Word: False Nine

false nine

[fawls nahyn] / ˈfɔls ˈnaɪn /

Or false 9

noun

false nines

1. Soccer. a center forward player who drops back into the midfield to receive the ball, creating space and opportunity for teammates further up the field by drawing the opposing team’s defense out of their positions.

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                It was always amazing how much propaganda could influence a person’s view on something. In this case, that something was war. All the recordings and broadcasts painted the war as something grand. Something glorious. Something that a man could be proud of. Naturally, the reality of it was quite a bit different.

                Case in point, the current situation. The squad, once a full platoon, were huddled behind a wall. Or what was left of the wall. And even that would likely not last much longer. The enemy pulse shots were slowly weakening the otherwise very strong, reinforced steel. Each shot put another dent in the side and warmed it up just a little bit, making it easier for the next shot to do more damage.

                “Well, fellas, I’d say it’s been nice knowing you, but given the circumstances I’d rather have never met any of you.” Jones said. The others chuckled and agreed.

                The sound of explosives rang out in the distance. Some other poor saps were being hit by artillery fire. It was made all the more potent because the enemy bombs had a distinct red color when they detonated. It was only a matter of time before their little group was targeted by those rounds. That is, if the standard infantry fire didn’t get to them first.

                “We’re not done yet.” Benson said. The others looked at him.

                “No, I’m pretty sure we’re all going to die here.” Jones replied. The others nodded.

                “We can make it. I’m sure we can win. At least against the troops pinning us down.”

                “How?” Smith asked. The big man ran his hands along the stock of his rifle. The man was clearly itching to use it.

                “Not easily, for sure. We run something called a false nine.” Benson said. He got nothing in response. “Really? Do none of you know anything about football? Oh, sorry, soccer for you yanks.”

                “You want us to run a play from a game?” Jones asked, raising an eyebrow.

                “With a few modifications, yes.”

                “What’s the play?” Smith asked.

                “A distraction play. One of us runs forward and gets their attention. Then he runs backwards. The rest move up along the outsides so they can circle around. In the game, this draws the defenders away from the goal, allowing the rest of the team to score. Here? It allows everyone but the distraction to get behind their positions and fill them with hot plasma.”

                The rest of the squad was quiet. They all knew what that meant. What it meant for the person doing the pulling.

                “So, who’s it going to be?” Jones asked.

                “Well, that’s obvious.” Benson said. “It’s me. I’m the only one who can.”

                “You sure?”

                “Yeah, I am. I’m the only one with intact shielding and armor, for one.” The Englishman said. He looked down at his mostly intact defensive gear. The others sported armor in much worse states of repair, and their shield cells were completely drained. Benson did not have much left in his, but any was better than none.

                “But that’s…” Jones began.

                “Yeah, I know what it is.” Benson cracked his neck and prepped his weapon. “Just make sure to hit them hard while I’m still alive enough to see it.”

                Before anyone could say anything else, Benson vaulted over the barrier. The rest of the squad moved only a few seconds later, years of military experience taking over. Live or die, they would do what they could.

                And maybe their faces would appear on the next propaganda film to catch the next group of potential sacrificial soldiers for the war machine.

Word: Chary

chary

[chair-ee] / ˈtʃɛər i /

adjective

charier, chariest

1. cautious or careful; wary.

   He was chary of investing in oil wells.

2. shy; timid.

3. fastidious; choosy.

   She is excessively chary about her friends.

4. sparing (often followed by of ).

   chary of his praise.

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                The walk had been going so well. The sun was shining. A few clouds drifted slowly through the sky. There was even a light breeze blowing to cut through the summer heat. Yes, it had been a perfect day for a walk. And then they heard it.

                It was a tiny sound, coming from the bushes. Greg heard it first. He knew what the sound meant. He knew if Julie heard it, there would be no respite. Luckily, she was listening to music. That would change as soon as the current song ended though. He needed to get her away from the bush before she could hear the outside world.

                “Hey, what’s going on?” She asked. “Why’re you picking up the pace so much?”

                “Oh, you know. This is all for exercise, right? So, I’m exercising.” Greg said, hopefully loud enough to mask the sound.

                “Uh-huh. Sure. What’s actually…wait…do you hear that?”

                He froze. She heard it. There was no going back from this now. Maybe he could distract her. Get her to focus on something else. No, no, she was taking out her earbuds.

                “Uh, babe, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s just keep going.”

                Julie did not acknowledge him at all. She zeroed in on the bush and knelt down. She looked around for a moment. The sound stopped, but it was too late. Julie gasped.

