by Allen Ivers
Riley held the pistol out to Quinn, shoving it into his field of view and displaying the side of it, “This is an AP-8 focused laser sidearm, but the principle is the same. Finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire.” Riley tapped the handle, releasing the battery from its housing. “Unload before handling behind the line. And if you don’t know what else to do…”
Riley leaned in close, but made sure to project for the entire assembly, “Put it down!”
“Yes, sir.” If little Quinn had anything left in him, he let it out right there. Every muscle, every rigid structure holding him upright, let go and he relaxed backward sitting on his heels. And with one violent heave, he vomited onto Riley’s boots.
Riley elected to study the sky and reaffirm his mercy. Bray threw a side-eye glance at Riley before turning back to his troops, “You heard the man! You know what to do! Range is hot!”
Huah.
6
Aaron
Aaron couldn’t get that sight out of his head. That shot should have killed that woman. And yet Colonel Riley -- Master & Commander Local Allied Forces -- slid her out of danger as though the high caliber supersonic death sentence were a may fly at a dinner party. The career soldier behaved more like he was offended at its presence than what it might’ve represented.
Nothing alive could be that fast.
Aaron couldn’t shake the sight, that blur of motion, that ghost that he had assumed was flesh and blood. It was unreal, unbelievable… unsettling.
And familiar.
The Capitals had been informed they had passed basic proficiency and were to be deployed to the Wall the next morning. Given the display of ‘competency’ that Quinn illustrated, Aaron could only surmise there was some kind of grading curve at play. Gladly, their training would not cease, but units would rotate up to serve time on forward outposts while off-hours would be spent further honing their skills.
It would be a deadly first day. Undisciplined criminals with firearms asked to lay down their lives. Their freedom was bought in blood to be paid sometime soon. How much blood? And when? Who would pay the price that their neighbor might go free? And who decides who dies?
Aaron could still feel that blood on his fingertips, washing off in that faint rain four years ago. And yet, so palpably warm today, as if it might burn him.
The rest of the Capitals hadn’t made that particular suffocating conclusion, or if they had, they didn’t seem bothered by it. The entire Barracks had pulled together, a show of inspiring unity. They had dragged a half dozen trash barrels to the center space and improvised a bonfire. Boisterous chatter and even laughter echoed in the hall. Two different groups sang songs from memory, like competing choirs. The religious zealots led a small euphoric group in a prayer chant, which had a nonzero chance of ending in an orgy, as supplicants shouted gibberish in their ecstasy.
Even Michonne and his outcast Dwellers were welcomed, partaking in a downright reckless use of the rations available. This was a time for celebration, forgiveness, a holiday to be marked on a calendar kept only in memory: the first day of the rest of their lives.
Fitting.
Aaron laid on his bunk, studying the warp of the barracks’ ceiling and trying to shake the image of Riley’s supernatural speed. The gun in Riley’s hands. The calculations behind his eyes. Riley could have killed Quinn before Aaron could even take a breath, and Aaron would barely have had time to process the murder before he shared that fate.
It was like being in the presence of something greater. Something terrible. Riley’s cold eyes boring into him, amused by the mere mortal in his midst.
It was a look Aaron had seen before.
Jensen knocked on the wall next to Aaron’s head, shaking him from his reverie. Despite a week of sleep deprivation and hard labor, he still had that warm smile. “Everybody else is having a good time.”
Aaron’s eyes slid over to the crowd. Everyone, even Quinn -- especially Quinn -- were deep in festivities. The squirrel had his deck of cards out, ruffling them back and forth in his hands in a distracting display. The crowd around him watched his mark more than his sleight of hand. An inebriated Nora hunched over a trunk, watching his hands move carefully.
“Where’s your card?” Quinn asked, “Where do you think it is?”
Everyone laughed, as Quinn had slipped the card out of the deck and stuck it to his own forehead — but the vigilant Nora was far too focused on the elegant card play to notice anything had happened in her periphery. She stared down at the table-top, studying and oblivious.
