The Glorious Becoming (21 page)

When Strom walked through the door, Lilan’s jaw almost dropped. It wasn’t the fact that Strom was a spitting image of his father, from his squared jaw, to his blond crew cut, to his bright blue eyes. It wasn’t the fact that Strom literally had rectangular shoulders. Neither of those things caught Lilan off guard. What caught him off guard was that Strom was in a suit. A black-on-black, high-fashion suit, complete with matching black tie and gray dress shirt. He looked like a CEO.

Strom closed the door, then turned to face Lilan. He assumed an attention stance that looked as awkward as it did inappropriate for his wardrobe. His expression was reserved.

Lilan couldn’t stifle his words. “Why the hell are you in a suit?”

Strom shifted uncomfortably. “It’s for the press.” His German accent, though there, was not as deep as his father’s. He spoke English almost as well as an American.

“The
press
?”

Strom’s voice was subdued. “Yes, sir. The media wants me to do a press conference after our meeting. They found out I’d be stationed here this morning and wanted me to address them...unless ordered otherwise.”

Lilan laughed in amazement. “You mean to tell me you intend to go straight from our meeting—your
first
meeting with your commanding officer—to a doggone press conference?”

The German angled his head purposefully. “Yes, sir...unless ordered otherwise...”

At the repetition of those three words—
unless ordered otherwise
—Lilan looked at Strom strangely. Each word had been carefully emphasized, willingly laid on the table for Lilan to dissect. Strom was giving him a hint.

For the first time, the colonel scrutinized Strom’s expression. There was something buried beneath the soldier’s confidently reserved exterior. Expectancy—with a pinch of hopefulness. All of a sudden, the truth couldn’t have been more evident. Strom had absolutely no desire to go to a press conference. Not one iota. “You hate this, don’t you?”

Strom nodded his head. “Yes, sir. Very much, sir.”

Arms crossed, Lilan stared at the soldier. His preconceived perception of Strom Faerber faded. “Why are you here, private?”

“To fight,” Strom answered immediately. “To be a soldier. To become more than my father ever dreamt of becoming. And to win this war.”

There, standing in front of Lilan, was the son of Klaus Faerber. Hyped. Glorified. And in an ironic twist of fate, undervalued. What Lilan saw on Strom’s face was deeply-seeded frustration. A young man who knew his potential, but wasn’t being allowed to reach for it. He saw someone being forced into a role he was better than. Just like a certain old colonel. “You know,” said Lilan, arms still folded, “the general told me to keep you clean.”

Strom smiled pathetically.

“Get out of that suit and into training gear, and yes, that’s an order. No press conferences today.”

“Yes, sir, thank you.” The German’s grin widened genuinely. Offering a closing salute, he quickly stepped from the room.

Lilan could hear the rain pounding outside. Strom had stayed dry so far. But that was going to change. The day was young, and the training grounds were muddy. Keep Strom clean? Not a chance.

He had a feeling the young German wouldn’t mind.

* * *

C
ATALINA OPENED
Room 419’s door and tossed down the damp towel she’d used to dry her hair. She waved lethargically as Tiffany looked from her bunk.

“Where have you been?”

Closing the door, Catalina padded to the sink. “Taking a shower.”

“Duh, I meant all day.”

“We did some training this morning. I told you that yesterday.” Looking in the mirror, Catalina eyed the pimple sprouting on her cheek. “I’m about to just pop this thing.”

“Don’t pop it. Use one of my pads.”

Pulling out the sink drawer, Catalina removed a cleaning pad. She caressed the pimple.

“So how did training go?”

“Terrible. I don’t even want to talk about it.”

Tiffany remained silent.

“You know what?” said Catalina, turning in a huff. “I do want to talk about it.” Tossing the pad in the trash, she folded her arms. “Why are men jerks?”

“Mark, again, right?”

“Mark, Tom, Major Tacker, men in general. Why are they all jerks?”

Sighing wistfully, Tiffany answered, “If we knew, we could write a book, and we’d be rich.”

Catalina collapsed into a chair. “Let’s start with Tacker. We organize this thing that’s supposed to be ‘training,’ and I’m using that term
so
loosely right now, and the guy doesn’t even make an effort to teach us
anything
. He just beats the crap out of us on a mock mission, and in a span of about fifteen minutes, he’s washed his hands of us.”

