It seemed inconsiderate of the public, he thought, to be harassing the government with their petty problems when there was a war to worry about, but it only took a minute on the ultranet to remind him that the war didn’t exist for the people in the Core. Despite having experienced the horrors of the Naldím first hand, even Ethan found himself forgetting from time to time what has happening in the far reaches of the Empire.
He stepped into line behind a mother wrangling two little children. One of them spotted the Naldím brace on his arm, the skin around it still shiny and mottled from its burning application, and started crying. The mother turned, pulling her child close.
“Sorry,” she said, adjusting her grip on the other youngster.
“No, it was my fault,” Ethan insisted. He indicated the brace on his arm. “I didn’t think of keeping it out of view.”
The woman stared at the device for a moment before comprehending it. “You’re Ethan Walker!” she said slowly, making the connection.
“Yeah,” Ethan said, hesitating slightly, “but I’d rather not make a big deal out of it.”
The woman nodded understandingly, and mimed zipping her lips shut. “I get it,” she said, “I totally get it.”
“Thanks.”
They stood in silence for a while longer, and then she turned back to him. “I’m Tara,” she said, freeing a hand from one of her children with which to shake Ethan’s. He took it momentarily. “Sorry,” she said, “I’ve never met a celebrity before.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m a celebrity.”
“Sure you are. You saved Voyager Dawn! Heck, you’re not just a celebrity, you’re a hero.”
“There were a lot of heroes on that ship,” Ethan said, voice fading slightly.
The woman looked mortified. “Oh, yes. Of course. I didn’t mean…”
“It’s fine,” Ethan cut her off. “I know what you meant.”
“Sorry,” she said again. In an attempt to lighten the suddenly dark mood, she pointed to the older of the two children, who was completely absorbed in a toy F-50. “My son’s wanted to be a Colonial Guard ever since Dawn’s crew came back.”
Ethan smiled as the child flew the fighter in a reckless maneuver. “Just tell him to wait until the war’s over.”
“Yeah. He’d join now if he could, though.”
Before Ethan could respond, a secretary armed with a tablet and an open comm appeared next to him.
“Ethan Walker?” she asked, tapping something into her tablet.
Tara turned her attention back to her children, and Ethan faced the secretary. “That’s me.”
“Doctor Hannan is expecting you. Don’t have to wait here if you don’t want to.”
“That’d be great.”
The secretary broke into a professionally artificial smile and motioned toward the far side of the room. “Right this way.”
A minute later, having navigated the crowd and a labyrinth of offices, Ethan entered the bright open office of Robert Hannan.
The doctor appeared to be in his sixties, his dark hair flecked with silver, and the most grandfatherly face Ethan had ever seen. He smiled warmly as Ethan entered, standing and circling his desk to meet Ethan.
“Mister Walker,” Hannan beamed, “pleasure to finally meet you. Please, have a seat.”
Ethan sat, and Hannan nestled in his own armchair across a stout coffee table. He grabbed a pad of paper from his desk, propped it up on his knee, pencil poised to write, and looked pleasantly at Ethan. “So,” he said. Silence followed, almost prompting Ethan to fill the void before the doctor continued. “How’s civilian life?”
Ethan paused, mulling his answer over. “It’s boring, but better than the alternative.”
Hannan chuckled. “I won’t argue with you on that.” He scribbled something in his notebook. “Are you keeping up with your friends? From Dawn, I mean.”
“I visit Ford every week or so. I haven’t heard much from Mason, though. Comms are pretty closed off right now.”
“Mason’s back in the navy?” Hannan flipped through his files. Ethan supposed he was looking for Mason’s record.
“Yeah. Sergeant Steele. S-T-E-E-L-E,” Ethan added helpfully.
“Anyone else?” Hannan asked as he abandoned his search.
Ethan shook his head. “I try to contact everyone when I can get through. Except Rebecca, of course.”
