Posted by Kimnikki on October 29, 2001 at 21:06:02:
In Reply to: Well ... the short message is ... I'm back :-) posted by Kimnikki on October 29, 2001 at 21:04:36:
Okay, first things first:
I'm guilty of flagrant plagiarism on this one. Saw a story in some sci-fi mag my daughter loves, and it gave me the idea for this story. The story itself is mine, but the original idea is another writer and artist. If he/she ever sees this, I hope they see it for what this is; a tribute to a great story, that I just ... ermmm ... spiced up a bit. :-) Oh ... btw ... I never took ballet, so if I'm butchering the art ... please feel free to spank me :-) lol
Second note: I started this story some time ago, and just now got to finishing it. This story contains themes of war and combat, but is not intended as support nor condemnation of soldiers and warriors who are at this moment involved in yet another fight for their lives ... and ours.
The Embrace
(A written story by Kimnikki, from an idea by an artist called Azpizi ... I think)
Debra felt that same old frision of fear slide up her spine. Fear could be your friend ... it kept you sharp when you needed it the most, and now was when she needed to be sharp more than any other time.
"Cobra 3 going in," she said quietly into her helmet mic, then rolled her nimble F-21 Ghost nightfigter over and dove from 30,000 feet onto her target, a line of enemy tanks approaching the British front lines. For a moment or two it was possible to forget just how dangerous this job was. To forget that she was a target for (and a dealer of) death, and to revel in the shear thrill of flight, and the power and grace of her machine. She felt herself float in weightlessness for a split second, then slam back into her harness as she hit full power and screamed down out of the night at her target.
Less than a second after she started her dive, the green and red dots of tracer raced up from the ground to surround her fighter. Warnings and tell-tales flashed and beeped at her as missile and triple-A guidance systems tried to lock-on to her racing craft. She hit her jammers, launched radar and heat-seeker decoys and continued her dive, lining up the tiny dots of heat that were the tanks in her gun sight.
Small thumps and rings reached her ears as the occasional tracer skipped and bounced in near misses. She hardly flinched as what looked like a roman candle screamed past her port wing and exploded harmlessly behind her. Down ... down ... down ... the tiny dots turning to squares, and slowly resolving into the shape of armored vehicles as her fighter howled like a banshee towards her targets.
Closer ... a bit closer ... closer ... now!! At 11,000 feet her missile system achieved lock and she hit the trigger. Her fighter lurched as all 4 anti-tank missiles launched free and leapt down at the helpless tankers below her. She pulled hard back grunting and gasping for air as the g-forces shoved her down into her seat. Her vision went a bit gray, but she throttled back and leveled out, skimming just over the tops of the trees and hills that surrounded the British position. A quick check in her rear camera and she felt a grim satisfaction as she watched the 4 leading tanks in the enemy line split open, belching fire and sparks as her missiles slammed home. Behind and around her targets several more tanks turned into crematoriums as the other fighters in her wing tore into their targets. The night camera clearly showed several small figures in the British lines pumping their fists at her and waving madly as death was turned away for a time.
But in the next second her satisfaction turned to terror. From the middle of the inferno of armor and men, the single surviving AA carrier launched one its missiles directly at the pencil of fire that was her tail flame. Heart in her mouth, Debra yanked hard left and right, pulling up and trying to avoid the deathly little thing racing towards her as she hit her decoys again. She was good; she almost ducked it ... but not totally.
The missile tore into her starboard wing, blew straight through and then exploded directly beside her cockpit, blowing in the armored glass and filling her previously warm, safe electronic womb with fire, smoke and the blast of freezing air. She screamed in agony as something tore across the right side of her face, splitting open her visor and face-mask, ripping the flesh beneath and slamming her head back. A second burning pain torn into her side and belly, and she felt a hot wetness splash across her face and tummy. Her fighter bucked as if it were a living thing reacting to pain, turning and spinning, flipping on its back and tumbling back towards the British lines. In the time it would take to take a deep breath, the elegant fighter and its fit and admirable pilot were turned into torn and battered wrecks.
