Chapter IX

CHAPTER 9

Chapter 9

August 1, 4030

1930 Hours

Siri, Moon

What's to die old and miserable, than to die young and full of life?

* * *

I need those Marigolds for my enterprise.

Staring at my steel door, I roll forward, tapping the edge of my dead twigs against the door which I imagine is very cold. Too bad I can't feel my damn legs. Too bad. To the right of the door is an electronic rectangle pad, large enough for a hand. I press my palm flat down on it. A few beeps. A low buzz. The door opens to my cubicle. The layout is simple. And while it's not unique, there is an allure of comfort in being of everything being the same. Thanks military.

To my left is a kitchen counter the length of the wall, overflowing in empty liquor bottles. And somewhere, buried beneath those bottles is a kitchen sink. And beneath the sink is my mini fridge.

The cubicle is messy. But who cares? I don't.

On the far wall is my bed. And above the bed is a large glass window; the perfect view to the most beautiful planet in the universe: Earth. Earth fits perfectly in the center of my window—like an iris.

It's magnificent.

And it's the reason I spend my nights here and alone, staring out the window above my bed to Earth, instead of at home. Instead of with my second wife. Instead of with my son.

Fuck family.

Because I love Earth. But as much as I love Earth, I hate it too.

I have acknowledged my sick obsession with it.

I hate how it watches everywhere I go. I hate how every time I look up at the stars and the Universe, Earth is there.

Earth always stares back.

Earth wants me home.

But I don't want to go home. Because while Earth is a paradise and took everything I ever loved—in return it gave me the will to live.

I laugh. Because I'm a hypocrite. But that's all I have ever been, no? A liar. Because as much as I claim to hate this war, there were many times I supported it; even encouraged it. I used to love the war. I used to enjoy being the war-hero. I used to wear my medals with pride.

And yet.

I can't remember the last time I opened my closet and put on my uniform.

A uniform with the dozen of medals and ribbons; a reminder of the many faux speeches of how I, a foot soldier, lead dozens of successful missions on planet Earth and succeeded at our only attempt to colonize Earth; a success with an unexpected failure.

And while my accomplishments and successes are real; I was no foot soldier. I was a pilot, graced with the most legendary piece of machine that the world had ever seen and will ever see again—ancient technology from a lost time. The X11Z Halcyon.

The steel door to my cubicle closes; singing a lullaby of gears.

Time to get the fuck to bed.

Silence. Please.

I roll towards my bed, angling my wheelchair so that my left armrest lines up to the bedframe. With both hands, I climb out onto my mattress. I can hear the numerous liquor bottles on the kitchen counter; most empty, few not, calling my name. Should I drink tonight? An early celebration to tomorrows reunion with my beloved daughter? I wonder if she is still angry. I hope she doesn't hate me. I hope she can forgive me for letting her go. After all, I only did it to appease her guardian—my godforsaken friend—The man who's stuck with me through thick and thin.

Cord.

Colonel fucking Cord.

I turn over, onto my side and clasp my hands beneath my head in prayer. My eyes water. I don't like it when I'm about to cry. I don't like this feeling. I don't like being a disappointment.

Why do I feel this way?

DRINK.

What will Olivia think? She'll probably hate me.

DRINK.

That's what she'll think. She will think I have stumbled further down the mouse hole. Because I have. I hope she doesn't blame herself. Because it's not her fault. It's mine—my mouth is dry—hey, the stars look beautiful tonight. The earth looks beautiful tonight. I don't need a drink. I will do it. I will lay here and wipe my tears and look out at the stars. I will continue to glide my tongue across my teeth—It's smooth.

Drink. Drink. Drink. I clench my jaw.

I'm supposed to be happy today. And when you're happy, why drink?

I should only drink when I'm sad. Right? Because if you drink when you're happy and sad, then that must make me an alcoholic. But if I drink when I'm only sad, would that not make me a normal humanbeing? that of man, exhausted by suffering.

Perhaps I am more normal than I initially thought.

And thus, to embrace normal, should I not drink?

I must drink.

Fuck it.

I sit up. I clench my fists and rest them on my knees. I find my body rocking back and forth—I regret my choices. I regret being on the top of the world, the most famous, cherished individual, and losing it all.

Losing it all to my greed. My chest tightens, my breath shortens. I can see it now; my cockiness my arrogance—The battle of Hill 3551 during Operation Eclipse—I wonder about Project Nile, and I regret going to the United Universe Ball. I regret my affair, and I regret my son, Daniel. I regret sleeping with my adopted daughter. I regret drinking my life away. I regret that I jumped on the Megladon and went back to earth for the third time. But most of all, I regret watching my wife and daughter burn to death.

And all that could have been avoided if I didn't colligate pride and suffering as a single entity. One requiring the other in order to exist.

If only, at the top of the mountain alone, I didn't burn all the bridges to get there. All for what? to claim prestige as the single, living, breathing, legend. A living legend who confused eternal suffering with heroism, instead of what it is: sadistic.

And I destroyed everything, to maintain that idea.

And the mountain I stood on, collapsed.

It's time to drink.