Phoenix Rising (Book Two of The Icarus Trilogy) (4 page)

Abrams looked towards the horizon and wondered where they should go, but thankfully she was relieved of the responsibility.  As soon as she had started debating the issue with herself the announcement scrolled across her display and the AI’s feminine voice issued from the Comms speaker.

“Round Over.  The Crows Win.  Repeat: The Crows win.  Congratulations.  Each team should make their way to their respective rendezvous points.  Repeat:  The Crows Win.  Congratulations.  Each team should make their way to their respective rendezvous points.”  Abrams looked at her partner and sighed.  She wouldn’t have to deal with the man on the battlefield for a while, it seemed.  She bent down to pick up her empty revolver and then scanned the horizon for the rendezvous beacon.  It was off to the East.  She shrugged and started off in that direction.  She heard Templeton following and chuckling.

“Aren’t you glad that’s over?”  She looked back at the man and couldn’t help but laugh along with him.  She shook her head and smiled under her helmet, not bothering to answer the useless man. 

You have no idea
.

-

Carver walked towards the transport’s beacon and felt the weight of the world on him.  He always thought the science was preposterous, but whatever the scientists had done to the core of this asteroid it felt exactly like Earth had felt back during his brief stay on the planet.  His steps were heavy and age was starting to weigh in as well.  He didn’t know how much longer this rickety body of his would be able to take this constant warfare.  Everything just felt like too much of a burden.

Cortes could hear the man’s body groaning and creaking from two meters back.  The Spaniard wondered why the old man was still fighting with all of them.  Carver was a legend in his own time, but if the old man continued to fight it would only tarnish his reputation.  Cortes knew the old man had more money than all of them combined; he could retire in luxury whenever he wanted.  The Spaniard tried to think about what could make a man stay on like that, but then he realized that he was in much the same situation.

Hector Cortes wasn’t nearly as good a solider as the old man, but he was on Eris for a vastly different reason than material gain.  Cortes, whose only real Spanish traits were his name and black hair, had been sent here as a way to avoid his death sentence.  What most people didn’t know, however, was that Cortes had willingly chosen the path which would be the most painful; the path which would be the most agonizing.  Cortes was eternally punishing himself and, while he certainly suffered under special circumstances, he realized that maybe Carver was in a similar situation.  Maybe the money didn’t matter; maybe there was something more important in the old man’s life.

The Spaniard followed after the old man warily.  He knew that Sam would show up at some point; Cortes had yet to see his younger brother in the last few hours.  The apparition hadn’t shown up on any ridges or popped up from any cover on the battlefield.  Cortes preferred it that way; he preferred not to see any hallucinations of his dead brother.  He wished he could convince his brain of that, but in the back of his mind Cortes knew he deserved it.  The Spaniard was guilty and it didn’t matter if he had chosen the most appropriate punishment.

It was never going to be enough.

Cortes continued to follow behind the veteran and soon enough saw the transport coming into view over the horizon.  It was only a quarter of a kilometer away, now, and it wouldn’t be long before they could take their seats in the back of the loading bay.

The old soldier reached the transport first and walked up the loading deck.  Cortes followed behind, wary that he would find Sam inside.  The Spaniard took a breath and rounded the corner to find an empty transport.  He watched as Carver continued to the back of the bench and then sat down with an effort.  Over the last two weeks the old man seemed to have aged ten years.  Now that he thought about it, Cortes realized it was in the same timeframe of Jenkins’ suicide and change in attitude.

He would have hit himself if it wouldn’t have brought the attention of the older soldier.  It was so obvious.  Cortes remembered what happened with Washington and guessed that it had something to do with this change.  The veteran would probably not appreciate the other Crow sitting next to him when there was a whole empty transport, but Cortes decided he needed to talk to the man.  It wasn’t often that he could find a kindred spirit in guilt.

As soon as he sat down he realized he didn’t know how to start the conversation.  Cortes wasn’t the talkative type and he deliberately tried to avoid speaking with any of his comrades.  He saw conversation as a pleasurable distraction, and the Spaniard didn’t want to start enjoying anything.  This cycle of pain and rebirth was his atonement.  Only in quiet moments would he admit to himself that he was just too afraid to die permanently.

