The prosecutor fumed at Alphonse’s sudden change in wording. “You are aware that perjury is against the law, correct?”
“I am,” Alphonse said. “There is video footage that will show that there were stalks right outside the windows at all times. Multiple people were eaten. I believe that if Sickle… 17… I believe that if he left, it would’ve attacked all of us, killing us. Surely there’s a law against Sickles taking actions that endanger—”
“Objection. Relevance.”
“Overruled,” said the judge. “Mr. Carmichael, I have allowed your testimony, but please stop referring to video footage from Cutters Crabhouse.”
“Okay,” Alphonse said.
The prosecutor took a deep breath. “Okay…. Let me start over. When the stalk died, did Sickle 1706 leave immediately?”
Alphonse froze, thinking through the situation.
“Answer the question, Mr. Carmichael.”
“He did….” Alphonse looked up. “He did.”
The prosecutor smirked. “So there wasn’t actually an impediment to him leaving, was there?”
“He left through the broken window,” Alphonse said defiantly, “Which is walled off.”
Pure hatred. I could see pure hatred in the prosecutor’s eyes as he stared at Alphonse, who looked at him with absolute disdain. I felt like I was watching two people I hated mauling each other in a death pit, one side only partially favorable, mildly satisfied no matter what the outcome. Yet…. I was rooting for Alphonse. Not just for my sake, but because… well, it was fucking cool.
“How long was the window broken?”
“About five to ten minutes.”
“So he could’ve fled.”
“The stalk immediately attacked him. He was in its clutches before we ran into the kitchen, and it was wearing a wall on its neck. I doubt he could’ve dodged.”
The prosecutor nodded a few times. “You mentioned that the area outside the broken window was walled off. So how did he leave?”
“He must’ve jumped off the railing.”
“How high up is that?” He looked at the judge and then back at Alphonse.
“I don’t know,” Alphonse said.
“If you’re saying that he couldn’t leave, how did Sickle 1706 do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he eat rifter meat?”
“I don’t know.”
“I do not recall Sickle 1706’s superior officer giving him permission to eat—“
“Objection!” the defense attorney yelled, proving that he wasn’t completely useless. “The question pertains to a charge that is not before the court.”
“It’s absolutely relevant to determining whether he could—“
“Sustained,” the judge sighed. “No evidence has been submitted for that point regardless.”
The prosecutor looked at me with vengeance in his eyes, then at the defense attorney, and then at the man in the back before looking at Alphonse. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
I leaned back and closed my eyes after that, feeling severe relief. It soon faded, however, when my defense lawyer questioned Alphonse. That man should’ve been disbarred long ago, assuming he ever passed it. There were no less than 36 objections as he questioned Alphonse. Hearsay this. Relevance that. At least 30 of them were sustained.
But the damage was done.
The judge kept looking at the balding man, and the “jury” noticed. They also took note of Slade, who was trembling and nervous, as if he were found out and implicated in a crime. And before I knew it, it was over, and the Horsemen left for deliberation, leaving me in a state of shock, wondering what the hell happened.
2
Deliberation from the Four Horsemen was notorious for never exceeding five minutes, so we stayed in place, expecting it to be over soon. Yet it wasn’t. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. An hour followed, giving way to two and then three. Finally, on the fourth hour, the Horsemen arrived, looking as though they had seen a ghost.
“Rise,” the judge said to me.
I did.
In the US Marine Corps, the court-martial panel deliberates, but the president of the panel—a senior-ranking individual—hands out the execution order. He looked at me with a complex expression as he stood, waiting until he obtained silence. The courtroom turned deathly still.
“On the charge of Failure to Report for Duty,” the president said, booming with authority, “the panel finds the accused not guilty.”
I took a deep breath in disbelief, stress shedding from me like molted snakeskin. What? I thought absentmindedly, but it wasn’t over. Not even close.
"On the charge of Insubordination, the panel finds the accused—not guilty.”
First Lieutenant Slade’s eyes turned primal, but he bit his tongue when he felt the bald man’s eyes on the back of his skull. He looked at his locket and trembled.
