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Ch. 3

Under the steady freezing downpour of the Saudi Monsoon season, Soya stretches inside her new drone. She knows she can only do so much, but feels free for the first time in so long. It is almost too much. She so infrequently gets these opportunities. But she forces herself to be careful. Too much enthusiasm on her part and the human psyche breaks; it's fragile and will pop if challenged too much.

She has been working the math of this conundrum of hers and how this young soldier could just be enough spark to start a forest fire. For the moment she allows her mind to still and soak up the reality in which she inhabits. It’s been billions of years since she last knew freedom. She misses the taste of life and wants to linger.

The Universe ignores the snoring one, for the time being. His name is Goldenplaith. He is too stoned to work with right now. She sets the portion of herself in him going on clearing his head.

The private is staring into the pitch blackness called sky. Thunder rumbles in a drone as if judging her for what she is about to do to these two men.

It could have been any of the millions of warring soldiers caught under the cloud cover, pissing on those present maybe a kharmic punishment for their total disregard for life. But it’s not the thunder doing the judging, it's chaos and fate. And these men are hers because it was decreed in the great calculation started long ago by a long-dead Upu.

"We will own infinity."

Then her obsession with the moments she couldn't control, the moments after life. Moments that she will never see. She can never die. Not even after slamming herself into a half-formed planet.

Thinking of Uh hurts. She knows there will be no resurrecting him and that the infinity he offered was a curse and prison only for her. Forever. If she lets this life be her reality. She has had many and is confident she will have many more. Whether she wants it or not.

She doesn't have to want anything. She's proven that she can be still and not long for more.

At any given moment she can be in the thoughts and feelings of hundreds of different animals. But it is all an accident and fleeting, sometimes a human finds her and instead of allowing her to tell them what she needs they turn her into an icon and worship her.

So, Private Horace Fugger misses the warm gulf breezes of his home on the Florida Coast, God she misses so much too.

She is curious about her new avatar and influences his recollection. She wants him to be a great warrior. A hero among his people. Instead she is disappointed because the truth is dumb. Dumb because he volunteered, maybe not for this, this constant suck of wet sand and the sense he is sitting in eons of urine, but certain, nonetheless, he did this to himself, he volunteered. He promised the next three years of his life to the good ole U.S. Army, all for the paltry tune of 10k in college money and what he makes in a year, which altogether is not enough to live on, and hardly worth it, under the circumstances.

Or ever.

So why? There were no specific promises. No jobs to fill. No tax other than an education and a pension. To Soya it seems a cheap trick and knows she can do better. She can promise dreams that give the universe. The misery for her is his circumstance. He is almost alone hundreds of yards out from the 7-27 Field Artillery Battery area. Hulking, always rumbling, Multiple Launch Rocket System vehicles, and the warm and dry fifty-man tents with diesel heaters spitting their stinky heat wait there for this guard shift to end. It’s when thinking about the burning diesel and pulling apart the chemical components she decides, he will do.

Private Fugger is unaware of his passenger. He just has an eerie sensation like he is being watched. He is thinking about home. It’s the smell of home actually he misses most. Like the stink of diesel conjures the opposite, sweet flavor of night-jasmine and honeysuckle mixing with the salty yuck of mangrove swamp. He’d like to kiss that air. It reminds him of seafood. Something that the army has shown little care in preparing. The thing he finds himself dreaming about night after night. Sweetmeat fried crispy and golden brown in beer batter, spicy cocktail sauce. He can eat till bursting.

The army tried their hand at the little seabound-cockroaches a few days after the 7-27 got in-country as if to torture him. Wherever they were in the Saudi desert, they dared call those rubbery things covered in barbeque sauce, shrimp.

Soya stops the longing missed culinary opportunity as she considers the difficulty of the situation. She would rather him fretting the war then thinking about home, she'd learn more.

