2073 - Space Corps Central Command Office

“Walk with me,” Howard said, nodding toward the hall.

Harlow nodded back, grateful for the excuse to leave, and stood abruptly.

Although they both served on the Council, they rarely spoke in a personal context. There was little time for such things, and their job descriptions kept them far apart.

Howard still maintained his position as the Academy’s chancellor, where he’d been for nearly a decade now. He’d been largely insulated from the war, although his responsibilities had increased too, as he was now training cadets for wartime command—appointments he knew carried a high likelihood of killing them. He’d aged quite a bit during that time, and wore the stresses of a hard life as plainly as any uniform, as if every single one of his fifty-four years had come at a hard-earned price.

As they made their way to the door, Howard lowered his voice and spoke quietly.

“Don’t worry about your performance today,” he said. “You didn’t do half as bad as you thought. The weekly briefings are a boring affair, and no one remembers them.”

Harlow glanced at him. “How did you . . .”

But he trailed off when Howard shot him that familiar, knowing look—one that said he picked up on far more than most gave him credit for.

Harlow sighed as they entered the hall. “I just wish I’d had a more substantial presentation. That’s the whole point of these meetings, and I wasn’t able to give an accurate assessment. I haven’t even finished my regional report yet.”

“Don’t worry about that either,” Howard replied as they approached the elevator. “It’s bloody foolishness that they’ve got you working on this so soon after your promotion. Under normal circumstances that would’ve been handled long before the change of command, and would’ve been waiting on your desk as soon as you started, but this being a war, and all that . . .”

“I understand,” Harlow said. “It’s not a problem. I’m getting it done.” He paused for a second, then nodded toward the Council Chamber. “They don’t seem all that concerned, though, do they?”

Howard gave an exasperated shrug. “You don’t know the half of it, David. Most of that lot wouldn’t know their arse from their elbow.” He glanced behind him, then lowered his voice. “I shouldn’t say such things, but . . .”

Harlow nodded. He understood.

Howard collected himself and stood up straighter. “I’ve been meaning to ask—how are you? I’ve barely seen you since your promotion. I’d hoped our paths would cross more often.”

Harlow couldn’t help but smile just a little bit. But it lasted barely a second, and as it faded, he shrugged. “I’ve been stuck in my office, buried in busywork.”

“It’s a shame, that. It usually gets better as time goes on, though, and you learn your way around. Have you got your staff sorted yet?”

“Not quite,” Harlow sighed.

Howard frowned, but responded with that same reassuring tone. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find someone soon enough.”

They stopped at the end of the hall, and when the elevator doors opened, Harlow moved forward. He paused, though, when General Howard didn’t follow.

“You’re not going downstairs?” he asked.

Howard shook his head. “I’m staying up here awhile longer. I just wanted to check on you.” He gave a polite, dismissive nod. “It’s good to see you again. Let me know if you need anything.”

Harlow returned the gesture, then watched as Howard turned and walked away. However, his attention was soon diverted when two more of his fellow Council members joined him inside.

The first was General Everett. Harlow was already familiar with him, as he’d been the hand-to-hand combat instructor during his time at the Academy. He was a short, sturdy man whose heavily-lined face seemed incapable of producing a smile, and Harlow had always been under the impression that he was far more comfortable on the battlefield than in the boardroom.

Next followed General Lin—by far, the more unassuming of the two. Or at least, Harlow would’ve thought so if he hadn’t known better.

Lin wasn’t a typical military man, and Harlow would’ve never taken him for one if not for the uniform. His neutral expression and nondescript features gave away very little about him, but his words told a different story. When he spoke, he transformed entirely—his presentations were never lacking, his demeanor was always poised and eloquent, and he delivered his speeches with an ease and confidence that was the subject of envy, as if senior command was his natural environment. He projected an aura of professionalism—a trait that seemed even further amplified in contrast to General Everett.

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This was no soldier, Harlow had always thought. This was a businessman who enjoyed playing war.

He deliberately avoided Lin’s eyes, keeping his gaze trained straight ahead, but he tensed ever so slightly because he’d feared this moment might come.

The two of them already knew each other.

General Lin had been one of the presiding officers during that court martial nearly a decade ago, and he was also a founding member of that committee—the one responsible for drafting the rules Harlow was convicted of violating. This was the man who’d personally expelled him from the Academy and sentenced him to prison.

He’d worn a smug demeanor in the courtroom that day, just as he wore it now, and Harlow didn’t want to see it.

None of them said a word. Instead, they stood in opposite corners, leaving a large gap between.

The doors closed, and the elevator started moving. All of them were silent, and Harlow thought they’d remain that way, but then Lin glanced at him with a wry smile.

“I guess we’re promoting f*ggots now.”

Harlow shifted uncomfortably and glanced in his direction.

Not so professional after all, when no one’s watching, he thought.

