2073 - Space Corps Central Command Office

Words failed to adequately express Harlow’s frustration.

He’d known exactly what to expect from those interviews, yet still, he’d been left wanting. Each had taken longer than the last, but somehow been less impressive—an infuriating parade of wasted effort. One tediously unproductive venture after another.

An apt reflection of the current state of the Space Corps.

Nobody wanted to work for him. As loath as he was to admit it, Conrad had spoken the truth. The prospect of becoming General Harlow’s aide seemed laughable to most officers—one of the least desirable positions in an already maligned branch—and the quality of candidates reflected it.

After the seventh interview was through, he rested his elbows on the desk, leaned forward, and rubbed his temples. And he remained that way for a while before taking a deep breath in an attempt to clear his thoughts, inhaling and exhaling until they were gone.

Until his mind was as blank as that snowy sky again.

Finally, he leaned back in his chair, opened the folder, and sighed.

“One left,” he said aloud as he removed the final application.

It can’t possibly be worse than the others, he thought. But deep down, he knew this was merely a platitude—a feeble attempt to convince himself otherwise.

And sure enough, as he skimmed the page, he frowned. Nothing there looked familiar, which was odd, because he’d been meticulous about pre-screening the candidates. All identifying information had been removed, as per Space Corps policy, in the interest of “fairness,” but he was certain he hadn’t seen this one before, because if he had, he would’ve rejected it immediately. The applicant wasn’t even remotely qualified, and there were quite a few disciplinary infractions listed in their record as well.

I must’ve grabbed the wrong paperwork, he thought as he moved to set it aside. But then, something at the bottom gave him pause. The candidate was enlisted—a trait that automatically disqualified them, as the position had only been open to officers—but there, at the end, were their academic credentials.

This was an Academy graduate.

He frowned and leaned closer to ensure he’d read it correctly. Academy graduates were almost always awarded officer commissions, but this person clearly hadn’t received one.

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Prior to the war, underperforming cadets were usually discharged if they couldn’t meet standards, but thanks to the staffing crisis, new policies allowed them to enter the enlisted ranks, and this was apparently someone who’d done so.

Still, though, it was rare. Standards had relaxed somewhat during wartime command, but even so, the Academy’s administration wasn’t fond of wasting years of officer training on those who would never provide a return on that investment.

As Harlow skimmed further, his frown deepened when he realized they’d graduated the year before he had. This was likely someone he knew, and as he flipped the page and saw their language proficiencies, his frown turned to a scowl.

He knew this person all too well.

He inhaled sharply, then reached across the desk and fumbled for the nearest phone. If he acted quickly, he thought, maybe security could apprehend them before they arrived.

But it was too late. He glanced up just in time to see Victor enter the room.

It had been years since they’d last spoken. And rightly so, given the manner in which they’d parted ways.

The war was its own type of burden, but the scars Harlow carried from the past were quite another. He’d buried them deep, but those memories surged to the surface now, gasping for air and crying out at the same time.

He remembered all of it just as vividly as if it had been yesterday. Even with a war occurring in the interim, those moments were seared into his mind.

At the sight of Victor, he was taken back to the day he’d first laid eyes on him, as a young man smitten by love. Then he recalled their last encounter—the incident which had severed their relationship permanently and broken his trust beyond repair, to the point they’d never spoken again. The betrayal which had left a deep, cutting wound that had never quite healed.

The reason he wanted nothing to do with him.

He remembered the only interaction they’d had, in the years that followed. He’d encountered Victor in passing one day, by mere chance. Their eyes had met, and he’d given him a single, stiff nod, then kept walking.

That was it.

It was the most banal of acknowledgements, and he was content to leave it that way. But this meeting was a product of his own carelessness, he knew. Normally a general’s office would have safeguards in place to screen visitors, but Harlow didn’t. He hadn’t seen the necessity of it, and more importantly, he didn’t have adequate time or staffing. He’d simply left his office door open, and applicants had been provided temporary clearance with instructions to let themselves in when they arrived, but now he was kicking himself for that choice.

So now, here he sat, forced to confront the past again as Victor crossed the room, sat in one of the chairs directly in front of the desk, slouched down, and stared at him.

Harlow had moved on as best he could, but those events still haunted him, and the worst of it was that some lingering part of him felt something for Victor still, despite all that, because love wasn’t rational, but it was outweighed by the hurt, and the hatred, and the horror of what had happened.

It would’ve been easier to dismiss Victor outright if the years hadn’t been kind to him, but that wasn’t the case. Victor had always been beautiful, but in his twenties he’d bloomed, with each passing year granting beauty all the more. Harlow couldn’t help but wonder how many men he’d been with in that time, and how many women had tried to sway him with their affection, receiving only frustration in return.

But then he wondered how many others Victor had taken advantage of, and manipulated, and used, and his sadness turned to anger.

“What are you doing here?” he finally managed, making no attempt to hide his livid glare or the disdain that permeated his words.