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Decipio Umbra by Archangel 7
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Decipio Umbra: Chapter One, Part One
Date: 29 December 2006, 3:14 am
Geneses
A thunderous explosion rocked the ground beneath him. His eyelids instinctively parted, revealing the bright afternoon sun hanging helplessly in the sky above. He winced and turned away, struggling to overcome the sudden onset of delirium swelling within him. He could hear voices surrounding him. His ears could not discern the nuances of their speech, but he knew that he could hear voices, the voices of men screaming and crying in pain. Behind them, he could hear the clatter of gunfire and the distant beat of artillery, distorted by his current state. He opened his eyes again, finding his pupils adjusting to the penetrating white light.
Reality returned with a sickening jolt. His hearing came with an unforgiving crack, sending sharp bolts of pain coursing through his inner ear. He clasped both hands to the sides of his skull and jolted upright. The first sight he caught between the ribbons of smoke around him seemed to be the charred ruins of a veranda, just like–
Just like the one in front of his old house.
He turned in place to see an angular two-story dwelling dominating a square of burning grass and scorched concrete. An entire side of the structure was demolished, leaving only the skeletal framework to bare against the world. Burn marks and patches of flame pockmarked the inner walls. Smoke, like a swarm of locusts, erupted from the interior and swelled around him. All sound suddenly dropped, seemingly helpless against the cloud engulfing him.
Out of the whirlwind of smoke stepped a large, dark figure. It towered above him, its presence both contemplating and malicious. The blue-black plating that covered its body glistened in the circle of light still glowing overhead. Slowly, the figure reached a nebulous hand toward him, and his head suddenly flooded with memories, memories of blood, memories of his parents, memories of that singular, destructive force–
"Johnson?"
"Johnson!"
First Lieutenant Arnold Johnson's mind reeled back to earth. He found himself sitting before a large wooden desk with his head resting in the moist pads of his palms. He snapped his face up to meet eyes with Lieutenant Colonel Jason Smith, whose angular face stared at him from across the cluttered cherry-oak slab with a stern, yet concerned expression.
"I-I didn't hear you enter, sir," said Johnson.
"No apology needed," replied Smith, waving down Johnson's salute. "This place looks like hell," he commented as he pulled up a chair from across the room.
"Not to be frank, sir, but you didn't give me a hell of a lot of time to cozy up the place."
"Still the little hothead, eh, Johnson?" remarked Smith, with a grimace. He sat down, removing his uniform cap to reveal his silvering hair and a line of gnarled scars running across his forehead.
"It's a lot better than being a pissant, you have to admit." Smith scoffed at the reply. "What business brings you to my office?"
"I have some news for you, Johnson."
"Some damn good news, I hope." Arnold began to gather the belongings on his desk and arrange them into some semblance of order.
"Yes, well, you may think of this as bad news, but your company has been rejected the assignment to Vindicaire."
"I'm crushed. Any idea why?"
"Well, that would be mostly due to my intervention." The rustle of Johnson's hands rearranging his belongings ceased.
"Your intervention, sir?"
"Yes." Smith repositioned his legs. "I withdrew your application for the reassignment yesterday. It seems that a more…intriguing opportunity for Charlie company has arisen."
"Do tell," Johnson replied.
"Well, NavSpecWep is cooking something up. I was approached by a representative of theirs about a week ago offering me this assignment. I can't get into the specifics, but they're developing something, something big. It's not like…well, any damned thing I've seen before."
Johnson hesitated. His instinct told him to approach this situation with caution. Being one who survived several near-impossible incidents with only his rifle and his intuition, he was not one to take the warning lightly. NavSpecWep held close ties to the Office of Naval Intelligence, enough so that the mere mention of the department would spark a sense of wariness in even the most serene. "Tell me, sir, what exactly are they planning for the Archangels?"
"Consider it a, um, proof of concept project. You're going to be subjected to a series of tests, evaluate a line of new equipment and –"
"You're taking our men away from active duty…to be glorified guinea pigs?"
A grim look crossed Smith's reddening face. "No, Johnson. You know I wouldn't have given you this opportunity unless I felt it was damned important." Smith said no more. Nor did he need to.
"It's settled then."
"Good. We'll speak more on this tomorrow."
