| Subject: Chapter 253 - Part 1 |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Monday, October 02, 07:08:41am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark" on Monday, May 01, 06:55:47am
Dreams in the Dark (253/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
Training commenced in earnest the next day, the recruits' stamina, physical strength, and previous flying--or, in some cases, general aeronautical--experience all put to the test. What Michael had seen had been instructive, as well, some of his new comrades excelling in certain areas, the rest in others--none in all. There had been several days of this, his unit having had the time to feel each other out a bit further. But, through it all, he was beginning to rediscover yet another, unpleasant fact about time. It tended to move all too slowly, when you would just as well have it behind you.
This truth got him nowhere, his company's training a constant, his analysis of his place here carried out as a simple matter of protection. So far, despite his relative age, he was doing quite well. The next-oldest recruit was Willie at 27--with Sikes, the youngest of his immediate acquaintance, doing his damnedest to pretend he was actually 20, although Michael sometimes wondered whether he had really reached 18. Still, few of them could keep up with the actor's stamina. What they had in youth, he had in long experience. No man could work consistent 12-18 hour days, at least 6 days a week--with the constant and absolute expectation that he would look and perform his best at all times--without either self-destructing or developing some serious staying power. Fortunately for him, it had been the latter.
It was mostly this factor which was getting him through these days, his experience in early rising and little sleep also useful. He had even wondered, once or twice, whether there weren't far more pleasant reasons for his current abilities--his beautiful young wife primary among them. While the stamina he had honed loving her had perfected an entirely different set of skills, he doubted that the wonderful experience was hurting him now; he nearly smiled. He would definitely recommend it. Every middle-aged man should have a beautiful, spirited, 15-year-younger wife around to help keep him on his toes. The fact that many men in Hollywood did--without his own, loving reasons for their marriages--was not a truth he needed to concentrate on just now.
His own situation was a lovely one but a thought he couldn't allow to reign for very long; it was too dangerous, could break his concentration, which he needed far too much. And, while the more routine duties they were put to--such as the cleaning of latrines--were far less familiar, and much more unpleasant, than most of the tasks he was used to, he would survive. He had lived for 15 years in the cesspit which was Hollywood. A few disgusting stains were mild in comparison to some of the things he had seen.
As a result of this experience, he was, in some ways, pulling out ahead of the other recruits, certainly was nowhere near as visibly tired as they were. Still, they had qualities he couldn't hope for, as well. If the hours of practice he had put into learning to shoot, while he had waited for Hillinger's attack, were helping him on the target range, Ackerman was outdistancing him in pure power. He had apparently spent his entire youth around cattle. Even if it showed in his manners, it put him ahead, as well. When you were well-known for being able to wrestle a small steer or two to the ground, you were pretty much ready for anyone else who got in your way.
The actor saw no reason to fear, however, knew that his long experience in any number of bar brawls as a youth--as well as his general endurance--could aid him, whenever the actual battle between himself and the man broke out. All he really worried about was the possibility of a two-on-one attack--but that was something he would have to deal with, once it came.
He wasn't too worried, then--no more than usual, anyway. All things considered, the two men's abilities pretty much cancelled each other out, for now--but neither of their best skills were entirely important up in the air. They were simply a point of pride for Ackerman--and another way of staying his ground for Michael. They meant very little, otherwise.
All of these truths made up his life now. Everyone within this new group of recruits was beginning to find his place; even the, generally rather nervous, Sikes had stood out, in one way--beyond his ever-increasing boldness in siding with Michael. His father had apparently been a pilot in the Great War, had taught his son a thing or two about planes. In their first flying lessons, he had stood out--far beyond anyone else. How many of the rest of them might learn to fly was less obvious now.
All of them were holding their own, therefore--Michael more so than most had expected. While this latter point seemed to annoy Van Vactor no end--on those times when he bothered to stop by for a visit--Michael saw no reason to be concerned. While the tension in the barracks was still building, it had yet to break out into open hostility. When it did, it was vital that he be well-focused. It wasn't a battle he could afford to lose.
He was always alert for this shift, was waiting for it. And he seemed to have discovered the reason for at least Elkins' dislike of him. The man had been sitting on his cot, looking at a couple of photos he kept hidden in a box, as Michael had passed him, the other day. While the actor had expected to see the pictures of some abandoned sweetheart, he had been surprised by what was there: two photos carefully clipped from the fan magazines, Nikita's warm smile focused on her fans. Apparently, for Elkins, it was not a dislike of the older recruit's family background which had caused his hate. It was the fact that the object of his affection was now Mrs. Michael Samuelle.
The object of the man's hate had wondered more than once what would have happened with those photos, had he not been in Elkins' unit. Probably, the boy had brought them along to sigh over in his free time, might have planned on displaying them far more openly. It had clearly never been in his thoughts to have to share a barrack with the woman's husband.
All of this made the younger man's dislike of him clearer, actually made Michael sympathize with him a bit. Had he not known her, had Nikita been just another face up on the silver screen, how might he have reacted, when faced with her real-life husband? He repressed a shudder, not wanting to know. It only mattered that she was his.
This was the thought he settled himself on, the one place he felt safe. He kept it tucked away in the far corner of his mind and heart at all times, the man who was the new recruit Michael Samuelle covering it for the world. More than at any time since he had met and fallen in love with Nikita, his was a divided personality. The world would see what he showed them. His wife would keep safe everything else.
This fact sustained him, even as he did his best not to let it show--the week moving by more quickly than he had realized, time warping until the days sped past, but the minutes moved torturously slowly. As a result, it was now Sunday--a week after he had left her--and he had yet to contact his beloved. Had he thought that he could get away with writing under the covers at night, he would have--but it wasn't to be. Not only was it always far too dark, too many of his bunkmates would have argued--and there was no point in risking Van Vactor's wrath just yet.
He hated that he had been so long without contacting her, hated that he had broken his promise. He couldn't even expect a letter from her, until he sent her this new address. It seemed unfaithful not to have communicated in so long.
Still, he was determined to change this pattern today, if he could. It was finally Sunday, and, while their training continued, they had been given long enough off to attend a generic Protestant religious service. When he had asked Simmons if he could miss it, the man had been surprised but had allowed it; Michael had been relieved--and not only because of the letter he needed to write. He and God had had an argument when he was 12. His faith had never fully recovered since.
This wasn't an entirely truthful statement, of course; it was more that his faith now lay with another. It was Nikita who commanded his devotion, Nikita he served. If he were kind to his neighbors, merciful with his enemies, or incapable of coveting others and their possessions, it was because of her, because she--and the love and beauty of spirit she represented--was part of his life. When he prayed, it was with her name on his lips, was only she who provided salvation. No other savior could reach him. He was hers alone to command.
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