Laird came awake. Cursing. Now a period of recovery and rest. In time he knew he was in a military hospital, the smell and absurd examining light. He asked as to the disposition of his troops, and was told the war's over for you, you're going home, a nonsense sentence.

He found his right hand bound up like a crab claw; and seems his body now came to an end right around the right knee. With his other hand he examined his face; he forced a mirror from an orderly's hand and said okay, always wanted a beard.

A period of pretty nurses -- aren't they all now, newly unattainable -- helping him to relearn how to do what exactly. Clearly he'd never walk again, with his robot leg -- with its concocted name and immune to rebuke -- doing half the work. And no, he would never do, or endure, the formality of shaking hands again because a hand has five fingers.

Laird was a stoic: I acknowledge and accept my fucking lot. At the same time he could, when they asked him where it hurt, answer where does it not, and mean it, because the pain was that of humiliation, which is a whole-body pain.

Eventually he was moored in a one-room flat, ground floor and picture window; and a toilet, with adjacent area with found furniture and wall art in which to wait between uses. He took down the art because sometimes a sunlit meadow makes it all worse. When he was done with that he for the first time in his life had nothing to do.

If you've never done it you have no skills for it, and Laird turned to what he knew. Humiliation; end of purpose; feeling of failure, which in this case comes from the fact of failure. Pains beside which the pains of his wounds were frankly sad in their cries for attention. And guilt: thousands of men and women adapting to a new command, Gen. Kendall, a dandy and an ass, that moustache. And oh yes I'm a parasite now, hooked to the ugliest tit in the land. And by the way how fitting for a suddenly ugly man.

He'd never been a drinker except as obliged -- and certainly never in a business-like way, with a goal in mind -- but he'd heard good things. So now something to do. He made it to the corner store and from his stipend bought airplane bottles of vodka (as a stoic, he preferred an intoxicant with no false flavors or crafting), too few. More on subsequent visits until too many: liquor proved beyond his governance, leading to excess, morbidity, broken items. Beer then, which made him bloat and encouraged spikes of phantom gout. Pot was a non-starter, makes a man slow and stupid, evidently the whole idea. He settled at last on red boxed wine, Chianti if he cared, which he found he could administer as with a medical drip. The days softened and became uniform; he could sleep now, watch television.

Late in the year the young couple upstairs asked him, as a holiday kindness, to a casual gathering nearby and its means of meeting new people. He recalled it was a houseboat, on the floor of which he was awakened by new people, around him in body armor, weapons drawn. Story was he'd pulled a goose gun out from under a day bed and fired it a couple times, mainly through a window, clearing the place. He had no memory of any of that to enjoy.

Two weeks in lock-up in lieu of bail. Still nothing to do but now not his fault; walls which were the evil opposite of wall art; the turnkeys took his leg, so there was that at least. An attorney pled on his behalf the ravages of post-traumatic stress -- more humiliation -- and he gained his release, conditioned on two years of proven sobriety.

Laird was submitted to group sessions, which didn't work because he didn't have a problem with alcohol and wondered why any fool would. He agreed to be taken on by a psychologist, which effete he figured to bully, cow or just befuddle. Dr. Cathcart served many schools. Laird's dreams were consulted, invented as needed. He crushed the Rorschach. Sexual clichˇs were invoked, and he enjoyed reddening the doctor.

But then a breakthrough with the next thing: Cathcart had insisted he journal like a schoolgirl, a task started as a farce but suddenly taken to: Laird realized he had nothing to say but a body of experiences which just might. His career in war-making was a history after all, with all the inherent merits, and warranted being put down in biographical form, book length if he had it in him. But of course I do.

He holed up and bent to it; and went to cafes and libraries; he applied his English minor, and his bellyful of Tacitus, Mao, Darwin. His memory was remorseless: all the names and dates, trapped in its ragged grooves. For muse he chose honesty. A hard watchword. For which there is such a need now. He'd seen the news and they knew nothing. It became something like an imperative: tell America the truth about her war. Without heat or euphemism. All the good things being done there.

