Ron Merrill About 3,600 words

[540-54-5913]

"You have to remember this was an experimental treatment," the doctor said a bit nervously. "At least it was a partial success."

"How partial is partial?" asked Glenn. He was the type who always had to show he couldn't be taken in.

The doctor went on, speaking about Ryan as if he weren't there. He hated that. But he waited impassively; it didn't matter, he was getting out of this place.

"Well, the microchip is working perfectly, as near as we can tell. We'd hoped, as you know, to get complete restoration of Lieutenant Howard's memory. As it is, his short-term memory is now operating well. He's perfectly functional for day-to-day activities, which is why we can release him. But his long-term memory remains defective. He's still very confused about his past. So he might run into trouble trying to live alone. Fortunately--"

"We'll take good care of him," said Alice. He believed her. His big sister had always been protective--too much so, that's why he'd run off and joined the Marines . . . the Marines?

But it didn't matter, they were leaving now, only he was reminded again as he got into the car. Had he imagined it, that twinge of pain in his right calf as he slid into the seat? He remembered so clearly the shock of the bullet ripping through his flesh, the terrible march back from Chosin Reservoir, Sergeant Murphy supporting him as he limped along, encouraging him and the other members of their dwindling band, pushing them on through the snow and the bitter cold, rallying them again and again to fight off the Reds who were chasing them . . . just as clearly as he remembered the Rose Garden at the White House, where he'd watched from the front row as President Taft pinned the Medal of Honor on Murphy's chest. That was after the final victory, of course . . .

"Ryan? You all right?"

He came back to the present with a start. "I'm all right, Sis." He looked out the car window, saw a sign on a storefront: "Compaq laptops, best prices in town." Of course, it had to be some kind of fantasy memory. He hadn't even been born when the Korean War was fought. And Eisenhower had been President after Truman, not Taft. He fingered the scar on the side of his head to remind himself of the facts.

He was Army, not Marines. Ranger, Green Beret, he'd been assigned to a Special Ops group supporting a CIA team in the marshes of southern Iraq. They'd been training Shiite rebels in guerilla tactics when a company of Saddam Hussein's Republican Guard had caught up with them. He'd seen only the first minute or so of the fire fight before catching a bullet in the head. And Murphy, of course, was a captain, leader of the unit, not a sergeant.

"Does it hurt?"

That was Alice again. He dropped his hand. "No, Sis, I feel fine. No pain at all."

So what if his memories were mixed up. He was blank from the moment he'd been hit until he'd awakened in a hospital back in the U.S. And then for weeks he'd remembered nothing--not his own name, not what he'd had for breakfast, nothing--until they'd implanted that little piece of gallium arsenide in his brain. But he was alive, and that was practically a miracle. And he could remember well enough to get along. Take it one day at a time and be thankful, he told himself.

Glenn and Alice had bought a house considerably larger than they needed even for their large family--that was Glenn showing off, of course. Ryan reminded himself immediately to be a bit more grateful. Glenn's brokerage business was highly successful, he could afford a little ostentation. For that matter he could have traded in Alice for a trophy wife; instead he was a faithful, in fact almost uxorious, husband. And it was a damn good thing Glenn had an extra room, and the charity to let his brain-damaged brother-in-law live in it.

The children were waiting for him in the living room. Alice glanced at him doubtfully, but he greeted them with confidence. Funny, he had trouble recalling the most basic facts of history, or even his own combat record, but he could place each of his nephews and nieces instantly, though he hadn't seen them for several years. He even remembered all their birthdays.

Alice showed him to his room. She'd gotten all his old stuff out of storage and the place looked like the room he'd lived in when he was going to high school.

"This is great, Sis. Thanks for taking so much trouble."

She smiled. "I'm glad you like it. How are you feeling? Want to rest a little while before dinner? The kids can be pretty tiring."

"That would be nice." He stretched out on the bed.

It was so familiar. He'd been lying on this bed that Sunday afternoon when the news of Pearl Harbor came over the radio. The next day he'd been first in line at the enlisting center. And that had led step by step to the most exciting day of his life, the day he remembered so vividly . . . his Dauntless shuddering in a 70-degree dive, the deck of the Akagi growing larger and larger as his altimeter whirled, Murphy's bomb slamming through the elevator to ignite secondary explosions in the torpedo storage, his own bomb following a moment later to explode among the weapons and fuel and planes on the crowded deck . . .