“Nora…” Eden began.
“No!” She said, “I’mma— I’mma get it.”
“No, Nora, it’s—“
“Don’t help me.” There was a tinge of desperation to that. She knew that she’d missed whatever trick was at play but didn’t want to admit it.
“Where’s it at?” Quinn asked, expertly swallowing his own laugh behind that smug little mug. Everyone else in assembly was less kind, Carmona issuing loud and violent guffaws, sucking air between each huge laugh.
Solomon studied Quinn’s hand movements the way someone might watch a medical textbook — he enjoyed the fluidity of the pattern, the practiced dance of fingers and crisp paper. He was practically salivating.
Keira enabled Nora’s disability, as she refilled Nora’s cup from a jug of— God he didn’t even want to know what was in that. It was not…entirely fluid. She pressed the cup into Nora’s hands with a word of support and Nora downed the cup in one swoop. Keira clapped her on the back, drawing forth some rancid coughing.
Quinn smirked, card perking over the crown of his head like a feather in a cap, “Any guesses? Window’s closing.”
Nora closed her eyes to swallow pride, before tilting her head up to see Quinn’s stupid little face and his stupid little trick. There were almost tears in her drunken eyes, as her confusion overtook her, “How could you possibly…?”
Their joy was infectious. It rippled from group to group as if they were all one bacchanalia. It was a good night. For this one night, every clan and tribal barrier had fallen.
But something pushed down on Aaron’s chest, like a weight he couldn’t see holding him down by his shoulders.
The joy was premature, undue and malapropos.
“Come on,” Jensen urged, “You’ll feel better off the wall.”
“I lost my invitation,” Aaron said, dismissing the nonverbal welcome.
“That makes sense. That’s what I get for leaving Solomon in charge of outreach,” Jensen chirped, leaning against the wall, his bent arm flexing that disgustingly huge bicep. “Need to let something outta your skull?”
Aaron shook his head, “Just got a big day tomorrow.”
“They’re all big days now, boss.”
“I’m not your boss,” Aaron grunted.
“Always struck me as one. Maybe on a construction site?” Jensen leaned in, studying the reaction.
Aaron craned his neck to stare directly at Jensen’s ugly mug, “How old do you think I am?”
“Plenty of people work as kids,” Jensen said, “Age don’t mean you’re not somebody’s boss.”
“Are you doing the guessing thing now?”
“Was I right?”
“No. Who else is doing this?’
Jensen shrugged, “Quinn was a con-artist on the boardwalk, he was easy. Nora was a bartender who did more bouncing than her bouncers did. Carmona - news flash - was a police officer.”
“Bullshit.” Carmona? Riding blue?
Jensen smirked, “Hand to God. His whole soap opera involves a cartel, friends on the take, and ultimately a frame-up.”
“He was awful eager to be back in Imperial service.” Aaron studied Carmona across the room, a jovial father, claps on backs and big laughs.
He looked back at Jensen, “And what do you win?”
“Bragging rights?”
Aaron snorted. The big guy had coopted an institutionalized abuse and made it into an ice breaker. “Eden
was a medical student. You… auto mechanic?” Aaron raised an eyebrow.
Jensen scoffed, “Yeah, for the low hanging fruit.” Jensen pointed at Solomon and Keira, perched at the edge of the firelight, “Those are the tricky ones. Who were they before organized crime and the…” He paused on Solomon and his crazy eyes, “Less organized crime?”
Aaron tilted his head, studying the odd couple. Jensen side-eyed him, a proud smirk, like the proverbial cat a few canaries later. Finally, Aaron shrugged, eliciting a full toothy smile from Jensen, “Waste disposal. Both of ‘em.”
“Get out of here!”
“You wanted to know what they had in common. She was an electrician and he was in administration for the same company.” Jensen leaned on the mattress. “You’re the only one we haven’t cracked.”
“Sounds like I have the bragging rights,” Aaron said.
