After War

by Tim C. Taylor

  If I give the impression that I was sitting there with a glazed expression, staring into my musings, then you would be right. For explanation, ponder the meaning of the word boredom.

  Sanjay’s explanation of the cravat was the most interesting thing on this, the third day since my couple of days’ orientation training.

  Ten minutes after the Cravat Incident, I received a personal message on my smartscreen. It looked like the day was picking up pace from harmful levels of boredom, and racing into merely uninteresting.

  The message was from Cadman Rivero the head of credit control, my new boss.

  And he wanted to see me in his office.

  Now.

  — CHAPTER 57 —

  I could tell Cadman Rivero was an employee of great standing within Universal Agents Incorporated because his desk sported an ornament: a paperweight that glittered in an active polymer representation of the Orion Nebula. Other than this ostentatious symbol of his elevated status, the head of credit control’s desk looked identical to mine, and to see the great man himself was like staring into a mirror.

  Rivero considered himself important enough to do that thing where he tapped away at his keyboard sheet after I had knocked and entered, waiting over a minute to give me eye contact. Then he set his chair back creaking as he reclined, and stared at me openly with hands locked behind his big ex-Marine’s head.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “You were at the Second Battle of Khallini.”

  This could be tricky. Some old soldiers needed to know your service and unit to fit you into their model of the universe. The problem came when they figured out which side you’d fought on and decided you were on the wrong one. I was a spy, remember, so I was employed under a false name, a fictitious former Legion sergeant called Chinelo Fofana. Yes, that’s right, I was using the Sarge’s name and told to keep to my own service record if anyone asked about my past. It was humiliating that it had been my wife who insisted Revenge Squad needed to keep my story as simple as possible. She was probably right.

  Simple or not, I knew that whenever I described my past, I was in danger of leaving a trail that could lead my true identity.

  “I fought at Khallini,” I admitted. “With the 3601st Assault Regiment.” I decided not to add that I’d fought on the Imperial side, against the Human Legion.

  “By all accounts,” said Rivero, “the engagement was a bad business, though necessary in the long run, I suppose. I wasn’t there myself. The only serious warship in our flotilla escort suffered partial failure of its forward field generator. At cruising speed it would have crushed itself against the interstellar medium. So our troopships went at quarter speed, same as our escorts. By the time we arrived at Khallini, it had been in Legion hands for fifteen years.”

  What was Rivero playing at? Sounded like an attempt to justify his absence from the battle. I decided he had a bad case of survivor’s guilt. I could relate to that, so I smiled and made sympathetic noises.

  The way he looked at me made it obvious he wanted more.

  I knew I was way out of my depth. I wasn’t one for comforting words.

  “Human versus human,” I said. “Mostly it was human versus alien and alien versus alien, but we always remember the horror of people killing each other. Humans still war against each other today, of course.” I thought of the shelling of my farm and the corpses in the woods. “Best all round that you couldn’t reach the battle on time, sir.”

  I had tried my best, but the head of credit control scowled at me as if I had said the worst thing imaginable. Then he rolled his eyes and said once again, “We suffered field generator trouble.”

  Rivero spoke each word is if he were banging a recalcitrant nail into my thick Assault Marine skull. He banged them so hard that one eventually reached my brain and sparked a memory.

  We suffered generator trouble. This was a Revenge Squad recognition code. Cadman Rivero was one of us. I’d just discovered our embedded combat accountant.

  I gave the right recognition response. “Maybe your field failure was deliberate?”

  Sounded like fighting talk to me, but it was the correct reply, not that Rivero showed signs of relaxing.

  “I don’t like your tone,” he lied. “In fact, I don’t like you at all, Fofana.” I guessed that part wasn’t a lie. “I know a lot of veterans need time to adjust to civilian employment, but given appropriate time and a little mentoring, they can flourish. Make no mistake, Fofana, Universal Agents Inc. is not prepared to give you that time. And there are a thousand veterans in the city who I can guarantee are prepared to try harder than you. The corporation has given you a chance and I will be watching you to make sure we don’t waste it. Don’t ask questions. Don’t stray from your assigned place of work. And don’t mess up. Welcome to Universal Agents, Mr. Fofana. Now get the hell out of my office.”

  I returned to Sanjay and my own little desk with something of a spring in my step. I hadn’t been injured and no one had been decapitated. As orientation briefings went, that was one of the most pleasant I’d ever experienced.

  — CHAPTER 58 —

  With the early evening sun dappling onto the tree-lined paths, and burnishing the lake with copper highlights, Lefebvre Park was more than just an uncrowded and relaxing spot just ten minutes’ walk from the heart of downtown Tata City. It was pretty.

  I’ve been told by my more sophisticated colleagues that pretty is too bland a word to describe the jewels of beauty and delight that pepper our bleak galaxy. Pretty belongs to a child’s vocabulary.

