The adrenaline had finally flushed from his system, though it did little to quell the shake in his hands. They dragged the embroidered hand towel, clutched within their trembling grip, across each other. Pressing deep into the skin as if the blood it stripped away might strip the memories with it. The red-soaked cotton splatted limply into the sink. The wet slap ringing in his ears above the scorching blast of the hot tap. Barrick wiped the condensation from the mirror and appraised a face he struggled to identify. He couldn’t quite pin whether the expression disturbed him more, or the idea that it was supposed to be his.
The doctors had cleaned up his wounds remarkably well. They told him he had passed out only minutes after the battle had concluded. A mix of blood loss, an elevated heart rate and the swamp of chemicals in his veins, natural and otherwise. All it took was the high of battle calming down to set in the lightheadedness. A woozy stand from his chair that quickly turned to his head against the floor. Thankfully, his memory was quite clear. Else he may not have noticed that their answers, though honest, were far from forthcoming.
He had woken briefly whilst they finished stitching him. Every wound had been meticulously cleaned by hands that had done the same countless times before. Every wound and not a square inch more. Perhaps he had woken planetside. Uiscelin was hardly known for having the water to spare. Or medicine for that matter. Cold deserts, ringed by sulfurous ribbon seas and towering karst clifflines. A planet not long free’d from its ice age by an inversion of its magnetic poles and the subsequent eruption of vast networks of volcanic activity. A place where people spent water like credits and hunted buried glaciers like lost cities of gold. He’d have believed it a necessary matter, had a young nurse not agonized between half her life building sanitary habits and the curt reminder of some uncomfortable order.
Then he’d seen the tray of specialty sanitation products and bandages worth a small fortune, placed casually upon the barren desk in the equally barren room he’d been escorted to. It was the bathroom however, that really sealed the deal for him. Not the lack of windows. He could have been underground where it was more habitable after all. No, it was the all too familiar taste of the water. Precisely the same combination of purifying chemicals that he could not hope to distinguish individually but altogether denoted the sensor taps of the Terran fleet. While they were usually accompanied with flexible tubes for when the faux-gravity was non functional, the sight and feeling of running water did a lot to maintain a sense of groundedness in the vast expanse. Why his own people might be playing games with him, put a hot rock in the pit of his stomach. Why nothing in sight was standard issue was another question. Then again, maybe he was being paranoid. The walls were, after all, swaying like the sky behind a ship’s engines.
Speaking of swaying walls and untrustworthy faculties, the gashes in his 2S suit stood starkly against the almost aesthetic stitchlines beneath them. Jagged oily protrusions in an otherwise skintight piece. They were the culprit for all those chemicals he had been riding out since waking up in a comically well equipped medbay.
The innermost layer was revealed, staggered sheafs of insulation intermingling with two loops of piping. One to collect, store and provide an outlet for excess sweat, which would likely be reprocessed later. The other, a line of capsules filled intermittently with antibiotics, painkillers, coagulents and a healthy dose of stimulants. Just enough to keep the mind focused long enough to fix whatever mess warranted their release. The side effects were nasty but he was glad for the oppertuntiy to experience them.
A few rough pats discarded most of the remaining crystals around the gaps, settling in a fine shower of blue dust on the faux-marble flooring. At least, he assumed it was fake. The dust, dried HelGel, was Hellion Pharmaceutical’s flagship patent and the main reason behind why they were the only supplier of second skins the Fleet worked with. The name hadn’t done them any favors really. The gel was a syrupy, non-newtonian fluid that would stiffen into an excellent shock absorber under any blunt force trauma. It earned its real acclaim the second the suit was cut and the gel’s carefully crafted environment was disturbed, crystallizing over the affected area. Putting pressure on any potential wound and resealing the suit in case one happened to be in a vacuum. The unfortunate part was that it wasn’t fond of your nerves, creating a feeling like a thousand winters were crawling under your skin which, he supposed, was what the painkillers were actually for. As soon as you knew what the suit was really like to wear, you were probably in a hellish situation, or wishing you were in the place itself. Hence, HelGel proved to be a rather poor marketing choice.
There wasn’t much more he could delay himself thinking about though. He had been asked politely, but very clearly, to be in the office down the hall at his earliest convenience. He’d taken a moment to clean up, tidy his hair and try his best to not look like the ghost of a ship he couldn’t truly believe he’d captained through the preceding crash course in the receiving end of an ambush.
The pale skin, haggard and gaunt. The bruising, painted by an artist with some tragic backstory and the need to express it. The fact that he couldn’t find himself in his eyes. They all tried to persuade him that perhaps he was. Perhaps he had died there and this was just the waiting room for haunting. Perhaps he would be doomed to walk the halls of that ship forever more. Perhaps, he’d come to understand what… he, had felt…
He thought it best not to dress beyond the undersuit, his ragged appearance might buy him some sympathy in whatever reprimanding he was about to be subjected to. Defying direct orders wasn’t a good look. Losing the precious cargo of probably the most important Megacorp in Terran space? He’d be lucky if his career’s momentum wasn’t already dead and decaying. A quick tap on the door console with the keycard he had been left, slid the strangely ornate mechanism open in four parts. Peering out into the hallway reminded him of an earlier assessment that he probably wasn’t on a ship.
Ebony paneling decorated the arched walls, spaced intermittently with a more golden brown wood, mimicking some of the upper class decorative styles from the Frontier. The floor, while intricately woven in a basket pattern, was made entirely of metal. He was definitely in space, the floors were designed with magnetic boots in mind but they were far too ornate to be a ship. At least, not a fleet ship. He was confused however by the presence of magnetic locking points and handrails scattered across the hall in all the usual places.
There were only a handful of doors in this corridor before it split into a pair of staircases running in opposite directions with a ladder between them on one end, and ended in a small airlock on the other. The first door back from the airlock had two large men flanking it. A basic infantry uniform covering over their second skins. Each of the pair were also wearing specialty combat boots over their feet, electro-magnets embedded in the sole.
Barrick composed himself and strolled towards the next door back from them, open and spilling a deep orange glow into the soft yellow lighting of the hallway. Another odd design choice. Whoever designed the interior of this place was definitely on the payroll of someone fond of the Frontier. Unless he was in a museum. A memorial? Maybe an embassy? He was surrounded by a style that had almost died with it’s people.
