A second beginning, p.3
A Second Beginning, page 3
“Good idea, Papa,” Camila said in a patronizing voice. Jenn bit her tongue so she wouldn’t say something she’d regret.
After an awkward, quiet minute, Gary smacked his forehead. “The envoy. I almost forgot.” He turned to his daughter. “Unless you’re the envoy, Mila . . . Are you?”
“No, that’s Major Salinas. But you should rest, Papa. You can meet with him tomorrow.”
“I feel fine.” Gary planted his feet and began to stand up. “I can meet him now.”
Jenn held him down by the shoulder. “Gary, relax. You heard the doc. You need to take it easy.”
“Major Salinas will understand,” Camila added. “I’ll go let him know.”
Gary blew out a long, dejected-sounding breath. “Please, apologize to him for me, and tell him I’ll meet with him at eight tomorrow morning at city hall. For now, Liam can set you all up with a place to sleep tonight.”
“I was hoping I could stay with you at home.”
Gary’s smile was bright but weary. “Nothing would make me happier.”
Camila kissed her father on the cheek, hesitated, then finally left the tent.
With a long, tired sigh, he collapsed into his chair.
“This is too weird.” Jenn sat in the chair beside him. “How are you holding up? Like, really holding up.”
“I don’t know yet, to be honest. It’s all so sudden.” He took a drink of water from a bottle on the table. “When we stopped hearing from her, we reached out to the military. They gave us the runaround, saying she might be away from a computer or her messages weren’t getting through because of the AI censors. But I’d talked to families who got those same answers only to find out their sons or daughters were dead.” The last word came out higher pitched than the others, as if it didn’t want to leave his throat.
“We never went more than five or six weeks without hearing from her,” he continued. “And the timing? It was too coincidental. China had made their big push into India. Losses on our side were high. The situation on the ground was confusing.” For a few beats, Jenn thought he might cry for the second time today. The second time ever, as far as she knew. “I convinced myself she was gone and her body hadn’t been found yet. Then the bombs happened and I gave up my last shred of hope.” A soft, almost sad chuckle passed between his lips. “Now, somehow, she’s here.”
Jenn tried on a smile of her own, if only to keep Gary from breaking down. “Well, we were wrong about her being in India. Unless she crossed the Pacific after the bombs, which I highly doubt.”
“We’ll find out soon enough.” He reached across her shoulders and pulled her in close. Even a casual side hug made her feel like his daughter again. “I’m sorry today was so . . . eventful. It’s probably not what you had in mind when you volunteered to be my bodyguard.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m glad it was me and not someone else.”
He let out another, happier chuckle. “It just occurred to me that I haven’t actually introduced you to Mila.”
Jenn hadn’t noticed, either. Camila knew about Jenn, obviously, from conversations with her parents. She must’ve seen a picture, too, or known that Jenn was Asian and put two and two together. Still, Jenn would’ve appreciated a quick, Hi, I’m Camila. You must be Jenn. Nice to finally meet you.
“No worries,” she said. “We figured it out on our own.”
A half hour later, the bloodred sun hung low in the western sky. They packed into the solar Dodge, Jenn behind the wheel, Gary shotgun, Camila in the back seat. Gary rapped his fingers on his knees while Camila stared blankly out the window. If the state of Flagstaff surprised her, she didn’t show it.
Jenn turned left off Milton, onto Forest Meadows, and Gary took in a long breath. “When we get home, Mila, I want you and Jenn to wait in the truck while I talk to your mother. We should avoid surprising her too much.” He twisted in his seat so he could see his daughter. “She’s not the same person she used to be.”
“The COPD,” Camila said. “I know.”
“It’s taken a bigger toll than you think. She’s very weak.”
“I know,” Camila repeated, flatly.
Jenn pulled into the Ruizes’ driveway. Gary undid his seat belt, saying, “I’ll explain the situation, then give you a wave when it’s okay to come in.” He climbed out of the truck, walked up to the door, but paused with his hand on the knob. His shoulders rose and fell, twice, before he finally crossed the threshold and disappeared inside.
