The Strangest Thing

Marcus woke up with a start when the dropship dipped briefly as its weight settled on its landing gear. Looking around, he then focused a sheepish gaze on the ship's only other passenger, a fellow soldier sitting opposite him and who, unlike him, was dressed in full combat gear and maintained an air of situational awareness. Marcus, who had opened his mouth to say something, instantly snapped it shut as the lowering rear ramp revealed a broad-shouldered figure wearing an officer's cap, standing on the tarmac.

Colonel Brightfield grinned at Marcus as he and the other soldier stepped down the ramp, and advanced with his hand stretched forward. "Private Humphrey," he said as he delivered a firm shake. "How was your trip?"

"It was good, sir," said Marcus, meeting the colonel's eyes only occasionally. He half smiled as he added, "first time aboard a Pteranodon I don't have mayhem waiting at the end of the trip."

Colonel Brightfield laughed and slapped Marcus' shoulder blade twice. "That's the spirit! C'mon, let's get inside."

Marcus had seen the interior of an officer's sanctum many times before —most often that of his CO—, but this was the first time his host was a smiling one. Colonel Brightfield clapped and rubbed his hands as he sat down.

"So! What can I get ya. Coffee? Coke?" The colonel made a show of looking around his office, leaned forward and whispered like a co-conspirator. "Hell, this calls for a shot of 12-year Scotch, whaddaya say?"

Marcus, who always passed out at a half beer, nodded faintly. Colonel Brightfield gave a sharp nod of his own and shoved his index into a button sitting on his desk.

"Bronson!," Brightfild bellowed into an unseen intercom. "Two doubles of Stonehold for me and our hero, on the double!" Releasing the button, he leaned back on his chair.

"Now then" Brightfield's effusive attitude had waned a touch, but the warm smile remained. "Third Class?"

Marcus nodded, staring briefly at the polished floor. "Yes, sir. That was to be my last tour. The nature of my discharge was contingent on my performance." He heard a drawer sliding open and close and, when he looked up, Brightfield was flipping a folder open and reading its contents.

"Insubordination... ah, thank you Bronson, that will be all. Dereliction of guard duty... oh, even an AWOL incident." Brightfield closed the folder. "It's clear Captain Avery has a keen eye for talent. If she had sacked you instead of merely bumping you all the way down to Private Third Class, you wouldn't have been around to save the world. Look at you now! Honorable discharge and a war hero's pension. Isn't fate the strangest thing?"

"Yes, sir," was all Marcus could muster. Brightfield grinned.

"I'd say that's worth drinking to," he said, and raised his glass. "Cheers!"

#

"The invaders have been routed, then?"

A very serious colonel Brightfield nodded to the screen in front of him, which featured a dark-skinned, smartly dressed man. "Yes, sir. The 201st, 477th, 632nd, 703rd and 1088th theaters are currently busy mopping up."

President Faheem nodded and stroked his very full, very black beard. "And there has been no more activity since the Cerebellum fell?"

"No, sir. Doctor Hollander was right: the lot of them keeled over at the same time, all over the world, as soon as that thing stopped beating."

President Faheem nodded again. "What of Private... Private Third Class Humphrey, was it?"

"Yes, sir. His has certainly been a checkered career, but some people are like that. Lumps of coal their whole life until a moment of great pressure forges them into the diamonds they've always been."

"Indeed. Have you seen him?"

"Yes, sir. Met him in person about an hour ago. He seemed rather subdued." Colonel Brightfield shook his head. "After what he went through, it's a wonder he's still sane."

"You believe him to be of sound mind, then?"

"I do, sir. Of course, Psych Division will be better able to tell, but I think he'll be alright. A remarkably strong man."

"So he will be able to attend the ceremony?"

"Yes, sir, I think so."

"Good." President Faheem sounded pleased. "It's going to take a long time to rebuild and recover. We need every bit of morale boosting we can get."

#

The 'Presidential' suite of the Sunny Hills Hotel lacked, for some reason, a private conference room. Other than that, it fully lived up to its name.

The bathroom door opened, and in came Marcus, wrapped in a cloud of steam. Tying the belt around his waist, he then proceeded to pat the bathrobe he was presently clad in. Ah, the fine things in life. As if on cue, he smiled with delight when he spotted the covered plate waiting for him. Lifting the lid, he inhaled deeply. The cooks downstairs had really, truly delivered.

Nearly an hour later, he was resting his hand on the hilt of his rapier as he stood in front of the mirror, admiring his dolled up self. He looked dashing in ceremonial dress, so ready for the cameras and the adoring crowd... and yet, he found his proud smile dwindling.

Slowly he turned away and moved towards the window. The river below was full, its waters running vigorously downstream. On the other side, people milled about, going to and fro and minding their business. His eyes drifted all over the area, and stopped dead a few hundred meters beyond, where the appearance of normalcy abruptly ended and the charred, ruined section of the city began.

With a sigh, Marcus stepped away from the window. His eyes fell, as if by accident, on his duffel bag. Like an automaton, he knelt before the bag and brought something out of it.

Sitting on the side of the bed, he stared at the item: a digital tag. The tiny screen was cracked, dead. An engraving on the back read 'PFC Philip J. Farnham'. Clutching the tag in his fist, he shut his eyes.

"I know, I know. It's not fair. It's you who should be here. But you can't. And even if I told them, what would that do? The people need a hero, now more than ever. You know that."

He huffed, staring intensely at the tag. "You understand, don'tcha, kid? C'mon. You have to." Jumping to his feet, he began pacing around the room, waving frantically as he spoke. "I've been a troop for ten years. Ten years! You were here, what, one year? Two months? And you're not the first to die in a stupid way. Such is war."

His mannerisms had grown more frantic. "Look, all I wanted was to hit that horde charging at me- at us. It's not my fault I didn't see that toppled Trike before I threw."

He had stopped pacing, tight fists by his hips. "It's not my fault you were standing there when you fired! I didn't know! It's not my fault the grenade bounced on the Trike and fell right on your-"

Marcus fell abruptly silent as he heard three discreet knocks. His polished shoes rang against the floor with every dreadful step he took as he approached the door.

"... Yes?"

"Sir, the car is here. It's time to go."

"Ah, yes. I'll be out in a minute."

Whirling on his heels, Marcus walked briskly towards the table. Stopping halfway through, he stared at the tag he was still holding. Moving to stand by the window, he hurled the little plaque down, straight towards the raging river, with all his strength. After watching it plummet for a few seconds, he went to pick up his speech from the table, put on his cap, and turned to leave.

The strangest thing indeed.