Outriders

by Jay Posey

  “And what was the outcome?” the woman asked.

  “The force successfully intercepted the shipment,” Lincoln continued, resuming the report. He paused again, letting a ripple of emotion pass through him. “While the team was securing the shipment, an improvised explosive device in the vehicle detonated, instantly killing four troopers and two of my soldiers. When the remaining force moved to render aid, they received fire from a previously undetected aerial support element. All sixteen members of the force were killed in action. Given the loss of life, I consider Royal Warden to be the single greatest personal failure of my life. Ma’am.”

  “Did you ever determine the cause for the detonation of the vehicle?”

  “Not personally,” Lincoln answered.

  “You read the reports,” she said.

  “I did.”

  “Stepping back from the personal loss,” she continued. “Your team did prevent the flow of weapons into the area. The overall mission objective was accomplished. And subsequent analysis of the shipment’s contents and the engagement provided incontrovertible proof that the Sino-Russian Confederacy was operating in the area.”

  “There’s no greater failure than losing a soldier under your command, ma’am.” Lincoln said. “I lost sixteen. And none of the rest of that brought any of them back.”

  “The initial order,” she said, “to intercept the shipment. Would you give it again?”

  “Knowing what I do now? No, ma’am, I would not.”

  “Knowing what you did then, candidate,” she clarified. “Did you make a mistake?”

  “I ordered sixteen warriors to their deaths, ma’am.”

  “Given what you knew at the time,” she said, and there was a directness in her words that commanded his attention; a clipped precision, looking for a specific answer. “Was it the wrong decision?”

  Lincoln had wrestled with that question for years. Probably would for the rest of his life. But not because he didn’t know the answer. Because he didn’t like it.

  “No, ma’am,” he answered. “It was the right decision. Given what I knew at the time.”

  There was a half-breath’s worth of silence before the man on the left bit in again.

  “And after your force suffered its casualties, what action did you take?” he asked, and the tone in his voice suggested he didn’t much approve of the answer he already knew.

  “I’m sure that’s recorded, sir,” Lincoln said.

  “Again,” the man said, “we’re looking for your perspective.”

  “Several of the remaining UAF advisors scrambled to get a reaction force together and went to get our people back.”

  “Who led them, candidate?” the man asked.

  “The ranking officer,” Lincoln answered.

  “Which was…?”

  “At the time, it was me, sir.”

  “You left your command post.”

  “Yes sir, I did.”

  “In a moment of crisis.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Did you notify your superiors?” he continued.

  “I did.”

  “Did they direct you to pursue a particular course of action?”

  “They recommended one, yes, sir.”

  “And?”

  “As the ranking officer in the immediate area of operation, I felt I had a clearer understanding of a fluid situation that required a timely response.”

  “You chose not to follow an order, then.”

  “A recommendation,” Lincoln said.

  A pause. “That was not the commanding officer’s recollection,” the man said.

  Lincoln shrugged. “I thought we were talking about my perspective here, sir.”

  “And I thought you said you didn’t have any issues with subordination,” the woman responded. Lincoln may have imagined it, but he thought he could hear the barest hint of a smile in her words.

  “For my part,” Lincoln said. “Ma’am.”

  “Candidate,” said the man on the far left, “when you chose to lead the reaction force, at what probability did you estimate additional hostile activity in the area?”

  “One hundred percent, sir.”

  “Seems high,” another woman said, further to the right. Her voice was higher pitched and softer around the edges of her words, like she’d said something encouraging.

  “Seems accurate, ma’am,” Lincoln responded. “Given the outcome.” The scene flashed through Lincoln’s mind, familiar from too-frequent mental rehearsal. The approach on the rutted road. Immediate incoming fire. The hard impact of a round punching his collar bone. They’d given him a little ribbon for that.

  “You responded emotionally,” the man in the middle said. “Let your desire for vengeance override protocol.”

  “My people were down in the field, sir.”

  “And your solution was to put more lives at risk, including your own, the ranking officer,” the man said; his tone was neutral, offering neither commendation nor accusation.

  Lincoln started to respond, but stopped himself. If they wanted an answer, they could ask a question. He didn’t feel the need to explain himself to a bunch of people who didn’t even have the courage to show their faces in an interrogation.

  “Candidate?” the man on the far left said. The guy that had it out for him.

  “Sir,” Lincoln answered.

  “No answer to that?”

  “What was the question, sir?”

  “Did you or did you not needlessly put additional lives at risk?”

  “No sir, I did not.”

  When the man responded, he sounded surprised. “You’re saying you did not put additional lives at risk?”

  “I did not do so needlessly, sir.”

  “Your intercepting force was already dead,” the man continued. “Were you unaware of that fact?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then what did you hope to accomplish, other than reckless vengeance?”

  Lincoln took a breath, steadied himself.

  “Did you ever serve in the field, sir?” he asked. There was a heavy pause.

  “That’s not relevant, candidate.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Lincoln said. The man made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a cough, but there came a sound of a quick motion that silenced him. Someone laying a hand on his shoulder or arm, perhaps.

