2075 - Space Corps Central Command Office
Harlow’s voice was calm as he responded. “You don’t give me orders. Sit back down in that chair.”
“Lin, just do what he says,” Conrad hissed. “Handle your disagreements privately. That’s not why we’re here.”
General Lin shook his head. “No. I think I prefer to stand. I like the view from up here. Seems as if there’s quite a bit to look down on.” He shot another pointed glance across the table.
Harlow shrugged. “So do I. In fact, I think I’ll conduct the rest of this meeting standing up. I don’t mind; I can do this all day.” He took a step backward, then began pacing around the table’s perimeter as he collected his thoughts.
“As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted,” he began, timing his cadence to his slow, methodical steps, “are none of you ashamed? This conflict has claimed tens of millions of lives in the past few years. Does that mean nothing to you? The Space Corps was created as a peaceful venture dedicated to exploration, science, and diplomacy, but look where we are—fighting ground wars with the rest of them, with the only difference being that we don’t even have the luxury of a government to fall back on. And it’s not just out there, either. Forty-seven generals have cycled through this room in that time, yet all of you continue to behave as if nothing’s wrong. As if someone else wasn’t sitting in your seat a few months ago, and you won’t be gone too, a few months from now, either buried underground or resigning into disgrace and anonymity. You seem content to go about your business as if that’s normal and expected, and you’re above it all, somehow.”
He crossed the far end of the table, and Lin scowled as he passed by.
“I’ve had enough,” he continued. “I’m done. Not with this job—not by any means—but I’m done with all of you. This ends now, and I’m giving you the option to either support measures to that end, or get out of my way.”
“What do you mean by that?” General Everett asked.
Harlow shrugged. “Should you feel the need to leave, I won’t stop you. I’ll grant full immunity to anyone who wants to resign—no questions asked, no criminal investigations, and no court martials. But if you choose to stay, be aware that our path going forward will be very different, because this war’s over. I’m ending it.”
General Conrad scoffed. “You’re incredibly naive to think you can end a war so easily—”
“Are you disagreeing with me, Conrad?” Harlow cut him off. “Because if so, there’s the door. You’ll be out of a job one way or another, so choose how.”
Lin regarded him with a dark stare. “I’m sure someone will be out of a job, but it won’t be any of us.” He smiled again. “You wouldn’t be the first chief commander we’ve had to remove from office.”
Harlow shrugged. “Oh, I’ve got no doubt some of you will try. But if you feel inclined to do so, you’ll be met with the fiercest resistance I can muster—and trust me, I’m far more committed to my goals than any of you have ever been in your miserable, warmongering lives. So go ahead, if you like, but I don’t recommend it.”
Lin shrugged. “Now that you’ve issued the invitation, I see no reason why not.”
Harlow stopped near the head of the table. Words came easily now, and he made no effort to stop them.
“Of all the lives that have been lost to this conflict, General Lin, it’s a shame yours wasn’t one of them.”
General Lin leaned forward, rested his hands on the table, and stared. “Why don’t you repeat that, and say it a little bit louder this time. I think some of us need to hear it again, lest we’re lacking evidence for your impeachment hearing.”
Harlow stared back, and the oppressive silence returned.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached down, grabbed that intricately carved chair with a steady, two-handed grip, and hurled it across the table with a speed and strength that seemed impossible.
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Lin dodged just in time, and the rest of the Council jumped to their feet.
“Was that evidence enough for you, Lin?!” Harlow shouted.
General Lin slowly emerged from beneath the table. “What do you have to say for yourself?” he asked in a trembling voice.
Harlow caught his breath, then shrugged. “Nothing. This meeting is adjourned, because I think I’ve said everything necessary.” He took a deep breath, stood up straighter, adjusted his uniform, and collected himself. “We’ll have no further reports. Instead, I’m giving all of you an assignment. I want you to spend the next few weeks developing a plan to resolve this conflict by year’s end with as few casualties and concessions as possible. We’ll reconvene later, and I expect to hear solutions—real, tangible solutions—for achieving peace. If you’re unwilling to do that, then don’t bother coming back. I’d rather see your empty seats. Is that understood?”
