“What the hell is wrong with you?! It’s like you haven’t heard a word I’ve said the past hour!”
“On the contrary, General,” Vanzetti replied, “I heard every word: your pathetic mission has failed, one of my Peregrines has been shot down, and half the team is dead or in UNR custody. That about sum it up?”
“Y-yes,” Ominic stammered.
“You let Halsey chat you up and in so doing, led us to this. That being said, it’s not all bad news, right? They did collect some info and some of them did in fact make it out.”
“And now the UNR is aware of our governments’ involvement,” said Ominic. “How long before Venloran comes after us all?”
The terrifying and realistic possibility only moved Vanzetti to scoff.
“Not long, really, basing it on past incidents like this,” the secretary general said, “but nothing from your botched mission has made the news, has it?”
“No, not yet,” Declan put in. He spoke softly, but the sweat on his head displayed his fear.
“Then Venloran is anxious to avoid looking weak by admitting his border was breached and by a multinational coalition, no less.”
“You’re trying to tell me he’s scared?” Ominic said.
“No more than he’s probably been since April. After all, his most beloved fugitive got away.”
“All the more reason he will be hostile. Perhaps it’s best Ominic and I not make an appearance tonight,” Declan suggested.
“And further the tension with your country’s absence tonight? Unacceptable,” Vanzetti said sternly.
“Then what do we do, Vanzetti?”
“We simply do our part. You’ve already recalled your little band back to Hosbon, so all that’s left is to listen to my speech tonight and clap.”
The two quieted themselves at last. Vanzetti checked his watch before addressing them again.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”
Vanzetti went back to his book, relieved to hear no protests. The only hole in the plan was a target not showing up tonight, but that probability was diminishing every minute. With every arrival of a plane, the sheep were lining themselves up. Their resolve was holding up surprisingly.
They’re not like you, are they, Unit 21? Your resolve can never be shaken. Not once the order’s been given. Much preferred over the spineless lot I’m accustomed to. Tonight, William Marconi, you usher in a new era. Your bravery will once again change the world.
***
Paramore Island, Virginia
The Chancellor’s home was an 1880 Shingle-styled house built on a hill. The hipped roofs sloped downward and the house had a rustic color to it that made it appear to be another wonder of the woodland. Standing on his wide front porch, Venloran used one of the stone columns to support himself as he stretched. It was time for his early morning run, clad in his old Olive Harvey college T-shirt and track pants. The air here was refreshing, crisp, and no sign of smog stained the sky. Anytime he wasn’t busy at UNR Headquarters, which sometimes required overnight stays, he went running before all else.
Venloran set out at a slow pace down a dirt path. Along the trail on both sides was the forest, and alongside the trees and bushes were UNR soldiers. He waved to them as he passed by, well aware there were over a hundred more he couldn’t see. Lt. Mordecai was in a guard tower overlooking the area. Even from far down below, Venloran could see him eating his burrito. He’d been on the Paramore Island Security Team for over a decade.
“Steak and egg?!” Venloran yelled up at him.
“Bean and cheese, sir. Thought I’d shake it up!” he called back.
Venloran laughed and then made a sharp turn. Up ahead was the beach. Erosion had led to a retreat of the shoreline, leaving dozens of ghostly white logs piled on the beach. In their own way, they were still beautiful. The morning fog was thick today, Venloran only able to see but a few feet ahead of him.
The International Summit is only hours from now. It’s time to play the odds. He’d scrutinized the pictures over and over: from the Rock City Salvage Station to the storm drains of Salamanca. You did not lose your lives in vain. You all will have saved millions with your sacrifice.
Venloran got to the dilapidated ship and then left the sand to go back to the dirt trail. Here in the forest, the sunlight struggled to get through. The absence of this light made the woods seem otherworldly. The impenetrable fog left dew on every leaf he saw. He was pouring sweat, but the frosty air convinced him to keep pushing himself. He took a moment to look at his watch and saw it had already been thirty minutes.