  I don’t disagree. But my world has been one of landscapes pounded by artillery into a uniform white powder. I’ve experienced the wonders of the natural world from behind the protective bubble of my ACE/2 combat armor, and with every sense interpreted and reinterpreted by augmentations and AIs. Even the men and women I found to be lovely encased their inner beauty in flesh that was scarred and calloused, and altered to the design of alien genetic engineers. I’m a beginner in the concept of prettiness, and so I’m sticking to a beginner’s vocabulary.

  The hardened lakeside path was particularly popular with couples. I would guess that they breathed in the prettiness of the view, heard the faint lapping of the water, and considered the experience to be romantic. Me? I liked this route because with the grassy clearing to one side and the lake on the other, I had a clear view around me and that made me feel a little more settled. Place snipers in the trees and I’d be toast, but the same was true throughout the city. And though I studied the trees on the far side of the lake, I could see no one there, not that a sniper would let themselves be seen unless they wanted to.

  This concept of prettiness was not unique to humans. The trio of Tallermans in front of me had been whispering sweet nothings to each other for a quarter mile, until now they stopped in silence and held hands, their stocky bodies shivering, quickly catching each other’s rhythm until they were vibrating in unison.

  My attention was a hundred feet farther up the path on a lone figure in a tailored short blue jacket with a flare that accentuated her modest hips, and gave teasing views of a backside squeezed into tight grey pants. There were worse things in this universe than to watch her from behind, and to be honest I was surprised to enjoy the view as much as I did. Despite the elegant tailoring, her butt would have been too small for my tastes if I were still young enough to be interested in such things. I preferred mine extra-large, and smooth on the outside with a powerful core as hard as steel.

  Imagine the hindquarters of a rhinoceros in padded velvet hot pants. Now you’re talking.

  It was the way she walked that intrigued me. She appeared to glide across the ground with a wide and sweeping gait that was preternaturally graceful with a hint of feral danger. With anyone else, I would have said she walked pretty. But this person challenged my vocabulary.

  She paused momentarily, resting a gloved hand on the painted wooden railing as she looked across the water. Her gloves were plain white cotton, which matched the th
ick headscarf that draped over her forehead, frustrating my desire to see her features.

  Her gloves were very chic. I think. I’m not entirely sure what chic means.

  She carried on with her walk, and soon took a right at the junction of the path. I resisted the urge to follow her with my gaze. Instead, I kept glancing across the water as I had done ever since turning into this path, and took a wide berth around the trio of Tallermans, with the worrying idea in my head that if Tallermans were so wedded to the natural outdoor life, maybe they only mated outdoors. And in public.

  I mentally filed away a question for Nolog-Ndacu, and carried along the path for another hundred feet before I came to a halt, leaning over the railing so that I could appear to drink in the view of the lake. Subtle as I could be with my telehandlers that passed for hands, I palmed the data chip Silky had left for me on the barrier.

  I waited three minutes and then walked off, leaving my own transparent and highly encrypted data chip on the railing. In another three minutes, Silky should have doubled back and returned to the same spot for her pickup of my report. I took a quick look to the left at the Tallermans. I wasn’t sure what they were doing, but it didn’t look as if they were paying attention to me.

  I waited until the path had taken me deep into the cover of the trees before slotting the chip into the port beneath my ear. The decontamination and quarantine process took about a second, and then I felt the tingling in my stomach that was becoming familiar. Half my brain was now making my legs walk up and down as I proceeded through the trees. The other half was inside someone else’s memories.

  It was dislocating rather than uncomfortable. And it made my eyes water so furiously I could barely see.

  Every sound and scent and color that I took for granted was different in this alien perspective of the universe. The hint of the breathing and the heartbeat and the rhythms we all take for granted as the background to our existence fascinated me. Different. The passion she felt for me, judgmental and bright, was so hot it burnt. That wasn’t just different, it scared me. Thankfully, she knew me well enough by now not to tell me that she missed me. Nor did she warn me not to run off with any other young individuals, human or otherwise. She didn’t say anything for the first few minutes of this recording, or if she did it was in alien words that I couldn’t hear. I just got a sense of her feeling calm and peaceful as she pictured me in her mind. After that, it was down to business.

  Silky gave me instructions for the next drop and she told me to keep an eye out for any unusual activity, because she had tentative indications that something big might be about to take place. Then she told me in no uncertain terms to keep focused and keep professional, to not let my surly mouth and instinctive ill-discipline endanger myself and everyone in the operation. After another few seconds perfumed with a faint sense of her warmth and affection – that could easily have been my imagination – the recording ceased.

  I took a while to taste her words. After leaving the Marines, I thought the days of obeying officers were behind me, other than my reservist sabbaticals with the CDF. There was no mistaking it, though. Silky had just given me my orders. She was my officer now.

  My alien officer.

  The part alien officers had played in the life of Ndeki Joshua was not a pleasant one, and I had tried hard to deflect Silky’s concerns that I would inevitably start resenting her. It’ll be fine, Silky, I had told her. Strangely, it was fine. Everything felt natural.

  “Yes, Your Highness.” I declared to the trees as I took a dark winding path through the leafiest part of the park. “Your wish is my command.”

  The trees responded with a rustle and a flap of leathery wings as their hidden denizens decided to keep their distance from this obvious madman surrounded by an aura of trouble.