Decipio Umbra, Chapter One Part Two
Date: 22 March 2007, 10:00 pm
Geneses [Part 2]
Considering the location, Major Winston Lanford found the building to be exceptionally stunning. The combination of a striking pyramid construction and the general feel of modern grandeur amidst the dusty environs of Old Miami raised the building to an elevated, even transcendent standing. Undeserving, he thought, were those people, shuffling in crowds of cheap-suited strangers in and out of the building through the daily grind of meetings and coffee runs punctuating the corporate work day. A few looked at him, staring for a moment before glancing at their watch and returning to their own encapsulated worlds. Such apathy, such carelessness for the world outside of an endless cycle of bed and office, was why Winston had never joined the faceless ranks of the corporate machine. Maybe he was undeserving as well, but at least his ambitions were driven by something higher than a bigger paycheck.
He pushed through the light crowd, clutching a faux leather briefcase in his left hand and the pistol concealed in his pocket with his right. The outfit seemed like a pitiful attempt to fit in, with a cheap shirt and tie tucked under an equally inferior brown overcoat, a pair of black-framed eyeglasses, and the briefcase, but the overall effect rendered him surprisingly anonymous. Anonymity was his objective; he was a face to be seen, but never remembered.
Lanford cycled through the revolving door, entering a cavernous foyer with grey-marbled floors. The reception desk mounted in the center of the room glinted with the combined power of fluorescent lights and a spotless stainless-steel paneling. The raw majesty of the outer construction belied this, a gaudy attempt at sophistication and modern styling. Disappointed but otherwise nonchalant, Lanford continued on past the reception desk. Never looking up from the filing of her prim, manicured nails, the receptionist did not notice his passage.
Trudging alongside weary passengers, he made his way to the elevator, and entered through the aluminum doors. Stuffed inside the six-by-six-by-eight cell with ten other passengers, Winston felt absolutely smothered in a cloud of white-collar trash and fifty-cent bathroom cologne. Disgust could be stifled for as long as Winston needed but the disgust remained.
Floor by floor the passengers slowly disseminated, until finally Winston was left alone. He searched the rows of opaque buttons on the floor indicator until he found one marked with a gold-colored brass tag etched with the symbol "B3." He pressed it.
The lift slowed to a halt as it approached the third basement level below Rotham Bank. Nearly four stories of concrete and steel lay above Winston, though the representative security offered him no comfort. The seedy roots of the city were a place for rats and criminals, not someone like himself. But, he had agreed to the location, and if anyone was not worth angering, it was Ackerson.
The doors parted, revealing a dank, dimly-lit passageway lined by a cracked concrete wall on the left and a chain-link fence on the right. Winston entered apprehensively, looking into the dark void beyond the fence, where the weak overhead light failed to penetrate. He tossed the briefcase aside, its purpose served, and gripped the pistol tightly in his sweaty right fist. Still hesitant, he glanced at the watch clasped around his left wrist and saw the hands slowly ticking closer to the 12:15 deadline for his appearance. "Well, the Colonel likes punctuality," he said, unconscious of his own vocalization. Lanford proceeded down the passageway, which ended with a single aluminum door set into yet another concrete wall. He tried the door, but the knob stayed stationary as he turned it. "Goddammit," he muttered, twisting the knob angrily in his hand. "Where is that bastard when you need him?"
"Angry, are we?"
Winston drew his pistol and aimed it into the darkened void. Someone had followed him. He didn't know who, and what interest they would have in his affairs, but he'd be damned if they sabotaged his plans. The voice had come from somewhere inside the darkened room but exactly where was anyone's guess. He released the safety and gazed intently into the darkness. "Who's there?" His voice resonated through the room. "Show yourself!"
"Now, now, there's no need for threats," the voice continued. "I'm sure you'd rather talk than wave a gun at something you can't see."
"What the hell makes you think I would talk to you?"
"Because, Winston, I'm the ticket to your future."
Somewhere above him, Winston could hear a vague click followed immediately by a distant buzzing that soon came to fill the entire room. Fluorescent lights began to cast their ghostly glow upon the darkness, revealing a large glass-and-metal bulk seated below him on what appeared to be a small set of subway tracks. Before the tramcar was the silhouetted figure of a man. His features were still hidden by the dimness of the lighting, but Winston immediately recognized the sense of ambitious fear and insecurity this man seemed to generate. The man walked to the edge of the platform and lifted himself to the concrete, uttering a slight groan as he did. He made his way to the fence that separated them directed Winston to the gate at the other end. After removing the electric padlock, the man started back toward the tramcar. "Come, Winston," he said, "Take a ride with me."