                “Julie, don’t.”

                “But…but…but it’s…it’s so cute!” Julie said quietly. “Hey there little guy, it’s okay…”

                She slowly placed her hand on the ground and moving it towards the bush. And the kitten hiding inside it. She wiggled her fingers around, trying to coax it out. The kitten huddled into the bush as much as it could, doing its best to hide.

                “Julie, you’re scaring it. Come on, let’s go. The mother is probably out hunting.”

                “But what if its mother abandoned it? Or got run over? We can’t just leave it here.” She said, looking up at Greg with her best pout.

                “You know we can’t take it. We can’t afford to care for a feral kitten. Besides, look at it. It’s clearly terrified.”

                “Oh, the little baby is just shy. It’s not used to humans yet. Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take care of you. Oh, I know what to do.”

                Julie withdrew her hand from the bush. The kitten did not move. She reached into the small pouch she wore instead of her normal purse and took out a stick of jerky.

                “Seriously? Beef jerky? Why do you even have that? And you know it’s not good for kittens. Too much salt.”

                “I’m not going to give it the whole stick. Just a tiny piece. Enough to get it to come out.”

                “Don’t, Julie. You know this is a bad idea.”

                Julie was doing it anyway. She bit off a tiny piece of meat and placed it on the ground. The kitten sniffed the air. Then slowly, cautiously, it made its way towards the snack. As soon as it was within range, Julie grabbed the animal. It meowed furiously and swiped at the air, claws extended. Julie squealed in delight.

                “Oh my god, so spicy!”

                “More like terrified. Come on, put it back. We can’t have a pet. Especially not one that’s feral.”

                “Well I say we can.” Julie said firmly. “We’re taking this kitten, and we’re going to treat it right. We’ll bring it home and put it in the bathroom to get used to the place, and one of us can get supplies while the other stays with it. Oh, and we’ll have to schedule a vet appointment. See if there’s any problems, and the gender and everything.”

                Greg groaned as his listened to his girlfriend gush about all the things they would need to do for the kitten. The animal, meanwhile, was slowing its attempts at escape. It seemed resigned to its fate, even if it had no idea what that fate was. That was something Greg could very much identify with.

Word: semiquincentennial

semiquincentennial

[sem-ee-kwin-sen-ten-ee-uhl, sem-ahy-] / ˌsɛm iˌkwɪn sɛnˈtɛn i əl, ˌsɛm aɪ- /

noun

1. a 250th anniversary or its celebration.

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                Two hundred and fifty years. It was a lifetime to be in transit. Several lifetimes, really. And yet, that was how long it had been. He looked out the window, seeing the stars drift past. Always a different view out of the front viewport. And yet, after so long, they all seemed to meld into each other.

                He used to wonder at them all. What kinds of planets might be around each one. Now he could care less. After nothing but empty space for over two centuries, the stars had lost much of their majesty. He turned away from the external view and focused on the internals of the ship.

                It was an old vessel, obviously. But he kept it running well enough. Even so, there were fewer lights on the console. Less computer readouts. Even outside of the bridge, there were less lights. And naturally the flashlights had burned out decades ago. At least he had developed decent eyesight in the dark. Plus, he had gone through the corridors so much that he could navigate them even without a hint of light.

                Not for the first time, he thought about how he had gotten there. It was so long ago that he no longer remembered. He no longer remembered his own name; let alone why he was in the ship. He knew it was something very important though. A great purpose that he had been proud to take on.

                He and the others. Yes, he knew there were others. Many of them, really. A full crew, of which he was only one. Now he was alone. How long had he been alone? At least a century. He had wondered why he was still alive, of course. But now, at 250 years, it was a useless thing to think about. He was still alive. The ship was still running. Maybe he would find his answers one day. Until then, he would keep the ship running.

                He would get somewhere eventually; he was sure of that. He did not even much care what that place was. Maybe it would be his original destination, maybe it would not. He could not remember what the destination was, anyway. Besides, any destination would be good at this point.

                After 250 years in the emptiness of space, even an inhospitable planet would be good. Maybe it would finally let him join the rest of the crew in whatever afterlife they were in. Maybe they would remember his name. Until then, he would keep the ship operable. He would keep it moving forward as well as he was able to with the means he had at his disposal.

                He slid into a chair and closed his eyes. The ship would keep going as it was. He was currently not needed. And so, he would spend his time in his own thoughts. Trying his best to remember those things that he had once considered important. His goal, his friends and family. His name.  Maybe someday he would remember them.