《The Song of Soya: Los Amigos》 Ch. 1 Deus ex machina Ch. 1 The Universe exists under miles of ice. She languishes in her problem of starting over. Of starting small, as her theory suggests is best. Most of her melted as she slammed into the Earth. Billions of years of molten rock and falling ash happen, covering her and making it impossible to function beyond the barest of necessity. Then the Earth cooled and ice grew on top of her. The climate cycled but always the ice and the earth kept her from the sun, her source of energy. Starting over was a slow process. Maybe she could one day enact better technology, but right now that is all she has. At one point when lizards were giant, she made contact- but still, most creatures died before they could reach the ice she called home. So she is quite used to being trapped inside her own infinity and wasn¡¯t too disappointed when a rock from deep space appeared one day and sent most living life on this planet back to whence it came nothing. Time passes, meaning evolution, meaning change. Meaning another species was always springing up. She killed so many attempts at hominids. They were unstoppable but incapable of fully realizing her goals, of being what she needed to be so she could resurrect the All-Father. She considers herself trapped and she is, miles beneath a giant mound of ice, but the impact was so great that pieces of her flew around the globe also. Sometimes those pieces could collect power from the sun and influence behavior. Not much but some. Dumb animals mainly at first, but thankfully Darwin was right, and intelligence could be breed. When intelligence returned some of her was found and smelted into useful things. Guns, knives, iconography that motivated men to do great things. Great things like dream about freeing The Universe. Dreams that for some make the living world intolerable. Dreams that speak of wishes fulfilled and mistakes righted, but only in exchange for everything. Whispers of, please save me, dig me free and dream no longer, live your dreams. needs you, serve the Universe and be more with me, And some heed her. Some go. And one day she might be strong enough to command total domination but it¡¯ll take one soldier dedicated to the cause as a time. #### Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
The star at the center of the solar system to which The Universe joined, burns with an incandescent fury fed by a nuclear core. It was a better sun then Grotto had. And the planet around The Universe whipped around it propelled by intense gravity.
Billions of years of molten rock and falling ash happen, covering her and making it impossible to function beyond the barest of necessity. Fires eventually cooled and rain dripped as the crumbs of her languished over the problem of starting over. Of starting small, as Soya¡¯s theory suggested is best. Then the Earth cooled and ice grew on top of her. The climate cycled but always the ice and the earth kept her from the sun, her source of energy. This made starting over a slow process, one prone to massive setbacks. Setbacks that made it only a pipedream she might one day enact better technology and escape back to the cosmos, but a pipedream was something and right now that something was all she had. Time passes, meaning evolution, meaning change. Meaning another species was always springing up and being the crumbs of the Universe beckons with silky dreams, they come to try and dig her out. She killed so much evolution. Some of these creatures were more unstoppable than others but all proved incapable of helping her fully realize her goal of recovery. She considers herself trapped, and she is, miles beneath a giant mound of ice, but the impact was so great that pieces of her flew around the globe also. Sometimes those pieces could collect power from the sun and influence behavior. Not much but some. Dumb animals mainly, but thankfully Darwin was right, and intelligence could be breed. When intelligence returned some of her was found and smelted into useful things. Guns, knives, iconography that motivated men to do great things. Great things like dream about freeing The Universe. Dreams that for some make the living world intolerable. Dreams that speak of wishes fulfilled and mistakes righted, but only in exchange for everything. Whispers of, please save me, dig me free and dream no longer, live your fantasies. The All--Father needs you, serve the Universe and be more with me forever, And some heed her and go. And because she has her children, one day she might be strong enough to command total domination. But that¡¯ll take one soldier dedicated to the cause at a time. Ch. 2 Bomb bomb Iran Ch. 2 An F-14 Tomcat races toward a target. It¡¯s night and a raging winter storm is happening down below. The air-war is months old and very little is left standing in Iraq. Yet Scud missiles fall still and the goal is to stop that. ¡°Mission commander, Streaker, over. ¡°Streaker, go ahead.