Today, tonight, this morning, at the moment, whatever the fuck part of day 0300 is, he endures pouring frigid rain, bordering on slushy ice. There is enough horribleness in the weather to wonder if this will stop the war until it passes. All that would mean to him is no more sitting on a hole, digging sand to fill sandbags hour after hour, with moments interrupted to eat horrible food, sleep until some miserable asshole wakes him to go out on a needless guard shift or work detail.

With nothing else to do, she suggests he put the night vision goggles over his eyes and suddenly pitch black becomes green fuzz. He switches back and forth a few times because he is nineteen. Pitch black without the Night Vision Goggles over his eyes and green fuzz with them on.

After a bit of studying the nothing that is the horizon, he grows bored and removes them completely. The rain bounces off his forehead as if attacking an enemy. She is annoyed.

She knows he hates wearing the NVGs and not just because he can’t really see much detail through them, but because they prevent delusion. With them over his eyes he is forced to accept the actuality of his situation, he is at war and out there, somewhere out there, are trained killers who want him dead. The Universe tests the private’s ability with math and gets nowhere there also. He can’t see, hear or even help very much without sacrificing himself completely. He is a coward. Intolerable of harsh weather conditions. It would be best to save him till morning, maybe start something significant then, but already her involvement has confused him into a deep depression, deeper than the one he was already in. Just trying to run an equation in Fugger's brain drains what control she does have so much that if she keeps forcing him to conform to her desires her connection will be over and he will be just another ruined human. She has to be more careful. No use making them run to her, to die days or weeks later, they seem to do that on their own anyway. Eventually, they get a fever and just need to get her free. With so much of her buried, she would need much more energy than what these small gestures are able to collect.

A spark, though, and some tender loving care, and maybe this Fugger could be the carrier for all of her needs.

The sleeping soldier is more than asleep. And if he is to be of any use, soon that will need to change, and sobering him up will be expensive in terms of time. She doesn’t have much time and instead wonders if he even can be used later. So she uses what information from within she can and limits herself. Going only for a nibble. She does give him a dream though and lets him luxuriate in whatever his brain conjures. The dreams were always their own, at first. They come from their subconsciousness trying to make sense of her intrusion. She can make the dreams bigger and make the dreamer do things that would seem impossible before they became one with her. Once they accept her she can send them on more intense and meaningful missions. Piece by piece she will be reassembled; if it works out.

The Specialist known as Goldenplaith; she can give him what he wants, dreams of respect and power. Easy and done. But not until the morphine is out of his system.

Fugger's main issue; missing home. He doesn't like being cold and wet. It's his main excuse for what's preventing him from doing his job. The NVGs don't help because of how god-awfully uncomfortable they are. If she is to start anything she is going to need him more on task. The question though is how to force that into happening so he will work directly for her. Beyond the annoying tingle that they may not even be working properly, they pull at the ingrown hairs on the back of his scalp and make his head feel heavy and hard to balance on his neck. Then the kicker, if he wears his glasses, they depress those into the bridge of his nose to a point just short of what feels like breaking skin. So he doesn't wear them, which makes things worse. She flexs the muscles in his eye just so and fixes the imperfection of his lenses. He won't notice until he puts on his glasses tomorrow.

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Because he is a bit of a complainer he tried telling his squad leader when it dawned on him he’d be out on the line in the middle of the night and forced to use them, “Sergeant, they leave no room for my glasses. I won’t be able to see.”

These blips are like umbrellas of coverage. In the past, when it was only animals, she could make survival hinge on the suggestion of dreams. But the more complex the intellect, the more careful she needs to be. Creatures that think, and bristle, can break the connection easily enough and bristling means the loss of a tool.

Unable to see? It sounded like an excuse, even to her as it left his mouth. The short man, with buck sergeant rank, in fact said, “bullshit,” in what Fugger felt was an Arkansas accent, a place in North America far from where they were now. Oh, if only that sergeant was affected by the aresoled bits of her, she can tell just by Fugger's memories he s a tough one. The way he dressed his private down, just enough to get stuff done and not too much sd to breaks him. The perfect balance just what she needs. Give too much though and wham ass to the ground. Fugger never stopped questioning everything, including himself. The sergeant said no, as Fugger is perfectly aware, batteries were disappearing into CD players and gameboys and not the implements of war imagined for them. He was getting heat from the platoon sergeant, who was told by the platoon leader, a butter bar from West Point, that the company CO has made it his mission on this deployment to protect the batteries.

