Phoenix Rising (Book Two of The Icarus Trilogy) (5 page)

“I see Jenkins didn’t make it,” Roberts said, trying to gauge the man’s reaction even though the helmet between them made it a virtual impossibility.  It was the most Roberts could hope for when the giant shifted and turned his head.  The swordsman didn’t say anything and soon went back to staring at the floor and Roberts wondered what the giant was thinking.  Feldman and Jenkins had been quite close near the end.  As he was thinking about the inner workings of the giant’s mind, Roberts could feel his left calf start to cramp, but he decided to ignore the pain.  He leaned in closer so that Feldman would be the only one to hear his next statement.

“But that’s not Jenkins anymore, is it?”  At that Feldman turned his head and Roberts could feel the man glaring from beneath the mask.  Roberts found it hard to imagine, as Feldman had perpetually droopy eyelids, but it was something the boy soldier didn’t want to experience in the first place.  He pursed his lips and waited for the giant’s answer.

“No.  Not since the suicide.  But you knew that,” he said before stooping down lower.  “Why would you bother to ask me?”  Roberts gulped and regretted it.  His throat was scratchy; it always was.  When his malady had first started he thought he was just extremely dehydrated, but it had never gone away.  It was just another in the laundry list of pains he felt.  Roberts sighed and shrugged at the man’s question.

“Guess I just didn’t want it to be true.  He meant something to me, too,” Roberts said before remembering all of the things that Jenkins had done for him.  He had been there for the worst incarnation.  Whatever twisted mind was responsible for Roberts’ pain had outdone itself that time.  The boy soldier had arched and convulsed; his consciousness broken by unbearable agony.  In battle, Jenkins had carried the broken Roberts when he was driven to unconsciousness.  Jenkins had watched as Roberts had stared down a mechanical monstrosity and prayed for death.  He had been there for Roberts’ vision of hell.  It was a kinship that Roberts would never forget.

But Jenkins had.  He had taken the easy way out and when he finally came back, Jenkins really had stopped existing.  It was a betrayal that Roberts didn’t want to acknowledge.  It was a comfort when Feldman set his hand on Christopher’s shoulder, but their misery was soon broken by an unwelcome interloper.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.  Are you fuckers really serious?”  Roberts heard the voice from his other side and looked to see Warner with his helmet off.  The perpetually-angry man was glaring at the two soldiers mired in their loss and shook his head.

“It’s all I ever hear anymore.  ‘Oh, I miss Jenkins,’ or ‘isn’t it just terrible what happened to Jenkins?’  It makes me fuckin’ sick.  He was just a soldier.  Sure, he was one of us, but so the fuck what?  I’ll admit, he was a damn good shot and he took to killing with such flair that I mighta shed a manly tear, but this is bullshit.  He wasn’t special.  He was a thief and he had all the same fucking growing pains.  You, Roberts, what the fuck?” the ex-convict asked in disbelief.  Roberts had no idea what the wrathful man wanted from him, so he kept his tongue.

“So what if he’s different?  He was there to help you out when you were passed out on painkillers, and yeah, we all fuckin’ know,” Warner said preemptively.   Roberts’ eyes widened as he realized that his addiction wasn’t much of a secret.  “But it’s not like any of us would have shot you in the back.  Goldstein’s always giving you those pills.  Hell, when we’re paired up I don’t say a goddamned thing because I respect you.  You get your shit done,” Warner said, saliva starting to collect at the corners of his mouth.  By this time all the soldiers in the transport were looking at the angry, white man with the light brown hair.  It was enough for Carver to turn and start to get up.  Warner noticed and turned his ire to the veteran.

“Sit the fuck down, old man, you’re the worst one, but I’ll get to you in a minute.  And the best part is you’re going to sit down because you know I’m just saying the fucking truth,” he said while pointing at Carver.  Roberts watched as the legend was cowed and sat back down on the bench.  Carver had never sat down for anyone.  The boy soldier turned back to Warner and expected more of the verbal onslaught, but he had turned his ire to the giant beside him.

