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Year Five
Vincent Markis stood at attention in front of his father Daniel, his sky-blue uniform blazing as the southern sun beat down the assembled ranks of over a thousand brand-new greenies just graduated from the Military Academy at Stellenbosch. Appointment orders had been read, technically turning the mass of cadets into officers, but each young man or woman now waited for others to remove their trainees’ shoulderboards and attach the epaulets of the first rank appropriate to their chosen services.
In Vincent’s case, those each showed the thin loop of a second lieutenant in the South African Air Force. He’d considered the Navy, but given his father’s service in the US Air Force, he thought it appropriate he stay blue. Soon he knew he’d trade in his national uniform for that of EarthFleet’s Aerospace branch.
Another motive, supposedly hidden from his family but in reality quite obvious to all, was his desire to fly an Aardvark. Ever since the A-24 program had gone public, in general if not in detail, he’d known he was meant to be part of it.
Vincent had learned to fly from his grandfather, David Markis, starting on an old Cessna at the age of eight, and had never looked back. From then on it was what he lived and breathed, all he wanted to do: fly, fly, fly.
As the son of the most influential man on the planet, he had been afforded ample opportunity to do so. Fortunately, like his grandfather, he turned out to be a natural aviator. Between the two, getting an appointment to the Academy had been no problem, especially as the program had been expanded to more than ten times its former size, pumping out young officers at an amazing rate to fulfill the space program’s needs.
“Congratulations, son,” Daniel said as he and Vincent’s mother Elise fastened down the new insignia. A handshake for his father and a hug for his mother came next, then pictures as the crowd jostled around them, each new officer surrounded by family, friends and well-wishers.
“One more thing, sir,” Daniel said, startling his son with the honorific. The Chairman of the free Communities Council drew himself up to a rigid position of attention and snapped off a salute sharp enough to cut silk. “You outrank me now, Lieutenant. I mean, Leftenant,” he continued with a gleam in his eye. “I retired as a mere master sergeant, you know.”
Forcing himself not to laugh, Second Lieutenant Markis returned his father’s salute, then fished in his pocket for an antique silver dollar and handed it to the older man. Doing so carried on an American tradition possibly begun during the Colonial period, where the newly minted officer gave such a coin to the first enlisted man to render that courtesy.
Daniel chuckled and spun the heavy orb into the air, catching it with an overhand grab. “This will go in a place of honor on my desk, son. Now let’s go get out of this sun and grab some lunch. Unfortunately I have to be back at the office by two for a teleconference.”
Vincent shrugged wryly, long used to the demands of politics on his father. “Good idea, Dad. Indian food?”
“I already made reservations,” his mother Elise replied. “Sorry your brother and sister couldn’t make it.”
“That’s all right. I know they’re busy,” he replied. His elder brother, Ezekiel Markis, was studying to be a mechanical engineer at MIT. Just like Ezekiel Denham, he was named for their respective fathers’ mutual best friend Zeke Johnstone, who died just before Infection Day. Their younger sister Elizabeth was just up the road at the university in Cape Town but had final exams today.
“So, what’s the next step?” Elise asked as they climbed into the armored SUV mandated by Daniel’s political status. In front and behind, other vehicles, lights flashing, shooed cars out of the way with brief whoops of their sirens.
“Straight into jet trainers, then transition to F-35s.” The workhorse multirole fighter was old but still filled out many countries' inventories, especially for training. “After that, out to the Callisto base for Aardvarks.”
Vincent noticed his mother’s face faltered at the mention of the attack ships, and his father’s subtly hardened. He wondered whether the rumors were true – that each A-24 would carry an enormous fusion bomb for kamikaze use. It didn’t matter to him if it did; he didn’t expect to use it, but if he had to, he had to.
That Others May Live, the motto of his father’s US Air Force Pararescue specialty, had seeped deep into his bones, as had his family’s record of heroism and military service. Markises had served with distinction from the American War for Independence onward – at Saratoga, Gettysburg, Iwo Jima, Hue, and in Afghanistan to name just a few. With his elder brother taking after his mother, pursuing a career in the sciences, it fell to him to continue the military tradition.
“Mom, Dad, don’t worry. We’ll beat this thing. With you guys on the job and Admiral Absen running the show, we can’t lose.”
His mother and father exchanged glances again. Sure, they were worried. Parents always worried, it seemed, but everything worked out. Besides, if there really was an afterlife in heaven like Aunt Cassie insisted, what was there to fear about death?