Barrick stopped just short of the open door when he noticed several more sources of confusion and ultimately, a lesson in wariness. The guard’s laces were tied immaculately and not at all in the style that was taught to the infantry or fleet personnel. Looking closer, he could also see that neither of them had any indication of rank. Not even so much as a prefix before the names embroidered on their chest patches. He wasn’t sure why they would bother with a half hearted deceit if they were in fact trying to deceive him. Suffice to say it put him on edge. It was as he saw the name beside the doorway that his heart really leapt into this throat.
“Come in.” The familiar tones of interviews, speeches, voiceovers and cinematic cameos, rolled out from the office of the war hero and politician, Admiral Sterran Kreischer. “When you’re ready. We have plenty of time to spare.”
Barrick stepped forward with the realization that whatever mess he had landed himself in was better described as a quagmire. The Admiral sat upright with great effort behind an understated desk considering the culture he came from. Though that culture would immediately explain the lavishness of the halls. Similarly, the room, somewhere between an office and bedroom, was so minimally designed and decorated that you could mistake it for an unfurnished display unit. Those familiar and perhaps obsessed with the culture of various Terran worlds would have fervently argued against the idea however, making it out to be the lovechild of a gallery and a museum.
The bed, sunken into the wall, quilted like it belonged to an old fashioned penthouse on Terra. The layered glass, styled after ancient Japanese art, separated the bathroom unit from the rest of the room, painting a not quite opaque, slightly three dimensional image of some tropical mountain range. A myriad of miniature models. Framed and dated coordinate maps of Terran colonies. Colonial and core world literary works in an open cabinet. It all gave the clear impression of someone so enamored with such a variety of cultures that his own became impossible to tell.
Which was befitting of the man, considering his political rhetoric. He was a symbol for humanity. Not Terra, the Core or even the Frontier before it had been erased. He spoke to the distinctness of each of humanity’s many, many peoples. He highlighted their better parts and preached zealously in favor of the potential of a synthesizing unification of diplomatic focus and a sort of hyper-multiculturalism. Barrick wasn’t sure whether to read his personal quarters as a genuine interest in what he talked about, or a very committed act. The dry cleaned uniform heaped upon his bed, still attached to the ornate hanger it was delivered on, alongside a crudely carved yet well maintained red jasper paperweight the admiral was reverently thumbing, led barrick to believe that it may indeed just be worryingly tidy, rather than a showroom.
A harsh breath wheezed out from behind the admiral's age worn face and his white stubble. Even for a man reaching sixty, he looked the brother of a corpse. The war and near three decades of political turmoil and unrest that was its encore, had carved their way almost down to the bone in each cavernous wrinkle. Lifting his temple from the side of his hand, a long since settled thousand yard stare, gently pointed Barrick to one of the two low chairs in front of him.
“Sector thirty seven.” Kreischer said as Barrick sat. “How’s your memory of the events surrounding your recent deployment there.”
“I managed to dodge any short term memory loss Sir.” Barrick tried to stifle the surreality of the situation, whilst he coerced an answer from himself. “Am I free to speak without regard to classification?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.” Kreischer nodded slowly. “There aren’t any microphones in here either so please, don’t bite your tongue even if it’s outside the scope of typical Fleet concerns.”
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to?” Barrick winced slightly as Kreischer rolled his eyes.
“Assume if I’m asking you I already know what I’m referring to. In this case, the search logs we pulled off of the black box for almost every ship in the area. Civilian’s included. The Intervention’s show a certain Arya Mihr in particular by the looks of it.” A touch of a smile touched Kreishcers lips. “Not a typical inquisitiveness for an officer of the fleet. Wouldn’t you say?”
“I wasn’t trying to hide anything Sir.” Barrick said softly, relieved that was what he was referring to. There had been many a doctored report, whose toxicology data would almost certainly have called his captain’s capacity for command into question. The truth that such substances had alleviated the worst of his real impairments would do little to temper his reputation against becoming an easy target for higher authorities. Who were no doubt looking to pin the recent disaster on someone. “My captain liked to have me keep him up to date on office politics. I’ve a better memory for it and well, I didn’t think it was pertinent.”
“Unfortunately it is.” Kreischer said disdainfully. “I’m not fond of the petty position chasing but I can tolerate it. So long as it succumbs to duty. Now, tell me!” he continued, clapping his hands together with a sudden perkiness. “You were escorting a ship from ‘Seungcheon no Hoshi’ to the aforementioned sector. I presume this was the prototype Zephyr Industries were planning to submit for the procurement competition?”
“Yes sir. The Taigarai class. A frigate on the upper end of it’s size bracket was hard to keep hidden in Zephyr’s home system, so we took the long way around.”
“Can you tell me, to the best of your knowledge, the reasoning behind your destination?” Kreischer said, reaching into his desk.
“Zephyr needed to evaluate the low-orbit to atmospheric performance of their prototype.” Barrick donned his usual look of contemplation. “They chose Uiscelin because it fit every requirement they had and while it wasn’t the closest option on that list, the added benefit of being squarely outside of the boundaries of the United Terran Authority, made it the only option I think they would have considered. Far away from prying eyes and you wouldn't even have to divert any active duty ships to escort it. Plenty of adjustable patrol routes around the free planets. They could pick which patrol they trusted to stay silent and have the prototype there and back before it's escort was even scheduled to leave dock.”
“So they kept the officers in the loop at least.” Kreischer said over the sound of a piece of charcoal scratching notes into paper. “Do you agree with it?”
“It was a paranoid decision, not a careful one.” Barrick’s reply fell off in volume with a raised eyebrow at the archaic display in front of him.
“Art supplies.” Kreischer offered without looking up. “It’s quite hard to find a pen these days. I suppose that’s what happens when you repurpose legacy industries so viciously. No money or market left by the time peace arrives.” Kresicher tapered off briefly, noting the awkward halt in the conversation that followed. “Continue, please. I’m sure you have more to say than that.”
Barrick took a moment to scan the room once more, noting a distinct lack of electronics, cupboards or anything really that could easily hide a listening device. He presumed the barren approach to decoration was as much an attempt at privacy as anything else. Oddly, despite the topic of conversation, he didn’t find himself extending the appraisal of paranoia to the man currently holding a charcoal stick with a folded tissue between manicured fingers.