But there was something nagging at his attention, something wrong. It was the banner on the wall, the one that said "Class of '87." It should be '41, shouldn't it?--he brought his hand up, fingered the scar on his head. No, of course, he'd been drifting again. Ryan Howard had graduated from high school in 1987, and joined the Army the next year. He'd fought in Desert Storm, spent a few years in various training assignments, then been sent back to Iraq on a Special Ops mission. Remember that.

"Ready for dinner?" Alice called as he came down the stairs.

"Sure, as long as it's not quiche," Ryan responded.

"Now, now, no politics. Anyway, it's good roast beef. Just a few minutes yet. Kathy, set the table, would you?"

Ryan sat down beside Glenn, who murmured a greeting, and watched the evening news with him. Washington was a mess as usual. China was threatening to suspend trade talks. Then a familiar map filled the screen.

"The rebel coalition made dramatic progress yesterday. Kurdish forces took the town of Ba'qubah, only 35 miles from Baghdad. Closing in from the south, Shiite Moslems attacked Tuwaythah. In a radio broadcast, Saddam Hussein praised the loyalty of the Republican Guard and vowed to fight to the end. He accused the United States of aiding the rebels, and there are persistent rumors of clandestine involvement of U.S. troops. However, the White House again today denied . . ."

Suddenly Ryan was struck by a thought. Could his memory have been damaged intentionally? Before Glenn and Alice had transferred him, he'd been in a military hospital. Perhaps they'd fiddled with his brain to make sure he didn't reveal any secrets. His group's mission had been highly confidential. The official cover story was that he'd been wounded in an accident while training troops in Egypt. Maybe the brass had wanted to make sure--

But that didn't make sense. Surely it would have been simpler to give him amnesia for the whole incident. For that matter, it would have been simpler yet to just let him die. Well, though, deaths sometimes provoked relatives into raising awkward questions--Alice could be persistent as a ferret when aroused, he knew. And this way, even if he blabbed something out, he'd have no credibility. He was on record as a mental patient who mixed up fact and fantasy.

The anchor man had gone on to talk about a forest fire in Montana. Idly Ryan wondered what had become of Captain Murphy. Was he still in Iraq, fighting with the insurgents?

Alice's dinner smelled delicious, especially after months of hospital food. As they raised their heads after Glenn said grace, Ryan spoke up.

"And thank you, both of you, for taking me in. And for the operation. If it weren't for you, I'd still be a hopeless case in a mental ward. Whatever else I've forgotten, I haven't forgotten that."

As Alice opened her mouth, Glenn put his hand over hers. "Think nothing of it," he said. "You're family. You're welcome in our home. Make it your own."

There was an embarrassed silence. Then Alice inquired about the children's school day. Conversation revived. Ryan concentrated on his food.

"What are you going to do now, Uncle Ryan?" asked Kathy after a while.

Alice frowned at her, but Ryan answered calmly, "I don't know yet."

"Uncle Ryan doesn't have to do anything," said Alice. "He's done plenty, he's earned a rest."

Ryan shook his head. "I know I can't go back into the Army. But I can't see myself sitting around idle the rest of my life, drawing my pension and disability. There must be something productive I can do with myself."

"How about becoming a game designer?" asked Jim. "With your military background--"

"An interesting idea." Ryan smiled and changed the subject. Glenn was a liberal and one step away from being a pacifist. He and Ryan used to spar constantly at every visit. And he clearly wasn't pleased to see his son engrossed in war games and hero-worshipping his military uncle. No sense aggravating the problem.

After dinner Ryan was invited to Jim's room to see his computer games. At Jim's urging he tried a couple.

They laughed together as Ryan was chewed out by the image of Chuck Yeager after plowing his plane into the ground. "Actually, I don't play these much any more," said Jim. "I'm more into the role-playing games these days. I've got a character now I've been building for months. Almost 1800 experience points--"

A memory stirred in Ryan. "Like Dungeons and Dragons, right? I used to play that when I was in college, back in the Seventies."