Tiffany raised a finger. “In his defense, Tacker’s job isn’t to train us.”

“His job is to keep us alive, and he can keep us alive by teaching us something.”

“In his second defense, he is very hot.”

The Canadian leered. “Just the same, how does he expect us to get better if he smacks us around on an exercise, then walks away like it was a waste of his time? Couldn’t he have taken ten minutes to talk to us, to tell us what we did wrong?”

“Do you already know what you did wrong?”

“That’s not the point, but yes. We know what we did wrong. But just listen for a minute.”

The blonde produced a stick of gum. “I’m listening.”

“So he abandons us without saying anything helpful. I understand, he was upset with our performance, but he still didn’t need to walk off like that.”

“Walking off is definitely not cool.”

“Exactly,” said Catalina. “So enter jerk number two.”

“This must be Mark.”

“Yes, it’s Mark.”

Tiffany blew a gum bubble.

“So I screwed up a bit during the exercise. I wasn’t checking my rear—”

“I bet Mark was checking your rear.”

Catalina eyed her warningly. “I wasn’t checking
behind me
, and Tacker came around and attacked my blind side.”

“Where was he coming from?”

“We were all in a building.”

“He circled you in the building?”

“No, actually, he had left the building.”

“How’d he leave the building?”

“He came down from the roof—
let me get to the point
.”

Tiffany frowned. “Sensing hostility...”

“So my guard is down, and Tacker kills us, and it’s all my fault, right? I screwed up, I can accept that. I’m a big girl.” She caught her breath. “So what does Mark do? He slams my helmet in my hands in a way that blatantly shows the world I was to blame.”

“How’d he get your helmet?” asked the blonde.

“I threw it away.”

“In the
garbage
?”

“On the ground!”

Tiffany sighed. “I’m so confused.”

“So then after Tacker leaves, me and Mark get in this huge fight, when in steps jerk number three.”

“And
that
must be Tom.”

The Canadian nodded. “Of course.”

“He’s such a loser.”

“Do you know what he called me?” Catalina asked rhetorically. “He called me a tramp.”

Tiffany gasped. “He called you a
tramp
?”

“He called me a tramp. So he and Mark start yelling at each other, then Tom starts accusing Mark of being a racist—”

“Mark is
not
a racist.”

“They start yelling back and forth, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, Tom
hits
me.”

Tiffany’s eyes widened. “Get.
Out
!”

“He actually hit me.”

“I am so totally speechless.”

Catalina moved her hands impassionedly, as if retelling the story before a classroom of children. “So Tom and his crew jump Mark, there’s a huge brawl, then Tacker runs over and breaks everything up. He was livid, but I don’t blame him.”

“Good grief,” said Tiffany.

“Oh, ha,” said Catalina, pointing to her face, “and I have a zit.”

“Oh, Cat, I’m so sorry.”

Leaning her head back, Catalina blew out a breath. Running her hand through her hair, she fell solemn. “You think Remington had days like this?”

Tiffany smiled. “Like,
yah
. Who doesn’t?”

“You never have days like this, Tiff.”

The pilot laughed. “What
ever
. I’ve totally had days like this. Remember the onion stain?”

Caught off guard, Catalina cackled. “Right, the ‘onion’ stain. That was definitely an emergency.”

The mirthful grin remained on Tiffany’s face before the corners of her lips slowly leveled, her bemused expression becoming heavier. “Some days can be worse than today,” she quietly said.

Catalina’s brow arched curiously at the Valley Girl’s change in tone, before she too was struck by a new emotion. Sitting upright, she moaned remorsefully. “Oh, Tiff. I’m so sorry, I didn’t even...”

“It’s okay.” Tiffany smiled through shimmering lids. “I know.” Silence prevailed as the pilot rolled to face the wall, her eyes hidden from view.

Catalina chastised herself disgustedly under her breath. Failed missions, bickering comrades, and pimples were indeed all bad things. But she was living with a walking reminder that, in comparison to
some
things, they were the definition of trivial.