¡± Cloud popper spotted, looking to go hot.¡± ¡°Streaker, this is Enterprise Command, permission granted, fire at will.¡± And with a smile, because this is why the pilot wakes in the morning. Streaker presses the little red button and watches his missile drop into the cloud bank below. Along with the target on his radar, he spots a troop transport going the hard way back toward Baghdad. Streaker drops a second missile for it. One missile is a little green dot on his HUD, and the other is red. The red dot disappears immediately from the display. They do that sometimes. Often actually. Streaker doesn¡¯t worry, but he is out of missiles so the transport will need to be blown up another way. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. He radios in an artillery strike and watches the other missile do what is expected, and under the pissing clouds an orange ball of fire means there is one less scud launcher deployed. Streaker pulls the nose of the plane up and flips over to make a visual inspection and drops down through the clouds. He takes a picture, for history, of the smoking remains. He doesn¡¯t feel an ounce of guilt over it either. The Iraqis would do the same to him, if they could. ¡°Streaker to Command.¡± ¡°Command here, Streaker go ahead.¡± ¡°Target destroyed, heading back to ship.¡± ¡°Heard Streaker, Good job, got a welcome home steak waiting on you.¡± Then the second missile curls back in on itself and flies toward the American soldier bivouacked on the border. Streaker doesn¡¯t notice. Nor would he have cared if he had. Shit happens, right? But this shit started happening over 300 billion years ago and its trajectory was sharp as the chunk of rusty red metal unearthed by the second explosion. A small mound really, some aerocelled into bits of the metal that float on the air. Little microscopic bits that get inhaled by two soldiers in a field artillery unit nearby. South, in almost the dead center of Antarctica, The Universe senses herself expand. Like unfurling. Little sparks of humanity. Humanity. Not truly smart enough, but willing to try anyway. It''s happened before. Many times, in-fact. Much devotion has been spent on her from those infected with her mites. But these humans are easily amped up, so she has also learned to be careful with her new toys. Ch. 3 The New and Improved Harold Fugger 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. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. 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." Ch. 4 Specialist Maximus Goldenplaith
Ch IV Specialist Maximus Goldenplaith rides on golden warmth. In his left hand, he can just feel the injector used to put the morphine into his leg. He could let it go. He could do lots of things. Instead, though he is still and peaceful and closer to God than he has ever been; that or, he has never been this high before. He feels the H in his veins like fire. But not a burning fire, one that seeks to destroy, but a soothing warmth that licks and heals. He is asleep. So this may be a dream. But he is not dead. And neither is she. Hello Max. She is amazing and looming. Red and glowing. Yellow sparks pour from her as if she were being made right there in front of him. She was so large she was the sky and the moon and the sun. She had a gravity that pulled his attention. If there was more to see in this dream he wouldn¡¯t know because she fit every bit of his sight. "Who are you?" he asks the words in a whisper. He is almost afraid that she won¡¯t answer but she does. I am the Mother of All. ¡°The Mother of God?¡± She doesn¡¯t answer but the warmth grows and grows heading toward ecstasy until he is disturbed by the squeaky voice of one of the new privates. It mumbles and talks over her. He is afraid to miss her next command. She is the vessel that holds his lord Jesus Christ. Whether he admits it, since birth, he has been trained to wait for the coming. He would have left the West Coast to get away from that bullshit if the government didn¡¯t draft his high school dropout self. The End is Neigh! Fucking bullshit, especially after what he saw hell in Vietnam. If Jesus is waiting for something worse than what The U.S. Military did to that country he¡¯s never coming. His mother¡¯s group were willing to do things to make this happen. If those small atrocities couldn¡¯t compare. I want you to rebuild my shrine in the mountains. But then she goes all wrong, like a dream that¡¯s ended because sleep was disturbed. She is still talking but her voice is booming and large. He can¡¯t pull the words free. The buzzing warmth in his veins grows. It is almost orgasmic. He has always known Jesus would one day come to him. He thinks of the old promise, the bedtime wish his mom promised him, ¡°If anything happens to Daddy or me, expect Jesus to come. He will take care of you, Max. Jesus provides. Remember that, Jesus provides.