Funny, he hadn't thought of that for years, that dingy old room next to the Rathskeller in the Student Union where they used to play. Of course he'd never been a real enthusiast; most of his spare energies went into ROTC. After he'd graduated in 1975 he'd gone straight to active duty. And what he really remembered was that terrible night in Iran, the overpowering smell of burning aviation fuel, pulling mutilated bodies out of the wreckage. And then, when they were all standing there in despair, Colonel Murphy had calmly and confidently revised the whole plan on the spot. He redistributed the teams among the remaining helicopters, leaving many men behind to be picked up later, taking his reduced force into Teheran to rescue the hostages. Had he succeeded? Ryan didn't know; he'd been running across a courtyard in Teheran at the head of his team when a spray of bullets had stitched across his chest and the world had turned red, then black . . .

But Jim was looking at him strangely. Ryan raised his hand to his head. No, of course. He'd never been to college. In 1980 he'd been eleven years old. The rescue operation had been led, not by Murphy, but by Colonel Charles Beckworth. It had failed, but Ryan hadn't died, he was right here, perfectly alive, and embarrassing his nephew.

"I'm sorry, my mind was wandering again. I'd better get some rest."

And yet, he thought, lying in the strangely familiar bed, he did remember playing Dungeons and Dragons. Had he played it as a teenager? He closed his eyes and thought. No, the image was clear. He could remember the chipped Formica at the edge of the table they'd played on, the odor of the beer brought in from the Rathskeller, the pudgy face of Larry Smithers, the Dungeon Master, and even that Smithers was majoring in sociology. And if he'd never been to college in real life, how could he remember his own college courses? Where did he learn statistics, and medieval history, and--

Forget it. One day at a time. And this had been a good day. He was out of the hospital. Be thankful. And go to sleep.

The next day dawned partly cloudy. Ryan awoke early and went out to pick up the paper. Glenn took the Wall Street Journal, of course. Ryan didn't mind; it was a good paper. He liked to read his news rather than rely on television. He stood for a while, watching the clouds turn pink, then went in.

The kids were stirring upstairs, but Glenn and Alice were not yet up. He went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of milk. Sipping it, he read the front page. Combat was now reported in the outskirts of Baghdad. The rebels were fighting with surprising skill, it was said. Ryan went through the other news quickly, then carefully refolded the paper for Glenn and left it on the table.

After Alice had seen Glenn off to the office and the kids off to school, he sat down with her for a leisurely breakfast.

"How are you doing?" she asked.

"Honestly, I'm fine," he replied. "I think I'll go for a walk after breakfast."

"Will you be OK?"

"Sure. I remember clearly who I am and where I am. No problem. I do get mixed up sometimes about things that happened before I was hit. But you heard what the doctor said--I'm perfectly functional on a day-to-day basis."

"I'm still a little worried that . . . that the microchip might fail."

"Leaving me witless in the middle of the street?" Ryan grinned. "Anything's possible, of course. But the gadget has worked reliably for months now. Let's not borrow trouble."

Alice took his hand. "I'm sorry. I'm so used to worrying about you. But I know you don't want to vegetate as an invalid. Just be careful. And put our address and phone number in your ID, would you? It's just common sense to take precautions."

"Sure. Don't worry. I'll be careful not to get lost."

The autumn morning was a bit crisp and the leaves were starting to turn. He felt a bit chilly as he walked down the quiet street and glanced up. The clouds were thickening. Had rain been predicted for today?

Rain . . . that was what he remembered about Viet Nam. To watch all the movies, you'd think it was dry as a desert. Where did they think the jungles came from? The country was wet. The day he ejected from his burning Phantom it was raining. He remembered drifting down in the amazing silence, hearing only the raindrops slapping the silk. Then he'd cowered in a rice paddy, huddled next to the dike, as deep in the water as he could squeeze himself, hoping he wouldn't be found. American troops would come eventually; President Humphrey had ordered the invasion of North Viet Nam three weeks before. But he was miles behind the lines. It was a Jolly Green Giant that found him two hours later, as NVA troops began to close in. And, as Ryan found out later, it was Captain Murphy's jet that had flown cover for the rescue, dodging SAMs and anti-aircraft and bombing and strafing the enemy troops, somehow keeping them off until Ryan, dripping mud, had dived into the helicopter and felt it lift under him . . .

He fingered the scar on his head. No. He was off again. He'd been just a baby in 1970. And Humphrey had been defeated for the Presidency, and North Viet Nam had never been invaded. It was all false.

In any case, it wasn't going to rain. The sun was coming out again. He strolled down the street, looking at the houses.