The remark gave Hannan pause. He looked slowly from his notepad to Ethan. “I assume you mean Rebecca Winters?”
Ethan nodded slowly, wondering if he had said something wrong. Every government agent he had talked with since his return knew he was aware of Rebecca’s identity; it was no secret that he was - as one SWORD representative put it - a security risk.
“What was your relationship with Agent Winters?” Hannan said, snapping back to his pleasant demeanor in an instant. It almost sounded like an innocent question.
“She was a co-worker,” Ethan said. “Saying she was a friend might be stretching it.”
“And that was the extent of it?”
“As far as I know,” Ethan said, shifting uncomfortably. Hannan was making no effort to disguise his implications, no matter how far-fetched they were. “Why?”
Hannan leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know how much I’m technically allowed to say, but frankly I don’t give a damn what SWORD says. Winters’ handler claims she’s experiencing a…” Hannan looked down at his pad, “…‘drop in performance,’ to quote him. He thinks she’s just been away from the Wraith program for too long, but I don’t think that’s the case.”
“Is she okay?” Ethan said, surprised at his own concern for her. Until now, he had been under the impression that she could take care of herself, no matter the circumstances.
“She’s fine,” Hannan said, sounding suspiciously as if he had dropped ‘for now’ from the end of the comment. “But I think she’s suffering from low-grade PTSD. No one - not even a Wraith - goes through an event as traumatic as what you went through without taking home a few scars.”
Ethan’s arm twitched, and Hannan realized his mistake. “In any event,” he said quickly, “what I wanted to talk to you about is this.” He leaned back in his chair, grabbed a memo from his desk, and handed it to Ethan. Not giving him time to read it, Hannan proceeded to explain.
“I’m assuming you know who Jack Hogan is?” he prefaced. Ethan caught the name in bold print at the head of the document.
“He wrote that travel guide,” Ethan answered.
Hannan nodded. “He also has a podcast that’s started promoting the war between bits. He wants to interview you.”
Ethan looked away. “I think I’ve done enough interviews. There were plenty of heroes out there. Why not ask one of them for a change?”
“He actually wanted to interview the entire team that saved Voyager Dawn,” Hannan admitted, “but with Mister Shields in the hospital, Steele in the field, Briggs helming his father’s company and Winters doing - well, suffice to say you’re the only one available. Besides, it’s been pretty well-established you were the brains behind the operation. The media likes to point its attention at one hero, not a group.”
“They still deserve recognition,” Ethan said indignantly.
“And they’re getting it,” Hannan assured him, “I’m only trying to say that the heroes of Voyager Dawn need a representative, and logic dictates it be you.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I’m just passing along the message. I do think-”
“Sorry,” Ethan interrupted, holding up a hand, “I mean why are you telling me this? Doesn’t the chief military psychologist have better things to do?”
Hannan hesitated before answering. “This has larger ramifications than spreading support for the war effort,” he explained. “Not only do I think it’s in your own best interests to discuss your experiences, but it’ll help the other veterans to know that they can talk about it. My primary concern right now is the mental health of y
ou and your crewmates, and this is the start of the healing process.”
No other words were needed to convince Ethan. To help his friends was what he needed to finally settle and begin his life on Mars properly. It gave him purpose. “I’ll do it,” he said, his voice even firmer than he intended.
Hannan looked unsurprised. He smiled the same pleasant smile that he had first greeted Ethan with, and bent forward to shake his hand. “Then I look forward to hearing you on my morning commute.”
The Interview
To whom it may concern, Scabbard Psychology Center:
I’ve interviewed Mr. Walker, and discussed the matter of his relationship with Agent Winters. He is under the impression that there was no compromising attachment between them, and assuming he is correct, I am sorry to admit I have no further diagnoses concerning Blizzard. My only suggestion would be to retest the current theory by arranging a meeting between the two. Let me know if it’s possible.