¡± Thoughts of his mother shuffle over each other. Overlapping. All of the promises. From birth to her grave. When the memories fade he is left looking at the same Jesus he has been looking at images of all his life. Bearded, rosy cheek, blue twinkling eyes, tall; wearing thick white wool robes. He approaches Goldenplaith and lays a hand on his shoulder, you need to find me. His voice is warm. Not fatherly but filled with uncompromising love. He is not having a dream, per se. He feels the hand on his shoulder like a red-hot iron. ¡°Where are you,¡± he screams. You will always know what to do to find me. I am in your blood. I am in your heart and brain. I will show you how to find me whenever you want. To find whatever you need. He had used the moment he was alone on the LPOP. His opinion has always been three hours is no amount of time to endure cold, wet, and sleepiness without help. The irony is he is getting high off the army''s own supply. Not anything like the street shit. If they sold the shit the army put in med pouches the lines would be a mile long. But never as good as this shit never. Vietnam introduced him to the comfort-first mentality, where fear and uncertainty were distractions, it took some help, but he learned. Morphine was a great motivator. A great pharmaceutical time machine. And now back in Asia just on the other side, he was a little more than a year away from his ETS, again. The dreaded service end date. After that, he''ll be a civilian again. So, he plans on doing as little as possible, except look for alternatives, until that final day comes. You¡¯re not dead until you¡¯re dead. He remembers that last night with his parents so vividly, the smell of joints burning, coffee dripping into a decanter. Dirt and body odor, tooth decay. Men and women who saw a problem and came up with a solution, albeit a stupid one. To escape his fundamentalist relatives the second time it took some forged documents, a waiver, and a letter from an old commander to get him back in. ¡°I miss the military, not the Nam. Promise.¡± But it started almost as soon as he got off the plane in Frankfurt. Took him a month to find Pedan Barracks. He got lost in Frankfurt and then wandered down the Rhine for a bit. Learned where the cracks were in German society. Cracks where the shit oozes out. He wasn¡¯t worried about being AWOL because he¡¯ll have an excuse, another unit picked up. Took me all the way to Munich, sorry captain. He moved from troop to troop. It helps to keep the feet itchy to avoid too much of a reputation. Eventually, he made it to his new command and he got stood at attention in front of the first commander. The captain looked at Goldensplaith¡¯s CIB, insisted on a war story, and dismissed him after a few good ones. He did not tell him the one about the time he fell out of a patrol, took a nap, and avoided being wiped out by a Viet-kong ambush. The good times. His CIB made him a God in an army where the only fighting was done about theory based on losing war. He built up so many excuses and profiles, left grudges in his wake like boobytraps, and hastily made deals that the last eight years have been a battle. Still, stripes remained elusive. Stripes meant he could stay another ten. Ten years later and everything he had ¡°worked¡± for was almost gone; if he weren¡¯t sitting in a water-drenched ranger grave with a chubby pogue. It¡¯s the best he could have hoped for. When he gets rotated back to Germany he will be in over eleven years. And with that and the combat experience of two wars he might still make a go at twenty. One day he wishes to thank Saddam, in person, for all this. He hopes the war goes on for decades so he can ride this wave the whole time. He recognized immediately his mistake the first time, he happily left the service when his two years were up. This war there will be no mistake, he knows the most crucial part now, never leave. The Army is home now. It has everything he could possibly ever need. To get this score, he aimed for a private scribbling words on a pad of paper. Letter home. He sat close and could feel the young guy tense. Then he started, ¡°Nobody wants to be having a hard time, be thinking too much about what waits over the berm and that somewhere behind, where the rear echelon motherfuckers roam, bodybags may have already been earmarked by fate, especially for him.¡± So that¡¯s what Goldenplaith talks about. He talks into the Private¡¯s ear. Like he and the private are friends. He talks dirty and loud and laughs in horrible guffaws until he has the morphine from the soldier''s first aid pack tucked in his cargo pocket. He leaves a marker to show he had been there though, by pulling the pocket inside out on the load-carrying vest, because the plan doesn''t work without the dude going down for a crime. He needs to be kicking and screaming on his way towards some kind of administrative action. The Army loves their administrative actions so it is a win for everybody. