Chapter XIII
Chapter 13
Operation Achilles
August 2, 4030
0830 Hours
Colony Siri, Moon
While most people hate their alarm clock, I've always adored the morning, as it was the simplest form of hitting the reset button on your life.
Had a bad day? Sleep it off.
Had an argument with your spouse? Sleep it off.
Drank too much? Sleep it off.
Have a giant plan tomorrow? Sleep it off.
There is never a bad time, to not sleep—as there is no inherent suffering in always staying asleep. One can even argue that sleep is the very thing that all humans can look forward too—even at their darkest hour.
That is the importance of sleep, of which I will always welcome it.
"Good morning beautiful Paradise,"
I look to Earth. The deep blue ocean and green landscape covered by clouds.
I hope you made it out alive Jaycee. I hope you survived the night.
Fuck. Of course, you survived the night. You had to have survived the night.
BUT WHAT IF HE DIDN'T—Enough. I must stop. Today is going to be a good day. Olivia is coming to visit for the first time in years. All thanks to Cord and Letty, of whom I don't remember having a decent bone in her body. But would Letty stoop as far as using my child as a pawn? Must I stay on Guard, or can I be at peace, with the very connection I've been longing for.
A life with my daughter at the Floweritorium.
I close my eyes and gnaw on my lower lip. I can taste the distraught on my lips, over the possibility of Jason "Jaycee" Ford's death.
But like a sharp pain in my chest, I take a shallow inhale, and slide out of my bed and into my wheelchair.
Jaycee's an idiot. I don't know why I let him go. I don't know why I allowed it. I should have said no.
Fuck the United Universe. Fuck what they represent. But am I not to blame?
Of course, I am to blame. I'm the poster child after all. The war hero that puts humanities focus on reclaiming Earth, rather than closing the gap of disparity between Mars and the Moon.
Two colonies that suffer for different reason; two colonies that have different ideals.
Jaycee should have stayed here and worked with me. I could have had him helping me harvest flowers for Pre-funerals. I could have had him helping me feed the moon and a quarter of Parlem.
He could have made a real difference and yet I—
I clench my fists. No more. No more. Think about your daughter. This is your reunion day. Stop thinking about Jaycee.
Stop thinking about him.
I swallow my spit. I relax my hands and drop them to my knees.
"FUCK!" My body screams—my mind fills with my desire to walk again.
I want to cry. This isn't fair. Jaycee should have stayed here.
I should have forced him—
Priorities, Thomas, Priorities.
Force a smile on your face Thomas. Remember what your psychologist said. Sometimes, you have to fake it till you make it. I roll the wheelchair over to my closet; and with both hands, I slide the closet door open. In front of me, one blue military uniform with all my medals and ribbons. I should burn it. I hate the damn thing. I extend a hand and reach to the right of my uniform, pulling a white lab coat off the hanger. My damn hands are shaking again. I hate it when my hands shake. I hate it because I know it's my daughters' fault. It's all the mixed emotions of seeing someone you used to raise—who seduced you at your darkest hour, and then embedded that relationship deep into your heart until it became one with your heart.
That was the pain I felt when I finally sent her back to Parlem. When I finally saw the light. The sacrifice I made, to make her better--at my expense.
I can just hope now, that the Olivia I see today, is not the same woman I sent away a few years back.
I can only hope she's as healthy, and strong, and independant as ever. So that men as fucked as me, will never hurt her.
And she will never use fucked up men.
Can I just die now?
No? and why not? In what world did you God decide that I, the shittiest human in existence, must continue to live?
Is it because there is no peace in living?
Is it because I refuse to pull the trigger on myself?
Because after all those who died on the battlefield—the true heroes—must live through me?
Or is it because I don't deserve the peace of pulling the trigger. Instead I must suffer like the masochistic human being I am.
And I deserve to suffer. For everything I've done—I'm the last person who deserves mercy.
I put on my lab coat; pulling my mind from those dark thoughts.