Winston could remember the shouting. Piercing shrills of laughter echoed back to him from across the void of time and maturity, pecking at him like some impatient vulture of a memory. His father, tall, dark, dressed in modest work clothes, laughed along with him, or rather, his child avatar. He felt his father's shoulder below his stomach, holding him high in the air as he pretended to soar among the clouds, laughing at and in spite of the dreadful world below. It had always been his mission, so he thought, to save that world. He wanted to be a liberator, a strong and victorious hero to the people, who might not always get his man but always got the girl. He couldn't accept a romanticized fantasy, he wanted this illusion to be real.
Reality, however, always took a different turn. Winston never liberated more people than he had ended up killing, couldn't lift more than ninety-two kilos to save his life, and hadn't had a date in years. His childhood avatar would have shunned what he would become rather than accept it, let alone respect it. Winston desperately needed the drive and will to be great, to become better than the status quo, but the circumstance of his own nature never allowed him that quality. That was always true of people, wasn't it? Unless you were already some kind of goddamned superhero, you would never become one.
Winston gazed out the window as the tunnel came rushing past. Here and there, he would catch glimpses of another area, somewhere beyond the narrow tunnel the tram was now speeding through, though he was too distracted to make any sense of it. More than once he could have sworn he had seen some sort of machines inside those rooms, but common sense had the better of him.
Ackerson, standing near the front of the tram facing the front viewport, turned his head to speak. "Major?" he said.
"Yes, sir?"
"Tell me, do you believe in God?"
"Well, I was raised Catholic…"
"That's not what I asked."
Winston hesitated. "Yes, yes I do," he finally said.
"You believe in His forgiveness, correct?"
"Yes sir."
"Good," Ackerson muttered. "Very good."
The tram continued in silence, speeding its way through the underbelly of Miami, through a place Winston never thought existed. None of the city's histories he had read ever mentioned an underground such as this. This railway, though ostensibly without purpose, must have cost a small fortune to construct. Indeed, the railway must have served some purpose aside from ferrying a visionary and a shady Colonel to a hidden location, Winston reasoned. The question of why would need to be answered by Ackerson, and a question like that would likely be answered with a bullet. Only one more reason never to trust the man.
"One minute to your destination, sir," announced a voice over the car's intercom.
"Prepare the station for our arrival," the Colonel answered. "Everything's in order, Captain, correct?"
"It's just as you left it, sir."
"Hmm…" The minute passed without a further word between the two. Winston continued to look out the window, seeing nothing but the blur of the wall they passed. People always commented on this habit, calling him a daydreamer or a wandering fool, but strangely Ackerson remained quiet. Of all people, Winston expected a comment from him, but no further words were exchanged until finally they came upon another station, identical to the one Winston had boarded from.
"Now, Major, before we discuss the terms of our deal, I have several things that I need to show you," Ackerson finally said.
"I'm fine with that." Dreamer they may have called him, but would those naysayers, those cynics, believe he would be the one to change the course of their future? The circumstances of his nature may have never given him the superhuman will to change humanity, but he would be damned if that would stop him now.
Decipio Umbra Chapter 2: In Tergus Pennae
Date: 27 July 2007, 7:07 am
In Tergus Pennae
"TS-Seven-One, you are cleared for landing. Begin sequence when ready."
Colonel Jason Froman stood silent in the flight control tower, watching as the arriving Pelican dipped from the sky in a sluggish crawl. The thrusters propelled scalding air onto the tarmac, slowing its descent until finally the landing gear of the lumbering aircraft connected with concrete. The muted roar of the engines slowed as the rear hatch began to separate from the hull.
As the ramp continued lowering itself, a figure clad in a nondescript gray flight suit emerged, leaping from the ramp to the ground before the plate of titanium and steel halted. To Froman the man appeared as nothing more than a gray blemish on a sea of lighter shades, but the blemish drew an exasperating amount of attention to itself, brazenly ignoring the welcoming committee and security officers as if their only purpose of existence was to be a hindrance. In an instant, Jason understood why the senior officers vehemently loathed this man.
