Back from the War
By Ray Daley
As the gas flares for the fourth time, I finally manage to reach the holding area. As always, the police are there to meet me.
“Good morning, Captain Kloss.” Sergeant Jacks smiles and tries to make small talk, but I wave him off. The upcoming matter at hand has all my attention. As much as I’d love to share old memories with a former comrade in arms, someone else needs me more.
“Just Mister Kloss now, Sergeant Jacks. Is he secure?” I ask.
“Like a fortress, sir, sleeping like it never happened,” says Sergeant Jacks.
“So how much is it this time?” I ask, running the credits in my pocket through my fingers.
“Just 50K for the ruined droid, sir. They told me it was a reconditioned model when I looked it up. Nothing like the price their lawyer was screaming about. I thought he was better now, someone said he’d been to The Clinic?” Sergeant Jacks is generous as he processes us, with no added booking fee, nothing extra for bail, and—most important of all—no usual bribe to grease the wheels of justice into action faster.
I pass him the 50K and he smiles. “As always, good to see you, Captain.”
“It’s just Dmitri now, Sergeant,” I say to him. “The war ended ten years ago.”
I got Sergeant Jacks this job; my write-up helped to get him the extra stripe. He feels like he owes me something, which is probably why the bailouts are always so cheap on his watch. I hear the boots of the other police officer approaching, matched by the familiar staccato footsteps as he stumbles along beside him.
“Hello, Jason, old friend!” I say, knowing he won't reply. I manage to get him into the cab that is waiting outside for us; the driver knows where to take us. We are both that well known. Our names are things of infamy about these parts.
“Hello, Captain Kloss. It is good to see you again, sir. I'm sorry about Lieutenant Ioannou, sir. I hope The Clinic will do a better job this time.” The driver is yet another face from my past. As usual, we pay no fare when we get out at The Clinic.
The Porter on the front door snaps to attention and salutes me out of habit, I have to restrain myself from throwing one back at him. “Captain Kloss! We weren't told to expect you, sir!” he says.
I indicate towards Jason. “Another episode, sadly. We will try the treatment again. Perhaps with greater success this time.”
He helps us inside, bringing out a wheelchair. Jason can walk. His legs work fine. It's just the link between them and his mind which isn’t functioning right now.
Another former comrade is working at the booking desk, he hastens our admission for old times’ sake, and because far too many favours are owed to me that can never be repaid. No doubt I saved his life at least four times, it was that sort of war.
We’re directed to an elevator. I know what to expect next. When the door finally opens several floors later, another familiar shape is already waiting for us in the corridor.
“Hi, Doc, sorry to be back again so soon,” I say to him, slightly red-faced at being back in The Clinic so soon.
“It’s okay, Captain, Lieutenant Ioannou can’t help himself. Who did he shoot?” Doc Mills asks me.
News travels really fast here, especially bad news or idle gossip.
“Just a mech, Doc. Don’t ask me where he got a gun or how he found the money to buy one. Veterans Admin say he barely gets enough to feed himself most days.” I explain or try to.
I push Jason into the examination room and stand ready. Doc Mills locks the door, mostly to ensure the safety of those in the outside world, and he activates the audio tape. Outside the room, it’s mostly silent, just the ambient hum of normal hospital life going on in the distance. Inside, there’s the sound of distant gunfire, explosions, men screaming for help, the engines of war.
“Sir, take cover. We have incoming!” It’s Jason, back with us again.
Doc Mills stops the tape and Jason slowly releases his vice-like grip on my wrist. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, a reprogramming course we thought had taken effect snaps back into action, guiding him back to his life. As a father, husband, seed assessor, librarian. A trillion miles from Bester’s Battalion, life takers and grave makers.
“Where am I, Captain?” Jason asks me, unsure of his reality. Is it the small town he barely remembers growing up in, or some alien field of combat we both trod all those years ago?
I pat his shoulder, making sure he can see my wrist or rather the lack of military I.D. on it. “It’s just Dmitri now, Jason. The war is over. We’re home now.”
“Are we really back, sir?” Jason asks, with a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
“Yes, my friend. It’s all long over now. You’re back from the war.” I turn and look across the peaceful cityscape framed by the window and say to myself, “We’re all back. Mostly.”
This story originally appeared Farther Stars Than These in March 2014.
Ray Daley was born in Coventry and still lived there at the time of his death in April 2024. He served six years in the RAF as a clerk and spent most of his time in a Hobbit hole in
High Wycombe. Ray was a published poet who began writing stories when he
was 10. His dream was to eventually finish the Hitch Hikers
fanfic novel he’d been writing since 1986. Find him on Twitter @RayDaleyWriter or
on Bluesky @raydaleywriter.bsky.social.
https://raymondwriteswrongs.wordpress.com/