“Maybe I wingman you a bit, and you just tell me. I mean, you are very ugly and need the help.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
There was Jensen’s toothy smirk again, self-satisfied, “You’re in the dark over here, tucked against the wall, you like your words -- you were a poet, but unpublished.”
Aaron couldn’t help but laugh, eying the party with an envious tilt of his jaw. It’s true, there hadn’t really been a routine or calm to his life since the exodus. If this was the new normal, perhaps he should rise to the occasion, live in each moment.
Jensen’s smile slipped a bit, Aaron’s contagious depression starting to bleed off, “There’s always an open chair for you, and not for nothing, but I think Eden was kinda hoping you’d turn out.”
His eyes picked her out of the crowd easy enough. She was floating near the edge, chatting with Nora but keeping a close eye on Quinn. The watcheye instinct of a doctor could never be shaken off. She caught him looking, and gave him a nod, calling him over. The summons of a friend.
“Well,” Aaron sighed, “We’ll have plenty of time to talk at the Wall.” That was harsher than he meant.
Jensen pursed his lips, taking a step back away from the surly man, “That’s fair, but -- and hear me out -- you look like you need the company.”
He didn’t.
The clang of swinging doors broke the tension of their moment. Sergeant Bray hung in the opening, examining the space and the festivities before him. His nostrils flared, at the sight or the smell, and his lip curled back with the unmistakable disgust that comes packaged with a dose of pity.
The singing halted like the power had been cut. The chatter softened as everyone picked up on the presence, a slow wave of silence blanketing the space.
From the half-dressed debauchery to the casual reveler, they were all wondering the same thing: had they somehow overstepped? Was their freedom never properly real and the slack in the choke chain had been confused for autonomy? They were waiting for the whip. The anxiety of anyone who has served time in chains -- were those bindings ever really gone?
But Bray did not speak. He did not bellow or scold or chastise. He did not sling insults or slam down instructions. He stalked into the room, one foot in front of the other, a methodical invasion. His eyes scanning the faces before him. With each subsequent step, he picked up speed and… confidence.
Something was different.
Target lock -- Bray saw Aaron sitting off to the side of the bacchanal -- and the Sergeant’s path swerved to intercept.
Jensen nodded, and wanting no part of whatever was to come, clapped Aaron on the shoulder as he peeled off back toward the silent tableau, “Have fun.”
“Thanks,” Aaron scoffed, as his friend abandoned him to whatever was in store.
Bray kicked up dust as he approached, dragging feet but firm strides. He stopped next to Aaron, eye level with the top bunk. It was a curious stance, somehow rigid and fluid at the same time. Was this how Bray looked when he was relaxed? It had the terrifying stillness of a sculpture.
“Why did you try to stop Colonel Riley?” He asked.
Uh oh.
Aaron dared not move, lest it be seen as hostile. Stay still. Stay docile.
He swallowed hard, “I didn’t, sir.”
“Yes, you did,” Bray scolded, “Your first thought was to leap into the middle of an ongoing execution. Your second thought was smarter than that. What prompted the first thought?”
The tone of the question perplexed Aaron. This wasn’t a reprimand preceding a punishment. Bray was genuinely curious and had sought out an answer.
Aaron took a liberty and propped himself up on the bed, “Quinn made a mistake.”
“A deadly one,” Bray shot back.
“That’s because he’s not ready,” Aaron croaked out, “None of us are.”
Bray took a deep breath and settled down onto the nearest bunk, “No. No, you’re not.”
Aaron blinked at that revelation, “Then why are we going?”
“You’re a smart man, Capital. Take a guess.”
He didn’t have to think very long, but Aaron threw a glance at the party. Noise had started up again, but in that cautious good behavior manner. No one wanted to draw attention and everyone wanted to listen in. Aaron lowered his voice, “We’re supposed to die, aren’t we?”
Bray pursed his lips again, licking his teeth, “No. But we don’t really care very much if you do.”
“So why didn’t… the Commander… kill Quinn? If we’re so expendable?”
