Her name was Heather Pt.2
18 Oct 2017Gmanharmon
Part 1Growing up Out There, in the lawless black just outside the bubble, where my father taught me to pull myself up by the bootstraps, despite our enormous wealth. It was like he hated us for it, and despised the fact that I knew about it, much less wanted us to have a better life because of it. So every morning, before the break of day, I would walk out to the back yard and watch the lights of the Civil Defense Patrol take off in their F63 Condor fighters, screaming through the deep blue of the early morning light through the atmosphere on to parts unknown. Without missing a beat, I was out in the barn milking the cows, feeding the chickens, baling hay, walking the property line and cleaning the barb wire, and taking the tractor out to fill the prairie dog holes so our horses wouldn't fall in them. Pop wouldn't let me shoot the prairie dogs, that was his job. Watching him atop his Arabian, wearing a strange hat and checked scarf, shouldering an ancient bolt-action rifle he called a "two-seventy", I remember cupping my ears when he fired for the first time. There's still a dull ringing in my left ear every now and again. Despite his ideas of "tough love", he did teach me how to be a man. With his deep, gravelly voice, he would show me the finer points of tying knots, tracking, hunting, fishing, how to skin and dress an animal, how to butcher said animal and identifying all the different cuts of meat, how to drive an automobile, how to fix machinery and electronics (despite our rural lifestyle where the most complicated piece of machinery we owned was an old tractor), and how to respect and handle firearms.
"Treat every gun as if'n it's loaded, boy," he told me every time he cracked open his massive iron safe and removed one of his many rifles or pistols, and explained in minute detail how each one worked. "Don't point the muzzle at nuthin' you ain't willin' ta put a bullet in. Fanger off the trigger 'til y'all are ready to start shootin', an' only once you decide you wanna start shootin'. Be double-sure 'bout what ye're shootin' at, and anythin' behind it. Don't ever forget this, 'cause once you fire off that gun, that bullet gonna fly true, an' bullets ain't the type to discriminate.
And all that hard, heavy work was before attending school for six hours with the neighbor lady, Miss Dawson, with her daughter Heather. Every day was a new lesson in something different, while Saturdays were for drills and examinations on what we learned the week before, and on Sundays we would all get together and observe two hours of prayer and meditation before being taught about faith and spirituality, and all the old gods and deities worshipped on Earth long ago. When I wasn't on the farm or in school, I would be doing odd jobs for everyone in town to make an odd dollar here and there. Once, on my sixteenth birthday, I was asked to deliver a box from Harvey, the haberdasher, to Mister Miller, the mayor.
"I heard it's your birthday today, young G-----," he said to me, tousling my hair as he collected his package. He dashed away the lid and retrieved a had I'd never seen before. I watched with a cocked head as he set the hat atop his head, which he called a "top hat", admiring himself in the mirror. His clothes looked immaculate and pressed, unlike my soiled farmer's duds. I suddenly felt very ashamed of my looks as I stood in his office. "Word is you've been a busy boy around town, helping everyone out with their various tasks."
"Y-Yes, sir," I answered meekly.
"Civic duty is the cornerstone of any polite society," the mayor continued. "To donate one's salary to help the ailing and downtrod is a noble cause, indeed, but to donate one's time, to actually serve with a higher purpose, without thought of reward, that, my boy, is the true worth of a man."
"I agree, sir." He chuckled.
"I've watched you grow since you were... what was the expression your father used? Since you were "knee-high to a june bug". I remember one Sunday, during the Town Feast, I bounced you on my knee while you clapped along to My Old Kentucky Home. And now, here you are, a strapping young lad, taller than every man in town and twice as strong!" He squeezed my bicep, half as large around as his hat. "So today, instead of nurturing the desire for pure altruism, I shall bestow upon you a bit of decadence to balance your soul." He reached into his vest pocket and returned with a small leather sack, snapped the latches open, and pressed a large coin in my callused palm. I took it into the light of the window and traced my finger across the wings of the bird that was pressed into the coin's face.
"That, my son, is what your ancestors used to call a double eagle. It's older than all of us in town combined." The obverse featured a beautiful woman, with long, flowing hair, holding a torch and surrounded by a ring of stars. She reminded me of Heather. "Keep that coin close, boy, it's a reminder of a bygone era. When men didn't travel around in giant steel starships and stared their enemy in the eye before they killed them, instead of hiding behind a pulse laser." As if on cue, the Civil Defense Force screeched across the sky, rattling the windows and my teeth. He bade me farewell and led me down to the front steps of City Hall, then sent me on my way home. "Give my regards to your father, won't you?" he said as I took off at a clip.
When I got home, I saw my father in the kitchen preparing supper.
"Ya made it another year, boy," he said, wrapping the cornbread in a dish towel. "Be thankful it ain't gon' be yer last." I nodded, unsure of what to say, and made my way to the back yard. He hollered after me.