Sincerely,
Robert Hannan, CMP, IA
“I have with me today a very special guest. Most of you probably know him, and if you don’t, you’ve heard of the ship he served on. That’s right, it’s Ethan Walker, lieutenant aboard Voyager Dawn, and he’s written the proverbial book on kicking Naldím ass. Of course, we’re going to take your comms, but first let’s get to know the man a bit better. How you doing, Mister Walker?”
“Fine. Thanks.”
“Doing well myself. Now, you were just a sergeant when the ship landed on Dawn-Six, right?”
“Yes. Moira Goodman-”
“Were you in line to become lieutenant? Or was it spur-of-the-moment?”
“Moira was crippled. She could barely talk, much less fly, and most of the other pilots… I was the only officer left.”
“I’m… sorry to hear that. Of course, I don’t mean to make light of the tragedy. What happened there was horrible. But it’s done something fantastic, which is get everyone in the Empire all on the same side for once. Have you been seeing a lot more nationalism since you got back?”
“I grew up on Mars, so I’ve never really seen much Reb support.”
“Not just Rebs, though. Political rivalries are like playground fights now. Everyone’s found something to agree on: we need to kill the Naldím before they kill us. Now, I know the real question on everyone’s mind is that thing on your arm. What can you tell us about that?”
“It’s a Naldím… I guess you could call it a blood siphon. They put it on me when I was aboard their ship.”
“Now, as I understand it, that’s really where you made your first mark. Escaping captivity, fighting off two Naldím unarmed, stealing one of their fighters - a fighter that ultimately helped you take back Voyager Dawn. I think we’d all like to hear more about that. So why did they take you captive in the first place?”
“I don’t really know. But their doctor wanted to run tests on me. He was curious about human physiology.”
“And I imagine they weren’t pleasant tests.”
“No.”
“Apart from that, how were you treated? I can’t really picture them having the same POW conventions as we do.”
“It wasn’t too bad besides that. Actually, I don’t think-”
“What about the fighter you stole? That’s got to say something about your naval training if you managed to outrun them in one of their own ships.”
“It was a lot of guesswork. And I managed to get the doctor to tell me about the control spheres. Actually, if it weren’t for this thing, I couldn’t have even gotten it started.”
“So, going back to that - the siphon, I mean, for those of you listening - would you say it’s become a badge of honor, or a burden?”
“It’s just a piece of metal. It doesn’t mean anything. Not to me, at least.”
“I hear that. I can understand that. Oh, and here we have our first comm. This is Jack Hogan with Ethan Walker, you’re on the air.”
*
Ethan did not feel any better. In fact, he was curiously unsure of what he did feel. Relating his experience to Hogan and consequently millions if not billions of listeners did nothing for him except make him acutely aware of a swirling ball of lead in the pit of his stomach. What it was meant to signify, though, eluded him.
Outside the studio, Ethan’s comm buzzed, flashing frantically to inform him of an incoming call from Ford.
“Hey.”
“I just recovered from a debilitating spinal injury and they have you doing podcast interviews?” Ford said, forgoing any greeting. The slur in his tone told Ethan he had a cigar clamped firmly between his lips.
“You’re welcome to do the next one,” Ethan said defensively.
“You can bet I’d give them a few stories to keep them up at night. But listen, Walker: I know that couldn’t have been easy.”
Ethan paused, slightly amazed at Ford’s insight. “No,” he admitted finally.
“Well, hey, that just gives us another reason to go out on the town tonight. What do you say?”
“What was the first reason?” Ethan asked.
“Weren’t you listening, Walker? I got my official discharge papers from the doc. Right as rain.”
Ethan grinned, despite Ford being nowhere in sight. “That’s fantastic. I’ll be at Elysium in an hour.”
“I won’t go anywhere.” The line closed with a snap of static, and Ethan climbed into his car, feeling much better than he had just moments before.
A few minutes later, having driven to Elysium Military Hospital for what he hoped was the last time, Ethan took Ford to Crystal Falls, a decadent megamall on the far side of Redding, home to thousands of stores, hundreds of restaurants, and one particularly grungy hole in the wall known as Lenny’s, a popular haunt for veterans of the Frontier Disputes.