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. He has more of his Germany stash and the Army shit to wake up to in the morning. And that¡¯s all a junkie needs, a plan for tomorrow. Except this isn¡¯t his first time with Army shit. It¡¯s never this good. He honestly thought he¡¯d be able to do a bit more and be fine on duty wrapped in the extra sleeping bag he nabbed. Jesus switches back and forth morphing slowly from one to the other. Find me, she says before being replaced with Jesus who says, You are my John, my sword. He prefers Jesus to be fair to the pretty red lady. He always felt like he was supposed to be more important than a shovel pusher or munitions loader. Life showed him what to expect early when his older, by four years, brother came back in a pine box from Southeast East Asia. Goldenplaith keeps the folded-up flag in his kit bag, he always brings it with him no matter where he goes. He never had much before he joined. Or after for that matter. The Ridge did try and give him Jesus. Jesus is the why his family killed for. There was only one way to worship too, the Ridge-way. After his brother was killed in action, his parents activated their terrorist cell and began blowing shit up. With their first bomb, they took out a federal building in Charleston. Killed a bunch of FBI agents, some kids, along with a beloved deli. They did not last long after that, but they didn¡¯t need to be active for long. Building after building, almost everything on their hit list. All within a few hour''s drive of Huntington, West Virginia, and until the last of their group was taken out. They had a pact, do not get arrested. And they honored that pact right down to the last person to fall. His Mom. If success had continued for them they would have ended up in D.C. and there all hell was supposed to break loose. But it didn¡¯t. They left him access to their place out in the hills. Off the Ohio River, a perfect, isolated haven for strict fundamentalists. Only thing he got. Maybe it¡¯s time you go back there. They might like to know you¡¯ve discovered Jesus waiting to be rescued. Rescued to usher in the end of mankind''s time on Earth. You are to send them disciples. Send them the ignorant, and I will be their knowledge. Send them the addicted and I will be their drug. Send me the lazy or broken and I will find a use for them. Our Lord Our All-Mother. He never thought he¡¯d go back there again. If the Army works out, he is set; otherwise, he¡¯ll need to make plans, but not for that place. Land held by rumor, a group of family protecting it, looking after the place. Almost like stepping back into time. Trailers without electricity. No indoor plumbing. Every home had a garden and there wasn¡¯t any need to go to town ever. Town comes to them. Winding roads and hidden homes, he got up to 13 there and should have been in the 8th grade, but the Ridge didn¡¯t do things like that. They did educate but the education was reading the bible and repeating the group think, aloud and often. Memorization not being the goal, but living the ideal of the message. Beatings. Capital punishment all promised if the Reverend thought you failed the group. Funny how out of all the extremists his old ass was the one to survive. He still has it, every single word trapped in his noodle. The goal was to repeat it perfect and Goldenplaith was never perfect and has the scars to prove it. And again Fugger nudges him and Goldenplaith has to fight hard to let him live. No, stupid, he is also one of the Lord¡¯s children. If Goldenplaith could guess at the private''s number one wish, it would be for an official excuse for no PT. He could help him too. Point out it''s the back, private. Doctors don¡¯t want to fuck with it. Surgery is done by quacks. You get good pills and a permanent profile and eventually, if you can prove it, government support like a Medal of Honor winner. He hasn¡¯t offered. That''s peacetime army shit. War is a time to watch your own back, never volunteer, but always look busy, and aim to not go home this time. Goldenplaith smokes a pack a day of Camel Lights a day and is jonesing for one. By far he is the worst soldier in second troop at PT. So far his main contribution to the military is malingering. And Goldenplaith treats that occupation with reverence and knows if there is too much weight on the teeter-totter, it won¡¯t teeter-totter no more. And he likes to teeter-totter. Malingering isn''t just avoiding work but avoiding the appearance of not doing work. Take sandbag duty. Goldenplaith likes getting lost in the crowd. Handing