Missed Connections (48 page)

"Aren't you going to help him?" The sentry gestures sharply to the messenger.

"Andar," Clef says, his voice a whimper. "What came of—of General Andar?"

"Gone," the soldier says harshly. "Did you not hear me, Brother? Flying Shadow is dead! The bombs rained down upon them—and they were trapped in that path near the Fang, ripe for the taking thanks to this damnable joke of a plan. Now will you help him?"

No. No, no, no.

"Clef!" Elayne snaps, pushing past him. "What has gotten into you? Geoffrey, help me."

Clef barely registers them taking over. He stumbles backward, managing a few steps before his knees give out. The fall seems to take an eternity; Clef knows in this moment what it means to be cast adrift. The pain of hitting the ground propels his denial into despair.

"Brother?" he hears the sentry venture.

He's staring at them, but he sees right through them. "Who told you?" His voice wavers dangerously close to a wail, but he doesn't care. "Who told you about Andar?"

"The
messenger
," the soldier says, out of patience. "He was
there
. He ran all the way back here to warn us, and you're sitting around while he fights for his life."

Dead. Andar is… he is dead.
Clef chokes out a strangled sob, dropping his face into his hands.
I… I am dying.

"What—?" The soldier bends over to shake Clef's shoulders. "Have you lost yourself?"

"Brother," the sentry says, with more confidence than she probably feels, "this is war."

"This is
not war
!" Clef shouts, sitting up straight. "This is deceit and trickery. This is
barbarism
." Using the soldier's arms as leverage, Clef pulls himself to his feet. "Using such a weapon should considered a war crime! How could they? How could
Andar
—?" He nearly collapses again, but the soldier holds him up.

"General Andar was important to you," the soldier says softly, giving Clef another rough shake. "So save his messenger."

"Clef," Elayne says. "Look at this."

Through his haze of hysteria, Clef follows Elayne's voice. She and Geoffrey have gotten the messenger's armor and clothing off, revealing lacerations and massive bruising along his torso and belly. The sight brings Clef back to himself, and he shifts quickly back to being a cleric.

"He bleeds from within." Clef bites his bottom lip, kneeling down next to the messenger, who is now unconscious. "His ribs are broken, and possibly his lungs are strained. I do not think he was quite close to the, the bomb. I believe he was struck by something the bomb scattered—a large rock, perhaps."

"How do we proceed?" Geoffrey asks, as Elayne ushers the soldier and the sentry from the tent.

Clef pokes and prods as gently as he can. "I'll need bilberry, some elderoot, and both the red and purple blends of my personal potions." They are mixtures of various natural herbs and remedies that Clef brews himself for complex situations such as this. "We will set the bones as best we can, and wrap them. We'll tend to the abrasions with aloe and salves."

Geoffrey brings him all he asks for, and then leans forward eagerly. "Have you stopped internal bleeding before?"

"Once," Clef says. "But not ever because of a bomb."

*~*~*

Two grueling hours later, Clef declares the operation a success. There is no one around to hear the announcement, though. The camp is still virtually empty:  a painful reminder that, despite small victories, the whole situation is something much larger than Clef.

With his patients mending, Clef sits in the middle of the clinic and waits. His back gets sore from how rigidly he holds his vigil, but he doesn't move. He's waiting for the end—he's waiting for the bombs.

They never come.

*~*~*

Seventeen hours later, the camp screams that the war is over. Clef comes undone, going so limp and lifeless that Elayne and Geoffrey have to fetch men to carry him to his own tent. The younger clerics Geoffrey sends tend to him like he's made of glass, cooing nonsense and forcing water down his throat.

It all comes crashing down. Months of sleepless nights. Malnutrition. Blood and death. Elaeda. Andar. Clef stopped bothering with powders long ago. Now he looks exactly how he feels:  filthy, haggard, gaunt, and devastated. It's over. Somehow, the war is over. He has nothing left to hide—nothing left to be strong for.

