Bad luck.
If he had died, would he be a hero?
Starship listened as the service continued with different friends recounting their memories of Kick. He’d gotten his nickname not from the high school football team – which was the story Kick had told – but from peewee soccer. It came during his first game as a six-year-old, when he scored a goal. The nickname had stuck from there, becoming widespread in high school, where he’d switched to football and set a county scoring record booting extra points and field goals.
Starship’s mind drifted as the service continued. If the luck had run differently – if he had been the one who got the freak piece of shrapnel, and the sudden shock that combined to do Kick in – what would people be saying about him?
Smart kid – number three in his high school class and in the top five percent at the Academy.
Should have chosen a few more gut classes and got top honors.
Won an assignment to Dreamland on the cutting edge of aviation.
A mistake. He was flying robot aircraft, glorified UAVs. The computer did most of the work. It was like sitting at a desk all day.
‘I’ll bet you’re Starship.’
Starship turned and saw that a woman had come into his pew from the side. Maybe five-two, with dark hair and green eyes, she looked a lot like Kick.
‘Alice,’ she whispered. ‘Kick’s sister.’
‘Hi.’ He stuck his hand out.
‘We’re glad you could come.’
‘Yeah, um, I’m sorry.’
‘I know.’ Distress flickered across her face, but then cleared. ‘We’re having – my parents are inviting people over later. You should stop by.’
‘I kinda gotta get back,’ Starship lied.
‘Well, OK. But say hello to them on the way out.’ She smiled – this time with visible effort – and then slipped out of the pew. Starship watched as she slid into another pew farther up. Somehow this made him feel better, as if he hadn’t been singled out, and when Kick’s parents asked him at the end of the service if he would stop by ‘just for coffee,’ he agreed and got directions.
Dreamland 1231
Mack felt the muscles in his shoulders tense into hard rocks as he lowered himself into the pool. He had to relax if he was going to do the exercise, but relaxing on command was just about the most difficult thing in the world to do. He lowered his gaze to the surface of the pool and concentrated on breathing slowly, very slowly, as slowly as he possibly could, taking long, deep breaths, as one of the physical therapists at the hospital had recommended.
‘All right now, Major, you want to start with a nice, easy breaststroke,’ said Penny Hartung, treading water next to him.
‘Yeah, that’s what I’m going to do,’ he said. But he didn’t let go of the rail, afraid that he would sink into the water like a stone.
Which was impossible, since he was wearing a life preserver. But fear wasn’t necessarily rational.
‘You all right?’ asked Frank DeLia, the other therapist. Frank was kneeling above him at the poolside.
‘Oh yeah, I’m good,’ said Mack, finally pushing away. He fought against the impulse to paddle madly, moving his arms out slowly as he’d been told.
‘Legs now. Legs,’ said Penny, hovering beside him.
Yup, legs, Mack thought. Legs, legs, legs.
The large beam that had fallen across his back and legs after the terrorist blew himself up had temporarily shocked his backbone. The medical explanation was somewhat longer and more complicated, but the bottom line was that he had temporarily lost the use of his legs. The thing was, no one could say how long ‘temporarily’ was supposed to be. He’d already seen several specialists; he got the impression they all thought he should be walking by now.
Not that he didn’t agree.
Mack pushed his arms out and willed his legs to kick. He didn’t feel them move. He thought his hips wiggled a little.
‘Legs,’ repeated Penny. ‘Legs.’
He got a mouthful of water as he started to lose momentum. He had his whole upper body working, and thought his legs must be working as well.
‘Push, push,’ said Penny.
‘Doing it.’ Mack checked his position against the far side of the pool. He’d gone maybe five feet. ‘Legs,’ he said himself, deciding he might do better if he gave himself a pep talk. ‘Legs. Let’s do it.’
There was a tremendous splash on the other side of the pool: Zen, who worked out here regularly.
‘Come on, gimp boy. That the best you can do?’
Mack ignored Zen, keeping his head toward the other side of the pool room. He sensed Zen swimming toward him. Determined to ignore him, he concentrated on doing a sidestroke, or at least as much of a sidestroke as he could manage.
‘Your arms are punier than Olive Oyl’s,’ said Zen.
Legs, Mack thought. Legs.
‘Use your damn legs,’ said Zen.
‘I’m trying,’ said Mack between his teeth.
‘Not hard enough.’
‘Yeah. I am.’ The burn in Mack’s arms was too much; he stopped and took a breather.
‘Don’t be such a damn wimp,’ said Zen. He plunged beneath the water, stroking away.
It occurred to Mack that swimming underwater when you couldn’t use your legs to help must be – was – extremely difficult. But then, just about everything you did when you couldn’t use your legs was extremely difficult. And Zen didn’t complain or ask for help – hell, he got mad when people tried to help him.
Which Mack understood. He’d thought after Zen’s crash that Zen got mad only with him, because he held a grudge. Now he realized Zen got mad with everyone. The reason was simple. Most of the people who wanted to help you – not necessarily all, but most – were thinking, You poor little baby, you. Let me help you.
For someone like Zen or Mack, being treated like a baby, being pitied – well the hell with that!
But you needed help sometimes. That was the worst part of it. Sometimes you just couldn’t drag yourself up a full flight of stairs, not and bring your wheelchair with you.
‘Ready to start again, Major?’ asked Penny.
‘Oh yeah. Starting,’ said Mack, pushing.
‘Ten