“From outside observation it would be hard to guess at any more than its intended use. The weapon layout is heavily implicative but beyond that you wouldn't be able to know what bracket of their performance envelope they were testing in.” Barrick frowned and chewed his tone into a more professional range. “They forfeited the safety net of populated areas to keep a secret that I doubt anyone would have even wanted to replicate. Even if they had wanted to they wouldn’t have had the time. They were unnecessarily safeguarding against an undefined threat to their project and paid dearly for it.”
“Spin on a little further for me.” Kreischer’s dulled eyes and their disenchanted glances gave little indication as to his reaction. “What was the plan once you arrived?”
“Rendezvous with the patrol and pass operational authority to them. They would use their overwatch period in the area to establish a perimeter for the duration of the tests. We would then escort the prototype back to where we picked it up.”
Kreischer finished scribbling and exhaled, languid and scratchy. “I’ll stress once more that there are no recording devices in this room. So, from this point on please do not mince your words.” Finding Barrick reassuringly unphased, at least outwardly, Kreischer continued. “Zephyr had a reason to be out that far. It wasn’t long ago that our technology finally reached a point where we could begin incorporating particle cannons into the fleet. We’re not yet able to field more than a mixed array of weapons but it would bring us further in line with the Federation standard, raise our fleet power rating and therefore diplomatic weighting considerably… among other reasons.”
“We accidentally intercepted one of the data packets transmitted to the prototype. Only due to sheer proximity.” Barrick interjected, taking the opportunity to get ahead of the admiral and address the classified information he had no doubt noticed in the ship's logs. “The transmission was a tight enough beam that they didn’t feel the need to encrypt it. That or the ship didn’t have the necessary computer’s on board to handle auxiliary tasks like that. The part we got contained the design brief. I took the liberty of looking it over, not realizing what it was and well… just like every procurement competition before it, it didn’t say a thing about particle cannons. Once it fired I knew what it was of course, but I fail to see any specifics of the design that would incur such an attack beyond sabotage for sabotage’s sake. I’ve no stake in this to warrant hiding any opinions on the mission, I assure you.”
“You say that like it’s obvious information. You were that into the weeds of the procurement sector before now?” Kreischer asked, looking genuinely intrigued and skirting the issue of classified documents being where they weren't supposed to be, much to Barrick’s surprise.
“I like ships!” Barrick shrugged timidly. “Always have.”
“You like them enough to read through those nightmarish documents?” Kreishcer chuckled in disbelief, finally looking up from his notes. “You do realize that’s usually the job of whoever the office doesn’t like?”
“I um, really like ships. It never felt like a chore to try and extrapolate what the intentions were.”
“Interesting.” Kreischer examined Barrick with what seemed to him like a new lens. The surprising intensity of the old man’s studious gaze made Barrick feel like he’d been laid across an operating table. Though it might have been more accurate to say he felt as though a discount sticker had been slapped across his forehead.
“Anyways.” Kreischer continued. “You’re partially right. However it isn’t your opinions on the mission I'm really searching for. Moreso, your opinions on the parties involved and any exterior criteria you can glean from internal mission circumstances. Do you understand what I mean by that?”
“I take it then that I’m not in trouble?” Barrick replied cautiously.
“Took you long enough to figure that part out.” Kresicher quipped. “The brief was also the first to not explicitly prohibit the use of particle cannons. Had they added a few to chance their arm, we wouldn't have been suspicious. But for the most profitable and renowned ship manufacturer on the market to design the entire ship around one? To risk their reputation so soon after wresting it from the competition? To risk their shot at putting the first dedicated Zephyr warship at the head of almost every Terran task force from the Core to the Cradle? They overshot and tipped their hand.”
“They are an ambitious lot. Is there any chance they simply jumped on a loophole to catapult their momentum?” Barrick said with little conviction, the gears of implication turning fiercely in his head.
“And lose their chance to what could have been a clerical error? No, they wouldn’t trust an omission without being sure. It doesn’t help their case that there’s more to the story that would explain their decision.” Kreischer leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers and resting them on comfortably crossed legs. “We can’t prove yet that they knew but the fleet will be transitioning to a mixed loadout in the near future. Heavily favoring particle cannons. The procurement commission knows this.”
“So they aren’t asking for it yet. They’re just cutting out the red tape before they ask so they don’t have any delays? If you knew the judges knew…” Barrick trailed off at the obvious conclusion.
“Now you understand our suspicion.” Kreischer smiled slightly with a subtle yet distinct satisfaction. “They may have been trying to get ahead of the game. The safety of the core would do little to comfort CEOs who realize their lead in development time had been lost due to a gossiping grandmother.”
“Sir.” Barrick shifted uncomfortably, unable to discern the source of the Admiral’s pleasure. He was sure that it had little to do with the content of this conversation. “Why are you telling me this?”
“You’re a clever man. Best as I can tell. You’ll figure that out with little more than patience.” Kreischer’s welcoming expression dropped sharply. He fixed a stern, joyless look on Barrick. “Before you feel inclined to ask, I’ll mean precisely what you’ll think I’ll mean. Zephyr had free reign to pick a patrol they believed would keep quiet. Was Arya Mihr someone Zephyr would… trust?”
“I don’t think I’m the right person to speak on her loyalties.” Barrick replied, trying to back out of speaking on a clearly well connected person to someone even more influential.
“Nonsense!” Kreischer flicked his hand at the wrist dismissively. “If you knew her any better you might have reason to lie.”
“Her record would suggest she's as much a politician as she is a captain.” Barrick acquiesced, noting the encouraging nod he received. “That’s the thing though. As an officer of the fleet she can enjoy the benefits of rubbing shoulders with the corporate elite, without any of the danger of picking a side. She also routinely picks positions with more responsibility, which leads me to believe she actually wants to do her job, with the paycheck being a nice bonus. I doubt she’d jeopardize the incredible trajectory of her career for anything they could offer her.”
“No concerns over that hulking mess I’d barely call a ship staying under her shield’s maximum energy load during its assault?” Kreischer probed. “They were a few more heavy hits away from a massacre on arrival.”
“I would have. If the behavior was unique.” Barrick began to explain. “They could have annihilated any ship they chose if they just focused their fire. They attempted as much with the Concordat’s accompanying Escada. If they started to win too quickly, the prototype might have tried to run. By the time they had identified the target they couldn’t damage, they had lost the opportunity to do so.”
Kreischer remained silent for a long time. Letting a deep exhale settle the accusation away. “So you meet with the patrol and are immediately ambushed. Catch me up on how you ended up giving orders.”
