“Yes, please,” Nic replied. He sat on the living room couch next to Perri, with Maqsud pacing anxiously around the room and Jarek doing crunches off the back of an armchair.
The Zeta-Class Patrol ship had left Ayrus a few hours ago and was already moving through warped spacetime to their next destination. RTIFIS seemed to like to give Team Scarlet time to settle into their voyage before nagging them with their assignments, and Nic appreciated that. They had time—at least a week—to prepare, given the travel distance, but it didn’t hurt to get a head start.
Especially now that all of Team Scarlet’s battles had much more at stake than a big payout.
“A frigate?” Jarek said mid-crunch, arching an eyebrow. “That ain’t somethin’ you see every mission. What priority, RTIFIS?”
Minimal on their scale, maybe, Nic thought. But it was dangerous for him to go down that line of thinking for too long. He shook it off and went back to listening to the mission details.
COMMANDER 100 Credits SHARPSHOOTER 75 Credits MENDER 50 Credits FODDER 10 Credits
“Well, boys, we’ll certainly be earning our keep,” Perri said, dissatisfied. “It’s a Priority Four and it sure pays like it. I want to buy something pretty on our next shore leave, so we better have access to some—”
Perri smiled, flashing her dimples. “Good. Then I’ll have all the tools I need. Maybe I’ll treat us all to a nice fresh meal on our next shore leave, too!”
“That’s assuming I leave any Hexes for you,” said Nic. It was all part of his bravado as Squad Leader; he couldn’t let them see any cracks in his façade.
“Is that a challenge?” Perri turned to face him on the couch, bumping her knee against his. She leaned in closer. “Care to make this a little more interesting? What do you want to bet?”
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His pulse quickened. “I don’t think it’s polite to say in present company.”
Jarek made a loud pretend-vomiting sound. Maqsud said, “In the name of all things sacred, please keep your clothes on until we’re out of eyeshot this time! That’s why I don’t sit on that couch anymore.”
“Okay, that was one time,” said Nic, “and you guys came back to the ship unannounced! Maybe knock next time.” He felt his face flush, but Perri shrugged and grinned, seemingly pleased with herself.
Nic glanced around the room for confirmation. “None,” he replied. “Thanks, RTIFIS.”
The holotable went back into its idle state. Ordinarily, Sleep Mode produced visually appealing holograms that added a nice ambience to the room. Nic used to be able to select between scenes of nature, rain or snowfall, or unfolding geometric patterns all played in the same monochromatic display.
The Contact War changed that. Now the holotable was just another source of information delivery, and Sleep Mode played WorldGov broadcast messages on a repeating loop every thirty minutes.
“Oh, happy day, it’s starting again!” Maqsud said with sarcastic glee.
“Nuclear proliferation,” said a familiar voiceover. “Declining fertility. The Climate Crises. In our not-so-distant past, humanity has teetered on the brink of oblivion, but we’ve come back stronger each time...”
In six months, our contract will be up, Nic reminded himself. He rose from the couch and made for the stairs. “I’m gonna grab a shower.”
***
Showering had become the best part of Nic’s daily routine. It was a ritual now, one that he carried out the same way each time.
First, he hung his snow-white towel with great care over the terraplastic shower door. Then he touched the activation tile. Dragging his finger five tiles to the right brought the holographic temperature slider all the way to maximum, five notches from baby blue to burning red. Only the hottest water would do.
In the beginning, it was scalding. His skin pruned and he recoiled from the prickling burn; it was less painful than simulated fire mimicked through a SimSuit, but it was a greater shock to the senses somehow—maybe because it was real. When he could tolerate the heat a minute later, it was soothing. Amniotic.
He stood in the shower, stared blankly at the clouds of steam rising to the condensation filter in the ceiling. This window of four or five minutes was the closest he’d come to peace in the past year—that, and the first fleeting moments of every morning, Perri nuzzled against him in bed. He would wrap his arm around her and bask in his transitory ignorance of everything else that had come before it, the universe and the flow of time outside of that bed in that suspended instant. But it was a vacuum that begged to be filled; by the time his eyes opened, it always was.
Shanti. The spike. Her final words to them. The hideous, animal sound her body made as the life slipped from her body. Nic could hardly remember her face anymore outside of her PPI student profile photo. But the sight of her motionless armor on the ground, the snarling alien faces as he gunned them down in retribution... those were branded on the backs of his eyelids now, like images burned into a screen from prolonged use.
He did his actual washing in the last two or three minutes of each shower. One handful of all-purpose gel lathered from scalp to sole. He rinsed and then stood there until he maxed out his daily shower ration, sighing when the water petered out. And just like that, he was thrust back into the terror of the unknown, thrown back into that pit with his rabid thoughts.
RTIFIS said,
“I know,” Nic muttered, toweling off. “I know.”
***
Sometimes the deep, dark feeling held Nic back. Sometimes it felt dull; it made him drag his feet, made him not want to get out of bed in the morning, even after Perri had already risen and gone to the gym. The dullness was made of lead that weighed him down, rooted him in place. It was no friend to him on the battlefield.
Sometimes, though, it felt sharp. Made him focused. Made him ruthless. Gave him purpose again.
He liked the sharpness better.
“Okay, everybody,” Nic announced to his three squadmates in the living room. “Simnasium. Ten minutes.”
“Practice time,” said Jarek, rubbing his hands together.
“Nicolas,” said Maqsud, “don’t mistake my curiosity for insubordination, but is there merit to these drills when we already have extensive combat experience now, and when we already run drills on base? How much longer will you have us practice combat with these simulated enemies?”
“Until the real ones surrender,” he answered coldly. “Or until there are no more left to kill.”
Perri stood next to him, cast a glance over at the perpetually empty Bedroom Five. “Damn right.”