Cortes looked down at his hands and remembered his brother.  He hadn’t meant for it to happen, but when he tried to go forward with his initiation into the Sidewinders, Hector Cortes had killed two people.  Miguel Garcia had been killed by a shot to the chest.  He was part of a rival gang so it wasn’t much of a loss to the community, but Cortes had fired twice and one of the bullets had flown right past Miguel.  And unfortunately, the Spaniard hadn’t realized that his little brother had been out running errands and picking up groceries.  Hector Cortes held his brother as the small boy choked out the last of his life. 

As he remembered his crimes he looked out towards the opening in the loading bay and noticed the boy with the orange shirt sitting on the other bench about halfway through the transport.  Cortes gulped as he looked at the young pre-teen with a patch of red blooming halfway down his chest.  The Spaniard closed his eyes and tried to convince himself that Sam wasn’t there, but when he opened his eyes again the sad child was still sitting there.

“It’s ok, Hector.  You can talk to the old man.  I’m not going anywhere.”  Cortes sighed and stopped trying to convince himself.  He couldn’t stop his mind from betraying him anymore; he just had to live with it.  Cortes turned his head to look at his comrade, keeping the ghost of his brother in his periphery.  As much as it hurt, Hector didn’t want to lose sight of the apparition.

“Are you ok, Carver?”  The old man seemed to ignore the soldier’s question but soon turned his head to face Cortes.

“Same as always, Cortes.  My body’s old.  I’m tired.  It doesn’t mean a thing.”  Cortes looked at the veteran and wondered if Carver was trying to convince himself by saying it.  The Spaniard then looked back towards the ground and noticed that Sam had disappeared again.  Cortes knew that the ghost would be back soon enough.

“Not what I’m talking about.  Are you ok, Carver?”  The old man turned his head back again and Cortes could feel the man glaring at him, but that was fine.  It was something Cortes was willing to endure.

“Awful lot of people asking about my welfare these days.  Why you want to know?”  Cortes looked back at the old man and shrugged.

“Because if it was just age you would be gone, old man.  I know that everyone else would be gone if they had as much money as you.”  Carver continued to look at the Spaniard, but leaned back against the wall a bit more.

“Everyone else?”  Cortes realized that he might have to tell the veteran his own story.  The Spaniard hadn’t told anyone why he was there, or what he was doing while he was, but Carver might understand.  The old man might understand why Cortes intentionally aimed away from soldiers and let himself die.

“I think you’re like me.  I think you’re only here because of something you’ve done.  And while you were always a soldier before him….” Cortes said before realizing that this conversation could go very poorly.  “Well, you haven’t been the same since Jenkins came back.”  Cortes watched as Carver sank back against the wall and looked off into space.

“Seems like I’m wearing my thoughts on the outside.  I must be getting really old,” Carver said before sighing.  “Gave up my money, Cortes.  Let them change Jenkins.  I’m gonna die here and my legacy is that I ruined a good kid.”  Cortes finally understood; Carver had just wanted to avoid another situation like Washington.  That poor soldier had to live through the kind of suffering no one should have to endure.  It was the kind of suffering that Cortes couldn’t understand.  Every time he had done it, Washington had damned himself to hell.  Cortes was still lost in thought when he realized that Carver was looking back at him.

“That enough like you?”  Cortes gulped as he realized that he would either have to figure out a really good lie or tell Carver everything.  The Spaniard could see that Sam was sitting right next to him out of his periphery, but he ignored it.  Carver was looking directly at him and would notice if he interacted with the hallucination.

“I killed my brother, Carver.”  He waited for Carver to say something but after a few moments of silence he realized the old man was giving him the time to explain himself.  He cleared his throat and tried to continue his story.

“I killed another man, too, but I still see my brother.  I know my brain’s lying to me, but I see him.  It’s more than I can really take, but I deserve it.  I deserve to go to Hell,” he said.  Cortes’ voice was starting to waver, but he wanted to get through this confession before any other soldiers came back.  He could trust Carver with the information, but he didn’t know if it would be safe in any other person’s hands.

