Actions On the Terminal Objective
by Christian Roberts
A man in uniform shouted there was no more room. Karl’s father argued with the man, threatened him with his credentials and finally bribed him, and the man said okay, but only one.
Karl’s mother wept and held him tight so he could hardly breathe. He started crying and his sister, too young to understand, cried too. His father, shouting above the angry crowd and the whine of the shuttle engines, told him everything was going to be fine and pushed him toward the man in uniform who was impatient to go. He followed the man to the shuttle, running to keep up, slipping on the oily tarmac as the police struggled to hold the crowd at bay. The people shouted and fought, furious at being left behind, desperate like rats trapped on a doomed ship. He was nine years old.
~*~
The truck lurched to a stop, snatching Karl Baker from his last recollection of Earth.
“Dismount!” yelled the sergeant.
Dusty men in protective suits and battle gear tumbled out.
“Fall in!”
They fell into formation on the road. It was hot. A short distance away were trees and shade, but the men stood sweating in the sun. The MPs stood by.
“Second platoon!” commanded the lieutenant. “At ease.”
The men of Second Platoon, 3rd Penal Company relaxed.
“Listen up,” said the lieutenant. “We’ve been assigned to ‘Actions On the Terminal Objective.’”
The formation responded with an anxious murmur.
“Someone has to do it,” continued the lieutenant. “The responsibility has fallen to us. I know it’s hot, but remember! Once the operation begins you must stay in full protective gear until after decontamination.” He patted the protective mask strapped to his hip. “What’s the cure for Sudden Acute Neuroshock Syndrome?”
“Death, Sir!” came the automatic response.