“Always meant to take the squad there some day,” Ford grumbled as they strode across the vast patio that preceded a hundred storefronts. “Maybe when their tours were over. You too, of course.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” Ethan offered.
Ford gave him a look. “Uh-huh. Anyway, it’s as good a time as ever to see the place. I heard from the man Lenny, himself, they’re trying to tear it down. Again. And I’m shipping out pretty soon.”
Ethan halted and looked incredulously at Ford. “What?”
“I said I’d be on the next ship out of here, didn’t I? They got a new battlecruiser launching tomorrow.”
The lack of warning hit Ethan like a brick. “Sure you want break atmo with a hangover?” he joked dryly.
Ford coughed up a laugh. “Ain’t any other way. Now let’s get going before the wrecking ball comes through.”
Ethan glanced at the pristine marble structures that surrounded them. “If it’s anything like I’m picturing, it doesn’t exactly match the decor.”
“Hell no,” Ford chuckled, “but that’s the point.” He started to launch into a tirade when Ethan stopped, his eye caught on a window display. Upon him spying it, the glass flashed to life, brightly surrounding the item.
Ford stepped up behind Ethan and read the advertisement aloud. “Eviscerate the enemy with the all-new exploding Naldím action figure. Point your Imperial Navy Marine figure - sold separately - at it and watch its head explode. Huh.” To drive home its point, the display animated the figure’s head bursting in a splash of green goo. “Replacement Heads Sold Separately” simmered mildly in the corner of the screen.
“That’s…” Ethan searched for an adequate word. “Unbelievable.”
“I know!” Ford agreed loudly. “Honestly, what kid knows what ‘eviscerate’ means? Someone in advertising’s going to get the axe.” He jammed his thumb at the door to the shop further down the patio. “Want to check it out?”
Horror at the grotesqueness of the toy’s design notwithstanding, Ethan agreed, his curiosity strangely piqued. They stepped into the refreshingly conditioned air of the toy store and looked around.
It was much as Ethan remembered toy stores t
o be: a cacophonous array of colors, lights, and sounds that bombarded the senses from every direction. Even against the eclectic background, however, one massive display stood out. The area was home to the exploding Naldím - among other military-themed regalia - and the sign above the shelves proudly reported that one hundred percent of the proceeds from that section were donated to the war effort. His curiosity further piqued, Ethan approached the section and picked up a scale model of a Series Five naval destroyer.
Instantly a dozen gross inaccuracies stood out, but Ethan found himself not particularly concerned with them. For a brief moment, he was picturing himself boarding the ship, bound for the Reach and the battlefront. Then the image was gone, along with the heavy feeling in his gut that had suddenly hit him.
“I think we’re missing out on something,” Ford said, smashing through Ethan’s thoughts. Ethan turned to see him holding up a gratuitously large toy gun. “If this is what they’re giving marines these days.”
“Somehow, I doubt it,” Ethan said with a grin.
“Yeah,” Ford sighed, drawing out the word dejectedly. He looked around for the shelf it had come from. “I’m going to put this back, then I’ll meet you outside. This place is too…” He searched a moment for the right word, then, abandoning the attempt, merely shuddered.
“I’ll be right out,” Ethan answered. Ford tipped his hat at him and disappeared into the crowd of shoppers. Ethan nodded back, replaced the destroyer, and picked up another model, this one a vague representation of a colony ship. The feeling returned almost instantly.
“Excuse me,” a woman next to him said, a similar starship in her hand. “Are you Ethan Walker?”
Ethan’s arm twitched. “That’s me.”
The woman looked down awkwardly. “I don’t know if this is entirely appropriate to ask you,” she began slowly, “but my son really wants a ship like Voyager Dawn. Is this the same type?” She held up the box she had been inspecting.
Vengeful Dawn Page 3