Cold War 2395, page 5
“A good idea.”
She’s put a gun to my head, ordered her own men to sacrifice their best armor, has all of us wearing dead men’s clothing, rearranged our flight path, and now all she can think about is food. How can she even have an appetite right now? We’ve been flying for over half a day and I haven’t had even a passing desire for much more than a sip of water.
. . . Speaking of appetites, how did she know there was food on board? She was unconscious when the captain did his inventory, and the Russians certainly didn’t offer her in-flight refreshments during our initial takeoff.
I don’t care if the president gets her way with Grimm—and if his two men choose to follow her orders by proxy, so be it. Over the past few hours, I’ve developed a new personal maxim for what to do when dealing with Roseanne Faust: keep both eyes open.
CHAPTER 6
Beecher
Oh. My. God. I get it, it’s been a good twenty-something hours of flight and people are tired. Hell, exhausted even. All perfectly understandable. But why does Wesley have to snore so loudly? Even if space wasn’t muting the sound of our thrusters, I’m pretty sure that guy would.
And the president, well, shit. She’s asleep too, though I still don’t know if I can trust her, eyes closed or not. For instance, the flight path we’re on: I’m about a minute from announcing to everyone that we’re here and it’s wake-up time, but looking outside, “here” isn’t much of anything. The station we’re aiming for is either deceptively well-hidden or it’s a trap. Given Faust’s track record today, the latter doesn’t seem unlikely. I hope Grimm knows what he’s doing listening to her.
Actually, what’s Grimm’s deal? He hasn’t spoken a word in hours. It’s not like he’s asleep, I know that much. Looking back, I see him quietly chewing on a vitamin-paste wafer, thinking. I hope he’s using his time to hash out a justifiable rationale for his recent decisions. Not that he’s obligated to explain himself to us or anything. I’d just appreciate it if he did.
And speaking of people who need to do a bit more talking, what’s going on with Gourd? Big guy hasn’t made a peep for . . . well, it’s been a while. In fact, I don’t think he’s said a word since we ditched R Company. We’re all a little frazzled given the circumstances, but almost an entire day without a single word? The only time I can remember him even moving his mouth was to munch on some tablets a few hours ago.
I think I’ll try to make contact with him while it’s still quiet in here. We’re far outside the sector, after all. We’ve got a bit of time.
“Hey, man,” I say, turning toward him after a few seconds of no response.
He continues to stare blankly ahead. I give him a tap on the shoulder. He jumps a little, snapping out of his robot-like trance. Then he looks at me.
“You feeling okay?” I ask.
“Fine.”
That’s all I get, one word. And coming from his mouth right now, it doesn’t even sound like one. Words are meant to convey emotions, yet his single-syllable response is empty. It’s forced out of him, like it just came off an assembly line and was shipped via expedited mail to shut me up as quickly and efficiently as possible.
Whatever’s bothering him isn’t impairing his ability to do his job, so Captain won’t care. But Gourd’s more than a battle-hardened ogre; he’s my best friend. I have to try to get through to him and see what’s grinding the gears under his hood.
“Man, if you’re just saying that to get me to piss off, you can be straight about it.”
“Don’t worry about me. I can shoot a gun and fly a ship. I’m good.”
Hardly, I think, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “I ain’t buying that for two seconds, chief. Tell Papa Beecher what’s wrong.”
“Piss off.”
“I’d be glad to, after you let me help you out.”
“There’s nothing to help. Now piss off.”
Sounds like someone’s in a salty mood. What a shame on such a fine cosmic afternoon. What’s gotten into him? It’s not like I even pushed hard. And no one’s given him any shit at all inside our shuttle, so I can’t imagine anyone else being the issue. I wish he’d communicate. No one solves their problems by being distant. At least, I know Gourd doesn’t.
“One last chance to chat it out before I wake up everyone.”
“No.”
All right, have it your way, pal. Can’t help someone who’s not in the mood to help himself.