In ninety days, two hundred pages: 100,000 lapidary words, a good packet of paper. He proofed it twice, hit the print shop and made copies available to each of ArtProjekt's history imprints.

Sadly for Laird honesty is the worst of the virtues, mostly unwelcome and sometimes grotesque. Only one of the eight tenders came back, saying not right for us, seek help. Even Cathcart only pretended to have read it in the entire.

His humiliation grew dense and imperturbable, throbbing from a lodgement behind where the ribs met. Only one thing for that, a stop at the corner store, where he bought a box or two. He slipped away from his obligations, with excuses at first, then by not answering the door for days at a time, until eventually all interested parties thought of him as someone else's problem. He set up a delivery service, with automatic payments; aside from wine, his calories mainly came from canned meat, salt snacks, the occasional octogenarian drink; he turned off the heat and AC to help pay for it. He got a church to come once a week to do rubbish and laundry, during which visits he would seek the safety of a back patio. He purchased a couch, also war-torn. Now Laird would settle in to peaceably serve out his tour.

Implacable memory, with its private designs, would break his peace, the way gravity breaks a stone. For example: Laird would, aided by his spirits, have waking dreams. In one of them, the people who infected his memory came and apologized, one by one, as he sat quietly, which is the subtlest power over the supplicant; all of this came at the end of the dream, where things are remembered. And when he woke up (possibly not completely) he wondered if that was good enough. The answer was no: he had not accepted the apologies while in the dream, the only place where they existed. To do so while awake would be false, and a lie. Also: sometimes Cathcart would appear in these deliria and demand that he provide an upbringing, a provenance that explained him. Broken family, incident on a ball field, anything. And Laird would be thoughtful in his dream and say not only do I not know, if I had an opinion I wouldn't listen. It's not science. It's not even thinking. It's nothing.

In mornings he would put these thoughts, or find them scrawled, in his book pads, which he hoped to burn soon.

One day he got an odd piece of mail. Professed to be from the government. Seems he was due a medal, with full military ritual. Tried to reach him by phone, which he had disabled, so please call the following number. He set it aside for awhile and eventually put it on the back of the loo, to ensure that at least twice a day he would give it an eyeful, then walk away.

It came again, more eloquent now in emphasizing that the atta-boy in question, the Medal of Honor, brought with it a triple-stipend. The man who answered the phone was twee and probably not military but was otherwise friendly; asked some good questions, confirmed the date and said a package was coming by courier.

Which it did. Laird laid out the contents of this strange aside on the orange kitchen lino. Full service uniform, bespoke of course, which would need to see an iron; beret and dress boots. A tagboard of ribbons, medals and badges ready for mounting, which he assumed were correct for him. Chits for a shave and trim, rail fare to and from, lodging. Credentials and a pass. Important: three big uncreased c-notes for cabs or walking around.

He was briefed and given his blocking on the sunny South Lawn. Stand here and here; don't say anything. Brace for praise from a man who's never heard of you. The actual act of bestowment obliges some hands-on time; grit your teeth, warrior.

He found himself set up in a ready room with a carafe of the local water and an unspecified wait to use as best he could, a familiar feeling. The room was as clean as a theme-park, a museum piece, don't put your muddy hands on it. There was a recess with a bust, ah yes, Beaumarchais, champion of the early days ... got the nose wrong ... a note by his hand that hadn't been there just before. "Thank you for your service."

He turned. Two men in formal attire, one of them very much the larger one, who said, "Hello. My name is Nominoe. It were my doings that dreamt up this shindig on your behalf."

Okay. And what the hell. "I'd thank you. But let's see how it goes first."

"Wonderful answer. Blunt and funny. Unexpected. And expectations met. And now I think you'd like to know why all this effort."

Laird was distracted by the accent, which was certainly a hybrid, with an effort at unlearning somewhere, maybe for radio; also by their matching suits, shoes and ties. The little one was a gap-mouth, tongue lolling, who stared at him well past propriety. Laird: "Fuck are you?"

