Cally's War

Chapter Seventeen

The first stages of sensory deprivation were never too bad. It was relatively easy, especially with preparatory training, to hold on to yourself. Doing it in true zero-g was tough. The traditional tank of water still had some definable sense of down, however small. The gurney actually helped. It would have been worse without it. She could work her hands and feet against the straps and feel the pain. They hadn’t blocked her ears with white noise, or gagged her. She could run her tongue across her teeth and feel the edges. She could hear her heartbeat. With enhanced hearing, she could hear it very well, and keep her breathing paced. It gave some sense of the passage of time.

It’s gotta be about three or four in the morning by now. Counting the time is an upside to not being able to sleep, I guess. But it’s so tempting to just watch the colors go by. Red, electric blue, chartreuse. What the hell is chartreuse, anyway? Oop, lost count again. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub… one, two, three, four, men are running in the door, seven, eight, nine and ten, then they’re carried out again…

Ireland. An American official on vacation. Tourism never died, it seemed. No witnesses, but he’s all in black, a player? His neck cracks so easily, and he rolls as he falls, and it’s white it wasn’t supposed to be white what why was he here? God, no. No.

Shit, that’s weird. It didn’t happen that way. That was two hits. The official wasn’t in Ireland at all. He was on a golf course in Arkansas. The priest was in Ireland, but he was a young guy, an idealist, about to go public on “infiltrators” in the Church. That had to be, what, twelve, thirteen years ago? That one was so sad. But it hasn’t bothered me in years… has it? Oh, crap, I lost track of time again.

But why the guy on the golf course? Putt-putt, and down through the bottom of the windmill, sailing out of the tunnel down into the Quarter — Mardi Gras parade, no war, no training, freedom for a long weekend. Strings of cheap plastic beads and hurricanes, and a young-looking soldier of the Ten Thousand who looks like he puts in a lot of time in the weight room. She’s Lilly tonight and laughing up into his face and she tries not to go this time but she always does, and now it’s morning and he’s telling her — me — about his wife, again, and she’s trying and trying to get off the bed and kick the bastard in the crotch, but she can’t move, and she’s — uh — I’m — back in survival training in Minnesota, and the snow falls, and what the fuck?

Oh. I remember that creep. It was a hell of a rotten way to lose my virginity, but I was lying to him, too. This is just too weird. Sensory dep in SERE training back with the Sisters was never like this. But I guess I didn’t have nearly as many personal ghosts then. But I don’t have ghosts now. I sleep like a baby — don’t I?

Florida. Swimming with dolphins. Mom’s with me. She’s proud of me. And the water’s cool, and the sun hot. Silly Herm — why is Doc Vita P standing on the beach? And what’s he holding? There’s something really odd about this dream. Something’s not right.

Okay, hold it. I’m not even asleep. My broken bits ache and I’m on a gurney in zero-g, this is the Fleet Strike prison dammit. Even if the bastards they have working me over are Fleet, the place and the regular people are Fleet Strike. Hell of an irony, that. What’d I figure last time? About three in the morning? Surely it’s got to be four or so by now. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub… How the hell long has it been since I’ve been to confession, anyway? Can’t even remember why I quit going. It’s not like Father O’Reilly wouldn’t gladly hear it, and with no risks to security. You know, it’s morbid as hell, but if I ever get out of here, that’s something I need to do. Maybe something I could do with my copious free time at the moment is make a list. Uh, maybe not. Bad for morale. Better to do that after they get me out, if they do. Sister Mary Francis always said God understands. Back to my anchor. Even if I can’t dance on the floor, I can dance in my head. Here we go… Waitasecond… this one’s loose — oh, it wasn’t before probably, but with the break and the blood being slippery — probably pass out for a bit — one good yank.