The subject of Tiffany’s tears was never brought up. Catalina primped quietly in the mirror, donned her uniform, and excused herself from the room. There was no pressing matter at hand—only respect for the privacy of her friend.

Little else happened that evening, save two small details. Shortly after leaving her room, Catalina knocked on Mark’s door. She apologized. So did he.

Then the Canadian called home.

* * *

THAT NIGHT

C
OLONEL
L
ILAN
settled into his living room chair. Propping his bare feet atop the coffee table in the center of the room, he leaned back.

Lilan owned a house not far from
Richmond
base. He’d never been one for extravagancies, and the house confirmed it. It was simple—a neverending fixer upper located down the closest thing to a country road that the suburbs of Richmond could offer. But it served its purpose. It was a shelter; that was all he required. Glass of milk in hand, the dressed-down colonel took in the silence.

His day with Strom Faerber had been, if not revealing, intense. Lilan had tried to break the young German during their training exercises—to push the soldier down as low as he could. To break his will in order to strengthen it. But it hadn’t turned out that way.

Strom was a machine. He never slowed. He never tired. He never so much as placed his hands on his knees. And he had done everything with an aura of respectful professionalism that the colonel had never seen before from a private. Perhaps that was what amazed him so much. Strom didn’t act like a private. He acted like a ten-year veteran. By the end of the training session, the German had been covered from head to toe with mud—only his eyes had been visible where he’d wiped the mud away. Yet somehow, Lilan felt as if the soldier had wanted more. Strom seemed to actually
like
being physically uncomfortable. He liked the wear and tear of war. It had been such a positive and refreshing experience for Lilan, it was almost enough to make him forget about his conversation with Tacker.

Almost.

If you respect me, if you care at all about the loyalty I’ve shown you for years, sticking with you when others would have bailed out months ago, then send me somewhere where I can actually make a difference.

Those were the words Tacker had spoken to him. Lilan had always valued the major for his honesty. This was the first time that it hurt. Strom had been a distraction, and a good one. But not even the son of Klaus Faerber could erase the inevitable truth Lilan was facing. He was too old to be useful.

Throughout Lilan’s military career—one that spanned over forty years—he had dedicated himself to his profession. He was one of the old-schoolers. The kind of man that forsook everything—family, friends, love—for his chosen path. There was a dark reality to the Alien War, in that if it ever ended, he’d have nowhere to go. Nowhere to belong. No wife or grandchildren to spend more time with, no hobby to take up in retirement. He had nothing. And for that reason, as much as he wanted to win the war, he needed it. It was his only reason to live.

Setting down his half-empty milk glass, the colonel sat upright then bent forward, elbows over his knees as he held his head in his hands. He was tired, physically and emotionally. It wasn’t quite his bedtime yet, but it was close enough. Pushing up and groaning in the process, he rose to his feet.

Then he heard the car door.

To say Lilan rarely got visitors was an understatement. Hardly anyone even knew where he lived. But one person most certainly did, and he was the first person to come to Lilan’s mind. When Lilan looked out his side window, the civilian jeep in his driveway confirmed it—just in time for the knock at his door. It was Tacker.

Opening the door, Lilan looked at his major. Tacker was in normal clothes, a long-sleeved green flannel shirt and blue jeans. In his hand was a six pack of beer. He smiled diffidently, holding the cans up. “Hey, colonel.”

It didn’t take a psychologist to know what the visit was about. The colonel felt his heart grow a little warmer. “Come on in,” he said, pulling the screen door open.

“Were you about to turn in?”

Lilan glanced at his half-empty glass of milk. “Nah, not yet.” It was a lie he was comfortable telling.

Tacker settled down on the sofa as Lilan claimed his recliner. Placing the six pack on the coffee table, Tacker slipped one out of its plastic lining and offered it to the colonel. After Lilan accepted, he took one for himself.

Lilan cracked open the beer, covering the can’s mouth with his lips just in time to catch its carbonated hiss. Beer and milk wasn’t exactly a typical nighttime combination, but Lilan didn’t mind. Taking a sip, he exhaled and leaned back. “What brings you here tonight, major?”

Tacker set his beer down. For several seconds, he didn’t say anything. Then he sheepishly looked away. “I’m sorry, sir. About today. I...” The sentence hung for several moments, only to end in a sigh.