His heart begins to ache, finally grieving for a lost love that was never given time to blossom. Despair twists up inside him, painfully taut, wringing tears from his eyes. He begins to sob—messily, inconsolably, like a child—and it goes on and on until one of the clerics disappears, returning with Elayne. She manhandles him as well as any soldier, forcing generous helpings of brandy down his throat. It burns so sweetly that he barely notices she's doctored it.

He cries until he sleeps. Mercifully, he does not dream.

*~*~*

Someone is trying to wake him up. Clef does not want to; he's given enough. People only come to fetch him when they need him elbow-deep in entrails. He has seen enough blood to last a lifetime.

The shaking is becoming insistent. He rolls away, stretching out onto his back with a moan. How long has he slept? It seems like days, but he feels like he needs another two weeks.

The smell of tea and honeycake wafts up his nostrils, making his stomach rumble. The person kneeling over him chuckles, and it sounds strikingly familiar.
It can't be.

A pair of chapped lips brush over his, and Clef's eyes fly wide open. Andar's chocolate brown gaze is as warm as ever, and he's wearing a smile that sparkles despite the harsh healing gash across his right cheek. He's wearing nothing but breeches and a long-sleeved shirt, and he's brought breakfast.

"I've heard you haven't been eating," he says, still smiling.

The sound of his voice makes Clef lurch to his knees, twisting around to throw his arms about Andar's neck. He squeezes too hard, and presses a rough kiss to the side of Andar's head—needing to feel him. "How?" he asks, voice croaking from sleep. "You—they said—I thought—"

Andar shushes him, holding him close. "I know. We did not anticipate the… bombs. One of our scouts managed to warn half of Flying Shadow. We did suffer considerable losses, but most of us retreated up the Fang."

The name is familiar to him. "The Fang is a path?"

"The most dangerous one," Andar says, running his fingers through Clef's hair. "Before the elements made it icy and precarious to traverse, it used to be a secondary route to Fang's Keep."

Clef pieces it all together. "You took your company up and around, and ambushed the North's stronghold." He moves back far enough to give Andar an incredulous stare. "You routed them, as you routed Tendoves."

"It was not easy," Andar says gravely. "We lost a lot of good soldiers. But they did not die in vain; once we decimated Fang's Keep, more of the battalion arrived to join the fray. Many of their commanding officers retreated, but the Commander-General was accepting their surrender before long."

"It's over." Clef sags against Andar, overcome with relief. "It's really over."

Andar leans down to kiss his cheek, rubbing their subtle together. "Will you eat? You're the one who looks like he's been fighting the battles."

The tea is lukewarm, but it goes down smooth. The honeycakes are sweet and delicious, and Clef makes sure to share. When they've eaten their fill, they curl up together on Clef's pallet. Clef rests his head on Andar's chest and listens to his heartbeat.

Though he is loath to leave this private sanctuary, Clef knows their jobs are not over yet. "What happens now?"

Andar makes an unidentifiable noise. "I've been promoted." Clef lifts his head to stare at him. "The Commander-General's personal advisor," he says wryly. "He wants me to help draw up the terms of the treaties. We suspect the South has already surrendered, and we just have yet to hear."

"Incredible," Clef says, breathless. "You… you saved Embergrass."

"I helped," Andar says, looking right into Clef's eyes. "And I was able to help because
you
saved
me
." A sly smile plays across his lips. "Would you care for a position as Elder Cleric in Emberborne?"

Clef can't help but smile back. "Are you asking me to come with you?"

"Yes," Andar says sincerely. "So I may woo you properly."

"Without the warfare. Yes, that would be nice." Clef closes his eyes briefly, but then feels the weight of responsibility upon his shoulders. "Do we… have to leave right away?"

Andar's gaze flickers to the closed tent flap. Then he grins, rolling them over and dropping a kiss to Clef's lips. "There is time for us," he says, tangling his fingers into Clef's silver hair. "From now on, there is always time for us."

Clef kisses him again.

