Phoenix Rising (Book Two of The Icarus Trilogy) (32 page)

“I haven’t accepted it Franklyn,” Douglas started, his brow furrowing and his tone filled with a low burn.  It suddenly hit Douglas that he shouldn’t continue in his usual sarcastic manner.  He only had a day left to live; he might as well be honest in that last day.  “I just wasn’t paying attention to you.”  Franklyn stopped pouring coffee into his mug and turned to face the announcer.  He had never heard Douglas talk like that and as a result his face was filled with confusion.

“What?  Douglas, what are you talking about?”  The television anchor seemed genuinely hurt by Douglas’ statement and that made the announcer wonder why he had never done it sooner.  He hadn’t realized that Franklyn’s ego was so fragile.

“I never really pay attention to any of you guys, but especially you and Samantha.  My God, Frank,” Douglas said, bringing his left hand to his temple and supporting some of the weight of his head.  “Do you realize how
stupid
and
obnoxious
the two of you are?”  Franklyn could only shake his head in shock and lean back against the counter.  He held his half-filled coffee mug in two hands and looked straight into Douglas’ bitter eyes.

“Where is this coming from, Doug?  I never got the impression that you didn’t like us,” Franklyn said, unable to comprehend the ire coming from the overweight man sitting in front of him.  “I mean, we’re just acting up there, you know?  I don’t believe any of that stuff, and you know I don’t talk like that outside of the program or media appearances,” the anchor continued, the only thing reminiscent of his television personality being his appearance.  Douglas rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair.

“How can you not get it, Frank?” Douglas asked, feeling within himself a rage that he had always kept buried underneath layers of repression and dismissal.  “
That’s
the part that bugs me.  We all know that Samantha is an idiot, but you, Franklyn?  You’re actually a bright guy.  When you were hired I thought that maybe, just maybe I didn’t have to hate all of you guys up there.  But you went and fucked all of that up,” Douglas said, the disdain and disapproval clear on his face.  Franklyn could only breathe out in indignation.

“It’s just a show, Dou-” Franklyn started, but Douglas jumped out of his seat and landed right in front of the black man.  He shoved his finger right up to Franklyn’s face and felt a vein bulge out of his neck.

“It’s
NOT
just a show, Frank!  Yeah, we might think it’s entertainment and all those folks in the slums might eat that shit up, but people are DYING, Frank!  What we do is sell mass-murder day after day and for what?  A
paycheck?
  I’m guilty of it, too, Frank, but with your charisma and your education you could have done something
useful
with your life instead of playing into stereotypes,” Douglas said, towering over Franklyn, who sank against the counter with every statement.  The effeminate man was frightened by the display and almost couldn’t comprehend Douglas’ words.  Only his denial kept him from realizing that every single word was true.

“L-look, Doug, I know it’s not ideal…”

“IDEAL?!  You want to talk about ideal?  It’s nowhere fucking
close
to ideal, Frank.  Hell, the only ones up there who have anything close to …” Douglas started, ready to throw Eric’s actions into the coward’s face, but then thought better of it.  He couldn’t give away their secret just yet.  Douglas breathed in and looked into Franklyn’s frightened eyes.  “The only one up there who has anything close to integrity is Patrick, Frank,” the announcer said in a much softer voice.  He was in control, now, but he still had so much to say to the coward in front of him.

“He wasn’t ashamed to admit who he was; he wasn’t ashamed to say that he didn’t measure up.  He fought his wars and won, but he wasn’t proud of it.  He thinks of himself as a murderer, and maybe,” Douglas said, looking past Franklyn towards the coffee machine, but he wasn’t looking at that, either.  He was thinking about his own life; his own mistakes.  Douglas looked back at the black man cowering away from him.

“Maybe we are, too.  In our own special ways, Frank.  Maybe we have blood on our hands just because of this show.  Yeah, we didn’t kill anybody, but we’re making it popular.  And,” Douglas said as he backed off from the television anchor and unclenched his fists, which he hadn’t even realized he had been squeezing so hard.  He looked down at the floor and breathed in deeply before looking back at Franklyn Stone.  “Maybe we’re murderers just because we didn’t do anything to stop it.”

Douglas knew what he had to do; he knew that the next day wasn’t going to be as bad as he had thought.  His stomach was no longer sick and he felt at peace.  He turned his back on the television anchor and headed to the door of the break room, but was halted by the tremors of Franklyn’s voice.

