He tried to remember what that moment had been like. How he had felt at that instant.
The moment he realized that he had just dropped half a ton of high-explosive incendiary bombs on troops on his own side.
Not that it had been anything other than an open secret in the first place. In particular, it was common knowledge among the top brass. It was even seen as part of a fifty-year-long tradition, if not a particularly proud one. Stimulants were all but officially prescribed.
Indeed, it was one of these “officially prescribed” stimulants that Boiled was dosed up on the day of that fateful friendly fire.
Dextroamphetamine—amphetamines, or possibly dexedrine.
They stimulated your central nervous system, dispelled fatigue, and focused your mind and improved your reflexes. They were legitimate drugs with legitimate medicinal uses.
But the media didn’t refer to these drugs by their scientific names. They used more prosaic terms.
These were prescribed as a matter of course to tired and nervous pilots on night raids. It was the obvious thing to do. It would practically have been wrong
They accelerated your brain function, revved up your metabolism, made all your aches and pains fade away.
And made Boiled kill his comrades.
Back then, Boiled had complained of fatigue to his commander. He was only asking for his due—adequate rest time in between strenuous missions. His commander’s response was that he should ask the army doctor for medicine that made him
Eight dead, fourteen wounded. The survivors were so horrifically maimed that they would never be able to find a job back in civilian society, let alone continue in the army. It was literally friendly fire: men he had ate with, fought with, slept alongside. Some of them were the ones who had celebrated with Boiled when he won his coveted place in the elite Airborne Division. They’d shared his joy, selflessly, without a trace of envy or jealousy. And when Boiled had the opportunity—the duty—to clear a path for his friends and comrades, to make their job easier by taking out the enemy they were advancing toward, he did exactly the opposite.
After the incident, Boiled was moved to the place where all soldiers with the “distinguished but dangerous” mark on their files were sent and had his options laid out in front of him.
It was a Hobson’s choice: transfer to the Experimental Strategic Space Corps, P7 for short, designed to pioneer high-altitude combat at ten thousand feet and above. Ridiculous by name, ridiculous by nature. Or be discharged.
At first Boiled had been prepared to accept a discharge. But then he thought of the life that would be waiting outside the army: no proper job, nothing but days of loneliness and endless guilt.
Furthermore, the side effects of the amphetamines were tearing up Boiled’s body at an alarming rate.
Boiled knew all too well what was waiting for him, having seen it in all too many of his comrades.
The terrible withdrawal symptoms that addicts would suffer if they deviated even slightly from the most careful weaning-off program.
Bouts of abnormal violence. Delusional paranoia. Insomnia. Hallucinations. At the end of it all, a pointless death.
So Boiled signed the papers that said he was volunteering for his new assignment and was bundled off to Paradise. In order to wipe the slate clean and return to being a good, upright, normal soldier again.
As it turned out, Boiled
Driving along in the car, Boiled tried to remember what it was like.
The last time he slept. The last time he prayed for the souls of his fallen comrades. The last time he thought that life had any value—
As he tried to remember, he felt a phantom tingling in his right hand as it gripped the steering wheel.
And he was reminded of the first time he had held