Jason left the flight coordinators to their business and started toward the elevator. Though thirty-nine, bordering on his eighteenth year of service, with grey flecks pockmarking his comely dark brown hair, he had no denials about his reckless early years. In fact, he regarded the cocky rebel as a universal archetype, less a cliché than a role every man was destined to play.
Of course, a man of that type in any position of authority and experience would be infinitely more dangerous than any rookie could ever be.
He punched the key on the elevator's panel that would take him to ground level and receded to the center of the lift. If there were any way that man could become what he was needed to become Jason needed to find it, and quickly.
Major Arnold Johnson stepped into the small lift, set in an inconspicuous concrete pillbox at the edge of the base. Camp Davidson, at least as far as the public was concerned, stood as little more than an outpost for the local UNSC security wing. The only buildings pockmarking the relatively small rectangle of concrete were several hangars, a row of barracks, and an administrative office. There were few embellishments to suggest it was anything but an afterthought in the UNSC's agenda. In fact, as far as Johnson could tell the only suspicious aspect to the base's design was its location: the most remote island in a small chain of volcanic landmasses.
Of course, the UNSC could easily explain this away. Dragonhead, since its discovery, had been labeled as a 'miracle of nature;' the planet had a near-Earth level of livability, and the first colonists found the magnificent natural wonders - as well as the lack of effort needed in terraformation- quite appealing. Colonization boomed and Dragonhead found itself with more capital than it knew what to do with. It soon also found itself with an image as a refuge for the rich, famous or infamous, as well as a popular vacation spot for the few who could afford the travel.
Despite its large economy, the UN found it particularly low in resources considered important, namely titanium, and with such a large civilian population the local commanding officers received an abundance of payoffs to let illegal activities slide. Thus, it garnered little security attention from the military and was considered of minimal strategic value. Johnson didn't know of a better place to set up a little cloak-and-dagger operation.
After several minutes of descent, the doors of the lift parted, giving way to a small white-walled seating area. Johnson glanced dazedly around, half surprised at the morbidly dull setting.
"Is something wrong?" Johnson looked for the source of the voice and found it sitting upon one of the benches adjusting its wire-rim glasses.
"I'm fine," Arnold replied. "I guess I should have expected this level of courtesy from the UNSC."
The other man smiled, rising from his seat and walking toward Johnson. "Colonel Jason Froman," he said, offering his hand. "I'm the CO of the Research and Engineering teams here in The Pit." Johnson took the man's hand and shook it coldly. "Don't worry, the tour will get much better from here."
"Tour?" Johnson replied. "No offence, sir, but I came here with the expectation to work, not follow along with such petty formalities." Johnson could see the growing frustration dwelling beneath the Colonel's surface demeanor, but the look failed to intimidate him.
"I insist," the Colonel said, with the slightest twinge of anger accenting his voice. "The happenings around here are much, much larger than the bit of desk work you're used to. You're going to be responsible for the years and months of work we put into this, so I strongly suggest you get familiar with your surroundings very quickly, and recognize who's in ultimately charge here."
Johnson growled a bit under his breath, but relented. "If you insist."
"Good. Now follow me." Johnson followed Jason through a door opposite the lift. They continued along a hallway. The corridors of the facility were eerily sterile, and devoid of any signs of life. Many of the doors they passed seemed identical, save for the numbers and plaques affixed to them. The effect was mildly unsettling, though Johnson ignored it as best he could.
"Do you know about the history of this place?" asked Jason, after what seemed like an eternity of silence. Arnold shook his head.
"Only the basics. I've never heard the full story."
"We started six years ago, back in 'twenty-five when the Spartan Project was moving into Project MJOLNIR-"
"Spartan Project?"
"You haven't been briefed on the classified files yet, have you? In any case, the Spartan Project was a Navy project, initiated as a way to ensure the UNSC's hold on the colonies was kept intact. Back in the good old days, we didn't have enough manpower to deal with any troublemakers who might have been looking to start up a coup. So, instead they found these kids - less than a hundred, if I remember correctly- who were as close to genetically perfect as possible. They took these kids, and trained them. Not just physically, either, but in every goddamned aspect of the military. Then they changed them. Muscle augmentations, skeletal carbide ossification, neural enhancements- I don't even know everything they did to them. They were made to be some sort of black-ops strike team, very secretive, very effective." The pair stopped as they arrived at a sealed metal door, rather like something one would expect from the interior of a Navy vessel.
"Sounds. . . different."