The International Space Agency (ISA) welcomes you to your new position as a candidate for Project Evergreen, the next stage in humanity's cooperative exploration of our closest planetary neighbor, Mars. Congratulations on everything you have accomplished in order to make it to our advanced training program. Now that you're an official candidate, we recommend you assess your commitment to the end goal of Project Evergreen, which is permanent residency for all crew members at Martian Base One (MB1). If this is incompatible with your goals in life, please remove yourself from the candidate pool before we continue to invest in your training. We want only the most motivated candidates available. Remember, for every one of you who reaches this stage of training, ten thousand others are vying for your place. –ISA Project Evergreen Handbook

Cyril's first week in the space program wasn't at all what he'd expected.

He had anticipated plenty of tests, naturally; the governments and corporate sponsors in charge of the program only accepted the best of the best, and that meant you didn't stand a chance of getting in unless you knew your specialty inside and out. Competition in the private sector was stiff, but competition within the military was insane, which was why Cyril was glad he'd spent the past three years not just boning up on aerospace propulsion engineering, but going all out on his fitness as well. All those agonizing 5:00 a.m. runs felt a lot more gratifying now that he was the only person still standing after the two-mile sprint.

"You call that running?" Sergeant Malloy shouted from her place on the side of the track as she watched the last of the brand-new military recruits stagger toward the finish line. "I've seen better times out of eight-year-olds! You are supposed to be the
best
, the
brightest
, the most
motherfucking capable
that six different nations have to offer! And this is what you give me? China, nine minutes? Really?"  She stood over one of the gasping men and glowered at him. "What's your name, soldier?"

"Commander Lee Xiao, ma'am."

"At least you can get it out without vomiting, unlike Captain America over here."  She gestured to the American soldier who was bent over retching in the aftermath of his run. "Or maybe that's just because it took you
nine fucking minutes
to run two miles! Honest to god, I am
embarrassed
for your home countries, soldiers.

"And here comes Australia and India, joining the class at last," the sergeant yelled sarcastically as they stumbled in. "Ten goddamn minutes, which is two minutes too long as far as I'm concerned. No, don't lie down!" she added as both the soldiers dropped to the ground. "You don't get to lie down and take a break for getting the worst times in the group! Did you think I'd go easy on you because you're a woman, Flight-Lieutenant Brown? Both of you, take another lap." 

The sergeant cast her eyes to the sky. "This is what we're manning missions to Mars with now? Sad. Just sad. You all better make the most of your ability to suck wind while you can, because breathable air's gonna be in short supply once you get to MB1. You'll have to work, you'll have to think, you'll have to fucking
live
with the constant threat of running low on oxygen, so I want you to remember that when you're cursing me for being a hard-ass about this. You're soldiers, not civilian scientists. You don't get to play by their rules. If there's a sacrifice to be made, you'll be the ones at the front of the line, which means you have to be
ready
! You have to be
better
! You have to be the
best
!"  Sergeant Malloy crossed her arms. "And as of right now I see only one person who I would even marginally qualify as acceptable. Russia! Come here!"

"Yes, ma'am."  Cyril stepped forward, very aware of his fellow recruits' attention. He squared his shoulders and looked straight at the sergeant. He didn't care what they thought of him. They could hate him, he could handle that. He was never going to do less than his best for anything.

"Lieutenant Commander Konstantin, correct?" Sergeant Malloy asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, whatever that stick up your ass is made of, boy, don't pull it out just yet. It might be all that's holding you up."

Stick… what? Cyril had split his time evenly between the US and Russia as a child, but he hadn't heard that particular expression before. It had to be old. He heard the man referred to as 'Captain America' snicker, and forced himself not to react. "Ma'am," Cyril said evenly.

"Exactly."  Sergeant Malloy cast her gaze at the two stragglers who were just now finishing their extra lap. "I think it's time for a nice, long hike. Get your packs out of the shuttle and meet me at the foot of Flagstaff Mountain in five."  She waited for a second for it to sink in, then yelled, "
Now
, soldiers!"

The ones on the ground hauled themselves, groaning, to their feet, except for the American, who looked over at Cyril and held up a hand. "Help a mate out?"  American, with a British accent. It shouldn't have been surprising, everyone here had multiple nationalities—it was one of the major requirements for every member of the fourth mission to Mars—but for some reason that accent made Cyril start. He stared blankly at the man.