I’ve gotten slower. I should be able to see the house by now. Disgruntled, Venloran stopped jogging and went into an all-out sprint. He put all he had into it, and shortly afterward his knees began to ache. Just…a little…more. While the mental drive was there, his body could not keep up.
Venloran used a tree to prop himself up as he panted heavily. His heart was beating harder than it had in years, his chest on fire. He was drenched in and all he could manage to do now was gaze down at the dirt. Spend any more time hunched over and the men are going to ask if you need assistance. Venloran straightened himself, but he was too late. He could hear footsteps approaching ahead of him.
“I’m fine. No need,” he said between breaths, “to worry.”
The footsteps did not stop, nor was there any reply. The soldier who emerged from the fog was not wearing the black uniform of any UNR troop. Instead, the uniform was camouflage of old with a mix of greens and browns. He saw the marron beret and recognized it immediately. On it was a patch with a burning sword.
“You…” he muttered in disbelief.
Before him was a woman of peach-colored skin with black hair that rested on her shoulders. In contrast to her light skin, her irises were a dark shade of brown. Her vacant stare and silence caused Venloran to step backward, hyperventilating. All the pain his body had been in before was forgotten as he now trembled.
“Julissa Marconi,” he said as he fell on to the ground. “I saw you die.”
The woman stood over him, inspecting him with indifference. She lifted her head, showing him the dark red and purple bruises on her neck. When she brought her eyes back to the Chancellor, he was dismayed to see a smile on her face. He’d never seen her grin before. Slowly, she reached for the gun holster on her hip and then lowered the weapon at Venloran. Her hands were gentle and smooth, but she held on to that Colt Python resolutely. The smile deepened.
“I’ve been so very patient,” she said, clicking the safety off, “waiting so long to see that look on your smug face.”
Venloran shut his eyes, desperately trying to escape the nightmare, only to feel the pain return tenfold. All of it was concentrated in his chest. His neck and jaw felt stuck in place, rigid like stone. All the air was sucked out of his lungs. He tried to call out for help, but he couldn’t manage a single sound.
He could no longer see Julissa, but her voice still tormented him. She was saying the same sentence over and over again. What frightened him the most was her tone. It was neither commanding nor full of hate. It was inviting and considerate.
Surrender and be at peace.
Chapter 4 – The Valiant
June 2049- Decorah, Iowa
“I thought you said this was a good spot,” critiqued Patrick.
“Because it is. We’re close to the trout hatchery just to make it easy for you,” Tyler laughed.
The two brothers were seated on a bench beside a flowing river. To their left was upstream, where the graceful Sievers Spring waterfall glimmered for all. It was nowhere near as large as Niagara Falls, but the sight of the water cascading off the smooth stones was just as riveting. It was a sunny day, and thankfully a large pine tree provided shade for the siblings.
“Don’t you think it would be more fun to try to reel in a marlin or maybe a barracuda?” Patrick prodded.
“Something that big is liable to pull you under, Pat. Maybe even swallow you whole.” Tyler chuck
led hard. “Imagine me trying to explain to everyone why I came back without you.”
“Going out like Robert Shaw in Jaws? Sounds badass to me.”
“You ass.” Tyler gave his brother a noogie, a hard one, too. He had him in the perfect spot, right in front of the propped-up fishing rods. Tyler knew Pat would rather take the noogie head-on than risk knocking over the rods while attempting to kick himself free.
“No fair,” said Pat when his brother finally released him, his long blond hair now a mess.
“I’m gonna miss doin’ that a little too much.”
“What do you think it’s going to be like over there?’ asked Patrick.
Tyler rested his hands on his knees, looking over the calm river. “I hear Cuba is either hot and dry or hot and raining, so not great. Who knows, though? Maybe once we’ve won and they’re all citizens, I’ll come back with a new girlfriend. What’d ya think?”
Tyler looked back at his little brother, but the boy was silent. He also kept his head down. Tyler knew better. He’d seen this very same thing at their grandfather’s funeral.