He couldn’t help but cower a bit, though, and he could see that Lin had gotten exactly the reaction he wanted, because that grin took on a self-satisfied aspect.

“What sort of general can’t compel the officers beneath them to deliver a report?” Lin asked as he turned his attention back to General Everett.

Everett shrugged. “One who’s a bit too new and inexperienced.”

“I guess so,” Lin replied. “It makes sense, given how many unfamiliar faces we’ve seen up here lately. I don’t know what the promotion board’s thinking, because I’d certainly have better standards. They’ll take anyone these days, won’t they?”

He glanced in Harlow’s direction again, and that grin grew wider.

They may have held the same rank and served on the Council together—a distinction that nearly felt surreal—but Lin’s expression made it abundantly clear that he in no way considered them equals.

Harlow took a deep, measured breath and stared straight ahead, but Lin wasn’t through.

“Were you aware that the last Council member who failed to deliver adequate reports was subject to a court martial?” He glanced at Harlow once more. “It would be a shame if that were to happen again for something as trivial as lack of preparedness—or other things.”

Harlow stood up straighter, put on that stone-faced demeanor of his, and clasped his hands together to hide the fact they were shaking.

General Lin smiled again as the elevator stopped and the doors opened before him. “Most of the time, though, they resign before it gets to that point,” he said over his shoulder. “The trash usually takes itself out.”

Harlow watched as he disappeared into the hallway, and the doors closed behind him. General Everett remained, but gave no hint of his thoughts, as usual. His expression was so unbothered, Harlow wondered if he even had any. When the doors opened on the Atrium level, they both stepped out, and he bolted toward the mail room, which he’d been checking personally in lieu of an aide. His mailbox was overflowing, as always, and he returned to the elevator with an armful of letters, memos, and packages. A few slipped from his grasp as he stood there waiting, and a lieutenant who looked to be just a few years younger than himself scrambled to pick them up, then stood at attention and saluted—a gesture he hastily reciprocated.

When he returned to his office, he tossed it all into the mail bin beside his desk, which was quickly reaching overflowing status as well, then sat down and began working in the only clear space he had, which seemed to be shrinking daily beneath ever-encroaching piles of paperwork.

He tried to stay focused, but that unfinished report loomed over him. It wasn’t even close to complete, and it had been due before he assumed office. He’d already filed two deadline extensions, and he knew Headquarters wouldn’t grant a third. It would take another week or two at this rate, and that was to say nothing of his other responsibilities.

He looked away in an attempt to clear his mind, but that just made it worse, as he now had a full view of the foyer with its dimmed lights and the empty aide’s desk within.

He sighed and returned to his work, but as the hours passed and the day went by with very little to show for his efforts, along with a constant stream of interruptions derailing what little progress he’d made—phone calls, messages, and the occasional visitor, all of which he had to address personally—he finally leaned back in his chair and stared at yet another blank page.

“I can’t do it,” he said aloud.

The words took him by surprise, but his subconscious had spoken, and he could no longer force himself to do the impossible. Instead he leaned forward, placed his elbows on the desk, and began massaging his temples, which were throbbing with the faint beginnings of a stress headache. He kept at it until the pain retreated to a reluctant state of dormancy, then put the report aside, shuffled through the piles on his desk, and unearthed the folder of applications from the week prior, which he’d pulled from the trash not long after putting it there.

“Good enough” would have to suffice, he decided. He rifled through the loose pages, then selected the one he was looking for.

It should’ve been simple—just a final phone call to settle the matter—but the call was short, and when it was through, he hung up with a frown.

That applicant, who’d been one of the most promising, had already resigned.

He steeled himself once more, then removed another piece of paper and made yet another call. This time, though, he ended the conversation on a defeated note.

According to the secretary who’d answered, that officer had been killed in a field exercise two days after their interview.

He set the phone down and tossed the folder into the trash once more, and this time, it stayed there.

He sat for a long time afterward, staring straight ahead, then leaned forward and rubbed his temples again in an effort to force the rational part of his mind to generate a solution. But just like the officers in his chain of command, it refused to comply. Instead, General Lin’s words echoed in his head, unbidden, as clear as if the man had been standing next to him.

The trash usually takes itself out.

As indelicately it may have been phrased, he couldn’t deny that Lin had a point. Resignation was always an option, and in his excessively tired state, it presented itself as a near-hallucination.

He considered it for a moment, then sat up straighter and dismissed the thought. He’d fought for his place here, and he’d never vacate it so easily. But the demands of the job weighed heavily upon him, and seemed to be increasing daily.

He glanced at the folder again. Truth whispered in his ear now, as clear as General Lin’s voice had been, speaking the things his conscious mind would rather ignore.

He sat that way a while longer as a certain realization settled in, then glanced at the empty desk in the foyer and sighed.