I can taste the chalk of pills, and my body's immediate reaction to swallow.
* * *
I open my door and roll into the hallway. Two fresh lines of recruits all wearing shaggy, robin egg blue uniforms stand at their respective doors. Their shoulders and knees patched up with slightly discolored fabric. They all stare ahead, eye to eye; pride dripping from their eyes. Behind them, on their individual cubicle doors, the names of yesterday have been replaced. I'm not surprised. The United Universe moves quickly to replace the dead. And when you live in a metal cubicle for your whole life; they're not lacking in potential recruits. At this point, the Moon is an army's oasis. A meat machine for human beings to drop to Earth. At my presence, the recruits stiffen up their backs. They're nervous. A walking legend is in their presence. They know I'm judging them.
All ofthem. Because their idiots. I don't think I can say it enough.
They're all idiots. All of them. All misguided fools.
Because of me.
How many days does it take to realize you will die?
Do you see this wheelchair? My frail legs? DO YOU KNOW WHAT EARTH TOOK FROM ME?
But it's what it didn't take, isn't it, that excites you? Because here I am. . . still living!q
I want to scream. I want them to think about their life choice; to visualize their death in the eyes of the enemy.
I want them to listen to my wheelchair that squeaks and squabbles on the not so perfect axel. I hope that dreaded; annoying sound wakes them up to really think. To visualize death.
Because while these recruits know that signing the dotted line means death.
The idea of death is still abstract. The idea of pain, nonexistent.
The idea of being stepped on, torn apart, or blown to smithereens—you can't simulate that. Because if you could, then all those excited to go to war wouldn't visit it.
I approach the elevator, reach out and press the G button.
To my right, I notice the eyes of one recruit. He has brown hair. He is not looking ahead at his partner as he should, but down at me.
Degrade.
"You are?"
The recruit's pupils grow to the size of his head.
"I—I'm Recruit Daniel, C57 962 489," he says; swallowing his baseball of an Adam's apple.
"Do me a favour, boy,"
He's flustered.
"Ye-Yes sir."
"Tomorrow you will push this button for me, and the next day, and every day after that until your pre-funeral. You hear me?"
He salutes,
"Yes, sir!"
"Now I leave you with this, Daniel. Tonight, I want you to ask yourself how many people you think pushed this button for me, before your recruitment. And how many recruits will do the same after you die."
The elevator dings, and the door slides open.
I roll inside and rotate the wheelchair around to face the recruits. Before the door shuts, I raise my hand in Salute.
"May your death be painless, Gents."
In unison, the recruits stomp their feet together, and salute back.
"SIR!" the floor echoes.
The elevator slides to close. I drop my hand to my side; tears sprouting from my eyes.
The elevator door shuts completely.
I don't understand why Jaycee hits such a nerve, as he isn't anything special. . . nor was the boy who pushed the button before Jaycee came along.
And yet, the faces are all a blur—except for good ol' Jaycee. So perhaps I'm wrong when I say he isn't anything special. Because he's left an impression on me, enough that I care for him as a son I never had.
A son I will never have again; even though in my heart of hearts I believe he is alive out there on Earth. After all, he has the best chance in the only United Universe. I pulled many strings to get him under Captain Ealy, a hero in his own right during the Colony wars. In most cases, you can argue Ealy is the original living legend. During the Colony wars he was able to one shot one kill over four dozen mechanical pilots of the Anchoras. Bear in mind however, back then, Mechanical Pilots consisted of piloting a fifteen-foot metal tank that scuttled across the Martian soil with metal tracks instead of two legs. A far cry from the current M series 10 on Earth.
However, I will say having some experience in fighting machines is better than none.
At least I tell myself that, so I can sleep knowing Jaycee is in good hands in Paradise.
Paradise. The only place where you will hear and see wildlife; and smell something other than one thousand-year-old recycled air. So I get Jaycee, I do.
And I hate it.