None of them moved. None of them spoke. None of them breathed, even.
Harlow took a step backward, then nodded at Victor, who stood abruptly. They turned toward the door and entered the hall together, leaving the Council to stew in what they’d just witnessed.
It wasn’t until they were in the elevator that Harlow finally allowed exhaustion to overtake him. He leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes, and stood that way for a long time.
“Atrium,” he finally said.
“You’re not going upstairs?” Victor asked.
Harlow shook his head. “That’s the last place I feel like going at the moment.”
Victor nodded, and the rest of the ride passed in silence. When the doors opened, Harlow stepped out and surveyed the Atrium before them.
“I don’t even know where I’m going,” he said. He looked around for a while, then made his way to the far side of the cavernous room with Victor following close behind.
The Atrium’s most prominent feature was the large observation window spanning its length, stretching from floor to ceiling. Harlow crossed to one of its far corners where some plants and decorative features concealed a small alcove that was nearly hidden from view. He retreated there, where they could barely be seen, and stopped a few inches from the glass.
They stood there for a long time, silhouetted against the sky as they stared through that window. Harlow was restless, though, and after a while he turned around, rested his back against the glass, and slid to a sitting position on the floor.
Victor reached out to steady him, but Harlow waved him off. “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m just sitting down.”
Victor took a seat beside him. “You’re not fine,” he said quietly. “You look like you’re about to drop dead.”
Harlow closed his eyes. “I feel like it, too. At this point, I think I’m living just to spite them.” He raised a shaking hand and ran his fingers through his hair, which now contained more gray than brown. They sat there for several minutes, saying nothing until he broke the silence once more.
“I’m sorry, Victor,” he said. “I hate this dark path I’m taking, and I hate that I’m dragging you along with me.”
Victor shrugged. “If I didn’t want to be here, I’d have left a long time ago.”
“I don’t think any of us want to be here—not really.”
“General Lin seems perfectly fine with it.”
Harlow sighed. “Don’t remind me. I meant every word I said in there—I’m ending this. I don’t care what I have to do; I’m putting a stop to this war once and for all.” He sat there for another minute, then let his hands fall to his lap. “Unfortunately, though, I think our trip down here might have to end sooner than I’d planned, too, because I feel another migraine coming on. And if that’s the case, I’d rather leave on my own, before I have to be hauled upstairs on a stretcher.”
“Well, let’s get you back up there, then, before you spend yet another evening curled up on the floor vomiting.”
Harlow shrugged. “Oh, I think that’s waiting for me regardless.”
And he was right. That migraine might’ve retreated into a temporary lull, but it surged back with a vengeance, and he suffered its full effects. He was able to make it back to his quarters, at least, but he collapsed on the sofa as soon as he entered the living room, as he was unable to tolerate even the short walk to his bed.
As he lay there staring at the ceiling, its white, reflective surface shot needles into the back of his eyes, and no amount of noise reduction or dimmed lights brought even the slightest reprieve. The room seemed to be spinning, and he felt that familiar wave of nausea which always heralded worse to follow.
He rolled onto the floor and crawled to the bathroom because he knew what was coming next. If he was going to spend the day throwing up, he decided he’d rather do it in a space designed to tolerate such things.
He hadn’t been left to suffer alone, though. Victor was there, and he knew what to do. He retrieved a bottle of pills from the counter which had been prescribed for instances such as these, although they both knew that once things progressed to that point, they’d do precious little good. But he brought them anyway, along with a glass of water, then took Harlow’s pillows and blankets from the bed and piled them on the bathroom floor, creating a space for him to rest where he could be cocooned in darkness. Then he closed the door and ran a steaming hot shower, misting up the room, and in the warmth, and the damp, and the pitch black, Harlow finally felt the first hint of relief. The nauseated sensation slowly passed, and when he could move again, he curled up beneath those blankets and lay very still.
Victor may have been who he was, but he was gifted in certain ways, and when his talents were on full display, he shone very bright indeed. And that day, as Harlow lay on the floor, Victor lay down beside him, and held him close, and hummed a quiet song in his ear, and they stayed that way until the pain subsided enough for him to fall asleep.