The Compass of His Bones by Jeff VanderMeer

Author:Jeff VanderMeer [VanderMeer, Jeff]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fantasy, short story, anthology, Usernet, C429, Kat, Extratorrents
Publisher: Cheeky Frawg Books
Published: 2011-03-24T21:00:00+00:00

FALLING INTO THE ARMS OF DEATH

"Once there were a few proud men," David MacDiarmid remembered reading many years before, but he did not feel proud as he and his six hundred sixty-five fellows of the 13th Airborne plunged through the Bananama night sky, seeking the lights of the capital. Sky Gods they, Southern Command having gotten it into their heads that Santa suits on Christmas Eve would disguise their real intent. On the shores, a battalion of Roman Catholic priests was establishing a beachhead. MacDiarmid thought the idea suicidally stupid, but no one had consulted him. His buddies laughed it off, but beneath the laughter was an edginess and an obedience to superstition.

Tumbling, MacDiarmid's belly shook like a bowl full of jelly and he ho-ho-hoed his lunch into space. The fake beard tangled in his parachute straps. He cursed while he waited for the chute to open. He had a sudden flash of his ex-wife, Julie, laughing—at him? at herself?—while the kid, Mark, watched, waiting for her to stop. Waiting. When his chute ballooned above him, he screamed triumphantly into the humid night air, not caring who heard him.

Only one choice interested him now: light or dark, the rendezvous site or the jungles beyond. No moon to guide him. No gleams of water, nor the silhouettes of fellow paratroopers. He could hear them, but not see them: the swish of silk as a shadow sailed by, a glimpse of a Santa Claus cap exploding up and past him. The wind cut his face. His mouth was dry. He clutched the M-16 like a crucifix against disaster. Mark would have loved this; Mark would have eaten it up and spit it out because he just didn't know any better.

Floating, MacDiarmid wanted only to forget his mission. He thought of wheat fields and stalled tractors, lonely places without people and skies without a hint of mortar fire. As far from Bananama as he could imagine or dream about.

His tenth Latin American adventure, and it was starting to get old.

When MacDiarmid landed and cut away the parachute, the targeted street was empty, lit by a few overhanging lamps. Most had been broken by stones. The houses were low to the ground, single-storied, and made of concrete or adobe brick. Few had anything that could be called a yard; squares of dusty rubble and shadows that resisted the light. They looked alien to MacDiarmid, as if he had landed on the moon. Many times, he had come back home on leave to find his own yard rampant with the signs of his neglect—the weeds knee-high, the mower rusty in a corner. Sometimes he thought Julie planned it that way. Benevolent neglect.

Sweat burned MacDiarmid's eyes and he wanted to discard his costume, but orders were orders were orders.

Then, out of the silence and gloom and heat: Christmas. Dozens of marionette Santas on strings, until the parachute silks caught the lamp glow and enveloped them like treacherous jellyfish. Dozens of red-clad men armed with M-16s, anti-personnel rounds, and grenades.

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