“Rise ’n shine, everyone. We’re crossing over the Nebulus sector border in three . . . two . . . one.”
The rest of the crew slowly returns to the land of the living. Wesley stretches his arms, letting out a big yawn to signal he’s alive and well. The president’s already transformed from sleeping, docile old woman to treacherous commander in chief. Captain’s awake and alert. Gourd’s still quiet and pissed.
“So we came all the way here for what, exactly? What I’m seeing doesn’t seem worth freaking out over,” I say, looking out at the great big nothingness currently in front of the cockpit window.
Wesley comes over to the piloting area to tour guide for us and make sure the map is telling the truth. “That’s exactly what I’ve been saying: it’s nothing. Nothing as far as the eye can see, only broken up by some of the most useless planet clusters and dwarf moons we’ve ever discovered. Why all the fuss over the place, I can’t imagine.”
“You won’t have to, Wes,” the president chimes in, joining us in the cockpit. “Give it a few minutes. And Lieutenants, dial up our speed a notch. By my calculations, the show’s about to start.”
We do as we’re told since Captain doesn’t intervene.
“More surprises, I assume?” Wesley asks.
“If you want to call them that,” she responds coolly.
The cockpit is claustrophobic as is; doubling the number of conscious hotheads in it might not have been a good idea.
“Why the hell can’t you just tell us what’s coming instead of playing games, Madam President?” Wesley spits, his venom not helping the overall mood in the slightest.
“Because I want us all to keep calm heads. The minute I tell you there’s a wasp on the window, you’re liable to flip out, Wes.”
“I’d have a calm head if you’d just tell us what we’re up against!”
“Does it matter? Whatever I tell you, it’s going be something you’re particularly unprepared for. You’re out of your depth here.”
“At least I have the guts to stand up for what’s right in the face of stiff odds. Unlike you, you despicable harpy—”
The brutal slap of an angry president’s palm against a churlish Brit’s cheek echoes throughout the cabin.
My head swivels toward the drama. Wesley takes a second to recover—his cheek turning scarlet. The president’s eyes narrow, her laser-like gaze scornful and unforgiving. It looks like Wesley believes in equality of outcomes, though, because before she can react, his hand is up in the air and ready to come slamming down for a knockout-grade backhand. It goes soaring toward her, his rebound slap nearly making contact with its target until a large gloved hand stops it no more than an inch from the president’s face.
“Wesley,” Captain barks, still holding the Brit’s wrist in place. Even though Grimm’s grip must be crushing Wesley, that doesn’t stop the civvy from standing his ground.
“What? I signed on to follow you, not her. And yet she might as well be the captain! She killed her own subordinates before you got here. What makes you think you’re any different? She’s taken your armor, pointed us toward a trap, and you want me to calm down?”
To be honest, I’m with Wesley. What say you, Captain?
“It’s complicated—”
“And another thing!” Wesley says, doing the unthinkable by cutting off Grimm. “How did she know we had food on board, huh? She wasn’t awake for that. She couldn’t know.”
“You don’t think the Russians would pack something for a long journey?”
Wesley has no retort. Captain continues, now that he’s found a chink in our new recruit’s argument.
“Stop stirring the pot. And Beecher, why’re you just staring like an idiot? Help out here.”
Why’s he have to bring me into the mix?
“With all due respect, Captain, you haven’t given us a whole lot to go on, and the trend of taking orders from”—I tilt my head in the president’s direction—“is unsettling, to say the least.”
Grimm’s face grows . . . grimmer. The man’s early crow’s-feet crease in frustration as he narrows his eyes to give me the what’s what.
“You’ve followed my lead all the way here and now you think there’s something off? Don’t complain about getting wet when you’re ten feet under, Lieutenant!” he roars.
“I want assurance! A fucking statement, or something,” I shout back, surprising myself.