No reaction except by Nominoe, who laughed. "The military man smites his cymbals. This is Velbin, my scribe. Yours too, actually. Speaking of which, question: Dr. Abulafia's tale, did it have a title?"

Huh. "Lost me a couple times there."

"The academic you shot in the face. During your pillage you stole her story and put it to the torch. Burned it to the ground. Wait, I can see I should have mentioned: we are presently polishing your manuscript. Clean, buff to high shine, fix typo -- the editor's art. Lots of good vignettes there, little details. It's the details that make the story. Gonna get you out of First Person. That early-years bit: no one cares. Remove filler, attempts at humor. And to get it right we've been in consultation with your lieutenants, your lieutenant Nidha, and ... let me think ..."

Laird had seen faces like this, the smile that only left under duress, conveying nothing. "You know."

"Mirou, yes, thank you." Pause like he'd lost his place. "Anyway, we were wondering."

A second surprise for Laird, who'd thought himself done with such things; a second strange beneficence, this one coming with a twinge of violation. His words, his history, manhandled; or was it actually just his trash being retrieved. They might've asked his permission, assuming he still had it to give; he might even thank them in return for an apology. "I never looked at it. And if it had a title I'd have made damn sure I forgot it."

"Another excellent answer. Warm and witty, in the classic style. Something we can work with." A handler came in and Nominoe sent her away with some kind of indication. "They'll wait. And here's the next thing, I think you might like it. Can you still fly the tilt-rotor?"

The V-22. Probably meant the G-class. Laird pulled up his pant-leg enough to show a couple screws.

Nominoe: "I know about that, I meant aside from."

"Aside from the fact that I can't, of course I can."

"And I knew that too. We'd like to take you on as flyer. We cobbled together a tilt-rotor to suit your particulars. The work would be military. Without the shooting if that's okay. Military with all the ranks, proper pay and all that. No heavy lifting, fresh air."

A third surprise. And the stoic who'd hoped he was done with such things had not much to say. "Now you can tell me." Why all this effort.

"Because right now there are important things needing doing. And you have so many skills. You're a vessel full of them. A bloody cask. Why would I leave you lying there?" Came the handler again, desperate. Nominoe: "Oh ... and we'll be sober in the cockpit?"

Nominoe had bought himself a bit of leeway for that sort of thing. Laird thought about negotiating in a pro forma way, but was too far ahead for the trouble. Get me out of my shitty digs; into a goddamn car. Into the air again; into a fight again if I can find a way.

Laird was sent to Fairchild in the desert northwest. He brought his medal along and let them fondle it, which paid for goodwill and deference. They put him through a test course in a trainer with the mods: a clever single master pedal, with a middle binding for his good foot, which took him a minute to get the better of; a combined cycle-stick and yoke, smart. A ton of money spent on his behalf, which he might've questioned in an earlier life. His first chance aloft he showed off a little, a roll and tail-slide, discomfiting the tower.

First orders came quickly, for a drop-off well up into western Canada. Maybe that glacier matter? Hope so. He watched them strap down the cargo, pretending to supervise: just the one big insulated box, handle with care. Size of a fridge. Why not, keeps food from freezing.

On his way. Quickly ten nautical miles, and below him the cracks and carapaces of the Spokane Floodlands, broken and beautiful, and he set aside the stoic for an hour, the hum of the engines becoming its own kind of calm and quiet.

Now the ice plain, the new and prospering inland sea, not much to look at. Destination near, and he began dialing things down.

From his headset: "Hello again."

"Speaker identify or clear comms over." Nothing. Irritating. Protocol for this sort of thing encouraged improvisation. Okay. Ignore and carry on, how about that. Seemed to work.

Suddenly something behind him, a black mass. Snap around, crash knife out.

It was Nominoe, in a greatcoat and tartan scarf, precarious headset. "No basin in the back for the air-sick traveler?"

"Start talking."