“And you.  Feldman.  Just grow the fuck up.  He was your friend, sure, but stop giving lessons to every new recruit that looks like they’ll fall for it.  I’m sick of your smart-ass superiority complex.  You read books and know philosophy; big fuckin’ whoop. You lost him, well guess what?  We lose people.  It’s war.  It’s a fuckin’ prison.  There’s not any happy ending we’re ever gonna see.  Carver might have, but the old bag of bones is stuck fighting his own private war, and I promise, old man, I’m getting to you,” Warner said without any intention of stopping.

“Warner, chill the fuck ou-,” Abrams started to reprimand, but Warner whipped around and almost smacked her in the face before changing his mind and clenching his fist in front of her for effect.

“No, Abrams, I’m going to say every fucking word because they need a reality check.  I know I don’t have to say a damned thing to you or Norris or any of those despondent motherfuckers who keep to themselves.  You know what we’re doing and why we’re here.  The only thing wrong with you is that you still think you’re getting off planet,” Warner said, turning around to look at Cortes and not even bothering to check Abrams’ reaction.  He glared at the Spaniard and caught his breath.  It was an awkward silence that stretched far too long before he shook his head.

“You know why I hate you; who gives a shit?  Suck your god’s cock on your time, not when people are shooting at me,” he said before turning his gaze to the old man sitting beside the penitent soldier.  Roberts’ brow furrowed at that, but he decided to shake it from his mind.  The boy soldier guessed the angry Crow just needed to find reasons to hate people.

For a while Warner just stared at the old man.  Roberts could tell that the veteran was staring back beneath the helmet, but after a moment Carver unclasped the helmet and brought it over his head.  The old man was resolute and still intimidating with his full beard and head of salt-and-pepper hair.  Since Roberts had known him the salt had started to outnumber the pepper, but Carver still had plenty of fight in him. 

That was until now.  Suddenly Roberts realized that the man was very, very old.  He had been in his mid-fifties when Roberts had arrived.  Over the four years Roberts had watched the legend turn into an old man.  He was tired, he was shrunken; he was feeble in his own way.  He could still fight and Roberts didn’t want the man’s anger, but something had changed.  The boy soldier wondered why the old man had not retired.

“Say what you have to say, boy.  Look me in the face when you do it.  And don’t bother with the big words.  I know you’re limited to curses, bigotry and simple thoughts,” Carver said.  The old man wouldn’t let it show, but he really did want someone to say it all.

“I know I always say this, Carver,” Warner began, suddenly letting his fury subside.  This was not some passionate anger like the frustration he had felt with the others.  With Carver the loathing ran deep.  This was a cold anger.  Warner saw the old man, this legend on the battlefield, and hated him for what he was wasting.  It was going to feel so good to crush the man’s spirit.  Warner would write about it later in his journal; the words would flow out like a tidal wave.  He took a breath and continued.

“You’re old.  And I say that with as much respect as possible.  You’ve fought every day of your life for the last, what, forty years?  You were a soldier and then you became a murderer just because you didn’t know anything else.  For me it was the opposite.  I killed a few people; we all know this.  And then I got here.  And I knew from day one I wasn’t gonna to get out.  There was that one little tease when Jenkins first got here, and you can all shut the fuck up because I’m over that.  I’m stuck here.  You’re all stuck here,” Warner said while sweeping his hands over his audience.  Then he stood up and pointed at Carver.

“But he wasn’t.  He hasn’t been for years.  He’s been able to leave, he’s been able to retire, maybe even to Solaria or Elysia, the ENTIRE TIME I’ve been here.  He could have hung up his rifle and lived in peace.  He could have had the good life; probably settle down with some big-titty girl a third of his age.  Maybe even a couple of ‘em.  Only reason he stayed is that ‘he’s known war his entire life,’” the convict said, exaggerating the last statement, before walking up to Carver and standing over the veteran.  Roberts knew that Carver could rip the younger man apart if he wanted.

“I can understand a lost soul, but Carver, you’re fucking old.  You can live without the constant threat of death; you’re close enough to it as is.  But you,” he said before smiling and turning his head in disbelief.  The convict laughed and shook his head.  “You gave it all up.”  Roberts was unable to stop watching the man tear apart this legend.  Warner was a criminal and he was bringing a god under his feet.