  I didn’t blame them. I don’t have a lot of good things to say about this world where I’d been left to live out my final years, but the wildlife is pretty smart here.

  — CHAPTER 59 —

  It was while staring out of the covered walkway that connected the two wings of the main building that I noticed something odd about the vehicle that had just pulled up at the Universal Agents security gate.

  I was away from my desk, out in the wilds of the building because I was trying to understand the people, rituals, rhythms and timings of this sham corporation, hunting for the little threads of behavior that Revenge Squad could stitch together into a weakness we could exploit. It wasn’t easy when the culture here was to stay at your desk and not ask questions.

  I’d already observed how the security gate operated. The driver of any vehicle hoping to enter handed security IDs for the vehicle’s occupants to one guard, while the other guard fingered their gun just to make it clear they were no-nonsense hard nuts. Then the IDs would be returned. Standard stuff.

  Not this time.

  No IDs were offered and the body language of the guard said that the maggots sitting inside the vehicle were going to severely regret this. You could see the confidence he had, knowing that Volk would not only back him up but would probably get his hands dirty creating those regrets.

  My interest was piqued, but the double doors opened at the other end of the walkway and another worker headed my way. Staring at the security gate was not a good thing to be caught doing. But I noticed the rear window of the vehicle lower a little. Instantly, the guard went as pale as a ghost. His own ghost. The guard had not recognized the vehicle or the driver, but the VIP passenger convinced the guard that he could pay for his disrespect with his life.

  Nonchalantly as I could, I turned away from the window and resumed my travel.

  I smiled at the other worker as I passed.

  “Get back to work,” he snapped.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t forget,” he said, “there are ten thousand washed-up old soldiers like you in the city. You can be replaced like that.” He snapped his fingers because I was obviously too dumb to understand otherwise.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Remember what I told you.”

  I nodded. It was difficult to forget because it wasn’t the first time I’d been told this. My employment prospects outside of Revenge Squad didn’t look good.

  I hurried away through the double doors the man had come through, scurrying to carry out my duties.

  But they weren’t the duties assigned by Universal Agents Incorporated. I’d never been to this part of the building, but I’d seen a partial map of its layout and knew it led to the parking garage.

  I wanted to take a peek at whoever was about to park up in that vehicle. On the other hand, my handler had ordered me to keep well hidden.

  Funnily enough, I sought guidance from my former alien commanders.

  When a true Marine sees an opportunity, she seizes it with all six limbs.

  You noticed the she – maybe also the six limbs? It’s a Jotun Marine saying that predates humanity’s forcible inclusion into the galaxy, and it’s what the aliens taught us to say in the Human Marine Corps, and then in the Legion after we switched sides.

  All six limbs.

  Of course, the counterargument was that as the most junior grunt on the front line, I didn’t know diddly drent about Revenge Squad’s operation here, and by disobeying orders I could blow the bigger picture sky high.

  Well, Denisoff, Philby and Director Flexitube, or whatever she was called, could all go vulley themselves. They weren’t officers, this wasn’t a proper war, and they hadn’t yet earned my respect.

  For once, I was as one with the Jotuns.

  Have you done justifying yourself? asked Sanaa when I’d finished rolling around memories of shaggy hexaped monsters.

  Yeah. That about covers it.

  Good, said the Sarge. The Marine Mantra isn’t just something we say, it’s something we do.

  Sarge was right. I advanced to the scent of trouble.

  — CHAPTER 60 —

  The security door hissed open and I walked into the parking garage as i
f I had every right.

  Set aside from the main cluster of parked vehicles, in a VIP-reserved area, was the car I’d seen outside at the security gate: a sky blue VIP carrier with windows active-tinted to look like clouds. Its large wheels suggested to me that it carried a lot of weight, and that implied armor plating. A protective cluster of security thugs obscured the occupants as they emerged.

  The chief honcho was obvious by the way they formed an epicenter of the fuss, but I couldn’t see inside the ring of bodies to see who was causing this. I did however see another VIP car park up next to the main one. The people who emerged were of secondary importance, advisers and lieutenants to the main act. There was something very interesting about two of these lieutenants. They were human.

  In the years since the people of Earth were forcibly pushed into the Trans-Species Union, the word human has become so complicated that I had better explain for clarity. Many reasons have been suggested why there was such a sudden scramble from local polities to acquire humanity as a vassal race. Some say my ancestors were on the verge of a great scientific discovery, others that humanity already had a role reserved for it in long laid plans of rebellion and empire – you know, all that destiny drent. I side with the majority in this one and go for the simplest explanation for Earth’s sudden significance.

  Cock-up.

  As a result of this mistaken identity for a species of significance, my ancestors became such a laughingstock and humiliation for our new masters, that a large amount of money was wagered on our species being the fastest to progress from accession to the Union to extinction. The English word hu-man was easy enough to whistle and grunt that it was taken on as a loan word in scores of languages spoken by dozens of alien species. The word meant hopeless, downtrodden, doomed. That kind of thing.