“Let it out, little man, let it on out,” he said as he embraced Patrick. The boy was cautious, but he hugged him back. He cried into his shoulder, and all the while Tyler patted him soothingly on the back.
“How do I know you’ll come back safe, Ty?” Patrick asked as he sniffled.
“You just gotta trust me, Pat. When I get back, you and me can go on another trip. Maybe by then you’ll be ready for deep sea fishing.”
“I will,” said Patrick diligently. “Bet!”
“All right, that’s what I like to hear,” said Tyler. The two shook on it. “And now I got a question for you.”
“What?”
“When you gonna ask Gabby out, huh?”
“What?! I can’t! That’s weird, we’re friends!”
Tyler hunched over, elbow on his knee and fist under his jaw, like the famous Thinker. “Hmm, I see. Perhaps you’ll have to go to the formal route and ask old man Neeson for approval first.”
Patrick punched Tyler in the arm with all his might.
“Okay, okay,” he said with his hands up. “We’ll leave that one on the drawing board until I get back.”
He noticed Patrick had grown quiet again, unnerving Tyler for a second.
“Can you promise me something, Ty?”
“Sure, anything.”
“Don’t tell Mom and Dad I cried, okay?”
Tyler at first almost laughed at the simplicity of the request, but the more he thought on it the more he respected it. Some men go their whole lives without crying.
“Of course, little man. My lips are sealed.”
***
Where the fuck am I?
Patrick woke with a pain in his skull, but he didn’t dwell on it long. The last thing he remembered was lying on the ground in the bitter cold. Now there was a splendid warmth encompassing him. This can’t be right. There was plenty of daylight and there was no mistaking it: he was inside of a large tent. The source of the heat was a small generator in the corner, its motor barely audible. Next to it was a pile of neatly folded clothes. From what he could tell they were brand new, even down to a fresh pair of briefs.
Under the many blankets he’d been given, Patrick realized he’d been stripped bare. His first thought was embarrassment but then he recounted how his flight suit had nearly killed him. That voracious cold seemed like a fantasy now, and still the thought crossed his mind: how close did I come to hypothermia?
“Dad, I think he’s awake.”
Patrick stopped his self-inspection at the sound of the child’s voice. No way he’s a UNR soldier, unless they’re sending them out into the field younger than ever. All the same, fear was washing over him. He believed he wasn’t in the presence of an enemy, but caution slowed his next move. He decided to listen a little longer.
“I know, I hear it, too. Give him some time, he’s probably confused.”
This voice was older, no doubt the father. Don’t want to keep them waiting. The tent was large enough for Patrick to stand as he got dressed. The dark blue jeans were a bit tight. Guess it makes up for not having a belt. The shirt provided was a gift shop one that reeked of tourist. On the front in cartoony letters was the slogan:
I’ve been to Allegheny National Forest, the REAL happiest place on Earth.
Patrick scoffed and put it on. If nothing else, the boots were perfect. He hadn’t had a new pair in ages. Just too much to ask of Declan. He exhaled sharply and gathered the nerves to zip open the tent’s flap.
He was greeted by an afternoon sun, bathing the woodland around him in light. He was at a campground, two other tents adjacent to his own. Around a campfire were two kids, one a small boy and the other a teenager by the looks of it. Despite their age gap, the brothers looked startlingly alike with their curly brown hair and peach skin. Their father was there with them, a great deal taller than even Patrick and with much more defined muscle. None of that was what left Patrick speechless, though. The father had a worn-out brown flannel shirt and jeans that had seen better days, but atop his head was a baseball cap with the UNR symbol stitched onto it.
Catching wind of this, the man took off his hat and strolled over to Patrick, hand outstretched.
“Gift of the wife’s. I’m Duncan Rowe.”
Pat snapped out of it and shook the burly man’s hand. As he figured, he had quite the grip. “Patrick, and thank you for saving my ass.”
“No way we were gonna let a man freeze to death. By the way, how’s the head?”
Patrick brought a hand to the back of his skull. He felt not only a sharp pain, but also blood on his fingertips.
