by David Ryker
“No.” Clough couldn’t even convince himself.
“Relax, Bing.” Norris shuffled his back and bedded himself in. “You’ll be fine. You’ve read more about military history than anyone I know. You know every regulation and code by heart. I’ve never seen anyone pick up the tiniest details of military life with such ease. What could possibly go wrong?”
“What could go wrong?” The infinite array of hypothetical scenarios played repeatedly in Clough’s mind. “What do you mean what could go wrong?”
A chiming sound echoed through this section of the crew quarters, calling necessary people on deck. That meant Clough. He polished his nameplate again with added vigor.
Norris leapt up from the bed in a single motion. He swiped away Clough’s polishing sleeve and grabbed his friend by the arms and straightened him out. Dusting imagined dirt from the immaculate uniform, he spoke in a soft and soothing voice. “Relax, Bing. Fletcher will barely notice you. It’s going to be fine. Trust me.”
Norris adjusted the nameplate on Clough’s chest.
He’s ruined the angle. It’s not level anymore.
“Come on,” Norris continued. “After you’re dismissed, we’ll go down to the engines and see if the crew have any of that brew they’re always making. Remember how much that settled your nerves last time?”
Clough immediately recalled the taste of vomit between his teeth and rubbed nervously on the smooth skin at the top of his spine.
“There we go!” Norris mistook nausea for nostalgia. “Knock ‘em dead, soldier!”
Norris spun Clough around and pushed him in the back as the ship chimed again and demanded his presence.
Clough walked quickly. The route to the deck was long. There were no shortcuts. Don’t moan, he told himself. You know what happens to anyone who criticizes the design of Fletcher’s ship.
Unlike the utilitarian corridors of other ships, the Pyxis favored sweeping and smooth aesthetics. Almost everything was white and cleaned to perfection by automated refuse-bots designed especially for this vessel.
The walk might have been long, Clough considered, but that seemed intentional. Fletcher was forcing visitors and underlings to subjugate themselves before him. Wearing them down before they reached the truly vital sections of the ship. It seemed impractical to most, but Bingham Clough was determined to see the beauty in his commander’s designs.
This was the finest ship in the human fleet, he knew. As he told his father whenever he sent messages home, it was a privilege just to be aboard.
The closer he got to the deck, the more nervous he became. Not because of his duties or the orders he might receive. Clough knew himself to be a competent—if not a commendable—part of the Fleet. But he grew more and more worried about Fletcher. He admired the man. He had no choice. But he lived in constant fear that the commander’s bellows and grueling stare would turn in his direction. Clough wanted nothing more than to exist in the shadows, doing his job well enough to get by. He didn’t crave attention. He didn’t want it at all.
Fletcher deemed himself the protagonist in every situation. Bingham Clough only wanted to be scenery. The scenery did not get shouted at. Not by Fletcher. Not by Father. Not by anyone.
Fletcher, in actuality, was an inferiority complex twisted up and hidden inside a superiority complex, like the rot eating the forest’s tallest tree from within. While his arrogance might have indicated a supreme self-confidence, Clough knew the man better. As an expert in self-loathing, he was experienced enough at hating himself to turn it into an art form. Recognizing it in others was easy.
He could see the self-doubt eating away at Fletcher’s conscience. It fed into his ego, creating a self-embellishing monster. The more scope there existed for self-doubt, the greater his determination became.
The commander was desperate to prove himself and constantly weighed his achievements against those of the past. Each time, he found himself wanting. Even the Pyxis itself was an attempt to create a legacy, a flagship for Fletcher’s own self-image.
As flawed as it was, it was undoubtedly his ship. Any criticism of the design was a criticism of the designer, a shot across the broadside of Fletcher’s own fragile ego. Thankfully, Clough assured himself, I’m not cursed with any kind of self-confidence.
The corridors were fine and mighty, but they were not wide. Clough thumped shoulders with passers-by and fellow recruits. By the time he reached the deck—the huge open amphitheater which functioned as a combat center—he was bruised and exhausted.
