hazard gear on, David!”

Dedrick heard movement around him, then the sound of fabric tearing. He caught the click of Trager’s knife being returned to its sheath, and then the rigger was back, helping Dedrick into his biochem suit.

“We need to get to the command tent!” Trager yelled.

“The battlecomp… “ Dedrick said, his voice improving a bit.

“Already got it,” came the reply.

Dedrick rose unsteadily to his feet, his arms reaching out like insect antennae, trying to feel his surroundings. One hand caught Trager’s shoulder, and the two men moved off toward the LT’s tent.

“Where’s Sandman?” Dedrick rasped out another question.

Trager snorted, though Dedrick did not so much hear the reaction as feel it through Trager’s shoulder. “Giving life back to the desert, would be my bet. And not his own, for sure.”

Dedrick felt Trager shift his load, then pull Dedrick’s arm more securely across his shoulders. “C’mon, Rick. The guys are mopping this up now, and the LT’s frakkin’ losin’ it… he wants an immediate counterstrike against Melendi. He’ll want you in the command tent - even blind you’re the best hacker he’s got.”

Trager turned a grim face toward Dedrick, his expression hidden not only by the hazard mask but also by his friend’s blindness. Frak the LT, Trager thought. Doc Slater will be with the LT, and that’s the real reason we’re headed for the command tent.

It had been a long day for the fire team, working their way through the tortured ravines and chasms of the region known as the Strakis Skorpeois. They had found no sign of their quarry, and Janovic had ordered them to camp for the night. Mitchell was assigned first watch, and had climbed to higher ground above the camp site.

Dedrick broke out rations, and popped a thermopak to heat water for the reconstituted food. While he prepped the food, Janovic and Hedgewick complained about the mission, about their elusive target, and about Mitchell. Waiting for the water to boil, Dedrick checked on the battalion’s progress using a minicomp, a down-sized version of the battlecomp that had most of the bigger unit’s core features, just with less range and power. Although still just a rifleman, Dedrick’s proficiency with electronics had already come to the LT’s attention, and when an ‘extra’ mini had become available it was given to Dedrick.

Dedrick finished up checking the current intel on their search, then passed the unit to Janovic so the Corporal could check in. Tossing two ration packs to Hedgewick, he gestured at the pot of heated water. He then climbed the rock face to the ledge where Mitchell had taken up watch, bringing an extra ration pack with him.

He found Mitchell laying prone, scanning the maze of rocks below with a pair of low-light binoculars. The lenses were coated with a non-reflective substance so that the huge, light-gathering surfaces would not reflect and give away their position. The binoculars were bulkier than a night-vision scope, but in partial light they gave better resolution, and they were far less likely to have technical problems.

Mitchell had spread out his desert-camo poncho across his back, and had a wide-brimmed desert hat pulled low over the binoculars. The man was nearly invisible in the near-darkness of dusk, and had Dedrick not known where he was he would never have spotted him.

Mitchell shifted noiselessly, scanning another sector of the rock formations below. He did not acknowledge Dedrick’s arrival, but Dedrick had no doubts that Mitchell knew he was there. He settled back against the rock face a few meters from the ledge, and began to eat.

A few minutes later, Mitchell crawled backward away from the ledge, sitting up only when he reached the rock face beside Dedrick. Even then, he kept casting glances back toward the ravines.

“Something’s bothering you,” Dedrick said, making the comment more of a statement than a question.

“The desert is strange tonight,” Mitchell responded. Dedrick held out the extra ration pack he’d brought and Mitchell accepted it with a resigned grin.

“This whole place is strange, and it doesn’t seem much like desert to me,” Dedrick countered. “It’s still known by its clan name, isn’t it? Means something like ‘bones of the earth’ if I recall.”

“Strakis Skorpeois,” Mitchell answered. “Shell of the Scorpion, but your interpretation is very close to what the clans meant when they named it.”

They ate in silence after that, and when each had eaten as much as they could stomach of the ration packs, Mitchell produced a package from within a uniform pocket. Unrolling the small piece of dark, worn leather, he revealed a small collection of brown strips. Taking one, he bit off one end and began to chew. Raising his hand, he offered the unknown substance to Dedrick.

Taking an average size piece, Dedrick noted that it looked very much like the dried meats he’d eaten before. He took a bite, tearing it off with his canine teeth and then shifting it to the back of his mouth to chew. It was slightly salty, and although it tasted like nothing Dedrick had eaten before, it did remind him somewhat of the shark steaks he’d had once or twice.

“Rock dagger,” Mitchell explained. “Killed it myself, although old man Sun dried it for me.” He handed Dedrick a second strip, then began working his way back toward the ledge. He looked back at Dedrick, saying “You may not be pureblood, but you are still a true son of the desert, Private Dedrick.”

Preferring the company of Mitchell’s silent vigil to that of the two soldiers camped below, Dedrick remained on the ledge. After finishing the second strip of dried rock dagger, he found a relatively comfortable position against the rock face and tried to sleep. Soon he was dreaming, disjointed bits and flashes of childhood and his mother.

He awoke when the second rock struck him. The stone had been flipped backward from where Mitchell lay observing the ravines. Dedrick settled his helmet on his head and low-crawled to a position beside Mitchell. Passing the binoculars to Dedrick, Mitchell took up his rifle, already fitted with a night-vision scope.