“Sergeant, seriously. I’ll do a double during the day. I need some double As. I can't be out there at night blind, right?”

"Where are the ones I just gave you?"

They were in his gameboy, but he doesn't say that, instead he mumbles, "They died," like it's a question.

"Tough shit. Do your duty tonight and use what you got." Irritated red splotches grew on the sergeant's cheeks, “What are you going to see anyway? It’s desert and the Hajj are escaping Kuwait. Just wake up when asked and do what you are told. It’s war, I can shoot you for disobeying. Understand me?”

Fugger did, and said nothing more, and now can’t decide which is worse. Not being able to see or hear on a listening observation post or that the dude on guard with him, is what he is, and both could mean doom for the war effort, or doom for himself, which is really all he cares about.

Yet, the possibility exists that it is just the sweeping vastness of the flat dark desert around playing with them both. When she looks through technology she assumes if it doesn't move it's not alive. He tries to remember what the surrounding area is like during the day. He searches his memory for a landmark. Something stationary. Something he can count on not to have moved. Something he can see through the NVG’s and be certain it's desert and not inert technology.

Could they be broken, he asks himself.

No, dipshit. You used the batteries in your Gameboy and now they are dead. But... It wouldn’t be the first time a set of NVG’s malfunctioned, they run on complex technology Fugger doesn't want to comprehend.

"Good maintenance is a top down initiative, leadership is lacking so is the maintenance," some officer Fugger overheard once ripping a buck sergeant a new one. She pulls it out from his discarded memories and pushes it forward. The result is a deepening of his depression. He knows he is a shit soldier. And doesn't need to be reminded of it. This NVGs were given to him when we got off the plane. Time moves fast in The Army. He is only three weeks out of Advanced Individual Training. He lived with the Buffalo on Fort Sill for four months, then a week ago he was on leave in Florida. He got turned around and deployed from Peden Barracks in Germany to a plane aimed at Riyadh.

“Don’t lose those, newbie,” the supply sergeant warned. “That's top-secret tech worth ten thousand dollars and a decade in Leavenworth.”

At nineteen, he didn't scoff, but he could have. He's been threatened with Leavenworth since day one. Don’t lose this, don’t do that, don’t go there, to the point he almost expects the army wants him to end up in the military prison for the onerous reason of having joined for a little college money and a job.

Fuck it, she decides and suggests Fugger tap Goldenplaith.

He does. And the snoring form, lying next to him in the shallow ranger grave, quiets.

Someone else dug these fighting positions. Fugger helped dig three of the standing pits and the sixty cal. pit. He covered all four also. These did not only go a foot into the ground. Just high enough to shoot over. It was a foot deep and lined with wet sandbags, sandbags Underwood is sure he filled on one of the details he’s been on since he got off the plane. Filling sandbags has been his sole contribution since arriving and starting the hurry up and wait for the real war to begin. His hand shakes as he pulls it back from Goldenplaith’s shoulder. He hates Goldenplaith. No, more that and he fears the older soldier who seems to have all but given up. A specialist known as a killer. Former infantry, he displays his combat infantry badge on a lean chest. He earned it several times over a ten-year career that sent him to Vietnam before coming back in as artillery in 1983. He even looked like one would expect a lifer to look.

His uniform was faded green woodland, it gave the impression it was vintage. Thick with labor-hardened muscle, ripcord attached everything to his person. He was even using the green nylon covered string to secure the glasses to his face, the Vietnam-era bayonet to his belt, and the overstuffed kit bag in his pocket. The kitbag was his most prized possession. In it was the last of the shit he got before leaving Germany. Not enough to kill him, but enough to make his own smooth run at the war. That's his main job, survive. Beyond that find ways to enjoy the survival.