Barrick struggled to gather a reply in the midst of a surging memory of adrenaline and horror. “Well Sir. After the Senior Captain assumed command, she ordered the Intervention to guard the prototype. We did our best to support her ship while the gunships screened away the rest of their assault. Everything was holding steady, for better or worse, until the prototype fired her main gun. The impact forced that floating junkyard’s shield to close its lattice across the entire frontal half. It became quickly apparent that they had a large capacity and terrible dissipation.”
“Last generation?” Kreischer asked, starting a new note on his paper.
“Possibly.” Barrick returned, rubbing his temple with his thumb to try and distill some focus from the drug fueled haze he was still in. “There’s many explanations I could think of and whoever did this being rich enough to afford a system like that is the least worrying.” Barrick let the statement hang until Kreischer motioned him to continue. “The beast itself may have been an amalgamation of ships but you can’t just slap them together and call it a day. Sure, most of the subsystems can be linked together with some complex work and incredibly specialized knowledge but the shield? Since they weren’t using separate facings it would have to be a singular core, far more powerful than anything you can get even in black markets. I don’t even want to think of the cost of such a massive power supply for the capacity they were working with, or how many vital systems they had to strip out to make room for it all. Oh by the… they would have had to change every wire and transformer in the entire thing to handle the new surges.” Barrick groaned painfully, hands pulling down across his face. “It was a professional construction of a massive scale and there’s only one Terran group I can think of that would even have the resources and knowhow to attempt it.”
“Memnon R&D” Kreischer muttered curiously, lost in his own train of thought. “So Abyysinnia put their development team to work on it. I had hoped Memnon would have continued their spotless reputation. Almost certainly didn’t know the intention. Continue if you will. This is rather enlightening.”
“The dissipation rate meant that the firing ports in their shield stayed closed long enough to allow the Concordat to dissipate the energy building up in its own shields. Remarkably fast I’ll add. I believe the Concordat got moved onto the priority refit list once she became her captain.”
Kreischer conveyed his discontent for a familiar issue with a look of strained contempt and tensely hashed out another note.
“The prototype had been ordered to remain static as I believe Senior Captain Mihr came to the same conclusion I did about them searching for its identity. The lack of engagement likely would have marked it out just as quickly but that’s a call you could debate for far too long without getting anywhere. Regardless, the prototype opened fire with its spinal cannon. I remember the crew looked hopeful when they realized we could prevent the big one from firing on us. As it turned out, our savior had just identified themselves and marked all of us as targets in the process. Their gunships all changed targets faster than we could react. I was talking to Captain Kavanaugh when a kinetic round slipped through the upper starboard firing port in our shield. At that close of a range even the computer didn’t have time to calculate a trajectory and close the lattice.” A soft tremor cut into the otherwise measured voice. “Their railguns were oversized for the ships they were on. Excessive power draw and a severe lack of storage capacity for ammunition that big, so they either planned to punch above their weight or as I believe, were nothing more than a scary distraction. They didn’t intend to fight for very long. That much is clear. Still, the round punctured clean through our outer armor and just far enough through the hull to breach into the bridge. Next thing I knew my visor was red and when I wiped it away… the Captain, he… he…”
“Was a good man.” Kreischer cut in across Barrick’s wavering voice, spotting the deep well of emotion pooling under the man’s harrowed eyes. “I’m very sorry to be asking you about this in an environment where you can’t process it. At the very least allow me to apologize with hospitality.”
Kreischer rose from his chair in a surprisingly spry fashion, reinforcing how his elderly visage had been carved more out of experience than years. He strode across the room to the recessed bunk and deftly keyed in an absurdly long combination on the barely visible lock. A pair of harsh thunks sounded the draw of the bolts, letting free a small safe door beside the headrest. Kreischer’s body obscured the opening whilst he dredged something from the back of the circular vault, reaching almost down to the shoulder. Returning to his chair he carried with him two thick, flat bottomed glasses, round and comfortably weighted like an apple in the hand, alongside a bottle that screamed unlabelled wealth.
A large and lightly embossed K, was the solitary marking on one of the tall, flat facings. The glass was a deep purple, gleaming and sparkling with an impossible depth. The optical illusion of its unique material, Setheran Starlight, creating the image of the stars themselves, stretching layered into the void for an eternity. Somewhere beneath this mind boggling image, the silhouette of a kaleidoscopic liquid, ranging through every variation of silver and white, undulated gently against the confines of the bottle.
“Do you take any psychedelics or mood stabilizers?” Kreischer said, placing the bottle reverently on a magnificently decorated, cushioned coaster. Barrick stiffened at the mention of substances the like of which he had gone through great lengths to hide in the late captain's toxicology reports, worried that the Admiral may be fishing for something he already knew. When Barrick shook his head Kreischer simply nodded back and pressed a small button atop the bottle. A silver draconic statue possessively cradling the cork came to life and wriggled downwards, pressed belly flat against the glass while its wings pulled it along. Wrapped snugly around the neck of the bottle, the serpent’s hoard could be uncorked with a slight twist of the abandoned perch. “I won’t presume upon the splashes of caffeine and THC across your clothing that they found dragging you through the labs. Just be aware that in this case it would be detrimental to play ignorant. A few other cases too… presently speaking.”
Barrick blinked at the most gentle warning he had ever received. It had felt less like a threat and more the caution of a father to his child. He accepted a glass of the liquor and swirled it around, watching the colors shift and fold in on themselves like a liquid damascus. Despite the hospitality he couldn’t help but feel as if the walls were closing in on him. He had made every effort in the shitshow that had blindsided them to adjust. Quite honestly it was because of how obsessively he had poured over every detail and decision that he was certain he couldn’t have done any better. Whether his own incapacity or the guilt would sicken him more, was another question.
“So if you don't think she was a part of the ambush. Why did you defy her orders when you assumed command of the Intervention?” Kreischer said, pouring himself a glass. “I had presumed you disagreed with how she reacted to the situation. Thus far that doesn’t seem to be the case. Enlighten me.”
“Are you asking what I thought or what I was attempting?” Barrick answered, searching for a diplomatic route out of the trap he could scent over the smell of cut grass seeping out of the glass in his hands. It enticed him as it always had, crouched in back alleys amongst friends of convenience, mutually forgotten the moment circumstance was not forcing them together.
“Which do you think will answer my question?” Kreischer replied with an assessing tone.