By noon he was several miles from home. He dropped into a Burger King for lunch, and used the pay phone to call Alice and reassure her. He continued wandering and thinking through the afternoon, slowly working his way back home. Finally he stopped and sat on a bench by a school playground, watching the children on the swings and monkey bars. It was pleasant here.

A nice day for October. Not like October in France. That day in the Argonne . . . but it was the pain he remembered intensely, not the weather. The Huns were on the run, and they'd just accepted one unit's surrender when hidden German machine guns opened up on them. He'd lain there with a bullet in his abdomen, cursing the treachery of the enemy. All the other men were down, too, most of them dead--except Corporal Murphy. There he was, kneeling with his rifle at his shoulder, taking out the machine-gun nest with that incredible dead-shot accuracy of his. Then more Germans came at him, a whole platoon, it looked like, and he shot most of them and captured the rest single-handed, but Ryan didn't remember that very well, because by that time he was dying . . .

No. It never happened, at least not to him and Murphy. No, it was Corporal Alvin York that was the hero. They made a movie about it, he remembered seeing it. And Ryan hadn't been there, and he hadn't died.

Or had he? Maybe, Ryan thought suddenly, he was dead, and that accounted for it. Maybe that Iraqi bullet had not glanced off his skull; maybe it had hit straight on and blown his brains away. Maybe his body was rotting right now in that marsh on the other side of the world, and his soul was in hell.

Did he deserve hell? No matter which of his memories was true, he'd killed a lot of people . . .

"Uncle Ryan? Did you come here to see me?"

He came back to reality. (Or was it reality?) "Hello, Julie! Is this where you go to school? I didn't know."

"Are you going to walk me home?"

"Sure. Do you know the way?"

"Of course I do," she said indignantly.

She chattered happily to him as they walked home. No, he thought, this can't be hell; it's too nice. Could it be heaven? Do I deserve heaven? I always killed out of duty, not malice, and I never enjoyed it.

He put the question aside. Hell, heaven, or earth, just take it one day at a time.

The younger children were in bed and Jim was upstairs doing his homework. Ryan sat with Glenn and Alice, feeling at peace.

"Are you going to take Jim's suggestion?" asked Alice.

"I don't think so," he replied. "I admit that fighting is all I know about; at least, it's my whole experience. But I'd like to get away from that. I'm tired of killing."

Glenn raised his eyebrows. "You've changed."

"Well, don't give me too much credit. Politically I don't think my views are much different from what we used to argue about. But personally, I'm fed up. All my memories, true and false, are concentrated on war. I've had enough of it. Time to do something else, maybe work with children somehow."

They talked for a while about various possibilities until the late news came on. CNN reported from Baghdad.

"The rebels are now in control of the city. Most Republican Guard units have surrendered or defected. Saddam Hussein, with a few remaining loyal troops, is now definitely known to be holding out in one of his fortified bunkers. An assault is imminent and it is now believed that this revolution will be over within hours. Rumors of American involvement still persist, but we have been unable to confirm them and rebel leaders will not permit us to move up to the front."

Ryan said his goodnights and went upstairs to bed. Turning over plans for his future in his head, he gradually fell into a dreamless sleep.

Again he awakened early, aroused by a curious tension. It felt like he was waiting, waiting for something to happen. It was like that pre-dawn darkness over Normandy, as they waited for the jump. Then suddenly, too suddenly, the door was open and the chill air was roaring past and Murphy was out and falling and then it was his turn . . .

His hand jumped to the scar on his head and he forced the memory to stop. No. It never happened. And anyway, that wasn't quite it. Somehow he knew that it wasn't that something was about to start; rather, something was about to end. What?

He shook his head and pulled on his robe. Silently he padded down the stairs, the family still sleeping and silent. Outside the sky was light in the east. It was a beautiful clear, cloudless morning. He picked up the newspaper and suddenly his motion froze. And as he crouched there, unmoving, unseeing, unknowing, his world was turned off.

Klarn couldn't wait to boast to his friend. As soon as he had shut down his hypercomputer, he ordered his communicator to call Dloom.

"Did it! I just completed the last of the Level One scenarios in American Hero!"

"Wow!"

"This one was really tough. But it really paid off. My character advanced tremendously. 'Murphy' now has over 3,000 experience points."

"That means--"

"Right. Now I can play the nuclear war scenarios."