“Because you’ve figured out by now,” Bray began, “That Colonel Riley — nor anyone in his sphere — were ever in any real danger.”
That blur. It flashed across his vision like something out of a nightmare. He suddenly remembered why.
The officer Aaron killed four years ago had been that fast.
“How?” Aaron begged, “How was that possible?” He had to know. What kind of demigod was that fast? Why had Lady Justice blinked? Who was so important that they banished Aaron to the Hellmouth?
Bray locked eyes with him, “The best soldiers get the best gear. You Capitals are getting crap we tossed out a generation ago. The guys we spend real money on… the best guns, the best armor, implants, cybernetics. You sink enough money into somebody and we don’t much like losing ‘em when we can avoid it. Trainin’ and gearin’ ‘em… gets expensive.”
There was an acidic tone in his voice, an undercurrent of distaste. Riley was elite. Aaron’s victim had been elite, in some form or another. Elites didn’t think much of those beneath them. Bray happened to also be underfoot, just as much as Aaron. Everyone is beneath people like Riley.
“Our lives…” Aaron connected, “are going out there to protect people that we can’t afford to lose?”
That was the reason for it all, wasn’t it? Aaron’s incarceration was out of property damage. It wasn’t an important son of an important man, nor the gangland mentality flipping against a cop-killer.
Aaron broke it; he then had to buy it -- with his life.
“Quite literally,” Bray affirmed, “You’re cheap, Aaron. They’re not.”
Aaron thought he was going to throw up, “Come here to break my spine specifically, sir?”
“No,” Bray blurted, brow furrowed with surprise, “I… I came here to apologize.”
What the what?
Bray continued, “I thought this was a waste of time. I thought this was dangerous. You don’t take someone who’s stabbed you, give them a knife, and trust ‘em not to stab you again. I fully expected the entire Regiment to rebel. You’re all dangerous criminals we were entrusting with security? Command was outside their gulaw minds. I’d have packed every colonist I could, slammed ‘em into their jump seats like canned meat, and left you all behind to die at whatever cosmic horror God decides for ya. It’s only what you deserved.”
Aaron studied the Sergeant’s face over this. He wasn’t used to being wrong. Experience, careful study, and practice had kept him alive. Instinct told him one thing, and evidence told him something contrary. That was difficult to reconcile.
&nb
sp; "Smart man once told me… that doing the right thing ain't often the popular thing. And you might even get punished for it. Still the right thing to do."
Aaron smiled, "So you're apologizing to a Capital."
“I still think it was a gamble,” Bray hedged, covering his weakness, “But you were ready to eat a shot meant for somebody else.” Bray shook his head at that profound discovery. And, in a truly unsettling development, Bray smiled. A full row of coffee stained teeth, more than a few chipped and cracked from a hard life.
“If we can get a just few dozen like you…” Bray declared, “If that ain’t exactly what we were looking for.”
7
Riley
Maybe a tenth reading would reveal the secrets to him. Riley flipped back to the front of the personnel file, scouring the pages for some footnote that he may have missed in his arduous research, some scribbled hieroglyph that might reveal the secret history of the Hero of the Hour.
They actually printed it onto physical paper -- downright archaic. Suppose some clung to the old ways as though they deserved some kind of reverence. That musty smell was enough to drive him mad, and he'd even managed to cut his palm on the razor-thin edges.
To think, in eons past, this was what entire Empires had been made of – tree pulp. Supposed the proper term was papyrus, as this was made from the local grasses. It still stung like the worst bug bite.
It took three Lance Corporals two days to track down the file. Civilian government always found the most expensive and least useful way to conduct itself.
Bureaucrats were allergic to efficiency. Thankfully, whomsoever in the Colonial Administration that held pressed carbon sheets in such high regard had been issued their farewell stipends with the rest of the Governor’s deep bench of sycophants and redundancies. There had been plenty of parachutes available for the assemblage of empty suits.
Riley silently wished they could've just pushed a few of these bastards out of a window, as he sucked on the stinging wound again. Cathartic, but probably not helping it really.