“After Captain Kavanaugh…” Barrick tempted himself a look at the glass before placing it to one side, determined not to repeat a habit of numbing he had been the last in his family to shake. “... anyways. Most of our formation had been ordered to engage aggressively in order to put space between them and the targets. I managed to get a grip on the bridge crew who were surprisingly intact. The round struck through to the internal side of our opposite armor facing so little of it’s energy was transferred to the bridge. We turned our guns on the gunships harassing our backline and managed to free up our skirmishers, who were then ordered to box in and around the primary combatant. It’s shield was proving difficult so our final accompanying Escada was diverted from escort duty to further encircling that behemoth and splitting its firepower. ”
“So as it stands…” Kresicher interrupted, gingerly rubbing the back of his neck. “... the situation has swung firmly in your favor with both a numerical and positional advantage. The Intervention is functional only by the grace of unfathomable luck and would under any normal assessment be best advised to remain in its position as the sole guard of Zephyr’s prize possession. Yet you decided to move. I take it you didn’t see it that way?”
“No Sir. I didn’t.” Barrick braced for an impact that never came. Instead an impassive curiosity beckoned him to elaborate. “Our sensors were clear. The final ship seemed to be retreating. However, in my own analysis of the situation which I realize does not supersede the chain of command, I concluded that the ambush was only beginning.”
“You turned out to be right didn’t you?” Kreischer asked with a friendly rhetorical smirk. “You’re not here to convince me of the merit of your actions. Quite frankly they matter little now. Forget the fret. Keep the confidence. Give me your thought process.”
Barrick nodded and loosened his shoulders with a slow swallow. “Their first attack was beyond inadequate if they had intended to actually destroy the target. Contrast their strategy with the quality of their pilots and engineering and well, it seemed clear to me that they were just leveraging the suddenness of it all to command our attention. For how well coordinated it was I found it hard to believe that they thought they could take on such a dense military presence without more ships. Senior captain Mihr had an impressive control of the situation but I think her experience chasing yachts around the core worlds encouraged her to leverage every factor she had at hand to push the tide in her favor and minimize potential cost. I say this because she left herself little room to adapt should new conditions arise. Which they did. In the form of a squadron of heavily modified, pre-war heavy gunships, screaming through the upper atmosphere towards the belly of her formation.”
“Modified?” Kreischer asked, a deeply regretful look twisting into his brow as he recognised which ships barrick was referring to. “Let me guess…”
“...The fangs.” they answered in unison.
“An iconic image.” Kreischer continued. “We made such a show of their firepower throughout the decades that even the Iveri Navy took up a nickname for them. ‘Little Tooth.’ A somewhat disparaging moniker I would think. Considering how quick we stripped those teeth out once the war actually started… I do find myself agreeing. What were they replaced with? The analysis of the wreckage you left behind hasn’t been completed yet.”
“Oversized plasma-kinetic weaponry and torpedoes.” Barrick replied. “Not effective by any means in terms of logistics but if you’re only expecting one fight? Between those and the primary engines being swapped out specifically for exiting the atmosphere as quick as possible? They were pulled straight from storage and purpose built for a patrol assassination.”
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“The Interventions logs didn’t note the emissions profile of this new formation.” Kreicher thumbed back a few pages in his notes. “Too much background noise or?”
“Damaged sensors.” Barrick said. “My conclusions had to be judged by eye.”
“You really do like ships” Kreischer said, trailing off briefly in an unreadable tone. His grin conveying one message, his eyes another. “You might then explain to me why after moving off to protect the Concordat from what I agree would have been near certain death, and having seen a second formation rising up below the prototype, you neglected to turn around. Choosing instead to let them have their prize?”
Barrick tensed up so tightly at the memory of that decision that it felt as if his throat were collapsing inwards. He had indeed abandoned his post, saved the bulk of the allied formation and had almost turned his late mentor’s ship into his coffin, along with all the men and women serving aboard it. He thought to defend himself but the terminal scent of his career turned his nose from the idea.
“We were outplayed.” He began in resignation. “I chose the lesser defeat.”
“Letting them get exactly what they wanted?” Kreischer’s tone sharpened to a knife's edge. “You knew they would carry EMP weaponry of some descript. They were pretty clear that they didn't want to accidentally damage the prototype more than necessary. You let them steal cutting edge, proprietary technology by knocking out its systems and crashing it onto the planet. Your decision was responsible for the death of some of the brightest minds Zephyr Industries had to offer. At the forefront of humanities weapons development no less! Not to mention the damage done to the fleet should we be left spending tens of trillions on a subpar winner in the competition.”
“With all due respect Sir…” Barrick paused for a moment to study the entirely different man he saw before him. The sudden transition oddly did more to calm him than startle him. It was a basic trick. Tactless. Then again, so was every other deception he had noticed. Every deception he was supposed to notice. Barrick found himself far more unsettled by the game he was not seeing, than the dull, dispassionate anger being directed at him. Well if he couldn’t avoid the game, he should at least play along a little. “... that’s a shockingly bad assessment.”
Kreischer only raised an eyebrow in response.
“Firstly, the competition will go ahead unimpaired.” Barrick said, earning a genuine look of surprise from the admiral. “The outer armor hadn’t been bolted on yet. You could see the rivet lines where they had slapped a hull onto the internal frame of the ship. Follow the bolts and you can see the exact pattern of its skeleton. At that point even an idiot would notice that Zephyr was abusing their own famous modularity. I know my ships. I know I spent countless hours staring at the layout of their entire catalog and besides the prow, there isn't a single section that isn’t currently being mass produced. It’s the laziest, cheapest attempt at innovation I’ve seen in a long time which as we both know, is par for the course for a company that models its entire business off of offering highly refined components to ‘plug-&-play’ into any of their ships you like, to provide an illusion of catering to the customer all because they themselves are unable or even worse, unwilling to create their own specialized designs and would rather pass the legwork off to the customer. All the while creating a market pressure for every other manufacturer to build compatibility with Zephyr components into their own designs. Soft power market cornering is the skill they’ll bring to the competition to leverage this situation for victim points with the judges and their ‘efficient manufacturing’ bullshit, is the skill that will let them have that ship rebuilt and replaced before we even finish this conversation.” Barrick finished with the tail end of his breath nearly choking off his voice and prayed to the Mother that he had played his next move within the lines.