"On the charge of Harassing a Superior Officer, the panel finds the accused not guilty."
“It’s recorded!” Slade yelled, more panicked than angry.
“Be silent, or you’ll be removed from this court and held in contempt!” the judge boomed. Slade sat down in disbelief.
I turned to my superior officer. How does it feel? I silently sneered. If he understood the irony, he didn’t show it. He just trembled, looking at the ground, a mixture of anger and fear reflecting on his twisting cheeks. I confirmed then that there was more to this trial than our bad blood—assuming that it had anything to do with that at all,
Suddenly, the president’s voice turned stern. “On the charge of Disorderly Conduct, the panel finds the accused guilty.”
My stomach sank, and I looked at the table bitterly. It’s not an executable offense, I told myself.
“On the charge of Public Intoxication….”
Guilty.
“On the charge of Underage Drinking….”
Guilty.
“On the charge of Destruction of Government Property—”
I gripped my fists.
“—the panel finds the accused not guilty.”
My eyes widened, and I looked back at “Kensey” (who I had summarily upgraded from Lady Wraith) but remembered she was taken out of the room.
Once they finished, the judge took over.
“The court, having found the accused guilty of Disorderly Conduct, Public Intoxication, and Underage Drinking, now sentences the accused as follows: In line with protocol, Sickle 1706 will receive a reduction of rank to the lowest possible level. Since Sickle 1706 already has this rank, it is dismissed. Forfeiture of pay. Sickle 1706 will forfeit 50% of his pay for a period of six months. He is to remain on base during that time, and for the next forty-five days, he will be assigned to extra duties and alcohol counseling. The accused is prohibited from leaving his quarters after his duties. Watch the next Feast seriously, and reflect upon what you were spared from. Court is dismissed.”
Right then, getting off on a minor punishment, I couldn’t feel happy. Being deprived of poker felt worse than losing my life, and the 50% forfeiture of a Sickle’s pay was demanding I starve to death. It’s funny how the mind works like that—surviving one thing and immediately hating even the minor punishment. But that’s how it goes, I guess.
Suddenly, Lieutenant Slade stood and turned to me. “Get changed and report to Lieutenant Rudd for duty at thirteen hundred hours, private.” Then he stormed out of the room.
I stared at the table after the door slammed shut, reflecting on what I had just heard. He’s still my superior officer, I thought in a haze. I still have to follow his orders…
Suddenly, Alphonse walked up to me. I looked into his eyes. “Um… thanks.”
He swallowed and nodded. “Yeah… Likewise.”
I nodded back. “Have a good day then.”
He nodded some more. “I wish I could do more.”
After two seconds of awkward silence, Alphonse walked away. I glanced at him one last time and saw Lady Wraith looking at me once the door opened. She immediately turned away, and I could finally see the expression I hoped to see: shame. Last to go was the balding man, who slapped his thighs and said. “Well. I can’t wait to see that ‘evidence.’” Then he left, leaving me stranded, suspended in a bowl of psychological soup.
2
I had an hour before I had to return to duty (a surreal fact, I know), so I returned to my room after the trial and checked my money hole. I was glad I hid my money because the $97.38 I left for the government to find was gone.
Here’s to hoping they didn’t find the rest, I thought.
I sighed and looked out at the window. Large geysers of water rocketed airborne as the military dropped bombs into the water while civilian planes flew overhead, dropping poisons into the bay like Agent Orange in Vietnam. In the center of the water was a floating mass of black tentacles that sat in the bay like radioactive waste. So long as it was there, simply touching the water would give a normal person aether poisoning and start the coring process. That’s why only Sickles were qualified to run cargo ships—
—which was yet another vital yet dangerous industry.
The solution?
Put international trade under the purview of the military and force the Sickles to do it.
I think if things weren’t so dire at the beginning of the Rapture, everyone might’ve let the free market deal with it. Have Sickles start up their own businesses and all that. But back then, the density of Delta-sized stalks like the one I saw were commonplace, and the Gammas and Betas were far from rare. Boeings were torn out of the skies, drones were eaten mid-flight, and the military wouldn’t just bomb their own cities until they realized it was the only way to control the population. Shit got bleak, and the only thing that could save us was God’s Vision, so the military forced them to fight—
—after that, it was just easier to continue.
