FINAL KILL
War. Ren was up to his ass in it. He was
sick of it. But, he was good at it. Three hours sleep last
night, four and a half the night before, and Christ knows
how many the night before that, and on and on it went. He
reached behind his ear and flipped the imprev off. The damned
implant had been bothering him since it had been installed.
The meds said there’d be no side effects, but at times
he felt like there were ants crawling around under his skull.
He looked at his watch. Two thirty – Jesus! What as
ungodly hour for reveille. The missions were getting earlier
and earlier.
Pilots up and down the corridor were
being aroused from their sleeping cubicles. Within minutes
they were jostling each other in the passageway, dragging
on the first fag of the day, and jockeying for position
in the john. Shave, shit and shower. The holy trinity of
the fighter-jock; the morning ritual necessary for the miracle
of transformation from a hung-over, limp dick, fucked-up,
bunk driver, into a hairy-ass, motherfuckiing, galactic
superhero. They had a saying – 21 of the rippingest,
raunchiest, hard-ass, give-a-shit, bunch of needle-nosed
iron-riders you’d ever want to meet. The 495th IG.
And, here they were fighting for space in the latrine.
Their official motto was “Iraken
Dek Bel-aken!” That was Iellanese for “Kill
or be Killed!” Their unit emblem showed a winged knight
thrusting a lightning bolt through the heart of a Zendorian
millipede. During those times when the squadron was together,
when the blood was up, when the killing was routine, and
the rewards were promotion, boundless women, and non-stop
partying, Ren could easily raise his cup and shout, here,
here! But, during those brief restive moments of moral sobriety
when the unit was standing down, or when there was a break
in the action long enough to take a long hard look at life
as it was so grotesquely being played out, Ren would say,
bullshit! This back and forth, back and forth, was rough
on the nerves. Even for a tough, time-tested veteran like
Ren Leeve.
“Connelly! Get the fuck out of
my way. How the hell long you gonna stay admiring that ugly
fucking mug of yours?”
Ren was directing his comments at Wills
Connelly who was intently studying his
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