“You want a statement?” He releases Wesley’s hand. “Here’s a fucking statement. There’s something bigger than us going on right now, and God help me, I have and will continue to do my best to keep you three alive. Everyone aboard shares the same goals right now. Got it?” he says, eliciting huffs from the president and Wesley for very different reasons.
To be frank, I’m not really happy with the response either, but it does soften my aggressive edge.
“All right, now let’s everybody just calm the hell down,” Captain finishes, signaling that the fight is adjourned.
Considering we were all on the verge of slapping each other sore a few moments ago, any degree calmer than that won’t be hard to achieve. There’s still a lot of hot air circulating, but it could be worse.
It’s only when I turn back around that I realize “worse” can take some surprising forms. I’m not faced with some massive Russian inspection frigate or swarm of hornet drones. No, the thing I’m faced with is Gourd breaking down. He has his hands around his neck and looks a little too red in the head for comfort. Jesus, he can’t breathe.
I burst out of my seat and shove my hands into the nearby food bin, grabbing a water canteen and ripping off its cap. I whip around to Gourd’s seat, place one hand against the back of his neck, and guide the canteen toward his mouth with the other.
Gourd’s giant paws swing for the water and yank it out of my grip, eager to clear up whatever blocked airway is threatening to asphyxiate him.
After taking a great many sips, he coughs up some of the water, spraying the backwash over the floor beneath his seat. I’m not worried about Gourd’s esophageal waterfall, though. Of all the liquids sloshing around the shuttle’s interior over the past day, a bit of diluted saliva is the least of our worries.
As he coughs and sputters, head hung low toward the floor, I see the rest of our motley crew has decided to back off. From a distance, Wesley pipes up.
“Is there any way I can—”
“No, I got it,” I respond. Once my guy is done hacking up every last drop of H2O I forced into him, I get to work.
“What the hell is going on with you, man?” I whisper.
“Everything . . . too much . . .” he responds, gibberish filling up the spaces between his heavy breaths as he vacates his seat.
Captain takes the piloting reins alongside Faust, leaving me to handle Gourd. As much as I don’t like the idea of Faust being in charge of the shuttle, I still trust Grimm to keep her in check. Plus, Wesley will be there. Feeling cleared to do so, I prop one of Gourd’s massive arms around my shoulder and help guide the giant to the back of the shuttle where we sit on the cabin’s elevated seats, away from the wish-wash of liquids circulating below. I release him, and his hulking arm slips over the back of my head and into his lap. He sits with his head down and spine slouched.
“All right, well, we made a scene, so if that’s what you’re afraid of, it’s over.”
“Shit. Man, I—I dunno, okay? I couldn’t breathe.”
“That’s a dumb way to say ‘anxiety attack.’”
Now that he’s been called out, Gourd finally spills what’s on his mind. “Listen, man, nothing going on right now is right. When I woke up today, there wasn’t a goddamn thing I had to worry about. Good was good, bad was bad, and shit would sort itself out, y’know?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And things are going fine and the ships are flying and we’re gonna rush the fuck outta some commies, and it’s just how it’s supposed to be. But then we get in the shuttle and everything”—he gestures with his hands, pointing around the inside of the shuttle—“everything changes! We’re supposed to be taking orders and fighting for our country. And I do that damn well,” he sputters, his voice walking the fine line between assertive and sobbing.
“You do, buddy. No one’s arguing that.”
“But everyone has to take orders. The country gives the president orders; she gives orders to the military; our captains give orders to us. But so far two of those are in the fucking garbage, and then when you got in that fight with Cap and everyone, it’s like, does any of it even matter? If the chain of command is completely broken, then what chain binds us?”
“If you really didn’t like the sound of our current mission, why’d you sign on?” I ask.
“’Cause you did, bro! ’Cause you did,” he says, softening up substantially.
I’ve never seen such an exposed side of him. It’s weird. A Gourd who’s not emotionally up to smashing your head in is cause for concern. “What?”