  There was a moment of silence, three, maybe five seconds at most.

  “You majored in history,” the man on the far right said, changing the subject. “Why is that, do you think?”

  The question was jarring; it seemed so out of place, like the man hadn’t been listening to anything they’d just been discussing. The old crazy uncle at Thanksgiving, opening the door to his own little world. It gave Lincoln cognitive whiplash.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Lincoln.

  “At university, why did you choose to study history, candidate?” the man asked, enunciating his words.

  Lincoln blinked while his brain ground its gears to change direction.

  “Well, sir,” he said. “I figured if I was going to go to war, I’d better get some idea of what I was in for.”

  The man grunted.

  And as wild as those first few grueling minutes proved to be, they were just a taste of the hours that followed. Lincoln didn’t actually know how long he was in that room, answering questions about every single aspect of his life. He quickly discovered there was no way for him to predict what they might ask next, no way to prepare; one moment they’d be discussing happy childhood memories and the next, the most brutally horrific moments of his years of service. And they covered everything. How they knew so much about him was beyond Lincoln. Details about his parents, his sisters, his schooling, about childhood memories that he couldn’t be sure even he remembered accurately. If he’d been able to think clearly, it might have been frightening. Instead he just felt numb. Drained. Having to answer for what felt like every single decision he’d ever made in his life, and some he hadn
’t even been able to choose for himself. It was no wonder Cadre Sahil had sent him in with such concern.

  He was in the middle of answering a question about one of his first days in basic training when the woman in charge cut him off mid-sentence.

  “Very good, candidate,” she said. “You’re dismissed.”

  Lincoln sat stunned, mouth still open with an unfinished word. He clamped it shut and then licked his lips.

  “You may exit the way you came in,” she added.

  It took a moment for the meaning of the words to filter through the mental fog. When it finally did, Lincoln nodded and got to his feet. In standing, he felt something he’d never experienced before. A strange combination of disassociation from himself with a painfully intimate sense of exposure. All his secrets laid bare, as viewed through the lens of a neutral observer. Something like feeling embarrassed for someone else’s public humiliation.

  His body automatically found its way to the door, without any conscious direction. Of everything he’d been through during Selection, somehow this had been the worst. And he wasn’t even sure he was feeling its full effects yet. He’d been through psych evaluations with his own people before, and one interrogation from someone else’s people. This… whatever this had been, was something on a completely different level. More like Judgment Day.

  Death, then judgment. Seemed about right.

  When he exited the room, there was a young woman waiting for him. First lieutenant, last name of Kennedy.

  “This way, sir,” the lieutenant said. Lincoln followed in a haze. It took about thirty seconds for him to realize she’d called him sir. Not candidate. He wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a terrible one.

  The lieutenant led him to a narrow office, motioned him in, and then closed the door behind him without entering herself. An intense woman sat behind a too-small desk in the middle of the room, staring at him like he was grossly late for an appointment. The name plate on the desk read “Lt. Col. Coralie R. Martel”.

  “Candidate One Seven Echo?” she asked, as soon as the door was closed.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, saluting. She stood and returned the gesture as if she was swatting a fly away.

  “Captain,” she said, “the unit would like thank you for your time and commitment. You’ve shown yourself exceptional amongst the truly elite, and that’s an accomplishment you can and should be proud of. You’ve been designated non-select and at this time your service in the unit will not be required...”

  Lieutenant Colonel Martel said a whole lot more after that, but it all sounded like static to Lincoln. Even when she stopped talking, he stood stunned.

  “I’m sorry,” he said after a too-long pause. “…what?”

  “You’ve been designated non-select, captain.”

  He blinked at the words. “… I didn’t make it?”

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Captain Suh. Less than one percent of candidates are placed, and when you’ve made it this far into Selection it usually comes down to variables well outside of your control. Your previous areas of operation, your language proficiencies. They’re looking for a very particular fit.”

  There was no way there had been enough time to make the final decision. He’d barely finished his last evaluation. Or had they decided while he was still sitting in that room, answering for his whole life? Had the decision been made even before that?

  “A transition officer will be contacting you shortly,” Martel continued, “to help walk you through your next steps. For now, Lieutenant Kennedy will lead you back out. You can return to Housing to pick up your belongings.”

  Lincoln stood staring at the woman, mind struggling to process what was happening.

  “That’s all, captain. You’re dismissed.”

  She sat back down at her desk and turned her attention to the embedded display. Lincoln’s mind swirled with a million questions, and he struggled to find the right starting point. While he was in the process of trying to pick one, somehow he ended up leaving the room and being escorted out of the building.

  He found himself standing on the front steps of the facility, blinking at the afternoon sun. Men and women in uniform streamed across the courtyard in front of him on business of their own. A Wednesday. For everyone else, just another Wednesday. For Lincoln… what? Death, judgment, found wanting.

  Hell.