Gritting her teeth to stop from screaming, Debra forced her good eye open, grabbed the controls and tried to save her dying machine. She managed to turn it back over but every alarm was bellowing at her and she could hear her wing leader shouting at her to eject. The fighter shook and shuddered, shedding parts in a line of flame as she raced out of control back towards the battlezone. It was a lost cause ... her beloved fighter was finished ... it was a minor miracle that it hadn't simply blow to pieces and her with it already. She whispered a quick prayer and yanked the ejection handle.
Pain ... pain was the first thing she became aware of. A soft, fuzzy sort of kind of pain in her side and belly, and much sharper, more insistent pain in her face. "What's goin' on," she wondered, her voice just a mumble.
"Hold still Ma'am ... I'm still dressing your wounds," came a pleasant male voice, fresh from some English cricket field.
"Wounds?" she replied in a daze ... and then the world clicked into place and she remembered who she was, and where she was. She tried to sit up, and had to bite back a cry as the pain in her belly suddenly stabbed like a hot poker.
"I said hold still," the man said, one hand moving to her shoulder. "You'll be fine, but you have to hold still and let me treat these."
Debra forced her eye open ... only now realizing that she could not make the other open. Staring back at her was a dirty face covered in makeup of various shades of green and brown. A pair of dark brown eyes looked back at her and the face smiled, showing a line of slightly crooked but clean teeth. It was hard to tell under all the war paint, but it just might be a nice face.
"Who are you ... and where the hell am I ... corporal, " she asked fuzzily, after finding the rank on his arm. She was lying on a hard cot in a typical army tent.
"Corporal Ross Ma'am, Her Majesty's Royal Marines. You ejected just a handful of meters from our lines Ma'am ... but you were unconscious when we got to you. We managed to get you to our aid station before the battle heated up, but there's just too much fighting going on right now to evacuate you." He was finishing putting a pressure bandage around her head.
She knew that he must have given her morphia, because while she could feel the pain in her face and tummy it was no where near as bad as it should be. She looked down, seeing her bared breasts and exposed stomach. A wide swatch of blood soaked bandages wrapped around her, covering what could only be a pair of nasty gashes; one directly over her bellybutton, and the other in her right side, just below her ribs. She still had on her flight suit below the waist, and her boots were still on.
She moved one hand up towards her face, but he quickly pushed it away.
"No Ma'am ... the cut is rather deep and I only just now got the bleeding under control. You don't want to open it up again now do you?" His voice was pleasant without being falsely cheerful, which would have been insulting and nauseating under the circumstances.
"My eye?" she asked, looking back up to meet his with her single one.
He paused a moment, judging her, then he nodded. "I won't lie to you Ma'am ... I'm afraid you lost it. A piece of your canopy must have blown in. I'm sorry," he finished, a sad look on his face.
Gone ... blind in one eye. Somewhere inside something screamed in anger and grief, but again she felt remote and removed from it ... as if it didn't really matter. "Well," she whispered in what she intended to be a joking tone, "at least I won't have to fly over anymore battlezones." Her voice was weak and thready, and it nearly broke on the last word. With one eye gone, the RCAF would never let her fly again.
The corporal's face pinched a bit, and he took her hands. "I wasn't lying Ma'am ... if we can get you to the field hospital fairly soon, you'll be right as rain. Oh I'm not saying you'll be going to the dances any time soon, but you'll be out enjoying the weather at Brighton in no time." Brighton was the major British hospital treating their wounded back in England. It was also on a beautiful strip of beach ... a lovely place to get well.
Neither of them mentioned her face ... neither had to. A wound deep enough to take out an eye would leave her once lovely face something far from lovely. Somehow that didn't seem real just now ... she could "see" that one eye was not working ... she couldn't yet see what that had done to her face.
Then finally the sounds around her began to intrude into her fuzzy thoughts; shouts, screams and bellows of horse male voices, the sharp reports of rifles and machine guns, and the low "grumph" of grenades and small artillery.
She shook herself slightly ... wounded or not, she was an officer in Her Majesty's Royal Canadian Air Force. She tried to fight off the fuzzy cotton ball the morphia was laying over her mind.
"Sounds like the battle is still raging ... we didn't take out the tanks?"