"Indeed. Anyway, we started after NavSpecWar green-lighted development of a powered armor system for these 'Spartans,' they also began another project. After Harvest and the Outer Colonies started falling, the higher-ups decided that the Corps, though we could give the Covies a hell of a fight, were far too outmatched to win this new war. They also knew from the beginning that there weren't enough Spartans to fight a drawn-out conflict. They needed better troops, Corps-wide. Now, this is where I came in."
Jason turned to face a panel next to the door and punched in a short series of numbers. "I proposed a solution. No, compromise is more like it. I proposed a compromise between the training of a Spartan and that of a standard Marine." He waved his hand, signaling Johnson to continue through the door. He entered, and found himself on a small walkway, separated from the open white room surrounding it by sealed double-pane windows on two sides. "This," Jason continued, "Is the culmination of every hour spent on making that proposal a reality." Below, a group of people entered through a door resembling the one he had just passed. Every inch of their bodies were covered by identical sterile suits, and each of their faces where concealed by featureless polarized visors. They moved to their individual work stations with a near-autonomic precision, with a seeming disregard for anything but their work.
It was then that Johnson's attention was drawn to a series of glass tubes lining the left wall. Suspended inside, floating immobile in a blue-hued solution like cadavers, were men.
"What. . . What the hell are you doing here?"
"As I was saying," replied Jason without the marked surprise Johnson's voice had, "This is one of the neuro-muscular enhancement chambers." He turned to face the tubes. "We have six of them. Within those suspension compartments we remotely administer protein complexes that increase muscle capacity and endurance tenfold. We surgically implant miniature cybernetic neuron-impulse controllers that enhance reaction speed, coordination, and memory. This is, of course, in addition to several processes which I'm afraid I can't discuss. In short, we take humans, and make them into something much more.
"Of course, this is just bare-bones stuff compared to the Spartan Project. But, as I said, this was a compromise. That project had less than a fifty-percent success rate. As you can imagine, we need a few more men to survive this process, and as of right now we have nearly an eighty percent success rate. Now, let's move on, shall we?"
The words Jason spoke reached cold ears as they exited through another door at the end of the walkway. Arnold couldn't help feeling as though he was in an amusement park watching animatronic displays in each chamber they passed. The entire area exuded an aura of lifelessness, seeming much like an elaborate science fiction story. It was more of a surreal fantasy than a solid reality.
Questions nagged his mind to the point of becoming a flittering array of nonsense, but Johnson still retained enough self control to muster some semblance of apathy. He bit the inside of his cheek, not enough to change expression but enough to be of comfort. Most might have called this a nervous habit, but to Johnson such things were nonexistent. 'Nervous' was not a recognizable state to him. However, fear was. Not fear in the sense of cowardice, but a much more primal impulse, triggering vehement urges in his muscles for movement. He knew the involuntary biting carried more urgency than the action itself let on.
He gazed into one of the tanks again. The body within floated silently. It's eyes were rolled back, leaving only spheres of white in the open sockets. The body was completely rid of hair. Protruding from multiple points on the body were tubes, streaming wildly to whatever infernal machines the scientists had in store. The man inside was helpless, completely at the whim of those who were, for all intents and purposes, mad.
Why would anyone force such change upon someone? Giving them a fighting chance against an unforgiving enemy was one thing, but Johnson couldn't help but find something monstrous about this ordeal. Taking a man's body and making it something else seemed almost in violation of the man's nature itself. He wanted to back out, reserve the 'honor' for someone else, but-
But no. He had promised Smith that he would take responsibility for the assignment. He couldn't forgive himself if he backed down from a promise, no matter what situation it placed him in. However, there was one request that he felt needed to be made.
"Listen, Colonel," said Johnson, as the pair finally made their way out into an office corridor. Jason stopped, and turned as Johnson spoke. "My men will arrive in less than an hour. I don't know the extent of what you're doing here, and frankly, I don't want to know. But this. . . This 'enhancement' is what you're planning on doing to them, yes?"
Jason nodded, his eyes still half-closed.
"I want part in it."
The Colonel's eyes opened slightly.
"It may seem odd, sure, but what kind of leader would I be if I left them to die in a lab while I watch from behind some desk, far away? Besides," he said, "I wouldn't mind killing a few more Covies before I retire."
This time, the man's eyes reflected a hint of amusement. "If you insist."
