Unheard but felt, the solid beating of the heart was a painful reminder that one still lived.

The craggy face of Thurisaz Mountain Range was just ahead. In the open plain southwest of the Devil's Diadem, all hell had broken loose. The barrage of concussive munitions stunned the senses. Energy weapons raised the hair from the skin giving a prickly sensation. Solid projectiles whizzed past. Soldiers ran all about, some screaming bravado as they charged the Enmen, some screaming pain and fear as they fled. Bodies to the left and right dropped suddenly to become obstacles on the battlefield. Unheard but felt, the solid beating of the heart was a painful reminder that one still lived.

Besh fell beneath the swinging fist of an Enman, and as he did, he kicked the legs from under his enemy, rolling aside and firing his Sandman simultaneously. He continued the roll to his feet, leaping for cover behind a large gray rock peppered with lichen. He timed it just under the wire; as he rolled to a crouch behind the rock, the air around him sang with the passing of an APE's needle-like projectiles. Hundreds passed over his head while some struck the rock, chipping away lichen and stone alike. A zit exploded nearby sending a shower of sand and fine pebbles through the air.

Besh stood and took down the Enman firing the APE, then ran, and leaped, and rolled behind another rock. He was closer to the retreating Enmen; they were making for a cave in the craggy wall. Besh peeked over the rock and immediately ducked back to avoid an energy blast. Missile fire was raining down on the Enmen's position; their detonations caused ears to pop. Besh could feel the vibrations through his boots. Comrades marched past him laying down a constant pattern. Where was Heaven?

Besh rose to join his fellow soldiers, firing his Sandman with lethal accuracy. He was front and center in a wall of men who pushed the enemy back. Weapons were fired in anger to avenge fallen friends. Ragged voices howled grief and rage; Besh no less. The wall advanced. To their right was a long low ridge of gray stone. Detonations broke the wall; men scattered, and those who remained standing ran for the meager cover of the ridge. Enmen ran from the other side, weapons unloading. Besh fired, ran, and rolled behind the ridge. As he came up on a knee and brought down three Enmen, a female soldier fell nearby. Thank God! It was not Heaven.

G Plat had been decimated, but the Enmen were on the run. Soldiers crouched beside him. Besh looked around to see Marques Musaid, his friend's light brown face smeared with sweat and dirt. Sergeant Leo Dingovan skidded to a crouched stop beside Marq and took a quick look over the ridge. Tall and thin, Leo turned and sat, turning wide blue eyes on Marq and Besh.

“They're on the run,” he said as he pulled the mic from his shoulder to call Support.

Besh took a peek over the ridge. What he saw distressed him. A dozen or more Enmen ran all out for the cave. Peripheral Enmen took fire and fell, but in the center ran a very large Enman, and over one shoulder he carried an unconscious female soldier, her helmet missing, and her long brown hair thrown about. It was Heaven.

Besh turned and clutched Leo's hand, obstructing the call. “They have Annes!” Besh yelled.

Leo pulled away from Besh, stood, and faced the fleeing Enmen. “Fire! All Support!” Yelled the Sergeant.

Besh stood and reached beyond the ridge as missiles fell. Just inside the mouth of the cave, the image of Heaven draped across the shoulder of an Enman vanished in the white-hot blast of missile fire, and falling rock face.

Sitting up in bed and reaching out his hands to the searing memory, Besh screamed “No! No!” He howled in pain, a long and drawn out, “Ah!”

His eyes were open to the dark room but the image of Heaven being blown apart burned in front of him like a sun. His heart pounded in his chest as he continued to scream. Besh screamed in pain, the extended bellow at last turning into a howl of bitter rage. He didn't even get to see her face, just swinging arms and tossed hair. He told the Sergeant to wait! Why didn't the Sergeant wait? Besh tipped his head back and screamed with all of his pent-up anger; a seething blood-red anger. It flowed profusely from the memory of Dingovan's smashed nose, and he would smash it again and again. Because of Leo, Heaven was dead.