Dedrick scanned the rock formations, searching in the area he thought Mitchell had been observing, but found nothing. He looked aside, finding Mitchell sighting in on something. Without taking his attention away from the scope, Mitchell whispered, “North-northwest, second stone arch. Watch the south base.”

Eyeballing the terrain, Dedrick spotted the two stone arches and then focused the binoculars in on the southern base of the second one. The area was deep in shadow, and at first he saw nothing. As he watched, though, the shadows shifted slightly, and in the dim moonlight he made out the head and shoulders of a man moving stealthily away from the arch.

“One man, moving this way,” Dedrick whispered.

“That makes five, total,” Mitchell responded.

Dedrick pulled his handheld wireless out. “Shouldn’t we warn them?” he asked, referring to Janovic and Hedgewick.

“This enemy moves like the sandviper, my friend. It is likely there are more than the few we’ve observed. Warn Janovic, and those two cows will just give away the fact we know the enemy is coming, and likely get themselves killed in the process.” Mitchell took his rifle off safety, and continued, “You can warn them in a moment… you’ll know when.” Dedrick saw Mitchell draw the rifle in tighter and lay his finger gently across the trigger.

Dedrick returned his attention to the binoculars, tracing a rough path from where he’d sighted the man by the stone arch, to the camp below. He spotted two figures laying prone on the back side of a small ridge, a scant forty meters from the camp site. They were visible against the light-colored section of rock due to his high vantage point, but they’d be invisible from the camp.

Swinging the binoculars to the camp, Dedrick found the other two members of the fire team asleep in their bedrolls. He turned the binoculars back to the ridge. As he did, Mitchell’s rifle cracked sharply, and one of the men on the ridge rolled over, lifeless. As the second man reached out to check his companion, Dedrick heard Mitchell slide the bolt back and then chamber another round. The figure on the ridge began to retreat into the darkness at the base of the ridge, but Mitchell’s rifle cracked again and he dropped in his tracks.

Dedrick swung the binoculars back to their camp below, at the same time keying the wireless to call a warning. Mitchell had been right, though, there were more of them. He’d shot the two he thought were on point, but a handful of others had slipped his detection and now came charging into the camp. The two sleeping SFA soldiers, just awakened by the sound of Mitchell’s rifle, lasted only seconds against their shadowy enemy.

Before he could react, Mitchell grabbed his shoulder. “C’mon, brother. Time to go.”

The minutes, and then hours and days, that followed seemed to pass in a blur. Dedrick followed Mitchell, traversing the next few miles of ravine perched on rock ledges and cracks that seemed impassable. Several times their shadowy pursuers shot at them from below, but they had the advantage of high ground, and if anyone tried to climb to their level, Mitchell put a bullet in them.

They had only Mitchell’s carbine, Dedrick’s automatic rifle, and what ammunition they carried on their belts. More critically, they had only two canteens of water and the few rock dagger strips that Mitchell carried. Still, Mitchell was clan-born and knew the desert, and Dedrick had any uncanny knack for picking up on Mitchell’s ways.

Whenever they had cover, Dedrick would try the handheld wireless, hoping to contact another fire team. The minicomp had been in the camp with Corporal Janovic, and without it they had no long-range communications. When the day came that they were scheduled to rendezvous for extraction, the two men were still deep within the arches and spires of the Strakis Skorpeois.

That morning, Dedrick harvested a few precious ounces of water from the dew-catchers they’d made from their ponchos. His voice low and serious, he spoke to Mitchell, “By clan custom, you could take my life, and there would be no guilt-burden. You could move faster without me, and your chances of survival would be better. I am clanless, after all.”

“I am diplopisti, of dual allegiance,” Mitchell answered. “When I joined the Federal Army, it became my second clan. That makes you my clan brother, and your life my responsibility, as mine is yours.” Mitchell regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then set about breaking their spartan camp.

As they prepared to move out for the day, Mitchell caught Dedrick by the shoulder. “I think today we will work our way back to the ravine floor,” he said. “There is something I wish to show you, and afterward I think you will feel differently about me sparing your life.”

When they reached the rendezvous point, they were seven days late. The desert sands were already swallowing the last signs that the Federal Army had been here, but it was still clear that they had not left without engaging in battle first. A few more days, though, and no one would ever know that man had set foot here.

In the carcass of a downed chopper, Dedrick found a wireless transmitter. Shortly after that they recovered a battery and an antenna from a jeep that was half-buried in an advancing dune. Mitchell cut away the fabric he could reach from a buried tent, and rigged it over the helicopter’s single exposed rotor blade to form a shelter. With wires cut from the helicopter’s avionics, Dedrick connected the wireless to the battery and antenna.

Two hours later, his call for assistance was picked up by a fixed-wing aircraft, an SFA reconnaissance flight. By late afternoon, a medevac chopper, escorted by two gunships, arrived to extract them. They were at the Federal Army Hospital in Theseopolis by nightfall.

Dedrick put up with the examinations, and questions, that followed. The doctor who checked him over was a tall, thin fellow with dark hair and an obvious city-boy manner. As he stripped out of his uniform, the doctor noticed the blood-soaked stain on the upper left chest of Dedrick’s tan tee-shirt. “You are wounded?” the doctor said, in his odd accent.

“No, just made a new friend.”

At the doctor’s puzzled look, he continued, “Happens all the time, Doc. You make a new friend, you get fresh ink.” Dedrick glanced down at the dried blood stain. “Nothing to worry about, Doc.”

“Well, I am still going to have to look at it,” the doctor answered.

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?”

J fin  J