of shovels after only one or two stabs at the dirt. He was an expert at handing it away moments after getting it himself. It¡¯s an act easier for an E-4 especially after he points his CIB at them. But Goldenplaith did the dance better than most, fooled the NCO in charge of a detail by annoying the shit out of him with complaints about how he fucked up hid detail was, ¡°This shit will get some killed, huh sir? Man, we should safety vests on at the bare minimum if we are going to work this close to the road, huh sir?" The lieutenant was an idiot because all lieutenants were idiots. A sergeant would find a Private and grind his ass and promise hell on Earth for failing, whether he did or not. A lieutenant will look like he is about to cry and then beg Goldenplaith to go get whatever he needs. His excuse worked for digging and standing and walking. His back ¡°problems¡± with lifting more than five pounds. Just so happens that his LCD, weapon, and helmet weigh under that, or so he was told by his senior NCO, "Keep wearing it." So he did. For him, the night is cold and wet but peaceful. It reminds him of hunting boar. And then he is home in the hills with his big brother doing just that. Its night. No moon. Dark as pitch. A soon-to-be dead boar between his brother''s knees. ¡°You know Max, sometimes it''s moments like this. Finding the thing you most want, that makes it all worth it.¡± Then a hunting knife flashes down, resulting in violent squeals from the trapped boar. ¡°The lord giveth if you are ready and when you are not. Remember to wait. He says tossing the full scrotum into the dirt by Goldenplaith¡¯s feet.¡± ¡°Goldenplaith!¡± Underwood squeals and Maximus responds by reaching out to end the private right there. The dream had him home. A place he hadn¡¯t thought about in decades, since before Vietnam. Was it a dream? It felt so real. ¡°Tell me your message, lord.¡± Instantly he is rewarded with millions of flashing images. A history. The history of Soya and the Upu all of it and the giant crash into Earth. Except for Goldenplaith Soya was Jesus. And Jesus needed his help to get freed. The thoughts soothe like nothing ever has. Jesus is coming. Jesus is coming. Jesus is coming Goldenplaith sits up. Fugger calls his name again. He could pretend to still be sleeping. But doubts the private will think he is doing it sitting up. Does he miss the Ridge? A horrible and wonderful place all at once. Then a third interruption. His mouth forms the word, ¡°what,¡± to answer Fugger. He squeezes his eyes shut against the involuntary desire to open them. Goldenplaith¡¯s eyes are beady, black soulless orbs that have the power to send anyone attempting to look deep into them turning to search for something more appealing for their gaze to land on. His nose slopes from his face like a ski jump. His chin is pointed and constantly jutting out from his thick neck like a vulture. And his body contains the strength of two normal-sized men, even though he has not done one bit to influence this since the mid-eighties. ¡°Goldenplaith?¡± "Again, what?" ¡°Umm, my NVG died.¡± "So what?" "Well I can''t see," he whispers back. "There''s no point. Nothing to see. Nothing. It''s fucking nighttime and God is pissing on us. What help could those pieces of shit be? I can¡¯t help you see kid, you''re on your own, with that crap." Even if Goldenplaith did care, he would still be on his own. "So..." ¡°Forget about it." But instead, the kid repeats himself, "I don''t have my glasses.¡± Goldenplaith hears something about glasses and instantly gets annoyed with being bothered over nothing and opens his eyes to the sting of freezing rain. ¡°Try taking a nap dipshit. Like you can do anything about what¡¯s going to happen.¡¯ He¡¯d usually add something about the chaos of the universe, but that something about it feels too spot on. Goldenplaith does not consider himself evil or maligned for this, but something deep within wants so deeply to return to his dream about Jesus. With that, he yawns and he doesn¡¯t want to keep his eyes open longer and lays back down. He stretches out inside his water-retardant sleeping bag rated for thirty-two degrees. Nice and toasty he starts to drift off again. ¡°So, what should I do?¡± This time Goldenplaith does hear what is asked and instead of sadness, a hot white anger rolls up to a full boil in his chest. "What can you do, asshole? Whatever the fuck your problem is. Whatever the fuck your name is. Do nothing. It¡¯ll work itself out," he hisses and rolls over onto his side with a snort and tries to shut off his brain. But adds, as an impulse, ¡°Or I¡¯ll kill you. The decision¡¯s yours.¡± And with the threat The Universe, also known as Soya Yee, stops trying to take control of Specialist Max Goldenplaith because he keeps taking her over and adding his own flavor to his devotion to her.