Free Angles of Attack by Marko Kloos

before a drop. Aren’t you?”
    “Little bit,” she says with a slight smile. “Anyone who isn’t scared at the thought of going into battle is either a moron or a sociopath.”
    “It’s different for this sneaky space shit. On a combat drop, you have lots of stuff to distract you, keep your mind off things. And you have at least the illusion of control. A rifle, a bunch of ammo, stuff to shoot at. But fleet engagements? You’re just sitting at your combat station in a metal tube. Nothing to do but to wait and see if you’re going to die.”
    “Yeah, that shit is for the birds,” she says. “I never did have the slightest desire to go fleet. All those idiot nuggets in boot, hoping for a navy slot. Space is awful business.”
    “It has its moments. First time I looked at Earth from orbit, it damn near blew my mind. The scale of it, you know? And it looked so peaceful. You realize just how stupid it all is. Us, the SRA, the welfare rats, trying to kill each other, when we’re all just a bunch of ants hurtling through space on this little piece of rock and water.”
    “Damn, Andrew.” Sergeant Fallon shakes her head and smiles again. “You’re too smart by half to be in the soldiering business.”
    She takes a swig from her drink and makes a grimace.
    “But you’re a good soldier,” she says. “You were a good soldier from day one at Shughart. Scared like the rest of them, but saddling up and doing what you’re supposed to. And you’ve never been a mindless trigger puller. I knew that you were still the same kid who felt awful after Detroit when you threw in your lot with our little rebellion. Maybe that makes you a better soldier than me, because I’ve mostly lost the ability to feel awful about any of this.”
    The PDP in my pocket chirps a notification alert. I pull it out and look at the screen.
    “MetSat update,” I tell Sergeant Fallon. “Fair-weather window in ninety-one minutes. I guess I better get my gear and head over to the airfield.”
    I push my drink aside and get up. Sergeant Fallon does likewise. She puts one hand on my shoulder and studies me at arm’s length. Then she pulls me into a brief but firm one-armed hug and lets me go as quickly as she initiated the contact.
    “I’m not going to get all squishy on you, but see that you don’t get yourself killed,” she says. “World’s a shitty place, but it’d be a fair bit shittier without you in it.”
    I smile at her. “That’s by far the squishiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
    We part without further words, without any melodramatic last salutes. I just leave the bar to get my gear, and turn around at the entrance hatch of the bar to look back at my old squad leader. She’s sitting down again, one hand on her drink, and she meets my gaze. I raise a hand briefly to give her a casual little two-finger wave. She nods at me, and the expression on her face is her usual facade of mild, detached amusement, but her eyes convey emotions we wouldn’t be able to fit into five minutes of extended emotional good-byes.
    Fair winds and following seas, my friend.
    I return her nod and turn to leave On the Rocks, likely for the last time in my life.

    There’s a tunnel that leads from the Ellipse straight to the airfield on the other end of New Longyearbyen. It’s a kilometer and a half, an easy walk on level ground, and I walk out toward the airfield in no particular hurry. When I am a third of the way down the tunnel, I hear the hum of an electric ATV coming up behind me, and I turn around to see Chief Constable Guest rolling up.
    “Saw you on the security feed,” he says as he comes to a stop next to me. “Want a ride?”
    “Sure,” I say. “Thanks.”
    I take my kit bag off my shoulder and dump it into the cargo basket of the ATV. Then I take the passenger seat behind the constable, and he puts the vehicle back into motion.
    “Figured you’d stop by the office to say good-bye,” he says over his shoulder.
    “I was