They took their positions behind the starboard exit panel. Seconds before arrival, the DR29 flashed instructions to trigger his gravity modifier boots. He did, with a simple stamp on each heel. A gentle breeze rose beneath him.
The exit panel vanished, and a spectacular view of an island paradise after sunrise opened before him. The Scramjet hummed as it veered across the landscape and slowed thirty meters above the tree line. His blood rushed, and fire surged in his belly.
For an instant, Peacekeeper James Bouchet remembered the sad, lost puppy he was just a few days ago. Jamie Sheridan—the hopeless curiosity of Albion, Alabama. A common thief, disoriented and headed nowhere fast.
“I’m not wrong to love this,” he told Ignatius Horne between blinks. “I’m not wrong to want these kills.”
“True,” Ignatius replied. Together, they stood upon a viewing platform overlooking the remains of a nuked Earth city.
“You’ve become the man born into you,” Ignatius continued. “In your position, I would resent the old me. My namesake, the liberator of Hiebimini, also resented his birthright. But I caution you to consider: The road Ignatius took to his own destiny was dressed in blood, scorn, and agony. He found happiness, but only for a short time.”
James remembered Ignatius nuking this city from orbit during their last visit deep inside his mind.
“Why didn’t his happiness last?” James asked.
“Because his fate was decided before his birth. Rather than resist, he chose self-sacrifice in the name of a greater purpose. For one day, he was the most powerful human being in the Collectorate. And then he was gone, all but erased from official memory.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because Ignatius Horne left a legacy founded in love. His wife and daughter continued to give voice to him and his sacrifice. If you embrace the innermost impulses of your new self, what legacy will you leave that is not drenched in blood and covered in ash?”
James wanted the last word.
“You don’t trust me. You don’t believe I can control this. You’re wrong, Ignatius. I only intend to kill people who need to die. When my mission succeeds, I’ll be done.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps killing will become an intoxicant.” He pointed to the decimated city. “How many do you believe died here? Does it even matter? In my experience with humans, numbers only matter as long as they remember the faces. When they reach a certain threshold, the morality of murder dissolves. It becomes mere process. A means to control, and no more. Take heed, James. If you forget their faces, you will justify any atrocity.”
“Not a chance,” he insisted. “I have you along for the ride, and you’ll keep me sane.”
“You can hope, my friend. Now, follow orders and enjoy your kills.”
James blinked and reentered his exhilarating reality.
He jumped.
36
H E RACED DOWN INVISIBLE STAIRS as he descended upon Seneca. The gravity modifier boots propelled him forward in a predetermined arc; James dropped no faster than if attached to a parachute. His rifle poised, James studied the DR29’s ground sensors and the target zone where he would soon land. He assessed his options, adjusted his landing radius, and prepared to fire.
He scoped five enemy targets, designated in red, closing in on two allies. Judging by the pace of the white simulations, these two did not understand they were walking into a trap.
He widened his external grid, evaluated the landing arcs of the other five members of his team. Each jumped according to a plan allowing maximum dispersal across the combat zone. Only Valentin would come down close enough to assist, but his arc was fifteen degrees to the left flank, and he jumped ten seconds after James. The other member of Team B, Specialist Boone Holland, would land fifty degrees and thirty meters beyond both brothers.
“OK then,” he whispered to himself. “All of them it is.”
He allowed the dark inside and froze his heart. Life was glorious.
As James prepared to fire, the white sims morphed into extended creatures, meaning they had fallen. But the DR29 captured exchanges of fire. They were defending themselves.
James locked in.
Before the enemy might see him falling from the sky, James targeted his weapon and fired. And fired. And fired.
The flash pegs ejected as a staccato symphony. He made slight, blink-of-an-eye adjustments and tore apart four targets. Their white sims vanished from the grid. The lone survivor had taken a hit and needed to be neutralized.
The ground arrived in a brilliant rush, but the grav-mod boots provided a gentle, stable landing.