The doors to the deck slid open and revealed the room inside. It was purposefully gigantic and arranged like a theater. On the stage stood Fletcher, alone. He was the star at the center of an expanding series of circular layers.
The crew gazed down on their leader from desks and terminals. Supposedly, it was modelled on the Alcázar at the center of Providence. The president’s office mirrored in the commander’s stage. But this was Fletcher’s design, Clough knew, and performative authority was the most important aspect of the entire arrangement. It wasn’t just about being in charge; it was about other people seeing how in charge he was.
Clough slipped into the room and stood in the shadows to the side of the stage. Fletcher was already in his oils.
“We have the Hydra, the Hydrus, and the Indus.” Fletcher emphasized each name with a dramatic flourish of his hand. “The Horologium, the Hercules, and the Grus. Ours is the Libra, the Leo, the Lynx, the Lyra, and the Lepus. The Ara, the Pictor, and almost every other ship our species has placed into space!”
The commander’s uniform was pristine and Clough stood staring at the buttons as they gleamed and the words washed over him and filled him with hope.
“Our mighty forces have gathered, with our ship at the vanguard. We will defend our species”—Fletcher thrust his fist into the air—“against this vicious invasion. Our armada outnumbers theirs ten to one. They cannot match us in firepower, steel, nor in pure human grit.”
A projection appeared on the stage alongside Fletcher. It depicted a local colony named Istria where this new enemy had supposedly hidden, waiting to be attacked. Clough read the briefing like everybody else.
“Our intelligence indicates that this Symbiot force is comprised of a few hundred ships, mostly fighter class. A pittance next to our own forces. We will remember Istria, people. The first great battle of humanity against foreign invaders. Each of your names will be recorded, documented, and remembered. You will become immortal.”
Clough didn’t want to be remembered. He wanted to get by. He stared into the flickering hue of Istria and saw nothing. It was an average colony of no real note, lost among the others out here near the Pale. It wasn’t notable. Not until now, anyway.
Even as he looked at the image of the planet, Clough felt sick. Something felt wrong. His whole body trembled. His lips contorted and his stomach twisted. It felt as though his physical form was rejecting the words floating down from the stage.
I’ve got to get out of here, he thought. I need to slip out and vomit before anybody sees me. The doors had closed and the quiet of the room kept everyone in place. As his throat closed, Clough desperately looked for an exit.
“Clough.”
Fletcher’s words froze the blood in the veins of Bingham Clough. The coldest words he’d ever heard. Suddenly, he was the little boy standing in his father’s study, holding his broken toy. Sickening wistfulness. He stopped and stared straight ahead.
“You look worried, Clough.”
He could almost hear the sound of hundreds of eyes turning toward him. Their glare pierced the gloom and found him wilting and nauseous beside the door. No way to escape.
I don’t like the plan. I don’t like surrounding a fighting force we know nothing about and blasting them into oblivion. I don’t like that all of our military is here in case we fail. I don’t like being stared at. I don’t like facing the unknown. I don’t like standing here. I don’t like the plan. I hate the plan.
Saying
any of that aloud would have killed Clough’s career stone dead. The idea of explaining that to his father was mortifying and compounded his pessimistic disposition.
“No, Commander,” Clough squeaked, scared he might vomit up more than just words. “Excited for battle, Commander.”
He swallowed and Fletcher stood and stared at him. The whole of the deck seemed to join him in judging Clough in every tiny detail. At least I polished my buttons, Clough told himself, and he even remembered my name.
The momentary flourish of pride found itself weighed down by his mountainous doubts. Fletcher wielded recognition like a weapon. This might as well have been a punishment, carving out any reticence within the ranks. He knows I’m a coward, Clough told himself. He wants to make an example of me.
“Quite,” Fletcher jibed and turned back to his stage.
The commander lifted an arm and pointed toward the projection. The plan was to flush the enemy out of Istria and meet him on the vast empty plane of space. It would be a surprise attack. More of a slaughter, Fletcher remarked.