Jenn glanced at Camila in the rearview mirror. She must be twenty-three now, but her eyes seemed so much older. They reminded Jenn of Dylan’s when he talked about the massacre in West Ukraine. Or Val’s when she talked about her sister’s killers.
A shiver ran up her spine. What had Camila seen in Mexico and Central America? What had she done?
The silence hung heavy in the cab. Jenn had about a thousand questions, but she kept quiet. Any minute now, Maria would see her daughter, in person, for the first time in six years. Jenn didn’t want to ruin their reunion.
The clock on the touchscreen switched over to 5:22 p.m. when Gary came outside with Maria. He waved at the truck, and Camila flung open her door, jumped out, and sprinted into her mother’s open arms. Gary let them have a moment, then joined in and held them both.
A tear found its way onto Jenn’s cheek, and she thought about her parents and her brothers. They were alive in her heart, but today, it seemed unfair that they weren’t alive in the real world, too.
The Ruizes ended their embrace and moved into the house. Jenn hopped out of the truck and started up the driveway, but Camila kicked the door shut with her heel. When a few seconds passed and no one invited Jenn inside, she walked home with jealousy rolling in her stomach.
Sam lay on the couch, beneath a heavy blanket, angling his book so it caught the sun’s rays through the living room window.
“Hey, wife,” he said with a dopey grin. It lightened her mood, reminding her that she still had a family. “I’ll never get sick of calling you that.”
“Good, because I’ll never get sick of hearing it.” She hung her M4 on a hook beside the door, found her wedding band in her pocket, and put it on her finger. “Is that your boring book? What’s it about again? Farms or something?”
“The origins of agriculture in the Fertile Crescent. Iraq and Syria, basically. And it’s not boring. Some of the stuff in here could actually be helpful for us.”
“That’s good,” she said, taking off her shoes, “because we need all the help we can get.”
He laid the book face-down in his lap. “How was the meeting with the Army? It’s them, right? Like, the U.S. Army proper?”
“As far as I can tell.”
“As far as you can tell?” He scratched his beard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She gave him a quick kiss, sat on the couch, and covered her legs with part of his blanket. “It means we didn’t meet with them yet. Not formally, anyway.”
“You’re being very cryptic.” Under the blanket, his hand found hers, and she squeezed his fingers tight. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s good. Great, actually. I think.” She paused for a second. How was she supposed to explain what happened when she hadn’t made any sense of it herself? “So, uh, Camila Ruiz is alive. I just dropped her and Gary off at his house.”
Sam laughed, a booming sound that came from the bottom of his gut. When she didn’t laugh with him, his smile fell, and he sat up straight. “Wait, you’re serious. How is that possible?”
“Dunno,” Jenn said. “But I’m sure Gary and Maria are finding out right about now.”
5
After the door slammed shut, Camila realized Jenn was waiting outside. She might’ve felt bad about not inviting her in, but this moment was too overwhelming. She’d been looking forward to it for years—since the first day of basic training, pretty much.
In the living room, Mom and Papa stared at her as if she were a ghost. Appearance-wise, they could’ve been strangers. Papa was so thin his clothes fit three or four sizes too big, and his mustache had gone white. A light breeze could blow over Mom, and with her silver hair and liver spots, she could pass for eighty now. They felt like Camila’s parents, though. She would’ve recognized them with her eyes closed.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Mom said through a sob, hugging Camila. “You’re home. You’re really home.”
Camila hugged her back, careful not to squeeze too tight. She could be dreaming. Months ago, she lost all hope and accepted that her parents were dead. Mom, especially, because of her COPD. When Major Salinas asked if she was related to a “Mayor Ruiz” in Flagstaff, she almost fainted. Then, days later, when he mentioned Mayor Ruiz’s wife, she really did faint.
Now she was here, in Mom’s arms, and all she could think was, I don’t deserve this. Thousands of soldiers, alive or dead, would never see their families again. What made her so special, other than luck?
Papa joined the hug. Camila waited for a friendly purr-meow and a brush against her ankles, but she knew it wouldn’t come.
