Chapter 10: Ghosts

What you take out of Africa depends upon your attitude. I returned with a few scratches and an albino lion cub. He was perhaps a year old and was curled up next to a dead lioness when I found him.

"Mission accomplished," I announced. "Unless you come up with a better name, I'm calling this little fellow Kimba."

"Put him in the med tube," Mary sighed. "I guess you could have brought an elephant with you."

Normally my After Action Report (AAR) was done in a sleep learner. I could relive the entire mission in compressed time with total recall—but understand that it was my flawed viewpoint. What I lived through might appear different from what the drones recorded. This mission took me 33 hours—the AAR in a medical tube would only take a half hour, give or take a few minutes. This time I was put in a med tube because I had some minor injuries. There were six people in the approximately 200,000 square kilometer area (500 kilometers diameter) that had equal or greater affinity for animals than I did. I visited all six in secret and provided them secure communications with Central Command so that they and their animal friends could participate in the battle of Earthat. To do that I had to prove myself by walking with them among lions and cheetah and yes—elephants. Compressed into a half hour with no time for introspection and no room for ego, my AAR seemed to make 'mission accomplished' a lie—but I was not tasked with eradication of Sa'arm infestations on the ground. My limited mission was connecting those humans who communicated with the other species populating Earth to the main defensive effort directed by Central Command.

Time compression also disguised how dangerous, boring and dirty the mission was. Africa is not a land of uneducated savages. Capetown isn't Baltimore! On the other hand, dropping a naked white man from the sky on an African village is a very bad idea. I wore swim trunks for my mission. We humans are social animals and that means conformity. We humans conform to social norms—whatever the powers that be decide is 'normal'--and we force other humans to conform, too. That conformity extends to skin color. Fortunately, I didn't have to kill anybody. Those humans I broke were quickly repaired and dropped back in their environment—this time. It was only a handful—including a gang waving Kalashnikov assault rifles in my direction.

During my AAR I did manage something else: I programmed a replicator to produce life-size plush toys resembling Kimba, pink eyes and white fur and all.

When I emerged from my AAR, I was directed to Conference Room Four again—this time wearing a Navy duty uniform. I was intercepted by the esteemed Colonel Dorman of the Confederacy Marines. He wasn't alone—there were two of his Marines with him and both held stingers in their right hands. I knew that this wasn't going to be fun for me.

Look at it this way: I was alone and unarmed against three larger men. They were all two meters tall and weighed in at 100 kilograms. They had ten kilograms and ten centimeters on me—and they were Marines. I react adversely to being zapped by a stinger—wipes out up to three days worth of memories. The two Marines flanked me and pointed their stingers at me.

"You think you're hot shit!" Colonel Dorman snarled. He slammed a meaty fist in my stomach, lifting me off my feet, and followed up with a fist to my jaw. I slumped to the ground and the colonel gave me several kicks. Think whatever you want—my options were taking a beating and hoping that help would arrive before he did anything fatal to me or launching an immediate counter assault that would result in at least one death. Wrestling lions barehanded wasn't as dangerous! As he kicked and stomped he shouted verbal abuse.

"STOP!" Lilith commanded.

"Get that conk cunt!" Dorman ordered.

Stingers have a distinct signature when they discharge. I felt the stinger beams pass near me. I started an attack routine that would have left Colonel Dorman dead—but a silent command stopped me. He was distracted and within reach. All I needed to do was grab and yank and go to town on him.

"The proper form of address is 'goddess, ' and you are under arrest for violation of a diplomatic person," Lilith announced. "Girls, Colonel Dorman is confined to his cabin. Please escort him there. Use whatever force you need."

I must have blacked out because I don't remember getting to Medical. The lid of the med tube was open and I saw the ceiling blot out as the lid closed. I was plunged into a limbo between waking and dreamless sleep. It occurred to me that Lilith had used me to bait a trap for the good colonel.

"Ramses," I addressed one of the AI installed on the ship, "I need a background check on Colonel Dorman, currently liaison officer between this ship and Central Command."

After outlining the parameters of the search, my next words only made sense to someone who had been beaten senseless.

"Tom, you've just had the crap kicked out of you. What next?" I answered my own question with "I'm going to Disneyland!"

It wasn't the real thing—just a virtual construct based on available information. One more thing; the new dog handler, Candi, was coming with me. Technical Sergeant Candice Jean Crossman was in a med tube undergoing a total rebuild. She had been blown up by a bomb and was getting new legs—among other things. Med tubes and sleep learners have many capabilities most humans can't even imagine. One capability I called dream sharing. I was going to take Candi along with me on a fantasy journey to the happiest place on Earth. For preparation I chose the year 1969, the year I turned ten. I didn't get to Disneyland until I was nineteen—damn it! That vintage theme park experience would be something new for me and I'd do it as a child. Candi would also be a child—she'd go along as my brother so that we wouldn't separate, not even to use the bathroom.

Candi was disoriented—the Veterans Administration medical treatment she had received during the last decade may have been worse than the initial injuries. We entered the fantasy edition of Anaheim, California in front of the ticket booths and I reached in my pocket for the twenty dollar bill that would buy two ticket books for us. The Jumbo 15 ticket books cost $5 for juniors 12 to 17, and I'd have plenty of money to buy food and something magical for Candi to remember her fantasy visit by. The replicators could reproduce whatever we bought from one of the shops.