"Really. When did I ever stop." He lowered the jump-seat and settled in. "Daggers down, my friend. I am more than just a part of your parcel, I am captain of this adventure, please see your packet."

Laird pulled up his paperwork and turned to the stuff he never read. Executive authorization: Nominoe, Office of the President. He'd been roped into some kind of cloak-and-dagger bullshit. "Good way to get yourself killed."

"Heard of better. Can you hear me okay? No not you. Give me two clicks if you can hear me. Three if you can't." Which he thought was funny. Laird heard two keys of the mike. "Velbin is safe at home, eating chips evidently and listening in. Also this." Above one earpad, a camera. "Looking in. Imagine if I asked you to smile and wave. Now then." He handed Laird something. Consumer GPS device. "Any idea how to use this?"

"I know where the fuck we are."

Nominoe reading now from a fold of paper that had seen some gravy. "Go to the coordinates."

"Already there." Laird looking for a camp, landing-lights.

"Ascend to 600 meters and maintain hover. Can you do that? Don't make me take the wheel."

Descend. Done. The army man's lot: obey the incompetent, the martinet, the loon. "By the way, that accent. Obvious fake."

"An affectation. Not easy, you try it."

"There's also the option of just using your real voice."

A pause just long enough for a change in smile. "Also an affectation. Say did you ever shoot men in the head?"

So now it's war stories. Much loved by the safe-at-home. Fuck my lot. "Sure, some were."

Nominoe: "For me, shot in head is not the best. Your brains have a second or two to form final thoughts, but they'll be something like upset, apoplexy, unfair. Dumb. And where brain-cells actually abut the slug, it's what the heck is this. Guillotine is not much better, he picks up your head and it's several seconds of embarrassment. You could have your head blown up, but all those individual bits flying around are forming last thoughts which combined are probably not reflective of reality. Worst: dying at home surrounded by friends and family. The lights go dim and your last thoughts are your loved ones suffering, because of you. I'd rather die next to someone who hates me."

Laird found himself unsure as to the expression he might have on his face. "If you say so."

Nominoe: "I rather think I should. So ... shot them why? You must've been upset."

"425." You ass.

"Right. Ah yes. Well then you sure showed them. I don't know if they knew it necessarily but if they did wouldn't that be something. By the way, you probably don't know, that was my project."

Your project. "How's that?"

"Well, for example I had one of my fellows drive it to target. Though he can't drive so you know, escort it. He was happy to. Well ... let me correct. Who knows what people feel. And I wrote the communique. Which was read the world round. My most celebrated work. Funny because I got some of the vernacular wrong, I bet you noticed."

Laird the stoic, abiding the sudden acidification of his blood, the acid bath soaking him from the inside. He found he'd stopped breathing: start again, on a pace bound to the throb of the rotor-blades. "Did not notice. So how would a person get his hands on something like that?" A bomb like that.

"What? Oh. I bought them. It's interesting, they're treated like treasures, but mostly those who have them don't find them terribly useful. Can't exactly put down a food riot with. By the way, people overreact sometimes, it was a 100K device, I don't think they make them any smaller, kind of a piece of shit as those things go."

Sharp breaths, like razors, keep the thinking clear. "You killed a lot of people."

"Oh? Is that a lot?"

"I'm sure it seemed like it to them."

"Were their lives important? Because their deaths were important." A pause in which he called up prepared thoughts. "Big bright light and the president sees clearly. Good with crowd, not good with existential threat. And you ask why not just nuke the malefactors of the ice campaign in their homes and lands, but no, cannot be justified. Women, children. The perfidy, and loss of sentiment." A pause, almost immediately abandoned. "He needed a good hardening. Had to hurt. Had two kids on the campus, so that would do it." Laird vaguely recalled reading something about that. "Killed his darlings. And ... success. Got the pickets up and humming."

Laird: "How'd that work out?"

Nominoe sighs; he lightens himself by the weight of an honest laugh. "Prove me wrong, that's how I learn. Prove me wrong every time and I learn and learn so that's how I win. I have been wrong so many times that I float above the earth looking down."

