Ceaseless (2 page)

This was a ceremony for the co-workers. Investigation Squads did live on-base and so they tended to be that much closer to all the other personnel. Allan had gone to a few of these himself, not nearly as many as back on his homeworld, but people still died from time to time. There were just over two dozen people situated among the rows of benches. For the moment, Allan satisfied himself with slipping in and sitting quietly in the back.

He watched a few people take the spotlight behind the podium and talk about the team. Letting their words wash over him with all the meaning of waves on a beach, Allan thought about what might be coming next. After the mission, the blood and the death, he'd been checked out by a medic but he was fine, physically at least. His commander, the man who basically ran the entire base singlehandedly, Captain Carpenter, had debriefed him.

It had been a brutal and grim after-action report. One of the worst he'd ever had to deliver. When it had been over, he'd asked the Captain what would become of him. Carpenter seemed uncertain and evasive, simply stating that they'd do a follow-up report in the morning and maybe talk about what came next.

Only Allan knew what would come next. He'd likely be put on leave, what they'd call 'mandatory R and R', which was really just them letting enough time pass while they pretended to deliberate on the issue. In reality, they would have already made up their minds. Allan knew that he wasn't anyone's favorite around here, not after the breakup and he'd withdrawn into his armor. He knew there were rumors that he slept in the damned thing.

While it wasn't that far from the truth, he
had
been spending more and more time in it, that notion might soon become his reality. Allan perked up as he realized the latest person was stepping down from the podium. Without thinking about it, as though his body was acting all on its own, he stood up, walked swiftly up the aisle and took the podium. He thought he'd be more nervous, but all Allan could feel was a growing well of lassitude.

“I suppose you all know me,” he said, his voice being transmitted via a small microphone in his suit and into the microphone embedded in the podium. A long moment of uncomfortable silence passed. Allan cleared his throat.

“I'll keep this short. I knew my team very, very well. We'd been working together for nearly a year at this point, but in this job and working with these kind of people, it might as well have been half a lifetime.” He paused, collecting his thoughts, wondering what to say next. Nobody has spoken or even made a noise. It was dead silent in the room.

Allan suddenly tossed aside his thoughts and cut to the meat of what he meant to say. “I'd have gladly died in their place. I'm aware of the cruel irony that I'm sure you're all thinking about. '
They
all died, but
he
stayed alive?' Believe me, I'd kill myself in a second if I knew it'd bring them all back...I guess that's all I have to say.”

Allan left podium and began making his way slowly down the aisle, done with this grizzly task now. He wanted to go back to his quarters, maybe take a heavy sedative, find sleep that way. A hand shot out and gripped his wrist suddenly.

Allan stopped, turned, stared down at the person clutching him. It was one of the security personnel, a large man that had been a good friend to one of the crew. Allan tried to remember which one, but that only brought pain and misery.

“You could have at least taken off your fucking helmet,” he said.

Allan opened his mouth to respond and he had to immediately crush the almost unstoppable, irresistible urge to reach down, grab the man's jaw and tear it off, then start beating him to death with it. Instead, Allan pulled loose and walked away, turning his back on the whole situation, keeping his own jaw clamped shut.

“Stirring eulogy.”

Allan turned as he stepped out into the corridor and found Captain Carpenter waiting for him. He looked solemn, his normally pallid face that much more so.

“Hello, Captain,” Allan said.

“I need you come with me,” Carpenter replied. “I'm afraid something's come up.”

He turned and began walking away.

Curiosity got the better of him, and Allan followed.

Chapter 02

–
Bureaucracy
–

Allan studied his commanding officer as they navigated the brightly-lit corridors of the facility. Questions flickered in his mind, some of them coming perilously close to being asked, but none quite actually making it that far. Captain Carpenter was a slight man. He had a small build and he might have hit five and a half feet. The Captain kept himself in shape but it must have been either out of habit or vanity at this point, because Allan was pretty sure the last time he'd held a gun was easily over a decade or so ago.

Carpenter was competent and prudent. He'd proved that much since Allan's tenure at Lansing began. He seemed good at reading people and he had an unnerving habit of abruptly falling into deep silences and boring into someone's eyes with his own. Allan had seen the man dozens of times over the past year, mainly because he insisted on preforming as many mission briefings as humanly possible. He had the calm, studious voice of a museum curator.

Allan had come to rely on Carpenter. Trust him. As he would with any commanding officer worth their salt. But that relationship had been going south recently. He had the distinct impression that Carpenter had been looking for some excuse to hand him an extended leave, or, if need be, suspension. The only problem with that notion was that Allan was good at his job. As he retreated further into himself, shedding his emotions and concerns, he became that much better at completing his tasks with military precision.

Only now Carpenter might have found his excuse.

They turned another corner, passing a pair of technicians who fell silent as they spied both the base commander and local pariah, and came to Carpenter's office. Carpenter moved into the office, around his desk, and took a seat. Allan looked around as he moved towards one of two chairs positioned in front of the desks.

Carpenter's office spoke of a man who knew that offices were supposed to have something called 'personality' to them and thought that he might try and find some. There were exactly two holographic 'paintings' on the wall that cycled through absolutely meaningless abstracts and second-rate landscape holos. His desk was large and flat. A built-in terminal occupied the center and a small orbit of infopads and Styrofoam cups cluttered the rest of it up. Besides holos, the desk and the chairs, there was literally nothing else in the office.