“When the president tried to pop that civvy’s cap earlier, all that other shit started to come into my brain. Then I was like, if no one has to follow orders, who’s gonna stop me from saying ‘fuck it’ and leaving? But then you signed on. I already lost my understanding of my damn job, I couldn’t lose my pal too.”
“Haven’t lost me yet, man. And if my understanding is correct, our job is still to save the country.”
“But what does saving the country even mean now? If we’re the ones who save it, that means it wasn’t saved by the military, it was saved by some AWOL assholes playing dress-up.”
“I guess we are AWOL assholes. But if that’s what’s best for the country . . . right?”
“But . . .” Gourd leans in, narrowing his eyes. “How can we know if following Captain is best for the country?”
Thank God no one overheard that . . . at least, I hope they didn’t. Keeping my voice down as much as possible, I answer him. “We don’t. That’s why you can only follow your gut, and God knows you got one to follow.”
“Ha-ha, you little piece of shit,” he responds, a small smile creeping across his face.
The smile wears off, though, as he takes a good long minute to contemplate what I just told him, tossing it over and over in his head until it finds a resting place up there. He looks like he’s trying to deduce if I’m making sense, and if so, how. Luckily, he seems to sort it out internally and snaps back into shape, good as new—barring a little puffiness around the eyes.
“Thank you,” he says, marking the first time I think he’s ever said that to me.
He sticks out his hand. I meet it, and we share a good, firm handshake.
“I’m with you ’til the bitter end,” I tell him.
It’s a feel-good moment, and I’m enjoying it, damn it. I don’t care if we look like a pair of jagoffs; we cleared the air on some shit that needed fumigating. No rest for the weary, though. Within a minute of Gourd’s recovery and our return to standing, the president announces something big is going down outside the cockpit window.
“Look alive, boys. It’s time to see what we’re here for.” The dread in her eyes tells me it’s a good idea to pay attention to whatever’s coming up.
At first, I have no clue what she’s talking about. All I see in front of us are stars, asteroids, and some crusty planets that look like raisins. Unable to see what’s so special about all these damn rocks, I look a little more closely. Only then does it become visible.
The object in question looks like a liquid bullet, one that’s staining the starways with its silver trail. It stretches thousands of miles long, warping the purplish hues in the distance into voids of nothingness, creating slivers of darkness blacker than space itself. The bullet keeps pressing forward, visually distorting every atom of matter it touches along the way until it makes contact with the surface of a planet. Instead of flattening out or creating an impact crater, the bullet penetrates the surface and disappears inside. Then the entirety of the planet’s outer shell begins to crumble, its crust breaking up with every passing second until it’s trillions of little rocks that just happen to resemble a spheroid.
Through the network of cracks, the bright silver light of the needlelike bullet begins to seep through, briefly illuminating the planet’s exterior before the entire thing is swallowed from the inside by black light. Where there was a planet just moments ago, there is nothing but residue from the mysterious silver object, matted across an empty void.
“No fucking way,” Gourd mumbles.
“What . . . what is that thing?” Wesley asks, his voice sharing the same nervousness that consumes us all.
Faust finally answers a question with total transparency. “That, Wesley . . . that is what we’re here to kill.”
CHAPTER 7
Gourd
“Earth-068: Grenada,” Captain says, his gravelly voice reluctantly referencing the biggest conspiracy in intergalactic-era United States history. Eight years ago, half of a US territory blipped out of existence overnight, and no one knew where it—or the people on it—went. Half of an entire planet just gone. Everyone across the galaxy flipped the fuck out. Some folks, including myself, believed the official statement from the government that the incident was a Soviet attack of unprecedented proportions. Hell, it’s why I enlisted.
Of course, there were the usual hardcore tinfoil hatters who claimed Earth-068 had always been a half-eaten apple and that “the men in charge” just wanted us to see it at the right time. But there were also those who whispered about it being an inside job, theorizing that our government nuked half of one of its own planets for . . . “reasons.” Eight years later, it looks like we can finally debunk all of those clowns.