"I'm glad that you're taking this upon yourself," said Colonel James Ackerson. "It's not easy going against what others think is the better path."
"I'm not seeking anyone's favor," replied Winston, "Only to do the right thing."
"I can't think of a better cause," said Ackerson. "High Command might think that pushing something military-wide will solve their problems, but we simply don't have the resources. What they need is time, not a pipe dream leading us into oblivion." Distant, far away in the tunnel, the muffled whine of the tram's engines broke through the void silence of the underground. "If they need more Spartans, I'll give them more Spartans."
Ackerson lifted the large suitcase he had been toting since the two had left his office and handed it to Winston. "See to it personally that the package reaches its destination. We can't afford another chance at this."
Winston took the case and set it beside him. "I will." He glanced down at the case, then returned his gaze to Ackerson. "If it's not too much to ask, I'd like to know what's inside of this."
"A set of forged cease-and-desist order from Command and a bribe, in case the CO doesn't buy the cover."
"A bribe? Mind if I take a look?"
Ackerson hesitated, unsure. Finally, appearing as though he was reminded of some long forgotten detail, he gave in. "Only if you vow on your grave never to speak about it or show it to another living soul." Winston nodded, and set the case on its side. He inserted the small key Ackerson had included with the package into the corresponding slot on the case's lock and popped it open.
He lifted the lid to reveal a gigantic crystal, set in a pocket of foam padding. The crystal was nearly opaque, smoky grey and with astoundingly precise edges. A line of ruby-colored stones had been set into the crystal on one facet. The stones were aligned in angular shapes- almost as if they were some sort of lettering. Deep inside, it seemed, they glowed dimly, not enough to radiate through the chamber but enough to break the darkness. "Beautiful,' Winston mouthed before slamming and locking the case.
The tram reeled to a halt at the platform, signaling Winston's time for departure. "It's been a pleasure knowing you," said Ackerson to Winston as he stepped aboard the train. He nodded back, unsure of what to make of the Colonel's farewell as he settled into his seat.
Decipio Umbra Chapter Three: Mortuus Vir
Date: 10 August 2007, 5:58 am
Mortuus Vir
It shouldn't have happened this way, however substantial the risks involved in the project had been. Twenty-seven urns lay dormant in a storage room, hidden below the surface in their unceremonial resting place between the incinerator and the families waiting for the news on their beloved. Letters had been sent to them, cold and formal in their language, disclosing the false 'truths' about the men's deaths. To everyone else in the universe, the men had died in fiery combat on the world of Somnis, and their bodies had been respectfully cremated to spare their relative's eyes the brutality the Covenant were capable of. The few who knew the true extent of their heroism resided now in a secret bunker, one aptly labeled "The Pit."
Johnson bowed his head solemnly. The morose ceremony was finished, and at the moment there was no business to concern him. Above him the stadium roof seemed to stretch for an eternity in darkness. Only the radiant lights shining upon the floor betrayed the true size of the room, standing no more than twenty feet overhead.
A door opened above the rows of seats. Johnson gazed up in time to see a silhouette emerging before the door slammed shut, hiding it in shadow. From above the clicks of feet rambling across the concrete floor reverberated through the hall. The clicks descended, stopping as they became level with the ground.
"How are you taking it, Major?"
Johnson shrugged. "The after-effects are still getting to me, and I'm still trying to walk without feeling as though I'm going to trip over my own feet-"
"That's not quite what I was asking," said Jason.
"Oh," he said, "That." He sighed heavily. "I'm not sure what to think. Some part of me sees this as a twisted form of organized treachery, but another wants to see what good can come of this, how it's necessary."
"It's not easy giving them up, is it?"
"That's what happens in a war," Johnson replied. "Shit happens, people die, right? They were willing, and they payed the full price for the chance to save humanity."
"You sound like a recruiting poster."
Johnson scowled. "Maybe I just believe in the abilities of the normal man." He walked away, heading toward the wall. He struggled to keep his gait even, although every step he took seemed to arrive too quickly or with an unsettling force. "It's not as though I haven't lost men before. My company was stationed on Moebious for six months before the Covenant decided they wanted to glass the place. We managed to hold them off for three weeks until the locals could evacuate, digging our heels into every little position we could find. We damn near lost the entire company; only seven of us were alive when we finally jetted off." He scoffed. "And to think, they had the gall to call us seven lonely Archangels the 'heroes.'"