"Where you goin' this time a' night? Supper's ready!" I didn't answer. My mind was on the double eagle. I took it from my pocket and studied it in the moonlight. Suddenly, the sound of boondockers crunching behind me. He turned me around, grabbed the eagle from my hand, and tossed it away. "Who gave ya that coin? Speak up, boy!"
"The Mayor! It was a present from him!"
"Y'all should know better'n ta accept gifts from strangers!" As I stood back up, I could hear his mantra ringing in my head.
"A hard day's work is its own reward, boy," he would tell me. Usually after a quick tap of his hand against my gourd after he found me slacking off. "Just 'cause yer great-grandpappy got lucky with them fellers way back an' set us up fer life, ain't no son o' mine gonna sit on his ass an' have it easy." Day in and day out, whenever he got the thought into his head, even if I was walking past his study, I couldn't mistake the sound of his boondockers bounding toward me, the bear-like grip of his hand on the straps of my coveralls, and the dull thud of his hand against the back of my head.
I got to my feet, and he shoved me back, hard. I went back into the dirt.
"Why, Pop? Why do you hurt me?" He didn't see me palm the double eagle in my hand.
"Ye're nuthin' but a yella-bellied, lily-livered, egg-suckin' so-and-so, kid. If'n you ain't figgered out how ta defend yerself by the time you's grown, ain't no way yer off this here rock, no way, no how." I had never raised my voice to my father in anger, nor raised a fist, no matter how much he may have deserved it. Miss Dawson always told me that violence was never the answer to a problem, while Pop's idea of justice was "shoot first and ask questions later". The old books I read about fighting wars drilled me to answer violence with violence, but also to avoid combat whenever possible. My father raised his fists and egged me on. I had no choice. I had to act.
He drew his right arm back, and started a haymaker, aimed right at my head. Had I caught it with my temple, I would have died. I led with my body and ducked under the sweeping punch, before getting down and thrusting the palm of my hand into my father's solar plexus. With a fierce exhalation of breath, the old man was stunned. I stepped back, stood to his side, and grabbed his arm before bending down and rolling him over my leg. He hit the ground hard. I got to one knee, and hit him once more in the chest.
"Stop! Leave me alone or I'll kill you!" I was sad. I was angry. I was berserk. Tears streamed down my face and my eyes burned. "What would Mom say?!" Pop looked back up at me, out of breath and wide-eyed. I steeled myself as best I could to prepare to deliver the killing blow. He smiled.
"Boy," he breathed, "you're ready." I blinked.
"What did you say?" He shoved me off him, strong as an ox, even though he looked anything but.
"Come in the house, boy." His drawl was disappearing.
"What's going on, Pop?" I followed him into the house and watched him pick up the telephone, wind the dynamo, then tell the operator to connect him to Blackstone 4-9665. "Athena," he said after a pause. "He's ready."
We were in front of the house now, standing by the doors to the root cellar. Miss Dawson came up the street, with Heather in tow, rubbing sleep from her eyes. They stopped in the light from Pop's lantern, and she smiled at me.
"Good evening, young man. You and Heather have a bit more learning to do." Even half-asleep, she was the same sweet schoolmarm with the dulcet voice. Heather woke from her half-sleep and saw me.
"Hey, G------," she answered, walking over and wrapping an arm around me. "What's going on?"
"I don't know, Heather," I replied, brushing the hair from her face.
"Whenever you're ready, Armin." Pop opened the root cellar, and we all went inside. Near the back, we had a shelf full of canned peaches, picked from Mrs Ellsworth's orchard the year before. Pop and Miss Dawson moved the shelf out of the way, revealing a sturdy metal door.
"Pop?" He simply smiled as he threw back the deadbolt, and the door creaked open. It was cold as winter inside, and our feet echoed across a giant chasm. Through the dim beacon of lamplight, we walked down a scaffold and, for all I knew, descended into the core of the planet. Finally we reached the bottom, and Pop stepped in front of a massive breaker panel. He opened the door and threw the mains on, then activated each individual breaker, one by one, for what seemed like minutes.
Bright, white light filled the huge vault, and Heather gasped. My eyes grew as I took in the sight of a Federal Corvette, dressed in crimson and bearing the name FNS Los Angeles. For all intents and purposes, it was a city on legs. Parked alongside the Corvette were two crimson Eagles, each with drop pods and nose winglets. Symbols I didn't recognize were emblazoned on all three ships, painted in gold. My father placed his hand on my shoulder, and looked straight at me. It seemed he had aged a hundred years in the fluorescent light.
"G------," he said, "today is your birthday. Yours as well, Heather, right?"
"Yes, sir," she answered, still hanging on to me.
Miss Dawson continued. "These ships are your birthright. Both of you." Heather and I didn't understand.
"We, that is, Joan, your mother and I, G------, and your father Hermann and Athena, Heather; the four of us once flew for the two major powers. I was Vice Admiral of the Ninth Fleet." My father's drawl was completely gone. He now spoke as eloquently as the Mayor.