“When did Ajax die?” she asked into Papa’s shoulder.
Mom rubbed her back. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. He’s been gone since February.”
The familiar pang of loss came and then went. Camila would miss Ajax like a brother, not just a pet, but she was good at moving on fast. She had plenty of practice.
“He’s buried by the shed,” Papa added, “if you want to see him.”
“Yes, please,” she said.
In the backyard, she knelt by a pile of stones.
“He was himself right up until the end.” Mom dried her eyes. And then, with a sad laugh, “He kept jumping onto the kitchen table no matter how many times I swatted him down.”
Camila spent a quiet minute by the grave. Ajax, her rock. He always listened when she whined about Tracy Vecchio, Rebeka Aknin, Vicky Cho, or the other girls at school who made fun of her sweatpants and big forehead. He always joined her for all-night gaming sessions of Baldur’s Gate, Light Eternal, The Legend of Zelda, or Runestorm. He always found her lap after she got another C− in math. Life was lonelier without him.
Papa crouched beside her. “Come on, Mila. You can visit him again whenever you want.”
Inside, she sat at the kitchen table with Papa while Mom fixed them something to eat: a few unripe snap peas, some chunks of boiled potato, a couple strips of dried meat. For so many people, it would’ve been a feast. Like that family in Puebla who ate insects three meals a day. Or those savages in El Salvador who ate their own dead.
“It’s not much.” Mom laid the platter on the table, sat next to Papa, and peered at Camila over her glasses. “But you’re looking fit. Have you been eating well?”
Camila couldn’t get any words past the shame in her throat. You were just following orders, she told herself out of habit. It wasn’t her fault that locals sometimes got hurt when the Army needed food. That they sometimes died. She had never fired first. Never.
“Well enough,” she managed to say.
Papa took a bite of dried meat. “I want to know what’s going on, Mila. We stopped hearing from you two summers ago and assumed the worst. Then everything happened and—”
“Wait.” Camila held up a hand. “You stopped hearing from me in the summer? Of 2061? I don’t understand. I got messages from you after that. One came through in the middle of April—2062.”
“That can’t be right,” Mom said. “The last message I received from you was an email on July 24, 2061. I remember exactly because I read it every day while we still had power.”
Camila tasted hot bile. She’d heard horror stories but hadn’t thought this would ever happen to her. “How much do you know about AI censors?”
Papa stopped chewing. “The basics. Whenever one of us sent a video or email, AI censors reviewed it and cut anything it deemed sensitive in case the messages were hacked.” The feet of his chair squeaked on the floor as he moved it closer to the table. “Occasionally, the censors would add false information to confuse or mislead enemy intelligence, but as far as I know, they were fairly harmless details, like dates or places.”
“Harmless,” Camila scoffed. “No, not harmless. Enemy AI could read or watch millions and millions of messages and put together a good picture of our troop movements and manpower. There were rumors that it started making fully fake messages to cause confusion. Sometimes, it would tell family members that a soldier was dead when they weren’t. Other times, a soldier would really be dead and the AI would keep sending messages like they were alive. For us, it stopped sending my messages but sent me fake ones from you. That way, an enemy AI couldn’t figure out if I was alive or dead.”
Mom’s mouth hung open in horror. “That’s . . . That’s . . .”
“Horribly unethical.” Papa rubbed his temple. “I don’t remember reading anything about that in the terms of service when I sent or received communications via military servers.”
“Because it wasn’t in there,” Camila said. “I’ve double-checked.” Her skin crawled. The last message from Papa and Mom was a video, and she couldn’t tell it was a fake. On-screen, they looked perfectly real.
The fire crackled and popped. Papa chewed some meat while Mom rubbed her hands together, eyes down. Camila was tempted to find that snake Major Salinas, the highest-ranking officer within five hundred miles, drag him to this kitchen, and make him apologize to her parents on the Army’s behalf, at gunpoint if necessary. It was the least they deserved for being put through the wringer.
Eventually, Mom said, “So you were alive and obviously not in India, like we thought. Were you in Mexico?”