Marq burst through the adjoining door and ran through the semi-darkness of the room. “Rude! Rude!” he called. “It's just a dream.”

Marq sat on the bed as Besh threw his legs over the side and reached for the water glass. Panting, Besh took a sip of warm water and coughed. He quickly recalled that his alias was Rudakh Yavle and that Heaven's name had been Annes Talia. He turned and looked into Marq's slightly Egyptian face as Marq massaged the nearest shoulder.

Marq yawned and said, “Man I hate it when you have those nightmares.”

The hall door opened, and the stocky figure of Private Glover filled the frame, the ceiling light casting his shadow onto the bedroom floor. Knuckling a sleep-swollen eye, Glover peered into the darkened room and shouted, “Yavle! Damn it! How the hell are we supposed to sleep with you in here screeching like an owl hawk? Soldiers die. Get the fuck over it.”

Besh hurled the half-filled water glass at Glover and missed. It bounced from the wall to the floor, spilling its content onto the carpet. Glover snorted and slammed the door. Marq dropped his hand from Besh's shoulder and stood.

“Don't mind that muscle head,” said Marq. “He's never known the love of a good woman. Annes was a beautiful soul. You good now?”

Besh massaged his eyes and looked up at his friend. “Yeah. Thanks, Marq. Sorry I woke you.”

Marq replied, asking in sleepy cheer, “What's a friend for?”

Marq stretched, saying, “Well, reveille is close. We should hit the showers before all the dick-for-brains get in there and start having their sword fights.”

An hour later, Rude and Marq sat at a small corner table. Morning calisthenics had made them hungry. They wore the white uniform of kitchen personnel and ignored the din of incoming soldiers.

“Yeah, man,” said Marq. “Zero digit day. Free at last. Right?” He filled his mouth with dripping hotcakes, inserted the last slice of bacon, chewed loudly, and washed it down with hot chocolate. “What's the first thing you're going to do?”

Rude stirred in his cold biscuits and gravy, looked into his friend's expectant face, and passed over his last two slices of bacon. “Look for my son,” he said. “What else?”

Marq took the windfall with a smile on his face. “With all the creds you've spent, it's a wonder your PI hasn't found him yet. It'll be exceptionally fine to wear something other than kitchen whites.”

Rude shoved his cold plate from him and said, “KP forever. Wait. You know about the PI?”

Marq ran his finger around his plate and transferred cold syrup to his mouth. Nodding, he answered, “I followed you once. Just out of curiosity. You were in a dark alley, but the man wore a fedora and a trench coat right out of the streams.”

Rude sighed. “I wonder if he's even alive. Maybe he moved off-world.”

“So, what's your next move?” asked Marq.

Rude shook his head thoughtfully before answering. “I've been thinking. Maybe, I'll visit the Povre. Get myself together, and come back to search for Annes' remains.”

Marq said in reply, “That whole area is, like, restricted. Armed guards with shoot-to-kill orders.”

Rude said, “She deserves a decent burial.”

Marq leaned toward Rude, and said, “Right? You got a place in the Povre? I'll come and help.”

Rude crossed his arms and studied his eager friend. “Don't you have family?”

“Rude,” said Marq, a wounded look on his youthful face, “I was drafted right out of the orphanage. I told you.”

“Sorry,” Rude replied. “I forgot.”

Private Glover, with a group of friends, walked past in vociferous disarray. Glover being the last in his group, smiled mischievously at Rude and said, “No holding hands in the mess.”

Rude, in a quick gesture, slid back his chair. Glover hurried on his way. Marq laughed, and said, “Guess he knows who's got the moves.”

Rude turned to look at the wall clock, then stretched out his legs, and crossed his arms. “Still got a few minutes. Yeah. I'll be glad for zero digit. These four years have changed me. I forgot the old man I used to be.”

Marq slid back his chair to mimic Rude's relaxed pose, his hands behind his head, and replied, “You're not that old.”