He stood over the bodies and realized he knew nothing of these men, only assumed who they might be fighting for, and decided he did not care. Their blood splattered rocks and undergrowth along the walkway. He tasted the dark and relished the moment. Then James focused on the fifth enemy combatant, a man whose left quad took a hit from a bullet and who squirmed in agony.
“You need to die,” James said then shot the man in the head.
What did Ignatius call it? An intoxicant?
Whatever, James loved the smell of it.
Behind him, the people he saved began to stir. He heard them rise, caught their forms out of his peripheral, and motioned for them to remain still. He needed to reinsert the soldier, put away the monster.
James took stock of his position, tapped his helmet and reported the five kills. Orders came back. His zone was clear. Proceed toward the rest of Team B, now landing, and then to rendezvous point.
He looked behind. Coop. Sammie. What the hell?
The admiral said nothing about them in the mission report. Last James heard, they were safe in New Stockholm. He fought to refocus. He had orders; the combat zone wasn’t secured. Yet his heart told him to be joyous, to relish a reunion he thought might never happen after Perrone took him away.
“Damn, you guys are wicked,” Michael said, wide-eyed as he approached with Sammie. “You always time things out like this?”
James recognized a new dynamic at once: Michael, Sammie, a different relationship. What did they go through to get here? He risked the moment and played along with Michael.
“Apparently.” Then he tapped his helmet, which folded back. He knew this was a dangerous move. “This was my first time,” he told Michael. “But yeah. We pride ourselves on our timing.”
Michael dropped his pistol. “Jamie?”
In their astonishment, he understood they probably had a hundred questions, but now wasn’t the time for any of them.
He smiled. “I’ve had a growth spurt. And yeah,” he focused on Sammie. “It’s real. I’m in the UG.” He said to them both: “Everything has changed. But I need you to follow my lead so I can move you to safety. Coop, pick up that gun. Sammie, I understand now why you always dreamed of this. We’ll talk later. For now, follow.”
James tapped his helmet, which shielded his face. His weapon extended, he reassessed the ongoing engagement and led his old friends toward Valentin.
He did not look back. His joy for the reunion dampened when he realized what they must be thinking. Was their friend still inside this body? He wished the answer was a simple ‘yes.’
Did he go too far with Sammie? Would she feel he was rubbing this dramatic twist in her face? He blinked.
“I’m thinking like that kid back in Alabama,” he told Ignatius. “Drama and paranoia.”
“Yes. But perhaps that kid, as you call him, holds what is left of your humanity. You are a man now, a fighter, and they will respect you. Be careful they do not come to fear you.”
He blinked and joined his brother. Valentin tapped his helmet and received a new order. A second later, blasts echoed through the trees ahead as Specialist Holland took fire.
“We need to engage,” Valentin said then addressed Michael and Sammie. “Stay low and ten meters behind us. Your flanks are clear. The only danger is forward.”
In an instant, James found himself again and nodded to hi
s brother. They headed into their first real battle side by side.
He invited the dark back in.
37
M ICHAEL SAW THE FACE AND HEARD THE WORDS, but they did not elicit joy. The voice of the boy he met years ago swimming naked in a creek now sounded like every authority figure he dared not challenge. A principal. A sheriff. A coach. His father. Firm and confident but riled to anger. A man holding the high ground and unlikely to compromise. Not Jamie Sheridan.
As they crouched behind their friend toward rifle fire, Michael saw the same bewilderment in Sammie. This was a moment destined for hugs, smiles, and tears. Instead, he felt as displaced as the day he entered church wearing jeans and a collarless shirt, only to be handed the evil eye by old women in big hats and costume pearls.
He tried to whisper the obvious. “He’s seven feet tall. Seven feet tall,” he told her, although he wasn’t sure she was listening. “It’s only been three days. Right?”
She kept her pistol at a steady aim, her eyes flittering across the cluttered subtropical landscape. She resembled the battle-ready Wonder Woman he witnessed at Lake Vernon and after the scrum at the IDF. But Michael sensed the crack inside her. He wanted to hold her hand, even if she’d have none of it.