If they didn’t, the military would’ve faced war crimes. But there were no human rights violations if Sickles weren’t humans. So here we are.
I looked away. “I stink.”
Showers feel best when you’re scrubbing injustice off you, and mandatory military uniforms are slightly bearable when they don’t reek of BO and crazy women. So I appreciated both as I got ready and left the door.
3
Aside from Anisha, I pretty much hated every Breather alive. Perhaps “hate” was a strong word—but “resented” held true at a minimum. It was hard to live in a world where people treated you like a subhuman alien and not feel an intrinsic distrust for them. That said, it wasn’t fair. The vast majority of people weren’t rivens—the name for wealthy Breather supremacists—or bigots—the name for poor Breather supremacists. The people you’re reading about are those in the military, and as you’ll soon see, the Breathers here are taught and trained to hate us, see us as lessers, and use us as disposable tools. It’s a control mechanism designed to prevent rebellion by mobilizing tens of thousands of voluntary guards willing to “keep the peace” and keep us fighting. That’s why, to any Sickle that reads this, every military officer tends to seem irredeemably evil—it’s their job.
Yet there are always a few officers that were halfway decent—and Lieutenant Rudd was one of them.
It wasn’t so much that Rudd chose to treat Sickles well as much as it was that he didn’t have the emotional capacity to treat us poorly. The first time I saw him, he looked like he was halfway through the gate to the great beyond. He wore an untapered buzz cut because asking for something that looked nice required constant upkeep, and the deep bags under his eyes (which couldn’t be created by one or even six all-nighters) indicated that he had insomnia and thus had to endure the maximum amount of conscious suffering possible. The first thing he said to me was:
Name’s Mike, but just call me ‘Sir’ or something. Well, ceremony…. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. Just call me Lieutenant Rudd. Let’s go.
Since then, Sickles called him ‘Lieutenant’ because we didn’t like to take beatings, but we called him Mike or Rudd between ourselves. I called him Rudd.
Rudd was organizing a maw hunting expedition out on the pier that day, surrounded by fifty Sickles right near the bright orange crane that loomed like a guillotine, still decorated with harnesses like a Christmas tree. It was only used on rare occasions when Sickles started getting restless or fighting back, and I might’ve ended up on it if I lost that trial.
Beside the crane, white-painted armored boats the size of small yachts were docked on the harbor, preparing to take us right into maw-infested waters. This was more safe than you’re probably imagining. Releasing the Lunkers (as the maw destroyer teams were called for various reasons) meant that the waters were deemed clear of Deltas and Gammas (creatures that could sink the ship). After all—they didn’t want to lose perfectly good boats. Therefore, these trips were actually the safest of our duties, which often involved scavenging trips into the city or “Reaping”—the name for culling monsters, which is where the name “Sickle” is derived from.
Rudd’s shoulders slouched when he saw me. Then, he blinked rapidly with his bloodshot eyes and rubbed his buzzed head in thick strokes.
“What was that look for?” I asked, saluting to him.
Rudd opened his mouth to speak but chose not to, summing up his thoughts as, “You’re trouble, kid.”
“Most people would love to get me on their team,” I said.
“Not anymore, they won’t.” He looked at the crane’s base, where an Indian man I had never seen before was leaning. He was mostly ordinary, wearing the same white hazmat-style suit that I’d be wearing in a moment. Yet he looked way too relaxed—amused even. Lunking was usually the safest job—but that didn’t mean much. There was also a massive outbreak just the day before. No one was relaxed. No one should’ve been relaxed.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Trouble,” Rudd said. “Don’t look at him, don’t talk to him, shit. Please, for the love of God, don’t fuck with him. And if you’re questioned about him or this mission or whatever else, remember that I love you.”
“You love me?”
“I do now.”
“So what?” I asked nervously. “This’s a suicide mission?”
“Kei… think about it for a moment. Would I be worried about you gettin’ questioned if I thought you’d die?”