"And I was a Duchess," said Miss Dawson. "I served directly under Senator Patreus."
"We all met during the coronation of Hengist Duval. All four of us despised both the Federation and the Empire, so we let out a few notes in some contested systems, and to our surprise, we found quite a lot of people who felt the same way."
"So are we a part of the Alliance?"
"Ha! We hated them, too. The political third wheel. However, they were quite low on our list of priorities."
Miss Dawson continued. "The four of us contacted every Federal and Imperial soldier and citizen who replied, and invited them to our little home away from home on I Carinae 1 a to plot a strategy to overthrow the entire Federal and Imperial cabinets, and fill the power vacuum with our own people to dismantle both powers from within and try to homogenize humanity once again."
"No more slavery," my father said. "No more restricted space. No more bloodshed, no more war, no more needless violence, no more genocide, no more cloning. We want Utopia."
"So about six months before you both were born, Athena and Hermann conspired to steal the Los Angeles while she was drydocked just outside Mars High. A few forgeries, some credits exchanged, and the Corvette, plus these two Eagles, a full complement of crew and sympathisers, set off for this little rock we found, well outside human space."
"Why didn't you stay on I Carinae?" Heather asked.
"It wasn't operationally safe to stay in such close proximity to both seats of power while we actively tried to raise a fleet to take them both down," my father replied. "That was Hermann's idea, and we all agreed it was most prudent. Athena, bless her, played navigator as we jumped out here with you kicking around in her womb, Heather."
"It's true," Miss Dawson replied. "I was sweating so much in that chair, trying not to hurt you."
"We waited about two weeks before Joan and I took on our own Trojan Horse attempt. It was a Gutamaya Cutter named Varusschlacht, and two Imperial Couriers. Our detachment boarded the Cutter from my stolen Courier and stormed the bridge, but not before getting into a massive gunfight. Whoever fought back was murdered, and whoever surrendered were thrown out of the airlock.
"The bastards managed to send out a distress signal, and coupled with being spotted by a passing Orca, radioed for help. We managed to jump out of the system, but they must have scanned our wake, because during our next jump, we were interdicted and found ourselves staring down the Majestic Goliath, five Clippers, and a cloud of GU-97 Fighters, all loaded for bear.
"We fought the good fight, taking many of them down, but a parting shot from the Goliath destroyed my canopy and shorted out my power plant. My Remlok engaged and I ejected, watching Joan fly back and forth, while the last two Clippers attempted to heave to the Varusschlacht in preparation for boarding. My radio was down, so I couldn't talk to her, but I saw her canopy pop before she flew straight into the bridge. The Cutter blew up so violently, it destroyed both Clippers and sent one right into the Goliath's hab-ring."
"It wasn't until I got picked up by a search and rescue ship and dropped off at LHS 20 that I heard her Remlok failed. A sympathiser was working the comm terminal, fortunately, and he provided me safe passage back out here."
Something didn't sit right with me. I let go of Heather and squared off with my father. I was a head taller than him, but I wasn't worried about another fight.
"If Mom got killed back then, how am I here? Who am I?"
"I was expecting I'd have to answer this question sooner or later. Your mother was infertile, ovarian cancer. She told me as much when we first met. She was too proud to use progenitor cells, as well. Eventually, she wanted a child. We both decided to use a surrogate, and had you conceived in vitro. Christine, your mother's twin and my friend, carried you to term, but unfortunately, the heartbreak from her sister's death caused her to be infirm, and she died in childbirth. Christine was also Heather's godmother."
"She was?" Heather asked.
"Yes, darling, she was," Athena said. "Christine was a great friend of mine, and if it wasn't for her, we would never be here today. You and G------ were destined to be with each other, you could say." Athena and Armin laughed, while Heather and I turned to look at each other.
I remember the Town Feast. It was out fourteenth birthday, and we snuck out of the tent to be together, away from the crowd who were dancing and carrying on after a particularly strong batch of Old Man Carruthers' famous moonshine. We ran to the F63 Civil Defense Condor alighted nearby, all dressed in bunting and taffeta, and we lay out underneath the hull, identifying all the bits and bobs that made it fly, and took turns playing at dogfighting each other as we ran laps around the landing gear. I tripped on a gear shoe and tumbled to the grass, then Heather jumped on top of me, the both of us laughing all the while. Laughter turned to contented smiles as we embraced, my eyes fixated on hers. I brushed her long, thick curls out of her face, that one long shock of pink hair on her right side, as her fingers traced the outlines of my pectoral muscles. It wasn't a few weeks before that we had studied anatomy and physiology, and used each other as muses in our human art session, so we had been nude in the presence of each other before. It wasn't romantic, nor was it sexual, but we both knew what each other looked like from all angles, and it didn't make us think any differently of each other. But here, in the moment, she was beautiful. I knew she was thinking the same thing.
We kissed for hours underneath that Condor. It was the best time of my life. If Heather and I had any doubts on whether or not we would be together, they were gone. I was hers, and she was mine. Forever.