“That’s where I deployed first.” Camila didn’t want to talk about this—the war, what she did, who she lost—but she owed Papa and Mom an explanation. “As the Brazilians withdrew, we pursued. We went all the way to Panama, took back the canal with the help of some Marines, and then crossed into South America. When the bombs fell, we were prepping our invasion of occupied Colombia.”
Mom shook her head and snickered. “Humid. You always said it was humid in your messages. That’s because you were in Central America, not India.”
Camila forced herself to go on. “We were lucky. Ninth Army was in Panama City, which got hit with six bombs. Parts of my army, the Tenth, were hit with tactical nukes, but my division survived because we were so far from a city.”
Papa’s grimace sharpened all the wrinkles on his face. “What happened next?”
“Chaos. Brazil used electromagnetic pulses. Our equipment was hardened against them, but they knocked out the civilian power grid everywhere.” Camila saw the mushroom clouds on the horizon, heard the gunfire from deep in the jungle, felt the sonic booms of fighter jets overhead. “The Brazilians launched a counterattack all along our line. It caught us off guard, so we fell back to the Panama Canal. The locks on the Pacific side had been destroyed with ground bursts—by the Chinese, we think. Gatun Lake and the actual canal were gone, drained away, but it was still a good position to defend.” She smelled the fires from Panama City now, mixed with a salty breeze off the ocean. “It was a mess.”
Mom and Papa didn’t make a peep. Didn’t even blink.
Camila took a moment to fight back the memories. “At some point, the Brazilians stopped attacking us. We’d lost all contact with corps and army HQ, so we kept holding and holding until we were basically out of supplies.”
She skipped over the details, like how she once went eight days without food and fifty-two hours without fresh water. How she shot and killed Private Douglass, one of her squadmates, when he backed a failed mutiny. How Sergeant Weyland put a bullet in his own brain because he didn’t want to starve. How she cried herself to sleep almost every day for three awful months.
“No ships could go through the canal anymore,” she continued, “and no one was coming to fix it, so General Stewart-Bennett made us an offer: she was going to the States, and she’d take whoever wanted to come. Some decided to stay in Panama or somewhere else, and on the way north, we picked up other survivors from broken units.”
“That’s quite a journey,” Papa said. “Three thousand miles.”
Three thousand miles of hell. Camila would do anything to forget the villagers screaming as their livestock was butchered, the farmers wailing as their harvests were hauled away, the rail-thin children crying as their houses were ransacked. “In Mexico, we split up. Half went toward Texas, headed for Washington. The rest of us went toward Arizona with Stewart-Bennett.”
Mom and Papa would have questions, but Camila couldn’t answer them. Not now, maybe not ever. So she asked, “What happened here? How did you make it this long?”
Papa told his story, starting with the bombs and ending with today. He must have mentioned Jenn twenty times. More than twenty. Jenn this, Jenn that. Jenn, who rescued her boyfriend’s parents and sister in Payson. Jenn, who saved a man named Edward Beaumont from north Phoenix. Jenn, who won the Battle of the Farm against Citizens for Flagstaff. Jenn, who became a squad leader in the Militia and was captured by a gangster called the Major. Jenn, who stumbled upon the psychopathic Great Khan, then outflanked his White Horde at the Battle of the Walkup Skydome. Jenn, Jenn, Jenn, Jenn. He made her out to be a hero, as someone he really cared about, as family.
As Camila’s replacement, not just a billet who borrowed her room.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “For the censors making you think I was dead, for taking so long to come home, for scaring you when I showed up today.” Her chest hurt, and fresh tears stung her eyes. “I should’ve been here to help you. I should’ve—”
“Sweetie, stop.” Mom spoke in her soft voice, the one she used for bedtime stories when Camila was little. “Don’t talk like that. Please.”
Papa touched her arm. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters, okay?”
No, he was wrong. Camila should have kept her parents safe, not Jenn—their billet, a college student, a girl they barely knew. Camila could make it up to them, though. With the Army, she could make it right.