“I'm older than I look,” said Rude. Backtracking, Rude amended, “I mean, it feels that way. I used to be a nice person. I kind of lost track of who I really am.”

Marq smiled broadly, and said, “The old you waits in the Povre.” Trying to stifle a yawn without success, Marq asked, “Should we go?”

Just then, Sergeant Leo Dingovan walked by alone. He stopped and turned to face Rude and Marq. He asked contemptuously, “You assholes made of lead? Everyone else knows they got a job.”

Rude jumped aggressively to his feet. Dingovan took a step back. “I'm not afraid of you,” said Leo. “I have cells with your names on them.” He spread his hands above his head as if in display. “Private Musaid. Loser. Private Yavle. Fuck up. So, go ahead. Make a mistake. You'll be back for another four years.” Turning to walk away, Dingovan called over his shoulder, “Peel potatoes.”

Marq said with a scowl, “Man! Now, I want to sit here til noon.”

Besh exhaled explosively. “One more day,” he said turning to Marq. “Help me keep my cool, and we'll blow this hellhole.”

Marq responded, standing, “Yeah, man. Three sheets and a middle finger.”

Putting away their plates, Marq and Rude took buckets of soapy water and towels. The mess was one of the bigger buildings, and the dining area was large. It was their job to wipe all the tables and chairs, to set the chairs on the tables, and finally, to sweep and swab. They approached the last day of their menial chores with quiet determination. On the morrow, they would go to admin, where they would sit and wait. They would fill out their release forms in triplicate, sign three times, and race back to their rooms. Of course, they would have been cleaned the night before, but a last-minute inspection would be their final duty. Meager possessions in hand, they would catch the bus off base. As they passed under the front gate, they planned to turn in their seats and lift a solemn final finger.

“I won't miss this,” said Marq as they made their way through the swinging doors.

Rude said, “Seeing it's our last day, I hope they cut us some slack.”

Marq said, “You know, I even have dreams of potatoes. I'm lost, and all I can see in any direction is sacks of potatoes. It's unreal. The trees are potato trees, and even the clouds are burlap bags.”

They stood in the doorway to the prep room. The usual three black trash cans sat to the left of the sinks. The storage containers were stacked high on the drainboard. An overhead light flickered as if an ill omen, and on the floor around their seats were twenty-five twenty-two kilogram bags of russet potatoes.

Marq said, “Just as I thought. There's only one kind of load, and that's a shitload.”

Rude said, stepping first into the room, “Well, come on, Spud. Let's do this.”

Marq returned with empty storage containers, to fill and transport from sink to walk-in. Ten bags down, fifteen bags to go. He found his place at the sinks and stopped to sigh. Trying to sound optimistic, Marq said, “We're getting there.”

Rude replied, “With great progress comes great boredom.”

Marq emptied the sinks and loaded the potatoes into the storage containers. As he refilled the sinks, he strained to set the containers on the floor; the handles bit into his hands. He took Rude's filled containers and dumped them.

“I hear you,” said Marq. “When we get to town, I'm going to scrub the smell of potatoes and salutes from my skin, dress in all-new civvies, and go out and find a woman.”

Rude said, “There are women in the military. You've had four years.”

Marq replied, “I know. Right? But, they're just a little too manly for my taste. What about you? Don't you think it's time to start looking around?”

“No,” said Rude, focused on the task at hand. “I think I'll mourn a while longer.”

“Man,” said Marq. “You can't do that forever. I hate to be the one to tell you, but you need to crawl out of that dark past. Live again. You know?”

Rude asked, looking up into his memories, “You know how many times I got to hug my wife? I was thinking about this while you were gone. We embraced one hundred times. We slept together nineteen times. We ate together fifty-four times. What I wouldn't give for a plate of her spaghetti! Where's the happy ever after?” Rude turned and looked up into Marq's eyes, a hollow expression crossing his face. “I didn't even get to die with her. I should have died in her place. The past is a heavy burden, but you can't just drop it anywhere.”