"No Ma'am ... your flight took them all out ... and just in bloody time I might add. You've made yourself a fan of many of the lads I'll tell you. But now it's down to an infantry battle ... your fighters were forced to break off to take down some gunships they tried to bring up. Have no worries though ... the lads will give the blighters whats for."
She smiled at the soldiers attempt to make her feel better. "You're not a very good liar Corporal Ross," she said, giving him a small smile. "I'm no groundpounder, but even I can tell those AK's are getting closer."
The Corporals eyes clouded for a moment then firmed up. "It's a tight go, aye Ma'am, but you have my word that no harm will to you so long as even one of us still stands." Even through the haze of the drug, Debra felt the strangeness of war hit her. These men didn't even know her name, but were willing to die to save her, just as she had been willing to risk all to save them.
The flap of the tent moved, and Ross pivoted like a mongoose after a cobra, a deadly little machine pistol snapping up into his hands. He lowered it just as fast as a tall figure in British fatigues stepped through.
Like something right out a Brit war movie a tall man with a brushy mustache, a swagger stick tucked under his right arm and a smoking pipe between his teeth strode through the door. About the only things he had surrendered to the reality of modern battle (and that rather reluctantly from the look of him) was that he wore body armor instead of a kilt, and had a helmet rather than a "Mac". He was also carrying a very nasty looking rifle in his arms
"Well Corporal," came a deep, blustery voice, in a clipped upper-class British accent, "how's our guest from the colonies, what what?"
"Colonies?" ... Canada hadn't been a colony for nearly a century! Who was this guy?
"A bit knocked about Major ... but nothing the docs can't fix up in a jiff," replied Ross.
The big Major strode forward, bigger than life, to give her a smart salute than reach out to shake her hand. "Major Jonathan Digby-Smith," he said in his booming voice, pronouncing it as "Digby Smy-the".
"Captain Debra McDonald ... Her Majesty's Royal Canadian Air Force," she replied at bit stunned, finding her hand engulfed in a handshake that would make a gorilla wince.
He gave her a quick look over, his eyes only lingering on her naked breasts for a moment or two before he looked back in her eyes. The mustache hid his expression quite well though his eyes gave away a deep worry. "Well then, you don't look so bad Captain. Just a few scratches here and there ... harumph! Fit to take on the dirty bastards in no time at all."
He turned to Ross, puffing on his pipe. "So Corporal ... do you think our avenging angle here is up for a bit of stroll?" It was said evenly enough, as if there were not a battle raging around them.
Ross' face lost its smile and he looked the major straight in the eyes. He looked back over at Debra, then began to shake his head.
Debra forced herself to sit up, hissing at the pain in her belly. Ross moved towards her, but she held up a hand. "The battle goes that badly for you Major?" she asked.
"Not all my dear lady," he replied, confidence ringing in his voice. "We've whittled them down quite nicely really, given them a damn good drubbing. But unfortunately the sneaky bastards have managed to flank my position and if I don't move my lines they just might do us one in return."
"Major, I've just got the bleeding stopped, and that belly wound is deep, if we move her ...", Ross' voice trailed away as he looked over at Debra.
Gritting her teeth, her one eye seeing spots from the pain, she pulled herself up to her feet with the tents central pole. She managed to stand, and then give the major a ragged salute.
"As you said Sir ... just a scratch or two."
Debra knew that if the Major was asking if she could move, his position was actually dire. He might be telling the straight truth, he might be winning this fight, but it was obvious that if he needed to move this desperately, he would lose it if he didn't change position. She was also just as sure that if she couldn't be moved these men would stay and attempt to hold their place. No way ... not on her account.
"Captain, you can't ... " the corporal began to say.
"At ease corporal," she hissed at him. "I might not wear the same uniform as you ... but I signed on for the same risks. If I have to move ... I have to move ... simple as that."
She looked into their eyes, seeing respect and admiration in them. A "lovely bit of crumpet" she might be, her figure and features exposed to them, but a tough and disciplined crumpet too.
Then she staggered, and nearly fell, only stopped because Ross caught her. "I will however," she said around clenched teeth, "need a shoulder or two to lean on."