“Sore, and apparently still bleeding.”
“That rock messed you up pretty good, but I wanted to wait until you woke to try to give you any stiches. My oldest can work the needle pretty good. Boys, introduce yourselves.”
The younger of the two looked at his brother worriedly, but the teenager was already out of his chair and heading toward the stranger.
“My name’s Jonah,” he said aloud. For a thin kid, he had a commanding voice and a good grip of his own.
“Pleased to meet you, Jonah,” Patrick replied. “You training to be a vet or something?”
“Med school, actually.”
Oh, well I look like an idiot, Patrick thought harshly. He nodded as if that had been exactly what’d been expecting to hear and looked at Duncan’s youngest. The small boy was still having trouble finding his courage, so Patrick went to him instead. He knelt on his haunches, now face-to-face with the child.
“Hey, what’s your name?” he asked.
“Roberto Rowe,” he said without pause.
“Roberto Rowe, I like it. What do I call you for short?”
“Robbie is what everyone calls me.”
“Cool nickname. Sadly, mine was Patty. My brother used to torture me with that name when we were both small.”
The boy snickered. “That is sad. Don’t worry. I’ll just call you Pat.”
“Thanks, little man. I appreciate it.”
Robbie pointed back at the burning fire. “Would you like some s’mores, sir?”
“I’d love some.”
After Duncan fetched an extra jacket from his tent, the group of four gathered around the flames with their sticks at the ready. The smell of the chocolate melting was the most intoxicating aroma Patrick had inhaled in quite some time. It also reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in several hours. Healthy or not, here we go. He proceeded to pile on so many sweets to his stick it was a miracle it didn’t snap. Robbie coined the term ‘s’more kabob,’ and they all laughed. The pleasantries, as fun as they were, came to an end as Patrick began to ask questions.
“So how long was I out?” Patrick asked before he took a bite out of a row of chocolate-drenched marshmallows.
“We found you last night, and you slept for the better part of the day,” Jonah explained.
“And not that I
’m ungrateful, but how did you guys find me?”
“We saw the lightshow going on,” Duncan said, gesturing up to the sky, “Me and the kids followed on foot trying to watch. We saw when you went down, but we never would’ve guessed you survived that.”
“You and me both,” Patrick surmised.
“Is it true the rebels attacked Salamanca? We heard rumors, but it’s been blocked off for days now,” interrogated Jonah.
“We were only trying to get away from a research facility not far from here. You telling me that Salamanca’s been blocked off for days pretty much confirms it was all a trap from the start.”
Patrick briefly sank into his sorrow, and Duncan saw his mood dying down.
“Are you a Crimson Angel?”
Patrick was astounded the query had come from Robbie no less. He’s so young, but then again it wasn’t too long ago when all this shit started. He was caught up in his thoughts and forgot he wasn’t alone. Feeling their eyes on him, he answered.
“Yes, yes, I am.”
“Whoa,” Jonah muttered. Robbie was lost in the moment as well.
“My wife used to go on and on about Halsey and the Crimson Angels during the Expansion,” Duncan said. “These two are too young to have seen any of the fighting back then. Hell, Jonah was barely learning how to walk when they captured Halsey. I’ll never forget that broadcast.”
“I watched them bring him in, too. My parents were ecstatic. My father said, ‘The Three-Days War had been a special kind of ugly that needed to end,’” Patrick commented.
“Have you met Halsey? Do you work with him?” pried Robbie.
Patrick got ready to answer, but Duncan beat him to it.
“Enough for now, boys. Where ya headed, Pat? Maybe we can help.”
“No, no, I’ll be fine on my own. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me, blessed really, but no more. There’s no need for you people to get anymore mixed up with me than you already are,” Patrick protested.
“I only asked where,” Duncan remarked.
Patrick sighed, “Carrollton.”
He saw the boys’ eyes light up and they looked over at their father. Duncan himself had his fingers interlaced, clearly a lot on his mind. When he arrived at his conclusion, he rose from his chair.
Ballad of Demise Page 3