Kreischer had interlaced his fingers just below his nose with his thumbs on his jaws midway through Barrick’s rant. His mouth obscured, he remained silent for an uncomfortably long time until Barrick shifted in his seat just to break the oppressive weight of non-reaction.
“You know your ships as well as you know the company’s behind them.” Kreischer said tersely. “Was your distaste for Zephyr’s market practices why you didn’t mind the slaughter of their personnel. I doubt the scientists were heading the marketing team.”
“Two fistfulls of a skeleton crew, compared to thousands of Fleet personnel?” Barrick countered. “So soon after the war we absolutely cannot afford to lose so many potential teachers and officers. Every life lost there would have been a classroom of recruits lacking a teaching assistant. Or a platoon missing its coordinators. I don’t mean to seem so callous. I have every intention of engraving their names in my conscience. The stain such decisions leave on people like the late captain and yourself is something I appreciate now in greater detail than I have the words to describe. That being said, I didn’t deprive Zephyr of anything they couldn’t pull in on an internship from a first year college course. Their best were relaxing in their office chairs, sipping rare liquors to help decide who they’d send to collect the data they would interpret later.”
Kreischer inhaled the tension in the air without blinking, eyes boring distilled accusation into Barrick’s pupils. Opening his mouth to speak he found himself cut off by the increasingly agitated man across from him.
“I know what you’re going to return to.” Barrick continued. “Whatever the purpose of this conversation is. The purpose of these runaround questions. I ask that we skip the part where we pretend that there isn’t already a definitely non-affiliated group of extrajudicial saboteurs, who just so happen to be experts in covert demolition, headed for the surface of Uiscelin.”
A wheezing laugh broke the tension and Kreischer's character as the elderly man waved a playful hand through the air. “It seems pressuring people for their opinions provides you very honest answers. I wouldn’t make it a habit mind you but I’m glad we can acknowledge the state of affairs in our current time.” He watched Barrick’s face flicker between confusion and relief with an expectant smirk. “You may be proud to know that was the first thing you’ve said to me that wasn’t entirely accurate. Heavy manacles make for sneaky hands, civilian or otherwise. The interests of various nations, groups and identities. Well they clash all the time don’t they? Their boundaries are as fickle as the will of the people who set them. In a reductive sense of course, office politics bears little difference to playground arguments. Or, in exceptional cases such as this, national borders. As I’ve said before, I'm not fond of it but we’ll hardly be making victims of these people. They chose a fight or chose a paycheck to act in place of the real belligerents. Regardless, we won’t be violating the sovereignty of Uiscelin, just hashing out a dispute in their garden.”
The admiral thumbed the red statuette with a playful superiority. “Told you so!” He whispered to someone only present in the form of some bet Barrick was not privy to. “I’ll return the clarity in part since you clearly ascertained the nature of this whole scenario. Start by relaxing and realizing that there is no harmful outcome you do not volunteer for. Then, pass one more minor test by telling me what you got wrong.”
“Do I want to pass this test?” Barrick’s body was caught between responses. Leaning back in apprehension whilst simultaneously donning a viscerally intrigued expression.
“Have a think about what I’ve been testing you on and then decide.” Kreischer replied. “I can’t tell you what you'll be doing and you have every right to deny it. I wouldn’t be wasting my time if I didn’t think it would be worth the potential outcomes. That being said, if you refuse then I can tell you you won’t be up to much.”
Barrick realized that there was some task in store for him. The nature of which was likely no different to his real job as Kavanaugh’s XO. Besides looking after him, though the man would never have admitted to it. Why Kreischer wouldn’t have access to someone far better equipped to analyze and investigate he couldn’t say. Besides the pressure of the legacy before him, was there any reason he would even entertain the offer? His career was lined up to take a nosedive. It could give him a way to continue funneling funds towards his family. That was definitely an allure to him, considering that the veteran’s pay provided by the Thentian Low Council would soon be terminated. A decision that shocked anyone familiar with the typical deadlines for such support. The Federation really was in dire straits if after the war even the Thentian’s didn’t have enough resources to divide amongst the member states. A source of income this covert? Likely coming from the hidden accounts of an heir of absurd wealth? He could at least entertain it for now.
“You spoke in future tense?” Barrick hesitantly suggested. “The team hasn’t been sent yet, have they?
“It seems I was right to give you a way out.” Kreishcer nodded his confirmation and let out a piercing whistle. “I will preface this next part by informing you that regardless of what happens, your career as an XO is over and beyond my reach to recover. I’d also like to apologize in advance for how unpleasant this will be.”
Barrick opened his mouth to question the statement only to be interrupted by two stone-faced men entering the room from their posting further down the hallway. Barrick recognised them immediately and any thought as to the actuality of their occupation left his mind as soon as he saw the shackled, sinewy man dragged between them, planted upon his terrified feet by the doorway. Uncertain, sunken eyes skittered across the room, confined within an emaciated skeleton which was draped in an oversized prisoner’s jumpsuit. Old and fresh scars streaked across sallow, middle aged skin. Offering a glimpse into an overly storied man who found himself in a rather unfortunate situation.
“Open the top drawer on your left.” Kreischer said in a soft, somehow overpowering voice.
Barrick’s mind raced through as many questions as cliched answers even as his hand, by pure instinct not to make a mistake, clasped the delicate handle of the oak and ebony drawer. He never thought he would find himself in this situation. Bracing for the sickening words that had frozen many an audience on the edge of their seats. His eyes fixated on the intended implement.
“Shoot him.”
Burning sulfur rushed through Barrick’s throat with a deadly intensity, pulsing upwards through his chest from his heart which felt as though it would wring itself into a rope. A soft whimper languidly leaving the lips of the walking corpse, turned that burn into a panicked blaze under his chair, driving him to his feet, lest the very idea brand him. The back of the chair struck the floor with a harsh crack, chipping the finer edges along its upper detailing. The only sound Barrick heard over the drum of his heartbeat after that, was that of the admiral wincing at the damaged furniture and the only movement, that of the quivering eyes of a dead man following him as he backed away from the scene.
“By my hand or another’s? R-Right? His death was signed off on before you had even heard of my name. wasn’t it?” Barrick collected himself with a brief stutter. He received only impassive looks. “I take it then there’s no point in asking questions.”
“There’s little point in me confirming anything. We wouldn’t be doing this if you hadn’t proven that your intuition was adequate enough to figure it out on your own.” Kreischer replied with a half covered yawn. “You took your time leaving your quarters. I am… ”
“My quarters?” Barrick interrupted. “As in more than temporary?”