  Everything seemed too bright, too loud, too fast. For fourteen weeks, he’d endured with only one goal. A goal he knew he’d reach, as long as he just kept enduring. And now here he was, out of the race, an inch short of the finish line. Out on “variables well outside” of his control. No one had mentioned anything about that before.

  “Captain Suh,” a voice said from his right. It’d been so long since anyone had called him that, he didn’t even think to respond at first. “Captain Suh?”

  Lincoln turned his head to find Lieutenant Kennedy standing a few feet away, looking at him with expectancy.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Sir, we have a vehicle waiting for you, if you’d like to come with me.”

  “Oh? I had not been informed of that courtesy.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “Is this usual treatment for the castoffs?” he asked.

  “I wouldn’t know about that, sir,” she said.

  Lincoln grunted. He was tired. Tired right down through the middle of his bones. But it wasn’t that far of a walk back to the housing facility, and he didn’t love the idea of being carted around like some invalid, just because he hadn’t made the cut.

  “Well, if it’s all the same to you, Lieutenant Kennedy, I think I’d prefer the walk.”

  “Due respect, sir,” she answered, “it’s not the same.”

  He looked her straight in the eye, and she held his gaze. She had some steel in her, for a junior officer. After a moment, she stepped closer and leaned forward.

  “Five minutes of your time, sir. Ten at most.”

  Unusual behavior to say the least.

  “I’m not much for conversation just now, ma’am.”

  “How are you for listening?” she said.

  That didn’t have much appeal either. Maybe she had some weird thing for guys who’d just had their hopes and dreams destroyed. Lincoln was just about to blow her off, but something in his gut checked him. She was too professional, too focused. And it wasn’t like he had much of anywhere else to go today, or to do. He gestured for her to lead the way. She nodded and swiveled around, leading him towards a nearby avenue. He followed along after her, watching her move. She was all sharp angles and precision; a projection of confidence and certain intent. Wherever she’d come from, it was obvious to Lincoln that Lieutenant Kennedy wasn’t a typical first lieutenant.

  She led him to a plain white vehicle that was parked right along the thoroughfare. It was one of the smaller four-seat affairs with darkly tinted windows, and it hummed to life as they approached.

  “You’re not planning to do anything untoward to me, are you, lieutenant?”

  Kennedy stopped at the side of the car and turned back.

  “Not me,” she said with a smile.

  The door slid open. When Lincoln saw who was sitting inside staring back at him, he physically flinched and immediately hated himself for it. He’d reacted that way because the man sitting in the car was a legend in the special operations community. It just so happened that the man in the vehicle also bore heavy scarring, his bald head and face mottled with scar tissue that stretched down his neck into the collar of his impeccable uniform. The disfigurement wasn’t why Lincoln had flinched, but he knew it would be the man’s first impression of him.

  “Captain Suh,” the man said. “I’m Colonel Mateus Almeida.”

  “I know who you are, sir,” Lincoln said, snapping a salute.

  Colonel Almeida returned the gesture with easy grace and an undisguised prosthetic hand.

  “Got a bit of a reputation, do I?” he said.

  “A bit, ye
s sir.”

  Almeida gave him a broken grin. “Only the worst parts are true.”

  “I doubt that very much, sir.”

  “Well,” he said, “I hear the worst parts are also the best parts.”

  Lincoln smiled. “That may be. What can I do for you, sir?”

  “You can get in my car so I don’t have to sit here staring up at you.”

  Lincoln nodded and slid into the rear-facing seat. The door slid closed, and Kennedy walked away as if she’d had nothing to do with any of it.

  “Alberton, 109,” Almeida said. The vehicle pulled away from the curb, headed to an address on the other side of the base. The opposite direction from Housing, where all of Lincoln’s gear was. “Don’t worry, captain, I won’t make you stare at me for long.”

  Lincoln wanted to apologize, or to explain himself to the man, but he couldn’t find the words. He just said, “It’s an honor to be sitting here with you, sir.”

  Lincoln was no stranger to the physical realities of combat and trauma. He’d seen plenty of both. Colonel Almeida’s injuries had clearly been severe; he’d lost an eye, an arm, and most of his face to a white-flamed fireball with a shrapnel heart. But the colonel’s career in the field had ended at least a decade prior, probably closer to two. There’d been more than enough time for reconstructive surgery to have patched him up so perfectly that no one would ever have known he’d even seen combat. The fact that he didn’t even have a simple synthetic dermal covering for his prosthetic made it clear that his appearance was a conscious choice.

  The colonel furrowed his brow. “And here I thought you were a straight-shooter, no-nonsense type.”

  “I do try, sir.”

  “Well try harder, son. My face is a wreck. You know it. I know it. If you’re going to come work for me, it’s better to get it out of the way now so I don’t have to listen to you trying to talk around it all the time.”

  “I’m sorry?” Lincoln said. Almeida had him completely wrong-footed.

  “I look more like a Martian terrain feature than a man, eh? What do you think? Gimme the truth, boy. Always the truth with me.”

  Lincoln didn’t know what the colonel wanted from him, and his mouth formed the words without ever checking with his mind.