"Well, the 177th did manage to save millions of lives. You can't be disappointed about that, can you?"
"I suppose not. But to me, they were just statistics. I can't say I wasn't glad that so many survived, but it cost me a over a hundred men. These were guys I knew since I enlisted in the Airborne, guys I had seen through basic. It doesn't matter which way you look at it, there's no real replacement for them."
Johnson stopped, his head suddenly reeling in disorientation. Jason stepped beside him, looking into Arnold's eyes as he spoke. "There's one question I have to ask you."
"Shoot."
"What would you give to keep millions of men like the ones you knew from sharing their fate?"
Johnson shrugged. "I suppose just about anything."
"Then you can see the worth of this program. It's not just about classified experiments and top-secret labs. It's about giving men a better chance of making it home. It's about giving us time."
"And you say I sound like a propaganda poster." Jason cracked a smile, but the expression soon faded.
"I have another question to ask you." Johnson cocked his eyebrow and nodded. "Why do you value your men so much?"
"It's. . . it's complicated," Johnson answered. His gaze dropped to the floor. "This morning I went to see Private Morrison, one of the recruits who was subject to your 'side effects.' The kid was diagnosed with a fatal cardiac enlargement, and there was nothing the doctors could do but keep him comfortable. So I decided to check on him, comfort him as much as a cynical bastard like myself could.
"The head nurse escorted me through the ward. On both sides I could see the bodies, lined up in their little cubbyholes, each of them covered head to toe in white sheets, waiting for their rides to the morgue. I had trouble telling if some of them were even human. They had limbs twisting around in these sickening, god-awful ways. And the smell. . . oh God, it smelled like caking blood, vomit, and. . . ugh, I don't want to think about it. I've been through three campaigns and never smelled something like this. It was like the atmosphere was trying to clog my lungs in decay. I just couldn't believe what I was seeing. This kid had only held out this long because he hadn't been through the worst.
"Morrison was always the kind of guy who you think would've played starting linebacker in high school. You know the kind: tan, buff, thought he was on top of the world because he could get a few sluts to sleep with him. Here I wouldn't have seen him if the nurse didn't point him out to me. His skin was pale, almost chalky. It was like all the blood had been drained out of him. Not only that, but he was skinny. Not starved skinny, but anyone could see the bones jutting out behind his skin.
"'How's it going,' I said. He turned over and groaned, then looked up at me. Well, he would have been, if he had the strength to open his eyes.
"'Not bad, Major,' he said. It was then I knew he hadn't been told the big news. Like hell I was going to tell him. So instead I told him that he would be would probably be on leave soon, and he could go back to see his family and get out of this hell-hole.'My family hates me,' he says, 'but I wouldn't mind going back and seeing Altiar again. I want to see the open fields again, and I wouldn't mind seeing the block again.' He goes on about how the 'wheat blows around in the wind like a sheet of gold,' and how he wanted to really get serious with a girl for once. All of a sudden he just breaks out in tears, and he turns away form me like he's ashamed of what he's doing. He just keeps sobbing, and sobbing. I wanted to say something, but I knew it wouldn't help. This kid knew he was going to die anyway. He was alone, even with me standing two feet away from him. He was alone with the eighteen years he had to live. Eighteen years isn't a life; it's hardly the beginning of one. But somehow it was slipping away from him, second by second. Finally he stopped crying, and his body went limp. I called out for a doctor, but it was too late. I didn't know what to do; I couldn't stand there with my legs shaking in rage, I couldn't just revile fate for killing off another innocent. But all I did was stand there and look at his face, cold and still wet with his tears.
"I don't know what it was about that kid. Maybe the way he described his home reminded me what it was like on Darmus before. . . before it was glassed. Maybe it was the fact that he was a cocky son-of-a-bitch. Maybe it's just me. But somehow, I knew down inside that the kid didn't just remind me of me, he was me, in a way. That's why I couldn't stand losing him."
They stood silent for a moment, staring blankly at the polished floor behind them. "You know," said Jason, "When they first sent you to me, I didn't think you were cut out for the job. Frankly, I thought the last thing on your mind would be your men. I assumed you were like all the others, obsessed with your own glory, making a hero of yourself while everyone else dies. Now, I think, they might have found someone right for the job."
"Well, I'm glad to be of service," Johnson replied, with a hint of cynicism returning to his voice.
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