Laird raised his right hand and let it hang there like a tilt-rotor. "I could kill you right now with just my thumb and half a fuck-finger."

"A feat almost worth witnessing." Nominoe placed something on the console between them. Laird had seen these by the dozen, a detonator. Safety cover over the clicker, warning light dead red.

Oh. I bought them.

"You probably know the old philosopher's gag, why is there something instead of nothing. Okay, good challenge for an artist. Nothingness is simply the lack of something, so you start with that. Did a little research and it turns out the better question is: why so much of the bloody stuff? Clearly nature adores a vacuum; or, if you like, clearly the great abundance of god's efforts are dedicated to its manufacture. Every cell in you -- your hands, your limbs, your neurons firing away -- every part of you warring each day on your behalf, saying I fight for you, I make and remake you and will fight for your endeavors, and to which you entrust your time and care, are made, frankly speaking, of nothing. This is our tableau, and we are denied a glimpse of it at every turn. That is unjust. Or to say it better: all the parts of this universe which cradles you, however well, are comprised principally of void. Remove the void from this place and what you have is something about the size of a pumpkin. Heavy one I'll grant.

"Or I'll say it even better. Nothing lies before the beginning and after the end, so it describes every story, including this one. Why wouldn't I want to know this great story in its entirety? But of course when I think about it the thoughts get in the way -- they're things after all -- and that's unjust. And you're wondering --"

Laird: "Wondering what's the big hold-up."

Nominoe organized his breathing. "I'm an idea person. Not so good with execution. Anyway I've done nothing to deserve it."

"If you say so."

"And even if you say so." Here Nominoe indicated distant western light and closed his eyes. "Nicely timed for the setting sun." Spoken in newly accentless American English, to Laird almost lovely, a monophony around a single note, continuing. "They say the soul leaves the body upon death. But what if the body leaves first? Imagine the surprise."

Laird pressed the button, and the surprise was not imagined. Brave drops of dopamine killed in their docks. Replaced by a giant ball of pure light, which cannot be seen: starlight a million times brighter than the sun (which of course is so very far away); nuclear fire, both rare to see and a fire we live under night and day. And there was a great bark, crawling along at the speed of sound, and what a sound, that no one remembers, except perhaps as a mishearing of thunder. In an ambit of three miles, and in an instant more or less, the ice was gone as if never there. Streams of boiling vapor flying up like Nominoe's astounded ghosts.

Nothing was harmed that hadn't already been destroyed; or perhaps a migration of petrels, a pair of snowshoe hares hopelessly lost.

I placed an envelope on President Bishop's lucky pillow with some advice inside and a prepared statement, soon delivered: "Two days ago, after careful consideration, and after extensive consultation with my Crisis team, I directed our Strategic Air Command to detonate a low-yield nuclear device several thousand feet above the Canadian province of British Columbia, and more importantly above the ice mass menacing our ..."

That went well, and five more like devices got the imprimatur. The backs of the ice were broken on one hundred and fifteen contiguous mountainsides; stragglers were tracked down and brutally dispatched: fuel-air bombs, napalm, flame tanks, dealer's choice. All that old ice becomes rain of course, pouring down the valleys and river canyons to wash away the pickets, turbines and other misbegotten ideas, best we forget them.

As far as Nominoe. He wanted to know, at the end, and when everything was gone, what was left over, and thus what it was like before the beginning: the quiddity we're not allowed to see. Surely something to behold. And related to this end he'd put together this idea that one's last thought, ideally the one above, carries on, like an echo, or an image frozen at an event horizon. Anyway. I hope he felt nothing, and still does. My dead prince.

And now our tale is at its end, whose moral holds you here in expectancy. I dunno. And it's not that I don't have ideas as far as that, I do. I have all of them. So which one. And if you think I have nothing to offer right now, actually I do, but I would have to know why, and I don't. And of course who am I to give it if I could.

And so on like that. I told you my descriptions have no meaning. Call it my lot: I'm the misunderstood man. The man with nothing to say.