Leave.



Start 199804060359
Working Title: Leave

The stars rapidly fall down in front of me as I pull the nose sharply over and push already stressed engines as hard as I dare. A frantic voice calls out. One I know so well, "Two eight to two five, we need you here NOW! Shields are down, I have-" Static, then a sharp incandescent bloom against the stars.

The scene replays with merciless clarity every time I close my eyes. Like an afterimage permanently burnt into the retina, only this one is burnt into the mind. Into the soul. So I keep my eyes open. Drinking in new images, visual clutter, in the vain hope that it might dim the memory.

I look about. Some Place Else it's called; every Sheraton on Earth has one. Doesn't matter which one, they all look the same. Same wood panelling, same smoky bar, same crowd. If McDonalds ever did bars, they'd be like this. "Suggested Shore Leave" - a tactic to get us believing in the cause again, to think there's something worth defending. Funny, I always thought when an IDF flyer was given R&R they got to choose how they spent it. Me? Well let's just say I can think of better ways to spend a night. Perhaps the last one I'll see.

You wouldn't know about IDF, most people don't, and that's deliberate. The very fact that there was something out there that needed defending against that Earth-borne technology couldn't handle - that needed us - would send people into a blind panic.

I'm one of those that defend the line. Technically this is not a conflict: on some days not a single shot would be fired. Outsystem ships, incomprehensible, silent, cold: probing, watching, timing, analysing your every move. Other days you'd scrap it out like alley cats only to limp home to lick your wounds and do the same thing all over again tomorrow.

Some days you'd lose people, too.

And for what? A backwater planet I should call home? These people in this tacky bar? They'll never know; even if they did, would they care? I don't want to think about that, I'm not sure I'd like the answer.

What I wouldn't give to be walking along a moonlit beach right now. To breathe air that isn't canned for once. Maybe to lie on the ground with a girl I just met and simply look up at the stars without having to challenge any moving point of light. To get to know someone without worrying about counting the hops before they're gone. To not be alone.

I think too much sometimes. Another drink. No let's make that two.

They're playing "Into the Groove" by Madonna now. A dance staple. Haven't heard that in years. There's something about a nightclub's sound system that makes songs sound entirely different. Maybe it's the horribly mismatched acoustics, maybe it's that you also feel the music reverberate through you, but it makes a difference. Makes you feel a little lighter.

There's the usual collection of people on the small dance floor moving to the rhythm. Sensual. An age-old mating ritual. Or not: some are there just to enjoy the sensations, the moment. Maybe it's the alcohol taking effect but I start to look carefully at their faces and their moves. Not a care in their lives ...for tonight anyway. Would that I were so.

Looking around a bit more I see myself in a mirror on an opposite wall. Even through the undulating dance lights I'm shocked how drawn the face is that confronts me. I look away quickly and let my eyes wander over the crowd, pausing every now and then on people to try to imagine what they must be like.

Over there in a quieter corner is a woman sitting by herself. Expensive suit creased a little, slightly battered briefcase with a well-used frequent flyer tag on the handle. She's nursing a scotch on ice and taking in the atmosphere. There's a tired expression on her face, her eyes are searching for a reason. There are three other identical empty glasses on the table. Trying to forget her problems, or perhaps trying to forget how her career is keeping her from her life. So high the price.

So high the price...

Look a bit further along and there are four guys sitting at a table. Grinning, laughing, yelling at each other raucously. Three of them trying to good-naturedly goad the forth into asking one of the girls at the next table to dance. Furtive glances and uncertain smiles are exchanged for a time, and eventually a conversation begins, the body language warms. A new beginning?

Further along, a man and a woman, young: long intense eye contact between them, a new love? I can only see her face from here, mid-thirties at a guess. Warm eyes, but a cold expression, clenched jaw. After listening to him a while, she says two or three words emphatically, throws the rest of her drink at him, gets up and leaves to go outside to wait for a taxi (I can see her through the window), guess that rules out the new love theory.

At the pool tables, a group of 8 or 10 people who've known each other for years. Relaxed open stances, lots of joking, touching and camaraderie. Would that I had the chance to know someone that well for that long.

At the bar is the usual mix of people sizing each other up. Smiles, eye contact. Some meet friends they've not seen in ages; a squeal, a hug, more yelled conversation.

Turning back to the dance floor, I look a little closer. Two women dancing with each other having a great time. Best friends probably. The rest of the world doesn't matter. Two others over there, moving in time but eyes scanning the room for prospects. The rest of the world doesn't matter. A couple dancing close over there, intent on each other. The rest of the world doesn't matter.

Movement. The drink-thrown-on man has pulled himself together now, he's bolted for the door to the taxi rank where drink-throwing woman is still waiting. An honest apology, an explanation. She pauses for what must be the longest moment in the man's life, then accepts. A close hug, a sincere kiss. A taxi finally arrives.

Someone wanders over to tired-businesswoman. Sits. They start talking. She smiles. It suits her.

So many lives. So many reasons. This is a story I see played out every time they send me to these places. Problem is it works. These people and the atmosphere get to me. No, not just this bar, but thinking about their 9 to 5 lives, how they'll spend tomorrow morning having coffee talking with their best friends about what happened tonight. If they fall, they'll pick themselves up, dust themselves off, and move on. And next Friday they'll be back to do it again. Resilience, optimism, and spirit. It's the Terran way.

A pulse on my wrist: the comm unit. It's time to go. I look out the window, an unmarked IDF ground vehicle is waiting discretely. Never mind, I think I'll just stay here a while longer...