“You gave up your fortune.  You gave up your retirement,” he said before whipping around and clenching his fists in front of him, “FOR FUCKING JENKINS!”  The man roared those five syllables and almost brought his hands down onto the veteran in front of him.  He took a few ragged breaths and stared at this symbol of waste.  Jonathon Carver wasn’t going to be a legend anymore; he was just going to be a sad, old man.  Warner collected himself and sneered at the old Crow.  The veteran was staring back, but there was no resolve left.  Carver just wanted to hear the truth and Warner was going to give it to him.

“You used your freedom, your money, to take away that boy’s personality and replace it with a psycho.  Just because you felt guilty about some redneck who killed himself a few years ago.  I don’t care if you were the one who taught him everything you know, it’s not something you kill yourself for.  Washington was your fault, granted, I’ll give you that, you miserable, old man,” Warner said, letting the man stew in his own guilt.  Warner didn’t even believe the statement, but it was enough to see the veteran torture himself.  “But you could have gotten out and you didn’t.  Just for a fuckin’ kid.  And that’s unforgivable,” Warner said before walking back to his seat and throwing his helmet on the ground.  It hit the bench on the other side and then rolled back over to Roberts’ feet.  The visor was cracked and if Warner cared he would have been upset over having to pay for the damages, but Roberts knew better.  The angry man had fallen into his own misery.  The young Crow watched as Warner looked back up and shook his head.

“Jenkins is dead.  Let’s just call it like that.  The new kid is someone else and hopefully they’ll trade him away so I don’t have to hear anymore of this bullshit.  If any one of you talks about him like he’s a fuckin’ saint one more time I’m just going to have to kill you,” he said before falling silent and looking at the ceiling.  It was quiet after that.  Warner had bared the hearts of all those who still held hope.  The despondent soldiers hadn’t even looked at Warner.  Roberts knew their names, but he never counted on a single one.  Corrigan, Haywick, Lewis and all the others like them practically slept through each match.  They had given up and it showed.

Roberts let a few moments pass before he looked around the loading bay.  Carver had placed his helmet back on his head; Cortes was looking at the floor.  Feldman hadn’t moved since the tirade and Abrams was staring at her hands.  Roberts seemed to be the only one that wasn’t thinking about Warner’s words.  The only thing that had bothered him was his transparent addiction.  Christopher needed to be more careful.

He looked down the opposite bench and realized that Templeton was sitting there without his helmet.  Roberts had never bothered to pay attention to the thin soldier; he was barely above the skill level of the three drones sitting at the end of the loading bay, but now something was different.  Roberts looked at Templeton and didn’t see a scared man.  The thin, black man was watching each of the soldiers very carefully.  It wasn’t the gaze of a curious man; it was the calm, analytical stare of someone taking mental notes. 

The man was not what he seemed.

-

Roberts watched as Templeton dressed himself in fatigues.  Masked in glances and peering from his periphery Roberts had watched the man since that first realization.  The entire flight had been filled with anxious thoughts and conspiracy theories.  There had been no one to fill the silence after Warner’s rant; Norris, Jenkins and Goldstein had been killed during the game so there were no inappropriate stories of wartime or other stray comments.

Roberts had avoided eye contact in the shower room.  He had not wanted the thin man to think he was interested in anything sordid; one could never tell on Eris.  There were not very many women on the asteroid and prior to the games many of the soldiers were convicts stuck in prison.  It was best not to give any real opportunities to potential suitors.  Luckily, the constant resurrections and the pain associated with them were enough to kill the soldiers’ sex drive, but Roberts did what he could to avoid any sort of interaction.

As Templeton left the locker room Roberts tried to follow from a careful distance.  The boy soldier was somewhat afraid of what the other man might say.  It was a discomforting thought that only a few hours ago Roberts had just considered him an incompetent soldier.  And after the revelation that his addiction was common knowledge, Roberts realized he needed to be more careful in every aspect of his life.

Following the soldier down the hallway, Roberts wondered what Templeton was actually doing among the Crows.  The slave soldier was just good enough not to get traded, but not good enough to warrant any unwanted attention; he was clearly undercover for something.  Roberts’ immediate theory was that he worked for the Commission.  The giant organization, a sub-committee of War World Entertainment which was responsible for the entire planet, was always trying to quash any revolts or any infractions before they had even began.  It wasn’t unheard of for them to plant soldiers in the games in order to keep an eye on their investments.  Things like Goldstein’s black market were often given a blind eye, but any threat to their domination was enough to hold their interest.