2075 - Space Corps Central Command Office
Ever since his promotion, Harlow’s mornings had all begun the same way.
He awoke at 05:30 to Victor entering his quarters and rousing him from his sleep. It didn’t take much; he slept restlessly these days, and usually startled from a disturbed dream to an equally disturbing reality.
He’d spend a few moments waking up, often over a cup of coffee Victor brought with him, and they’d pass the next half hour or so going over the day’s schedule—listing appointments, outlining meetings, preparing for events, and rehearsing speeches. Then he got up and showered—although sometimes he didn’t have time—and put on his uniform. As Chief Commander, he was expected to appear in formal dress at all times, wearing a stiff, dark outfit more akin to a suit than military regalia, which he kept spotless and immaculate, presenting a harsh contrast to his haggard appearance.
The pins on the front were always perfectly straight and aligned, and the gold trim never appeared dull or frayed. If it began to show signs of wear, he had it repaired or replaced immediately.
The rest of the Space Corps’ generals wore stars on their shoulders indicating levels of seniority, but Harlow only wore one. His emblem was unique in that it was embellished, set against a starry field with a tail behind it, like a comet, indicating motion. It was angled upward, as if it were rising—reaching for the sky—but lately he’d begun to wonder if it might be at the top of its trajectory, set on a path that eventually returned to the ground, leading to a tragic demise. It seemed a fitting interpretation, given the state of his career.
The rest of his routine consisted of standing in front of a mirror, straightening the creases in his starched black jacket, and running a comb through his ever-whitening hair. It took less than five minutes.
He and Victor were usually in his office by 07:00, where Victor brewed another pot of coffee, and they both got to work. Victor responded to messages, addressed visitors, answered phone calls, and handled any emergencies which had arisen overnight, while Harlow began his dizzying schedule of meetings, appointments, press conferences, and public appearances. Lunch was usually taken at his desk, while he was doing other things, and it never lasted more than thirty minutes. After that, he had a four-hour window set aside in the afternoon to manage any issues that arose throughout the day, and it often wasn’t enough.
His evenings were a mix of whatever needed doing—more meetings, phone calls, visits to different departments, reading through paperwork, sitting through briefings, or attending a formal event here and there, but whatever it was, it was rarely done before midnight.
Then he collapsed into bed. If he was lucky, he’d have dinner and a shower first, but sometimes he didn’t. On bad days he’d still be in uniform, shoes and all, and on the worst days he slept at his desk. Then he woke up at 05:30 and did it all over again.
The Space Corps’ facilities were renowned for their luxury suites, and as Chief Commander, Harlow’s were the grandest of all. He had the Penthouse floor entirely to himself, and he was granted unlimited access to all of their amenities. Nevertheless, he still felt like an interloper. He was keenly aware of how conversations stopped abruptly when he entered the room, and the manner in which his cohorts on the Council spoke of him. He’d seen the smug grins, and he read the expressions behind those smiles.
The penthouse had started to feel like a gilded cage, and he dreaded leaving. Even though his office was in an attached suite with its own private entrance, it felt barren, exposed, and oppressive because he knew that a mountain of unpleasantness awaited him there, demanding to be addressed as soon as he sat down.
The phone never stopped ringing, and there was always a backlog of messages. At first he’d delegated these tasks to Victor, but it soon became so overwhelming, he realized they needed another aide. So they found one—an enthusiastic lieutenant fresh out of the Academy. That enthusiasm was short-lived, though, and she’d requested a transfer after just a few weeks, citing an “unmanageable level of stress.” The next one did the same, and the next after that. This led to a revolving door of junior aides, some of whom never even completed their training.
Stolen story; please report.
After a few months, Victor suggested turning these positions into twelve-week internships. “They’re going to leave anyway,” he said, “so we might as well convert this madness into something manageable.” And it worked. With a set end date, most were willing to stay until the end of their assignment.
Harlow could see that daily exposure to the chief commander’s office was killing these young officers’ dreams. Watching him go about his day was giving them burnout by proxy, but he’d rather it be that than the battlefield.
He realized, now, why General Howard had said he wouldn’t wish this on his worst enemy. This workload seemed intent on putting him in an early grave, and he could only imagine how it would feel for someone nearly twice his age.