"Good lass," the Major said, his voice soften somewhat now. "Head out on 087 corporeal ... oh about 3000 meters should do nicely. That should get you well clear as I move the lads up that other line of hills to the west while the smoke from their tanks still covers us. Once they attack our position here, I'll call Guns and have him blast the lot of them straight to hell. Any that escape that will either run straight into us or back amongst the tanks again ... either way we should do them a treat."
The Major gripped her shoulder in a comradeship. "Don't worry Captain, you just hang strong and we'll have you out of this mess before tea."
Then he turned to Ross. "I'd send another of the lads with you, but ... well ... we're a bit thinned out right now. Guard her well corporal."
"Like a diamond Sir," Ross said with a sharp salute.
Debra shook the Major's hand again. "Good luck sir ... give 'em hell. Next time we meet, we'll have to swap tall stories and share a whiskey."
The major's bushy mustache twitched in a smile. "Make it a brandy my dear, and you've got yourself a deal." Then with one last glance towards her body he stepped smartly thought the flap, barking orders as he went.
Ross reached over a pile of clothing, grabbing a blanket at the same time. He wrapped her in the blanket, then draped the coat over her shoulders. "Lets move then Ma'am ... when the Major says move, he means last week." Throwing one arm around her shoulders, her started helping her walk outside. Debra gritted her teeth, trying not to let the pain show in her face. She immediately felt warm blood trickle against her skin from the wound in her belly ... it actually felt rather good against her chilly skin.
As they stepped through the flap dawn was just beginning to break and she got her first look at the battlefield since she was shot down. The entire plateau before the British trenches seemed to be a line of burning tanks and sprawled bodies, littered with craters and small spot fires. She had never seen the results of her work up close, and she was surprised at the total devastation of the armor. They looked like soup cans blown open with a firecracker. Caught without their armor protection, the enemy troupes had been torn to bits by the Brits rifles, grenades, and artillery fire. But it had been far from one sided.
There had to be at least 20 sheet covered bodies lined up outside the tent and at least half of the majors remaining men were wounded. They had already begun to abandon the current position, and to Debra's shock, two soldiers came over and took one of the bodies, propping it up in one of the trenches with a rifle in his hands.
The Major was standing nearby and she saw him go to one knee and lay a hand on the shoulder of one of the dead men. "Sorry boys," he muttered, "but I need your help to get the rest of the lads home hale and hearty. Rest in peace."
She saw several of the Marines look over her way, and to a man they saluted or waved to her. She stood as straight as she was able and returned the salute. Then the Major barked an order and the Marines started jogging towards the nearby hills.
"Move smartly corporal," the Major ordered over his shoulder, "once they get into their new positions, the bastards are libel to make this a rather busy little spot ... move out!" Then without a backward glance, he jogged out to join his men.
The first half-kilometer or so was pure agony. Debra had to keep her teeth clenched tight to keep from screaming, though she could not keep in the wheezing gasps of pain. Ross at first tried to keep her spirits up, but gave it up after only a 100 meters or so when he could see that all it was doing was distracting him from getting her to the safety of the hills. His strong arm around her waist and her own arm over his shoulder were the only things keeping her going.
She knew that she could not go on this way; she would collapse from the pain long before they reached their goal. Debra knew one way that she could ignore the pain and keep going, though using it in these circumstances was more than dangerous ... but she couldn't see any other choice.
When she had been a girl, her mother hand enrolled her in ballet school. The long hours or stretching and reaching, of pushing a body far beyond its limits had taught her a great deal about pain, as had her dance instructor, Madame Giselle Bouverie. Every dancer learns a great deal about pain, and how to deal with it, but M. Bouverie had taught her a way to ignore just about any pain, and even more, to move through it and use it to her advantage.
Reaching back into her past, she remembered the day she had split the soft webbing beneath her toes wide open with too long a stretch.
Holding her foot, weeping in agony, she had been unable to stand, unable to finish the recital in which she had her first staring role. She had managed to finish the scene, but the instant the curtain closed, she had collapsed, and had to be helped off stage. Giselle had shooed off the other dancers, telling them the interlude would give her all the time she needed to get Debra back up dancing. The other dancers had looked more than skeptical at the wide split and the blood steadily seeping from it.