“I was given the choice to die right there or come to Eris.  And I had a crisis of faith.  I wanted to go to Hell, but I didn’t know if it really existed.  God and the Devil were not so definite when I was given the choice like that.  I chose Eris because it was the closest to Hell I could guarantee.  Here I die over and over in my way of atoning.  And I don’t want others to die, not anymore.  They’re just accidents when I do.  I try to aim away.  So I die.  I deserve it,” Cortes concluded before looking at his brother.  The coward didn’t mind if Carver noticed; he’d already confessed.  Carver might not have been a priest, but Cortes felt a considerable weight lift from his shoulders.  He could hear Carver sigh but chose to watch his brother, who in turn tilted his head and shrugged.

“You looking at him now?”  Cortes looked back at the old man and nodded.  It felt good to come clean.

“I’ll never understand you religious types.  But I guess if the guilt drives you crazy like that then you’re not all bad.”  Cortes looked back at his brother and noticed a lone soldier with a sword approaching from the distance.  They would have to cut this conversation short, but they still had some time.  He turned back to the veteran and pursed his lips.

“So are you going to turn me in?”  Carver looked at him and scoffed.

“For being a terrible soldier who sees his dead brother?  Nah, I’m not that mean.  Besides, I always figured you weren’t trying.  No one’s that poor of a shot without doing it on purpose.  You can atone all you want, Cortes.  It’s not like your religious fervor really hurts us now,” Carver said before looking at the opposite wall.  Cortes didn’t like the veteran’s disdain for his religion, but he appreciated that the old Crow wouldn’t turn him in.  He always worried that the Commission would find out somehow.  The Spaniard turned back to see Feldman almost at the entrance to the transport and saw his brother sitting along the opposite bench again.

“So are you ok, Carver?”  He didn’t bother looking at the old man.

“No.  But I made my choice.  I can’t change it.”  Cortes shrugged and nodded.  He knew exactly what Carver meant.  He watched as the giant trudged up the loading deck and walked along the opposite edge.  The Spaniard breathed in sharply as he watched the titan in power armor sit down on top of the hallucination of his brother.

He had to remind himself yet again that the boy didn’t really exist.  He could never completely get past that.

-

Christopher Roberts winced as he walked up the loading deck.  The constant pain was bearable, but it was still something that he shouldn’t have to experience.  Once more he cursed his nebulous antagonists.  He wasn’t sure if it was some former enemy from his life as a hacker or the Commission itself, but someone was responsible for the massive amount of pain he encountered with each resurrection.  There were only three soldiers he had told about his secret addiction and plight.  One was his contraband supplier, another was stoic and silent and the other a walking ghost.

The young soldier separated himself from Warner and walked up to Feldman.  Even when standing, Roberts was only the same size as the titan as he sat on the bench, but the boy soldier shrugged and sat down anyway.  Roberts felt like a child when the swordsman was next to him.  It didn’t matter if he actually was the average height for a man in his society or that he was old enough to be considered an adult.

Roberts shifted on the bench, unable to get entirely comfortable while the infernal pain tore at him.  The best he could do was to constantly dose himself with painkillers, but he couldn’t do so on the transport.  It was supposed to be a secret, after all.  The boy soldier sighed and tried to push the pain away.  It would do him no good to focus on such a thing, now.  He shook his head and noticed that most of the other soldiers had started to file into the transport.  Roberts turned his head slightly towards Feldman and cleared his throat.

“You make it through all right?”  He knew Feldman wouldn’t say much, but he was curious about the man’s perspective.  He had known Jenkins the best before the soldier’s change and this was the first time the titan had been paired with him since the incident.  Roberts had tried to talk to Jenkins on his own, but it had been like talking to a stranger.  The slightly-older soldier had spoken like there was nothing wrong; like he didn’t know the truth.  It was as if he hadn’t been there to see Roberts’ overdose; as if he hadn’t been there to see the boy soldier’s assisted suicide.

“Some shrapnel, but nothing damaging,” Feldman said without moving.  The giant had always been succinct, but Roberts had always known there was a brilliant mind stuck in that horrible body.  When Roberts had first arrived he had broken into all of the soldiers’ records.  The boy soldier had been shocked to find that the ex-farmer’s IQ hovered around 160; the titan merely disliked speaking.