Chapter VI
Chapter 6
August 1, 4030
1900 Hours
Colony Siri, Moon
The elevator opens and I grip the armrests of my wheelchair tight. In front of me is a long corridor. A blue flare bounces off the cool-toned walls. I and my dead twigs for legs roll into the silver, steel smooth hallway. Above, old ceiling fans. In the background, the faint hum of a generator.
That damn fucking generator. A reminder of where we are. A reminder of how much I hate this place. This place of death that leeches from the walls hidden by the many smiles on the fresh recruits. I don't know how people can smile at death. I pity them. And yet I envy their ignorance.
I wish I were able to open this hallway the same way a coroner opens a corpse; a scalpel to skin. If I had that power, I'd cut out this halls damn beating heart. I'd watch the madness die.
And then I'd smile. And then I'd write that damn event down in my journal, making sure my psychologist read it. He'd be happy to hear that I've smiled. He'd be delighted to hear that I was happy in that moment of time. Or not.
I shake my head and roll my wheelchair forward. I should show more respect for the dead. But it's hard to be nice to fools. Fools who suit up in gear that's older than their grandparents and with guns that have been in stockpile since the Colony wars. And to fight what? Gigantic machines that in most cases, will slaughter them before they fire their first shot. And it doesn't matter what I say to them. All they do is grin and look at me with rose-tinted irises, and twinkle filled eyeballs.
You're a living Legend.
You're a hero.
How did you survive?
You must be proud of the medals on your chest.
My response? I roll away. Because there is no medicine to treat a fool. A fool who dances with death on the off chance they will find meaning to life, through death.
And in the off chance they defy the odds and are given the opportunity to be me—I don't want to be me.
No one—should want to be me.
"You're all foosl! Tools! Sardines waiting to die!"
Spit flies from my mouth. My cheeks burn red. The corridor echoes back my words; taunting. I hate this war, this stupid, helpless war.
A war where the enemy is machine, and the planet we wish to conquer—timid.
A war where our soldiers do not fight; they run.
The same way we've been running since we abandoned Earth as a civilization and inhabited the Moon and Mars. And despite my warnings to the United Universe, my words of wisdom fall on deaf ears.
The United Universe, fearful of repeating the events of the Colony wars, have indulged in an ideology to treat Earth as the enemy greater than ourselves.
A method I never would have imagined; utilizing a common enemy between two nations to surmount war. But so far, it's worked flawlessly, if you ignore the fact that the Chairman of Mars, Maxwell Bedham, has slowly turned The Unifers of Mars into a totalitarian government. While the Moon, well, under the current Chair-wo-man Dorothy Ashfell, has been trying to heal gushing wounds since their first attempt to retake Earth.
But what pisses me off the most about this United Universe bullshit? The fact the United Universe acts as a nation with a land to claim. That's wrong. Pure fucking wrong. All the United Universe does is pool resources from our people.
And as the name suggests, they have one goal.
Infect each generation after mine, going as far as entering our schools under the guise of peace; eventually teaching every child in the universe the new, official anthem.
We are from Earth,
The planet we call Paradise.
We are from Earth,
The planet we call Home.
We are from Earth,
We will return.
My two daughters sang it to me once. I slapped them both. Peace? A new Anthem? Bullshit.
"But it fucking worked, didn't it?"
And I scream to god, to this day, that damn song reminds me of these damn fools beyond these doors. Do they not see there is no honor in death? Do they not look at the papers that hang to their door by a simple metal tac; an early gravestone?
But then again, why do I even care?
Because I shouldn't. Because I warned them.
And when they die, I will profit.
Just like I always do.
I shudder. To them, they probably think nothing of those damn pieces of paper that bear their names. All they see is a piece of paper that is no longer straight. They don't know the symbolism. They don't see the lies. Even as I proceed down the hallway, I see how the disperse of air from the ceiling fans is enough to make the pieces of paper flutter, looking to fly. That's how thin and nimble these pieces are. They aren't even all the same. Some are crumpled around the edges, others are torn. They remind me of office paper clippings. Further proof that is what these people are: scrap and fodder to be killed.
I shouldn't care. I don't care. I stop in the dead center of the hall, and I turn my chair to face a door. My door. And while my door looks the same as everyone else; the way my name is written is what sets it apart. Not on paper, no, not written in marker, no. It's a piece of gold, etched inside: Thomas Deliah. I can't help but chuckle. After all, I'm a hypocrite to judge. As it wasn't more than a decade ago, I was in their same position. So, how can I criticize their march to death? Am I nothing but the same? Or am I worse? After all, I went to earth and came back three times. I'm the only one to return from Earth, ever. And with a heavy heart—what they don't know—it's what haunts me to this day. I never played by the same rules, did I? Because while the stories told are that of Thomas Deliah, a foot soldier. . . The only time my feet touched the ground was the day I lost my ability to move them.
So, maybe that's why I hate this war.
Because all these millions of soldiers who've died have gone to Earth thinking I was one of them. But I was never one of them.
I will never be one of them.
As I was a pilot. The pilot of the greatest secret humanity has ever held.
A giant machine that stands nearly twice as tall as the machines of our enemy MECHX.
A giant machine found in old pictures and paintings; thought to be of Legend and Myth.
The X11Z MECHX Halcyon.