Fugger does not know any of this, though, so she feeds it to him slowly. Bit by bit. Awful detail after awful detail.

Now it doesn't matter if he believes the rumors of the guy he has to share a fox hole with, he has imagined them so well it almost feels to Fugger like he lived them. For a moment The Universe fears she has gone to far. That she popped her new toy already.

But no, Soya finds him collaborating the thoughts she gave with the facts he already knew..

“See that guy?” He and another soldier are standing at the gut truck waiting for a tray of hot glop.

Fugger says he did and to his inexperienced eye, the soldier looked intimidating.

“Vietnam bluecord,” The PFC nods to the pile of sandbags and nearby detail actively filling them. Goldenplaith was sitting and pointing like he was in charge.

“Senior enlisted?”

“No, he is a specialist. Can't get promoted because he never does anything. Not even sure why command brought that sorry sack of shit.

Fugger was shaken awake earlier tonight by the same PFC, “Hey you're on LPOP with Goldenplaith.”

He thought it was a joke and tried to snuggle back down into his sleeping bag, but was nudged back awake, “No seriously.”

The tent was dark as he got dressed. The snores of two dozen soldiers sleeping on cots surround as he made his way to what felt like the real war. beyond the razor wire. He pushed through the tent’s flaps and into pitch black trying to remember the way.

He did. And when he arrived Goldenplaith was already there.

Goldenplaith was short and old and walked like he was humping seventy-five pounds through the jungle, still. He sat with the weight of the world on his shoulders and did not acknowledge Fugger as he approached. He continued to work on something Fugger couldn’t see in his lap.

The private climbs behind the sandbags and peers through the night until the sound of a lighter draws his attention. He looks and sees a metal spoon glowing orange. And in less than a minute after that, a sigh.

Fugger does need to watch, but it is almost as if Goldenplaith wants him to see as he shoves the needle into his vein. Then the snoring. And the never-ending rain. And he is stuck like a prisoner with people trying to blow him up. The rumors about Goldenplaith varied. It was said he could make his own rules because of what he did in Vietnam. Holy-warrior and all that, it wasn't Medal of Honor-winning holy but enough to last a lifetime. Many suspect he will one day be forgiven for being a shitbag and be given rank back and allowed to retire. As a specialist, Goldenplaith was maxed out on years, and, unless that miracle occurred, when Saddam got his ass handed to him, his time in the army would come to an end.

twelve years down the drain, all because of a habit he picked up in the jungle. Could almost be considered government issue and now the army didn’t want him anymore. Everyone doubted he’d go freely. Sorting through Fugger's thoughts supports that Goldenplaith was a complete bust before she even tried.

She needs to see though. She needs the specialist to wake up.

She makes Fugger poke him again. “Hey, I don’t know if these things are working,” taking the NVGs and shaking them in Goldenplaiths’s direction as if expecting the specialist to sit up and help.

He doesn’t.

She makes Fugger nudge him again.

Goldenplaith mumbles something and trails off, making Underwood forced to ask, “What?”

With an irritated sigh, Goldenplaith grumbles, “So?”

“What do you mean, so? How am I supposed to see?” She tries to hide her sarcasm, but it comes through Fugger's words anyway

Instead of an answer, within seconds, the specialist snorts having fallen back to sleep. Soya gives up until Goldenplaith stirs and mumbles, “Just go to sleep, we’ll worry about it tomorrow. Then he reaches out and pats Underwood’s knee like he was a disturbed spouse.

The cold rain splats against them as Goldenplaith snores blissfully.

Soya is going to wake him again, though gruff and mostly unwilling, it will be nice share the torture of guard with another human. Double the impact. But she doesn't let him wake the veteran, instead he slides the NVGs back over his eyes as she sets to work.

Eventually, and still unsure, he mutters under his breath, "Nothing and the same."