Behind Carpenter, a broad, single pane of glass offered a view on the facility grounds where something that might resemble a park with handfuls of trees creating small copses around a man-made pond of crystal clear blue water resided. Allan tried to enjoy the scenery for just a short moment before giving up and taking a seat.

For a long while, Carpenter simply fixed Allan with his patented stare. Allan allowed himself a small smile when he realized that it wasn't working because his face was hidden entirely behind his visor.

“Allan,” he said, finally, “I want to slot you into another team.”

Allan blinked in surprise. He remained silent. This was probably about as far away from what he expected as possible. He'd been readying himself for some mandatory vacation time or leave without pay or even suspension.

What the hell was
this
?

“I'm sorry?” he managed.

“I know. My superiors want me to at least put you on medical leave or mandatory vacation, but...well, things have been busy lately. Something's been happening...out there in the wastelands. That's why the base is so depleted. But that's not relevant to this conversation. We received a distress call from an isolated communications relay pretty far out in the middle of nowhere. It's gone down and subsequently comms are down in the region at large. All I've really got at hand is a team that just lost their Sergeant and you've just lost your team so...” He shrugged. “I guess it's going to have to do...let me see your face.”

The sudden request caught Allan off guard. He considered refusing the request, although it wasn't really a request, but instead abandoned the idea and opted to silently flick his transition switch, rendering his faceplate transparent. Carpenter stared directly at him, frowning, seemingly studying his haggard features.

Allan remained silent.

“All right,” Carpenter said finally, almost reluctantly. “I'd like to be clear though,” he added, standing up. Allan stood up as well, but hesitated. “Once you get back from this mission, I'm going to at least put you on mandatory vacation. And I'm going to strongly recommend that you go see the base psychiatrist. Even if you think you don't need it, which, knowing your stubbornness and past, that
is
what you think, I want you at least have a clean bill of health.”

Allan considered the man's words, weighed his own options. Finally, he settled for silence, nodding once and then returning the opaque function to his visor. Carpenter led him out of the office and down the corridor to the briefing rooms. These rooms were where Investigation Squads met and went over all the relevant data on whatever the upcoming mission was. Time in these rooms usually ranged from half an hour to up to two hours, depending on the complexity and urgency of the mission at hand.

Carpenter led Allan into one of the briefing rooms. Four people were seated around a table that dominated the area, ringed with chairs. Carpenter moved up to the head of the table. Allan took a seat in one of the few remaining unoccupied chairs and heard it groan under his weight. He looked around at the others, who were all staring at him, and felt varying waves of unease and hostility coming from them, ranging from subtle to outright.

Carpenter cleared his throat. “Let's get introductions out of the way. This is Squad Lansing Eight. Everyone, this is Sergeant Allan Gray. He recently lost his team and will be filling in as your boss for this assignment. He's been with SI for over a decade now and came from a very...busy planet that frequently called on SI's services. He knows what he's doing.”

“I'm sure,” one of them muttered.

Carpenter cleared his throat. “Corporal Anna Mitchell, if you have something to say, please speak up...no? Fine then. This is your XO, Allan. She excels at firefights.”

Allan sized her up. Her blonde hair was bright and cropped short, not even making it past her neckline. Her eyes were cold and sharp and angry, set into a narrow face. She was tall and lithe, built more for speed than strength. He tried to ascertain why she was so openly hostile to him and after a moment, it suddenly dawned on him.

She was fishing for a promotion. Everything from her cold glare to her rigid stance spoke of it. He was positive.

No matter, she'd probably get it after this mission.

“This is PFC Ron Carter. He's the team's technician,” Carpenter continued dryly.

Allan stared at him, feeling familiar sensations of training taking over as he was in the familiar environs of a chilled briefing room. Carter was older, seemingly more mature. From beneath a bald head he stared right back at Allan. Any resentment that came from him struck Allan as involuntary. The pain of his commander's death was likely still fresh, and someone else filling the boots so soon was typically unheard of. Allan didn't blame the man. He seemed built like a tech, if they had a typical build: tall, thin, wiry.

Carter offered him a thin smile and nodded at his name.

“Last man on the team is Private Juan Bell, your medic,” Carpenter continued.

“Sergeant,” the young man said tightly, looking at Allan.

Allan frowned as his gaze cut to the youngest person in the room. The Private was young and fresh-faced, clearly just out of training. While Allan felt he could reasonably rely on Carter and Mitchell, he wasn't so sure about Bell. No one who passed training was truly incompetent...well, with a few exceptions. Allan was sure he could trust Bell to take orders and shoot a gun if need be, but if things went to shit, would he panic? Bell was the bulkiest of the group, clearly into lifting weights, but that was no guarantee of bravery.

Allan finally decided that the kid wouldn't be here in this room if he wasn't at least mostly sure about himself.

“Finally, this is Lucy Banks. She's a communications specialist that's going to be attached to the team for this mission.”

“Which I resent,” Lucy growled.

She looked the angriest of all, but her ire didn't seem to be pointed at Allan, rather everyone in the room equally.

“Your complaints have been duly noted, Lucy. You
are
being compensated for this and-”

“Yeah, lemme tell you about all the things I want to spend hazard pay on after I'm dead,” the comms specialist snapped, cutting him off.

An uncomfortable silence descended and Allan suppressed a heavy sigh. Despite everything, he found himself thinking with a suddenly calm and cold clarity. This mission, if it was anything more than a milk run, would be a disaster. He knew that the brass up top liked to think that they developed the Investigation Squads in such a way that they were all interchangeable, and maybe that was mostly true, but it wasn't
always
true.