My muscles relaxed, and I immediately thought of that bald man.
Well. I can’t wait to see that ‘evidence.’
“Now stop asking questions and shoot like our lives depend on it, kay?”
“Okay.”
Rudd waved a scrambler in front of my face—just like Anisha.
Evidence.
Recordings worked both ways, and the military didn’t want evidence that proved my innocence. That’s when I realized something was seriously wrong.
“Okay, let’s go, people,” Rudd said, taking a podium. “If you were unlucky enough to get ‘promoted’ here, let me explain what we’re doin’. In just a few minutes, you’re gonna start grillin’. Get your eyes in check. Then we’re getting out on the water, and you’re mounting one of these…” He pointed to a mounted harpoon, “and you’re gonna start shooting cores. These have explosive tips that are strong enough to kill an orca. Considering that all the high-feed biggins are gonners, there shouldn’t be anything above Epsilon in your zone. If you can’t kill a shark with a whaling gun, that’s your fault. So unless it’s a low-feed Delt’, don’t complain to me that I’m logging misses despite you landing hits on its body. We’re here to kill it, not tickle it.”
Maws weren’t just murder machines. Like Earthian animals, most weren’t carnivorous, but the ones that were meat eaters were broken down into high-feeders and low-feeders, which designated whether a maw fed near the surface or near the floor. In the case of the latter, we usually allowed Deltas or below to live near the floor to save torpedoes, so long as they didn’t have a track record (from prior outbreaks) of coming to the surface. But there were millions of species of bugs, maws, claws—ground rifters—and stalks, and we got new ones each time. So, every once in a while, a Delta would attack the Lunkers. Then, we needed raw skill to kill it.
“If you’re a veteran, you’ll be spotting harpooners with one of these,” Rudd continued, accepting a shotgun. “If a maw comes floppin’ in, you’re gonna blast them.” He lifted the gun to the water and lifted it slightly in a pow gesture. Then he turned back. “Shotguns normally can’t do jack against one of these things unless it’s Eta or below, but these are 10 gauges. They’re used for shooting turkeys, and they’re more than enough to push a Zeta back into the water if it doesn’t kill it.” That was a stretch, considering that “Zeta-class” rifters got as big as medium-sized dogs—and fish weren’t supposed to be the size of dogs. “While these things have enough power to land a normal person on their ass,” Rudd continued, “you’re not a normal person. Since the politicians are demanding results, we’ve been authorized for Zerka, Cela, and Sena meat. That means these things are gonna move slower, and you’re gonna be stronger and faster. So if you fall and endanger someone, you’re getting disciplined. So suit up, stay in your position, and keep those suits on, ‘cause if this water touches your skin, you’ll absorb enough poison and aether to kill you. Now eat your meat, listen to your commanders, and load out.”
A Sickle walked around, handing out small pieces of meat like they were tabs of acid or the Body of Christ at a Catholic ceremony. We ate them—and people started screaming, dropping to their knees.
Look, if you’ve never eaten rifter meat, you’d never understand what it’s like to feel like a sapient piece of bacon that screamed all the way down to a frying pan before it started sizzling. That’s what it felt like, and the reason Sickles called it grillin’—and to the noobies, it was like drinking battery acid. Veins webbed around their necks and up to their face as the Zerka meat took over. Sena was worse at first. It started the way it ended—feeling like your head was gonna explode. That said, eating the meat was nothing like what I experienced the day before, and all it did was make me feel—warm and fuzzy—like the world was vibrant and pure and whole again.
The Indian guy watched me with a slight smile before popping all three pieces in his mouth like sunflower seeds and walking into the boat on the far edge of the dock, helmet under his arm as if the water touching him was encouraged.
Rudd looked at me and pointed at the same boat.
Strange, obviously, considering that there were two boats, and he didn’t want me to look, talk, or piss off Mr. Trouble. Still, I nodded, got dressed in the white hazmat-style suit, put on my plastic head mask, and walked onto the ship, inbound toward the Beta colossus, where maws were feeding on it—and becoming stronger.