Until such a time as they were ready, every crew of every ship would be drilled to within an millimeter of their lives. War games were to be served up for every meal. Destroying the enemy was the final dessert.
As the last syllable of the last word died on the air, a person stood up in the shadows of the deck and began to applaud. Instantly, every other pair of hands in the room joined in. A congratulations, praise for an inevitable victory yet to be won. All that was left was to write the names into the history books. Fighting was a formality.
“Commander Fletcher”—an officer saluted—“the man who exterminated the alien threat!”
Another round of applause ruptured through the room. Fletcher held up his hand.
“No, no, my friends.” And the room fell quiet before he continued. “The man who exterminated two alien threats.”
This time, the applause threatened to burst Clough’s eardrums. He couldn’t bring himself to clap. His hands rested on his uneasy stomach. He swallowed the lump in his throat, pushing back all the worry and fear.
With two shaking hands, Clough began to clap. The battle could not come soon enough.
13
Loreto
The hours burned up, the radio stayed quiet, Loreto feared the worst. Eddie Pale, he repeated to himself like a mantra. I’m not adding Jimmy Cavs to the list. He led the second shuttle himself, down through the blistering atmosphere. He saw why the messages had died before they reached the Vela.
“We have something, sir.”
A dust storm rolled in from the horizon as he stood in the landing zone. Cavs’s man stood at the comms unit, trying everything.
“It’s working?” Loreto asked.
The man’s face crumpled with worry.
“Doesn’t matter.” Loreto kept calm. “We have to try.”
The terminal was set up to record his message. Loreto stared into the camera and thought. He tried to put together everything. What to say, what not to say. After so many failed attempts, it all felt like wasted breath.
“This is Admiral Richard Loreto, First Fleet. Following a lead from the alien species known as the Exiles, we pursued the invading Symbiot forces to the Olmec colony. Atmospheric conditions are preventing us from broadcasting, the Vela is still undergoing repairs, and...”
Loreto rubbed his face. There was no easy way of saying this.
“There’s no one left alive. Not in any meaningful sense. The colony… was attacked. We haven’t left our base camp but can see the destruction. The people…”
With a turn of his head Loreto looked to Jimmy Cavs, wearing a biohazard shield and collecting the dead. The corruption grew out of their every wound. It animated the bodies and infected them with whatever bloodlust the Symbiot had left behind, turning them into troops.
“The people have been… reconditioned by the enemy. Fletcher, if you get this message, you have to wait. We don’t know these things. They’ve passed through this colony, swept through it and left nothing alive. Nothing human, not anymore. We can’t possibly imagine how many of these… things they have with them now. We must not underestimate this enemy.”
Loreto stressed the last words and then paused. The regret was heavy. It sat on his shoulders. It sat in his thoughts.
“Not again.”
The recording finished and Loreto made to send it. The terminal chugged and blinked and spat out an error message. Same issue.
“I don’t want to record it again,” Loreto snapped and, after a moment to compose himself, sighed. “Just try and make it work. Please.”
The man remained at the terminal with a pale face and a desperate twitch as Loreto walked away. None of the messages worked. A problem with the atmosphere, a problem with the Vela, he didn’t know. On the horizon, a rising cloud rumbled. A sandstorm was whipping up and rushing toward them.
Loreto felt the wind clipping at his wrists and neck and knew the weather was about to turn. Even across different planets and colonies, the terraforming process brought a uniformity to worlds. It broke down every planet’s unique ecosystem to build a colorless imitation of Earth’s former atmosphere. Pressure drops and humidity tasted the same, eventually.
He had inspected the bodies himself and declared no quarter. These weren’t people, they were something else. But there was no organization to them. As Cavs told it, they just ran ahead of the sandstorm and out from the where the town had been. One or two came close to the landing site and Loreto saw them up close and he could feel the prickle of dread which crept through the crew. He ordered the bodies burned.
I shouldn’t be down here, he told himself. I should be up there with my ship.