“Rude.” Kreischer grumbled back. “But yes. How astutely you discern subtle embers of the bonfire behind you.” he said with less than delicate sarcasm. “As I was saying. I am long overdue for a midday rest so I’ll do us both the favor of informing you that no one will leave this room until a man dies or you convince me you’re unfit for the prize behind this test. Don’t spend too long buffering in the corner. You’re a rather intelligent man from what I can tell. Not a second hand datapad.”
The sweltering embrace of anxiety compressed the air around Barrick’s temples while he marshelled his rationale. Slowly his nerves began to cool, unable to sustain panic within the chaotic focus of a mind dissecting vastly more theories than it had options. One by one he carved off any branch that would not support the impact of his fall when he committed to the jump. What paralyzed him most was the admiral’s confidence in the idea that there was something enough to entice him into taking the light from a man’s eyes. That and the frustrating certainty that he would not be told what it was.
Tentative steps carried him to stand over the open drawer, followed by every pair of eyes in the room and their mixed appraisals. An intricately scarred and decorated firearm greeted him, though it was far from beautiful. Barrel to back, it spanned the length from his elbow to his fingertips. He needed no help to guess as to who would opt to use such an unwieldy beast. Barrick picked up the weighty instrument with whom his only familiarity was the incessant recommendations for old ‘westerns’ that Kavanaugh had foisted upon him. While he never admitted to watching them, content to give the man more reasons to ramble about a topic no one else would give him the time of day on, he had to admit they had a certain charm despite their more… timely attitudes. Revolvers themselves were an exceptional rarity beyond museums these days. An Iveri revolver? What was the admiral doing with such a thing?
“A revolver? As much a relic as the films they featured in.” He fixed a ponderous look on Kreischer as he hefted the slender, threatening hand cannon from the silken pillow it rested on.
“Oh that one is far older than that. Iveri make. Eight thousand, six hundred and fifty seven years to be precise. Conflict did always slow the progression of their technology. There are different reasons now to be fair to them. I have to say Barrick, I didn’t pin you for…” Kreischer trailed off, closing his eyes in a twinge of shame. “Apologies. They were the late captain’s interests. I hadn’t had a decent conversation with the man since… the first decennial memorial.” Slowly he sipped another draught of liquor from his glass as one would drink in place of a fallen friend. “I didn’t intend the uncomfortable reminder.”
“No harm done.” Barrick said unsure as to why he was attempting to reassure the man who put him in such a situation. “There wasn’t much you could put in front of me that would make this any easier.”
“Hmm.” Kreischer mused, running a hand back across the crown of his head. “Sounds like you’ve made a decision at least. Pull back the two metal levers. You’ll make it far easier on yourself to actually depress the trigger. It may have been designed for an Iveri male but they’re still significantly stronger than you or I.”
Barrick popped open the cylinder to see a single bullet that could take his arm off. Flicking it closed he gripped the first of two levers jutting out from either side of the gun, just behind the cylinder. Mulling the odd design over in his mind he took a shot in the dark and assumed it was some sort of sealed firing mechanism to allow it to fire in a variety of environments. Underwater? In a vacuum? It mattered little, he reminded himself. He was just distracting from his emotions as he usually would. By analyzing. Pulling back as one would the bolt on the side of a rifle, he only managed to strain his fingers as the lever refused to budge. Holding the gun near his chest, he pressed the side of his fist against the lever and tried to compress it back to little more effect than scraped skin. With a huff of exasperation he looked to Kresicher for advice, being met instead with a bemused smirk.
“You’re resourceful.” He jested. “Besides this is unintentionally a useful mini-test. It’s not enough to tip yourself over the edge of a decision. You need to work for it. You need to deliberately walk yourself off of that cliff with such conviction that you don’t change your mind when you see the water rushing towards you.”
“I still can’t quite figure out what you have in store for me that this is the test.” Barrick replied only half processing the statement which he’d already said to himself in another form on his way to the desk. “I would hazard a guess that you want to draw something more base out from under the distilling filter of my thoughts?”
“Now that is worth confirming.” Kresicher smiled as Barrick placed the lever against the edge of the desk and leaned on it until it clicked into place. “I won’t say too much. It may be unpleasant for both of us to ascertain but there is value in seeing what people do when they can’t cleverly exit the corner you’ve put them in.”
“Enjoy the show.” Barrick replied sourly as he clicked the second lever into place. He turned away from the desk and faced the two stoic guards and their prisoner. It was clear to Barrick there was little resistance left in him. The reality of where he stood had slumped his arms and bowed his head. His chest swelled and shrank in shriveling motions to the beat of funeral horns, drawing bare enough breath to see his body through to the next one. Barrick raised the revolver with both hands like it were a small dog. He pointed it to the ceiling, and rested the barrel against his temple, closing his eyes with gritted teeth.
Could he rightly say he was doing this for money? He was a soldier after all. They sold their bodies as weapons of the state already. Would it be any different? Both were extrajudicial. Both put blood on his hands. He had destroyed gunships only days prior, condemning their crews to brutal deaths if they didn’t die instantaneously. It felt different. It felt like the blood he still saw on his visor when he closed his eyes would obscure his vision once again. As if the world itself had been coated with a red veneer. A lens of perception which dominated every processing filter he thought were his own. Looking the man in his eyes felt wrong.
Something about this whole situation felt wrong. Were it simply a case of being tested on following orders he could deny it and walk away. Take the court martial and disappear into a bad headline. Unfortunately for that itch in the back of his mind, that itch which propelled him forward, there were too many unanswered details. The doctors, leaving him to clean the blood off of himself. The guards, who weren't guards. The station, which felt more like a stage. The game, he didn’t know the rules to. He didn’t know what that inflamed propellant in his mind was, but he knew he could not ignore it. These details were too obvious, too sloppy not to be clues. This wasn’t simply a test of loyalty. At the very least he’d give that itch a name. Curiosity.
Barrick blew a harsh breath out and sucked in short and sharp between his teeth. He aimed. He froze. The avatar of weary misery had raised his head again. The eyes of a child, scared and mistreated, shot straight from sunken pits and stabbed into his heart. Overwhelming pity kept his finger off the trigger, as much as his mind tried to put it there, certain he was being tricked by every stray thought.
“Would it help you if I said he was a terrorist?” Kresicher said suddenly.