The peacekeepers raced into the fray like legendary heroes sent to Earth by the gods. They moved with stunning agility and killed without mercy. By comparison, Michael felt useless, his pistol no more important than a pop-gun on sale for $9.99 in the toy department at Walmart. He and Sammie trailed the firefight, as ordered, but he saw enough. The enemy fought with ruthless efficiency but died the same way. Even as the defeated lay sprawled amid the forest, James and the other two peacekeepers walked over them, firing an additional headshot into each. Weapons blasts echoed around the outpost, reaching a crescendo and then silence, as if timed to a scripted end.
The trio conversed in whispers, then James waved his friends ahead. Michael walked close to Sammie, who lowered her gun.
“J is right,” he told her. “Everything has changed.”
“I almost got us killed,” she said. “What was I thinking?”
“You did fine, Sammie. There’s other shit going on we don’t know about. But he does. Let’s get some answers.”
As they approached, James and the soldier at his side lowered their helmets. The third peacekeeper stood watch.
Michael scavenged his mind for a lead-off joke.
“And we were fired up about rescuing you,” he told his best friend. “Whatever that special sauce is, got any left over for us?”
James raised a small, pensive smile; not the guffaw Michael was shooting for. He lowered his blast rifle.
“If only,” James said. “I’m afraid it’s a special reserve.”
Michael tried to place the hard, hyper-masculine tone his No. 1 now carried. He remembered his uncle Nick Gentile, a lifelong bodybuilder and manic steroids abuser. He built himself into a Mr. Universe caricature. Even words of tender, loving care came across as the guttural battle cries of an embittered man. His best friend wasn’t there yet, but the bulges and ripples beneath the armor proved he was closing in fast.
“Oh my god,” Sammie interjected. “Brothers. You’re brothers.”
James nodded. “Michael, Samantha, I’d like to introduce you to First Specialist Valentin Bouchet, my younger brother. Also my teacher, and the man who kick-started my growth spurt.”
The brothers shared a deliberate smile.
Valentin tipped his head in greeting. “And then James killed me. But that is a story for another day.”
“Sounds like a damn good one to me,” Michael said.
“I don’t understand,” Sammie jumped in. “Were you aware of him before you crossed the fold?”
James shook his head. “Only the names of my parents.”
“And you said younger brother. I don’t mean this the wrong way, Valentin, but you look thirty.”
“We will have time to talk later,” Valentin said. “Suffice to say, James has told me about both of you. You were born to Chancellors and planned to join the UG yourself, Samantha. But you weren’t raised in the Collectorate. We grow up much faster here. Yes?”
“Yes but…”
“I searched the records. By my estimation, you were born seven months before me, albeit in a different universe. If you had grown up here, you might have been my superior officer at my first posting. Fate toys with us in unexpected ways. But enough of this. We have orders to rendezvous with the admiral and finish our mission.”
James concurred and told his friends to put away their guns. Michael sealed his pistol in his pouch, and they started forward. Then it hit him.
“The admiral, you say? Just curious. What’s the dude’s name?”
James offered a comforting hand on his best friend’s shoulder.
“It’s him,” James said. “But I promise he won’t hurt you.”
“So, he knows what I did?”
“He gave me his word, Michael. I came clean about Alabama.”
“His word, huh? Look, Jamie, you’ve known this guy what? Three days? He don’t strike me as the kind of dude who lets a guy off for killing his kid.”
“He will this time because he needs me, and we need him. He knows what I’ll do if he hurts you.” Then James leaned in and whispered. “One other thing. Never call me Jamie again. My name is James Bouchet. That other kid died in Alabama. Respect who I am now.”
After the sudden chill subsided, Michael said, “Roger that” but thought Fuck me.
He said nothing more to James as they advanced but hung back with Sammie, who seemed a touch paler. She wanted to unleash a mouthful but restrained herself. They were taking orders from a guy who used to be the poster boy for the emo teen.
