2073 - Space Corps Central Command Office

Harlow may have been in a terrible frame of mind, but that didn’t matter, because the work never stopped.

When he returned to his office half an hour later, there was already a stack of inquiries waiting for him, piled high on the empty desk in the vestibule that was meant to be occupied by an aide. He put them in the place he’d designated for such things—a disorganized box nestled precariously on the corner of his desk—but there were already so many, the new ones just slipped from the top and fluttered to the floor.

He didn’t even bother retrieving them. What difference does it make, he thought as he returned to the report he’d been working on. But his mind was as blank as the page before him, and he found it exceedingly difficult to focus. The numbers presented there were staggering—page after page, lines upon columns containing long lists of casualties, each representing dozens of lives lost. All reduced to statistics, now.

He might as well have been witnessing that battlefield execution hundreds of times over.

Most were barely older than boys. Outside of the officer ranks, it wasn’t uncommon to see teenagers in nearly every line of duty. Each time Harlow had toured the front, he’d felt like an old man, because he was, compared to most of them.

He felt that fresh, open wound again—that surging rush of anger he’d directed at Victor for taking advantage of him at such a young age—but then he realized that most of those named in this list weren’t much older than that when they’d died.

And he’d been complicit in giving those orders.

Traitor, his mind screamed at him. You may not have betrayed the Corps, but you betrayed those boys.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and forced himself to continue his work.

It would’ve been a grim task even without the afternoon’s events clouding his mind and muddying his judgment, but on top of that, he lacked some of the information that was supposed to go there. He needed to consult with one of the base commanders, but when his former assistant had called their office, they’d hung up as soon as she started talking.

He stared at the page for a while, then skipped that part and moved on. He sat there for hours, forcing himself to be alert and attentive as he worked through the afternoon and well into the night.

A day passed, and then another. It was demoralizing work—categorizing, classifying, summarizing, and analyzing the conflict which had directed the course of his life for the better part of a decade.

This clinical part of the process was better suited for the likes of General Conrad, he mused—those who could put it all aside at the end of the day and go for a run afterward. But nevertheless, he persisted. He was making progress—albeit slowly—and considered that to be adequate.

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That is, until the following Monday.

At the start of each week, the Council held a meeting in which each member gave a brief report on the state of their command.

These had been stately events, once upon a time. During peacetime years, that room was populated by veritable members of the aristocracy—old men nearing retirement, wearing formal uniforms and delivering long-winded addresses which had been prepared well in advance by a team of aides. However, as the war progressed, the speeches became shorter, the generals grew younger, proceedings were less distinguished, and the words became more honest, although grudgingly so, as if they occasionally slipped and broke a fragile, unspoken contract, pulling the veil of civility aside to reveal the true nature of things.

And Harlow knew how unwelcome he was, because there was no greater indictment against the Corps than their twenty-six-year-old general—the one who’d gained his rank through a hasty field promotion. Who indicated a complete lack of competent individuals available to hold the office.

His presence was criticism enough.

But he was obligated to attend, so he did. Bright and early that morning, he left the confines of his office for the first time in days.

This was only the third such meeting he’d attended as a member, and the first in which he’d been expected to speak. He knew how he must’ve looked, sitting in that room with officers twice his age, and how he must’ve sounded, with a fraction of their experience. He tried to project confidence, but feared his best efforts weren’t enough; he stumbled over a word here and there, and parts of his presentation were lacking, with some information omitted altogether since he hadn’t received timely reports from the officers in his chain of command.

He was a novice among experts, and felt keenly aware of it.

But he also appeared to be one of the few who cared. Conrad’s attitude seemed to be the standard here, and although Harlow had known what to expect, he still found it shocking—the lack of attention given to even the most pressing matters presented in that meeting. A few topics were dismissed outright—some with a round of laughter, others with the odd smirk or two—but none received more than a passing acknowledgement from the Council, who seemed more concerned with what they were going to have for lunch afterward than managing the war.

Most disappointing of all, though, was the chief commander.

Harlow had always admired Chief Commander Wittenauer. The man had served as a role model for an entire generation of cadets, and Harlow had witnessed his whole career, watching as a popular officer with a storied legacy behind him rose through the ranks to become a general, then chief of staff.

Few were more deserving of that honor, Harlow had thought. This was a man he’d been nervous to meet for the first time—a man he was convinced would do everything within his power to lead them out of the war.

A man he’d once revered.

As chief of staff, Wittenauer was tasked with conducting proceedings during these meetings, but on this particular day, he barely said a word. Harlow glanced in his direction at one point and could’ve sworn the man seemed to be nodding off to sleep.

And just like that, the illusion of hope was shattered. Harlow knew the Council barely cared for their jobs, but he’d thought their leader might.

This was how he behaved, Harlow realized, when the cameras were off. When no one of importance was watching—at least, no one who would hold him accountable for such behavior. This was how it was behind closed doors.

He let out a deep sigh, then looked away and put on that stone face again.

As soon as they were dismissed, following the meeting’s conclusion, his first instinct was to leap from his seat and dart from the room. However, he remained for the sake of decorum, if nothing else. He didn’t want to be the first to leave, but the others lingered as well, making small talk and chatting amongst themselves without so much as glancing at him.

None of them seemed to be in a hurry, and he wondered just how long of a waiting period was appropriate. But then, just as it was becoming unbearable, he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder, and turned around to see General Howard standing behind him.