"Well, mon petite, do you want to finish this dance?" M. Bouverie has asked in her soft, elegant French accent. "Do you have the heart to finish this my sweet?" Her face was cool and remote, though not cold.
Gulping back the tears, Debra tried to stand, biting off a scream as she fell back down. "You know how much I want this Madame, but I just can't stand."
"And if I knew a way to ignore the pain ... if I knew some manor in which you could loose yourself inside the pain what would you say to that?"
Before Debra could answer, M. Bouverie held up her hand. "There is a price, mon petite, and a steep one. To ignore the pain, to use the pain, first you must embrace the pain."
"I don't understand."
"You must concentrate on the pain ... feel ever tiny bit of it. Feel that torn skin, feel the stretched and abused tendons beneath. Feel each drop of blood that spills. Feel every nerve scream, feel each part and piece of the pain my sweet. And then, once you understand your pain, once you and your pain is all that there is in the world, you can step through it ... make it a part of you ... a part of what you are."
Debra looked up at her in confusion.
"You embrace it, mon petite. You loose your fear of it ... pain is not something be feared when you know it intimately. It can give you strength ... it can help you reach depths of yourself you never knew were there."
The words sounded ridiculous, but M. Bouveries' face was completely serious.
"Pain can even become a twin to pleasure Debra if you know how to use it ... though that we will discuss another time perhaps. I simply ask you to trust me ... concentrate on the pain ... feel it ... feel the pain and only the pain ... and then move past that ... and I promise you ... you will be able to stand. But you must have the courage ... that I can not give you ... you must have that for yourself."
And with that she had stood over Debra, her cool, remote eyes staring down at her.
Debra looked up into those ice blue eyes, seeing something there she had never seen in 6 years of lessons and recitals. There was some kind of connection there between them, something beyond teacher and pupil, something beyond the very impersonal relationship that had existed before. And there was strength there as well ... not the physical strength M. Bouverie had always had, but a powerful personal and mental strength.
Debra closed her eyes, and began to feel the pain ... feel every single nerve that was crying to her. She had to bite back a cry, and clenched her eyes tighter against the tears. The rip throbbed and pulsed ... and she could feel the tiny drops of blood seeping down the sole of her foot. She stopped hearing the orchestra playing softly for intermission, the murmurs of the crowd and the sounds of rest of the cast getting ready for the next act.
She stopped feeling the bench beneath her, the air moving past her, the spicy, pungent scent of fresh sweat and exertion.
Slowly the world shrank to herself ... and her pain.
It was a fire in her foot ... a searing scorching pain. Her toes clenched, her hands balled into fists, her nails digging into her palms. Sweat blossomed all over her body, running between her small breasts, pooling in her navel, making her body slick and chilled. She stopped feeling the floor beneath the foot, the clothes on her body. She stopped thinking of anything but her body and her pain ... and as the pain rose higher and higher, as the fire grew worse and worse ... something strange happened.
Her heart was hammering in her chest, her lungs pumping air in and out. Her muscles were taunt and hard, her tendons like steel cables beneath her skin. She could feel not just her pain, but her entire body ... the adrenaline pumping, her skin slicked and chilled with sweat tingled and vibrated. She could feel the power and the strength within her ... and it was the pain that was giving it to her.
The pain was not lessened, her foot was still afire, but she could feel herself feeding off it, embracing and becoming one with it. It was so strange ... it hurt ... but ... but it was good as well. It was like the exhausted burn after a hard practice ... you body ached ... your mind was exhausted ... but there was a powerful satisfaction in it as well. It was similar ... but far more powerful. The pain began to fill her, to slide over her ... and it was good ... lord but it was good.
Debra had opened her eyes to find herself looking straight into those of M. Bouverie. There had been an excitement there where remoteness had once been, and a slight flush to the face. Debra had felt a slight puzzlement at her teachers' excitement, and a strange excitement of her own ... but she put it aside.
Without a single sign of the fire in her foot, Debra had stood and finished the recital. Her fellow students had been amazed at her strength ... especially when they noticed the small spots of blood she was leaving on the stage.
END PART ONE