She strode close to him and whispered, “Whatever has happened, Michael, he has to behave this way around the other peacekeepers. Maybe later, we can be alone with him. You’ll see. He’s not totally changed. He can’t be.”
“Dunno. The dude is ripped, he’s wearing a full-body shield, and he’s reppin the hell out of that big damn gun. Definitely ain’t J in there. Least not the one I grew up with.”
Sammie moved ahead until she strode alongside the soldiers.
“So, Bouchet brothers, could you please explain to us what’s going on here? We came with Dr. Ophelia Tomelin and a security team to meet someone and protect her. After we arrived, nothing made sense. You being here makes even less. How did you…”
She didn’t finish. They came to an intersection of three walkways. Admiral Augustus Perrone appeared, adorned in the finery and medals she remembered outside the fold.
He spoke for his soldiers.
“How did they know where and when to strike? How did they distinguish enemies from allies? And why would dear Ophelia leave herself at the whims of the evil old admiral once again?”
He chuckled as he offered his soldiers a side-nod, and they reciprocated. Michael realized a sudden need to pee. He froze, but the admiral paid him no mind at first. Instead, he saluted his men.
“Outstanding work, peacekeepers. The facility is secure. We neutralized all targets before the global stream block fell. No outbound transmissions. Cleaners are arriving now. Team A is facilitating transport of the Tomelin mercenaries. We have eleven minutes until they lift the lockdown. Shall we proceed?”
Sammie persisted. “No. I want answers. What is going on here?”
“You’re a fast one, Ms. Pynn. As paranoid as your father and stubborn as your mother. Oh, yes. I knew them well. Shared a bed with Grace after my first shore leave. Thought she might be my future. But Walter got to her first, and Agatha bargained her way into my life. Stories and stories. Yes? Please, come along. We have a rendezvous of some import.”
As the admiral, his soldiers, and Sammie started ahead, Michael froze. If he backed away into the forest, nobody would care. He could join up with those bioart designers or rogue Chancellors that Ophelia talked about. He could…
�
�Mr. Cooper,” the admiral said. “Please do not tarry on my account.”
“Yeah, so… look, I’m not real jazzed about the situation and…”
“Understand this, Mr. Cooper. You killed my child, and I saved your life. The scales are far from balanced… by any measure. But I have larger concerns than the likes of you. I doubt this will offer you much comfort, but if I ever change my mind, rest assured you will go quickly, and you will not see it coming.”
Perrone opened his hands as if welcoming a new family member.
“I am an honest man. Always to the point.”
Michael thought of a conversation with Rikard in New Stockholm.
“Somebody told me there’s no such thing as an honest Chancellor.”
His line drew a hearty laugh.
“Point taken,” Perrone said and marched onward.
Michael looked to James for reassurance, but his best friend turned warrior never looked back.
38
S AMANTHA PYNN MISCALCULATED EVERYTHING, to her shame. The years her parents prepared her, said she would be ready to ascend into the UG and beyond, weren’t enough. The cold discipline needed to be a killer wasn’t enough. Surviving a bloody civil war between her fellow observers in Alabama wasn’t enough. Loving Jamie, trusting Ophelia, and finding an unexpected connection with Michael weren’t enough.
Valentin’s words cut the hardest. You weren’t raised in the Collectorate. We grow up much faster here, he said. If you had grown up here, you might have been my superior officer at my first posting. Fate toys with us in unexpected ways.
Fate. Her father used to dismiss the idea, insisting every good Chancellor wrote his own script, made his own fortune. There were no strings, no cosmic puppeteers, only the forceful directives laid out by the individual. Samantha used to think she knew her script.
Now, the only thing she understood for sure: She was a fifteen-year-old girl walking a path built on delusion and false promises.
Michael seemed to have a better grasp on the true nature of her people than she did. He gave them less credit because they earned little. He refused to trust where she blindly handed over acceptance.
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