This One's Got Your Name On It (standard:science fiction, 4103 words)
Author: Gavin J. Carr	Added: Feb 28 2005	Views/Reads: 3377/2263	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The past finally catches up to a veteran of a future war.

It had taken him almost a year and a half to complete his memoirs.  A
year and a half of night sweats and nightmares.  Of cold cramps in his 
belly and the blank screen with its mocking, flashing cursor.  But now 
that it was finally over he felt melancholic, almost disappointed. 

Kovcheck hit the save key and flexed his fingers.  When his therapist
had first advised him to write his experiences down he had been 
dubious.  How could raking the dead coals of the past bring him any 
peace?  He wanted to forget, not play events over again in his mind, 
stitching them together and bringing them to life like a mad scientist 
in a cheap horror flick.  But he had to admit that it had helped; 
helped a lot.  For the first time since the war ended he felt as though 
he could maybe make a go of it.  Get on with the act of living. 

He got up from the seat and went to the window.  Outside, the leaves had
fallen, the trees looking sad and anorexic.  It was a good street, he 
thought.  He hadn't noticed it before, but it was.  Built in the 
revivalist style with broad tree lined road and large brick houses.  
Each of them was adorned with white picket fences and old ornamental 
mailboxes.  Even though there was no such thing as “paper mail” 
anymore, you had to admire the designer's attention to detail. 

In his backyard, directly below the window, his kids were playing -
kicking up the tidy mound of dead leaves that he had raked the day 
before.  A year, hell, maybe even a month ago, he would have opened up 
the window and shouted down at them in irritation.  Now, he only felt 
mild amusement at their antics and a sneaking desire to join them.  
Yes, he had spilled his guts onto the page, just as his comrades had 
spilled theirs on the battlefield.  And he only felt better for it. 

His cigarettes were lying next to the keyboard and he took one from the
pack and lit it.  For him, tobacco was the gateway to nostalgia, 
memories unwinding with the blue-grey smoke.  He picked up his notepad 
and flicked towards the back and opened it.  The pages were tacky and 
well thumbed.  The writing jagged and urgently slanted. 

If I'm going to do this, he thought, then I should do it right.  He knew
that what he had in front of him would never be published.  It was the 
one part of the manuscript that could be designated top secret.  
Technically he could be arrested for even having scribbled it longhand. 
 But it was never about being published.  It was about exorcising those 
demons that had been slowly choking the life from him. 

He began to read... 

...June 6th, 2095, 0400hrs, Saxa Vord, Shetland Isles. 

It was his last mission.  They were saying the war was almost over, but
they'd been saying that from the start. 

They took the skimmer from planet-fall, trusting the stealth-field and
darkness to give them cover.  It was hot in the cabin, the vibration 
from the engines enough to make him sick.  Kovcheck knew he should grab 
some sleep, but every time he leaned his head against the fuselage the 
rattle snaked its way into his brain, making his teeth chatter.  
Instead, he checked his gun again for the hundredth time. 

He'd lost count on the number of bullshit missions he'd been on.  The
number of times he'd landed on an empty beachhead or missed a 
drop-zone.  But this was different.  They were kitted out with the 
latest hardware and the company had given them clearance to drop from 
orbit.  Tao-Hyachi Company didn't spend that kind of money for nothing. 


Across the cabin from him was Frost, the company's science advisor.  He
was no soldier, and looked uncomfortable in battle dress and flak 
jacket, his eyes peering hauntingly from beneath his combat helmet. 

Kovcheck felt a wave of revulsion pass through him as he looked at the
man.  He resented his presence.   His cold, analytical manner and the 
fact that he had command of the mission, of his men's lives.  But most 
of all he resented what lay next to him, wrapped in tarpaulin.  He 
resented the body shell. 

He thought of the briefing they'd been given back on Orbital and of his


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