When the comms had collapsed and he hadn’t been able to reach Cavs he had feared the worst. He had trusted Cavs with the mission, eking out the responsibility needed to turn him into a better officer. Too much, too soon, he’d worried. Then he’d seen the damage for himself. This wasn’t Cavs fault, it was his, and he was determined to fix it himself.
“Sir?” Cavs approached, disabling the biohazard shield.
Loreto could sense the coldness in the young gunnery officer.
“Still nothing,” the admiral said, raising a pair of field glasses toward the onrushing storm. “Can’t get a message out. How are your crew?”
“I’ve been thinking, sir.” Cavs ignored the question. “There must be a proper comms station in the settlement. A mainline.”
He feels guilty for this, Loreto thought. He wants to make amends. The admiral raised a half-interested eyebrow.
“I’ve checked the maps,” Cavs continued. “I can get there in thirty minutes. Easy. The hardware there will work, we’ll be able to reach anyone.”
The sandstorm was already biting at the edges of the landing site and rolling in quicker than expected. Getting the message out quickly was essential. Fletcher needed to know what he was dealing with. Loreto knew he couldn’t trust the scraps of static he’d sent. Cavs was right.
He nodded and turned to look over the crew. All raw gunnery kids, none of them really built for a gunfight. None of them ready. If something happened to them, Loreto wouldn’t be able to forgive himself.
“I’ll go myself,” he announced. “I’ll take a couple of men. We’ll move quicker.”
“With all due respect, sir—” Cavs visibly bristled. “I thought–”
“That you would stay here and guard the shuttle, Cavs. Good plan.”
Loreto knew the kid desperately wanted to head out into the storm himself but it didn’t matter. As much as Cavs raged, ranks existed for a reason. He wasn’t willing to risk another young life.
“Sir, I…”
As Loreto stood and watched, Cavs fumbled his hands in the air and tried to find a way to express his anger. You’re not being risked, kid, the admiral told himself. You won’t be able to convince me.
“I’m making the trip, Cavs.”
“No!” Cavs yelled and the crew turned to l
ook.
Already, Loreto knew he’d handled this wrong. He took Cavs aside, away from listening ears.
“Listen, kid.” He spoke in hushed, authoritative tones. “I know you want to do what’s right. I get that. But you don’t question your superior when he gives you an order, got it?”
“But it’s my plan,” Cavs insisted.
“But what are you going to do when you get to this place? You think anyone’s going to listen to some junior officer’s message?” Loreto held up his golden wriststrap. “I got my ID, kid. They’re not listening to some pip-necked nobody. They’ll only listen to an admiral. It’s gotta be me.”
It was as good an excuse as any, even if not entirely true. Loreto could see the angry fire burning in the officer’s eyes. He didn’t want to insult Cavs, or to patronize him, or hurt his pride. There was so much potential there and he wasn’t going to risk losing another young pupil.
“You’re staying with the shuttle, Jimmy.” He laid a hand on the officer’s shoulder. “I trust you, you’ll do a good job. But this is my mission.”
Cavs seethed in silence.
“I’ll prepare my party,” Loreto continued. “I’ll take two, one of yours, one of mine. You guard this place. If I’m not back in two hours, you head back to the Vela. Maybe leave me a shuttle. But you get your guys out of here.”
Before Cavs could answer, Loreto turned away. He didn’t want to give the officer an opportunity to argue. The admiral had sworn an oath and it was already broken. He wasn’t going to fail again.
Loreto selected two men and prepared to march into the storm. The comms station was clear on the map. A twenty-minute walk on a clear day. The day wasn’t clear, but they had to try.
He pulled his mask up over his face and adjusted his goggles against the buffeting grains of sand hurled at him by the ruthless wind. There wasn’t a colony in the universe where he felt welcome. His family name travelled ahead of him at all times. Even on a deserted and dead world, he felt ill at ease. There was no one around but him and the two raw recruits, Vanis and Tach, one from each shuttle.