“Well, what can we do about it, Doug?  When will we ever get a chance?”  Douglas turned back to see Franklyn standing back up to his full height and the announcer almost laughed.  The television anchor held a dozen centimeters and just as many extra kilograms of muscle on the overweight announcer, but Douglas had easily cowed the man into submission.  Douglas sighed and shrugged before placing his hand on the doorframe.

“Maybe we won’t.  The only important thing is that if we get one, we take it for all it’s worth.”

-

The hand was too old; weathered without ever being used.  The veins were standing out and Carver wondered how his hands had ever gotten this bad.  As the old man held his hand in the air he could see it trembling.  Carver could suddenly feel each day of his sixty years rushing by and he realized that nothing important had ever happened.  He had fought and died in wars of no consequence and his only major achievements were highlight reels and action figures.  He was so disappointed he couldn’t even bring himself to sigh.

Carver could see the Earth framed behind the Crows’ barracks.  He had died once more and had been brought back to Hell.  There was only about a day and a half before the EFI would make their move.  Just one more game until the bloody revolution would begin.  Carver could see it now; his legacy as a sports hero tarnished by one last act of rebellion.  He knew that it wouldn’t matter at all.

“Carver.”  The old hero’s brow furrowed at the name.  His heart sank as he realized that they had yet to talk about it.  The veteran took one last look at the ruined Earth and then turned to face the monster he had created.  Jenkins had his hands in his pockets and Carver could see the boy’s breath on the air.  Carver had never felt more pity in his life.

“Yes?”  Carver asked, knowing fully what the boy was about to say.  There was no possibility that the plan had not reached his ears; no possibility that the boy was unaware of Carver’s actions.  This was the conversation the old man had been dreading all this time.  But he would not shy away from it; this was his burden to bear.

“Why did you do it?”  Carver licked his lips and felt the cold biting at the moisture it left behind.  He breathed out and felt the trembling from his own lungs.  The boy was a third of his age, but Carver knew he was afraid of this.

“Do you want all of it, Ryan?  Do you want all of the truth or do you want me to be nice?” the veteran asked, stalling for as long as he could.  His conscience was weighing on him heavily.  When he looked back at the boy, Carver could see the resolve he had seen so many times before.  It was one of the things they had not taken away from the soldier.

“I’m tired of nice, Carver.  I want to know why you had them do it.  I know that I, or he, was suicidal.  I know that you paid for it.  I know that…” Jenkins said, looking down to hide the tears welling up in his eyes.  He had promised to himself that he would try to see this through without emotion.  He sniffed them back, but couldn’t bring up his head just yet.  “I know they’re bringing him back.”

Carver’s heart sank as he realized the boy’s position.  The soldier knew the truth already and he knew that he was doomed to be replaced.  He was not a better copy after all, but a defect.  Carver couldn’t begin to consider how the boy felt, but he could empathize to an extent.

“I’m… sorry, Ryan.  Really.  I don’t think anybody has really considered you in this whole mess,” Carver said unable to look the boy in the eye.  The veteran’s own eyes were dry, but he almost wanted to cry.  He wanted to join the artificial soldier in his misery.

“Oh, I think they have, Carver.  I’m the … the freak.  I’m the one who was never supposed to exist.  Do you realize how that feels, old man?  I was trying so hard.  I was trying
so hard
to get back to… well, him.  Goldstein told me how you paid for the procedure and it broke everything,” Jenkins said, feeling mucus and snot starting to build up in his nose.  He sniffed hard and looked back at the old man, his eyes flooded with the tears he was holding back.  “I didn’t know what I could even
say
to you.  You had lost your friend or companion or whatever you wanted to call… Jenkins,” the artificial soldier said, pausing before using the name which did not belong to him anymore.  “I thought that if I … if I could just try to remember and emulate him.  Try to think and feel like him,” Jenkins said, bringing his right index finger to his eye and letting the tear run down his hand.

“Well, I thought maybe you all would accept me.  I could, I could be
him
.  Then everything would be fine.  I wouldn’t be suicidal anymore and you would have your friend back.  I could remember or at least pretend,” Jenkins said, finally trying to look the old man in the eye.  Carver could not look back.