But the warmongers of the Council had all been clamoring for it nonetheless—at least, until very recently—and Harlow had to remind himself that they wanted the prestige of this position, and nothing more. They’d neglect all but the barest of duties, foisting the rest onto aides and junior officers, leaving the Space Corps to suffer while they attended private dinners, met with dignitaries, and accepted their bribes. They viewed it as yet another tool to enrich themselves, and they’d be long gone before the consequences ever came due.
And it was with this knowledge that Harlow got up every day, no matter how tired he was, put on his uniform, and sat down to do his job.
“What have you got for me?” he asked Victor as they greeted yet another Friday.
Victor was sitting in a chair in the corner of Harlow’s quarters, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees as he scanned the handwritten list in front of him. He was already in uniform, although he’d skipped the jacket, while Harlow sat in bed, bleary-eyed, sipping the worst cup of coffee he’d ever tasted.
“It’s shaping up to be a lighter day,” Victor said. “Only three appointments this morning. The first is General Valdez at 09:00.”
Harlow frowned. “General Valdez?”
“Army,” Victor said. “They’re set on that combined venture into Twenty-Second Regional—the one they keep talking about. I guess they finally decided to send a representative to work out the details.”
“I remember now,” Harlow said. “That was one of the main topics at that conference back in April. General Valdez was there; I even spoke to him—”
“Her,” Victor glanced at him sharply. “General Valdez is a ‘she.’”
Harlow raised his eyebrows, and Victor’s gaze returned to the list. “That’s why we go over these things in advance.” He motioned at the coffee mug. “Drink more of that. You’re not awake yet.”
“That’d be easier if it didn’t taste like cardboard,” Harlow said. “What’d you put in there?”
“Standard rations,” Victor replied. “If you don’t like it, feel free to negotiate a better deal with our suppliers.” He glanced at the list again. “Now, the next two, you should remember.”
“I do,” Harlow said. “We’ve got the pre-bid conference with BlueSun Aviation regarding the fleet upgrade, and the medical corps asked me to attend their quarterly all-hands assembly.”
Victor nodded.
“What about the afternoon?” Harlow asked. “I know I’m meeting with Security at some point to discuss the new safety protocols.”
“There’s that,” Victor said. “Then there’s the prospective Council nominees.”
Harlow frowned. “What?”
“The newest batch of colonels in line for promotion,” Victor said. “You mentioned you wanted to interview them personally, so I went ahead and scheduled that for you. This afternoon was the best availability for everyone.” He glanced up. “Did I not tell you?”
“I don’t think so,” Harlow said. “This is the first I recall hearing of it.”
“I thought I’d mentioned it.” Victor frowned. “Do you want me to reschedule? It’s not urgent, and with everything else you’ve got going on . . .”
“No, it’s fine,” Harlow sighed. “I’ve delayed this far too long already. It’s the least important thing on my list, but there’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to meet with them. Not on a lighter day. How long do you think it’ll take?”
“The better part of the afternoon.” Victor shuffled the stack of papers, then handed over one of the loose sheets. “Here’s the list. I’ve allocated a half hour for each.”
Harlow shrugged. “That won’t be a problem.”
His tone indicated that it was, indeed, a problem, and Victor picked up on it.
“Are you sure?” He asked with a pointed glance.
Harlow nodded. “There’s a few I’m particularly interested in talking to.” He sighed again and looked away. “If I’m going to be leading that Council, I want good people there with me. And at the rate vacancies have been opening up, I’ll probably see some of them sitting there within a matter of months, so I’d like to meet them sooner rather than later.” He scanned the list. “Can you do something for me, though?”
“What’s that?”
He pointed to an entry halfway down the page. “Move this one up, if you can.”
Victor followed his gaze. “Colonel Moore? He’s with Intelligence, isn’t he?”
Harlow nodded. “I don’t recognize most of these names, but I remember his. He came highly recommended—I’ve heard good things—and I’d prefer to interview him first in case I’m interrupted, or we run out of time.”
Victor nodded back. “I’ll see if he can reschedule on short notice.”
Harlow studied the list further, then handed it back and took another sip of coffee.
“That’s repulsive,” he whispered, setting the mug down beside him. “I’ll have to do something about that.”