“Ryan…”

“But, that’s not how it worked out, right?  All any of you could see was the broken copy of a boy that you had only known for a couple of months.  I wasn’t real to any of you,” Jenkins said, looking back at his feet and noticing his shaking breath taking form in the cold air.

“The doc’s bringing him back, right?”  Carver looked at the boy and could feel the sorrow emanating from the soldier.  He cursed himself and his part in this.  The veteran hadn’t intended for this pain; he hadn’t intended to break the very man he had created.  The worst part of all was that he hadn’t even thought about it.

“That’s the plan, kid.  If it means anything,” Carver started, but couldn’t remember what he had wanted to say.  His age was ruining everything, but he was saved by Jenkins’ indignation.  The soldier hadn’t wanted to hear Carver’s condolences.

“It really won’t, Carver.  I think you can see that.  I’m obsolete; I don’t matter.  Hell, I’m worse than the original.  I’m an experiment gone wrong on a planet where barbed wire grows like ivy.  I belong here, but everyone,” Jenkins said, his voice faltering, “everyone’s trying to leave.  Because this is Hell, and I know that.”

“Carver, I belong in Hell.  Can you understand that?  Can you empathize?  How does that not break a man?” Jenkins said, looking straight into Carver’s eyes.  The veteran could not avoid that gaze anymore.  He had to accept responsibility.

“You wanted to know why I did it, Ryan?” Carver asked, finally mustering the nerve to answer the child.  Jenkins looked at him with pleading eyes; Carver could not let him down anymore.  “I was ashamed.  There was a soldier before you, just another kid.  He was just like us, early adoptions and everything.  Lots of potential, too.  Came from a dynasty of militia men.”

“I had wanted so much for him and felt rotten at the same time.  I had spent my entire life in warfare and thought shit of the whole thing.  I was famous but for all the wrong reasons.  My life didn’t matter and all I did was make a lot of terrible people a lot of money.  When I saw him, when I saw how Washington reminded me of my younger self,” Carver recounted, not noticing the tears coming from his perpetually dry eyes.  “I couldn’t take it, Ryan.”

“I started trying to teach him the right ideals.  I started trying to teach him about how life was worthless in here.  That a life without the freedom to choose is merely a slow death.  I didn’t realize,” Carver said, his voice failing him slightly.  He cleared his throat and looked at Jenkins with his bright blue eyes.  The artificial soldier was hanging onto every word; Carver knew he had no choice but to continue.

“I didn’t
…realize
that I was just hammering the wrong words into his skull.  It was only a few months before the kid committed suicide.  He didn’t see his old corpse like you…” Carver said, before realizing his mistake, “like Jenkins did.  He just was in the middle of a fight, pulled the pin on his grenade and held it right next to his ear.”

“Garrison in his fucking palace signed the papers to let Washington back on the field.  The kid didn’t even make it, Ryan.  He took his sheets, tied a noose and hung himself in the library.  Garrison,” Carver said, his voice suddenly angry for the first time in years, “he signed off on the papers
again
.  He did it three … more … times before realizing that Washington was just going to keep doing it.  They retired him, Ryan, and it was four more years before I even let myself think about it again.  I was too afraid.”  Carver looked down and felt his legs weakening.  He sat down on the pathway between the clinic and the barracks and looked at his hands. 

“But you came into my story, then, Ryan,” Carver started, unable to realize his mistake any longer.  He was absorbed into his own memories.  “Just another one of us.  I did what I could this time not to show my despair or my disgust with the whole system.  I tried not to make you realize that we were worthless in here.  But,” Carver said, suddenly snapping his gaze onto Jenkins, who had come closer to the old man.  “you…. you fucking went and did it anyway!” Carver shouted, unable to differentiate between the identical soldiers any longer.  “I just wanted you to live!  I wanted you to get through it!  But this world, THIS WORLD, it turned you.  It made you hard and cold and sad.  This world…. it’s just evil.  And the longer you live with it,” Carver said, his gaze falling back to the ground underneath him, “the more it changes you.  It makes you selfish … and callous … and brutal.”

“That’s why I did it, Ryan,” Carver uttered, his very soul defeated by his own words.  “I was just being selfish.  I couldn’t admit that I had failed again.  I couldn’t….”he started, but he was interrupted by a warm touch on his shoulder.  He looked up to see Ryan looking down at him from a kneeling position.