“Is he?” The reply came cautiously over the rattle of an ancient shaking firearm.
“I said he was.” Kreischer deadpanned.
Barrick’s finger slipped to the trigger with his pupil in the corner of his eye. “Thought you’d pull that trick.” he said when he spotted Kreischer moving to speak again. “Let me guess, two kids and a loving partner?”
“Don’t forget the dog!” Kreischer replied, studying the mixed emotions warring more in Barrick’s body language than his face. “Your mind is made up I think. It does not appear to me that your issue is one of will, but identity. It usually is with these things. None of us imagine ourselves the killer. The eye behind the scope. The vehicle of another’s intent. The implement of justice. A hero, perhaps? Never quite the villain of another’s story. You are far too keen to delude yourself in such a common capacity. Not to say you are beyond delusion, just that in this case, the recognition of the tapestry blood paints upon the parchment soul, obstructs the easy welcome of an obtrusive identity.”
“We flinch not before the visage of fire, but the frightful vision of a future ashen self.” Barrick recited quietly, his mind harkening back to one of a plethora of clips which had flooded their way through media channels for most of his early life, dying down about a decade past now. “You know you borrowed quite heavily from the Mother’s teachings with that one.”
“Know your audience.” Kreischer shrugged. “I don’t preach anything I don’t believe in. My legacy affords me the privilege of remaining true to myself despite outside pressures. It’s a privilege I do not take lightly. Nor would I force you to abandon what elements of self your life has allowed you to retain. I only ask that you welcome something new. Acceptance, be it of situation or character, is what I offer in my hospitality. Metaphorically and literally, it is intended to ease the process. Honor what and where you were in life, before you step so tremendously onto the threatening edge.” he nodded to the rotund glass Barrick had neglected. “Finish your drink.”
“Make within that which is without…” Barrick whispered with more reverence than he ever quite had before.
“... to touch upon and understand, how to be and see and make, more than what you were.” Kreischer finished for him. “Religious?”
“I wouldn’t call it belief, my study of the Mother’s words. It’s just good advice I'm only starting to understand.” he replied, resting the barrel on his shoulder and lifting the glass to his nose, taking a light, hedonistic drag of the alluring scent. “I thought you weren’t fond of the Thentian people?”
“Really?” Kreischer replied, mildly taken aback. “It seems my messaging has been overly harsh in tone. That is not the impression I wanted to give. To be clear, being critical of policy and ignorant as to their qualities, are quite different.”
The conversational tone lifted, carrying with it the comforting weight of distraction. Barrick played with the wisps of a dulling caress in his nose, as his mind toyed with the supposed comforting concepts delivered to him. “Acceptance of a situation? Hmm.” he mused, appraising the subject of their conversation.
Lowering the pistol to his chest, the barrel turned down but ready to raise, he proffered the glass to the confused man in the jumpsuit. The man asked for permission with a tentative gaze over Barrick’s shoulder and presumably received it as he hoisted his shackles and took the glass in hand. He threw it back with little ceremony and evident desperation, a quelling calm besetting him and coaxing his eyes closed, content to embrace the strangely powerful effect the liquor was having on him, in what were to be his final moments.
Barrick aimed once more and tried desperately to delude himself with the man’s peace. Try as he might, he found it beyond himself to proceed. His finger would twitch and some visceral apprehension would freeze it just as the trigger strained. A soft and satisfied hum languidly rolled forth from the admiral who, upon a turned head and closer inspection, was seen to be smiling in deep content.
“Who am I?” Kreischer said cryptically. “Forget the films. Forget the books. Forget the hit pieces and narratives, praise and admonishment. Based purely on what actually happened. Based purely on what you can actually say you know about me. Who am I?”
The two men held each other's unflinching gaze. Barrick’s body relaxed. His eyes glazed over in thought. Softly, slowly, surely, the trigger depressed. A cacophonous bang rang the walls like a gong.
“About fuckin time!” The prisoner groaned. “I was about to stain your jumpsuit Sir. What’s this one? Designer or off the rack?” He chuckled with a showroom twirl.
“I do like you better when you’re playing the quiet character’s Lachron.” Kresicher said, rolling his eyes with a smirk.
“No offense sir but if you seriously tell me this is the next generation we’re working with, then we are well and truly fucked.” Lachron’s voice dripped with disgust. “I am one ugly bastard in fairness like. Even fresh off the back of my theater days I could at least get over myself and put plasma in ugly bastards in a few minutes of what my therapist probably considers his lottery ticket. Instead of whatever pathetic fuckin’ showing that was.”
“Pity I was right about the bullet being fake.” Barrick said with a withering edge.
“Oh I think they do be sounding like fighting words if you wanna say ‘em again!”
“Lachron?” Kresicher said kindly.
“Ye boss?”
“Shut up and keep your bladder off of my floor. It's harder to replace than you.”
“Ye boss.”
“You seem quite calm.” Kreischer observed of Barrick. “How did you know?”
“You wouldn’t engage in anything unnecessary.” Barrick said with a measured sigh, letting another rush of adrenaline drain from his system. “Your career was a highlight reel of saved resources…” he dropped the bullet casing out of the cylinder and tossed it onto the desk before gesturing to Lorchan “... and saved lives. Didn’t think you’d break that habit now.”
“I considered it. This version of the situation was far more predictable and if I’m being upfront? I didn’t see the point in scarring you.”
“Oh really?” Barrick scoffed. “Guess we have different definitions of scarring.”
“You’re too smart to trust without knowing the genesis of your intentions.” Kreischer explained. “I have no idea what you’ll encounter in your new life but not knowing the number I put into that equation? That’s an unpredictability I refuse to have a hand in. The pressure was necessary but no more than that. Unless you would have preferred a mess?”
“There were other reasons.” Barrick said, placing the gun back on its pillow, ignoring the joke. “Not letting off a shot that could potentially depressurise the room. Too many staff to keep quiet. Not wanting to create evidence so close to your person. But really I didn’t need any of that to guess that the soldiers weren’t the only one’s lying about their identity.” Barrick tilted his head and stared into a memory, chewing on a smile. “Don’t need to wear the suit to kiss the ring.”
“That you don’t.” Kreischer agreed in sour tones. “If only it were easier to convince people that we’re all kissing one ring or another, even if no one’s wearing it.”
“New life?” Barrick asked. Worn down and anxious to finish their exchange.
“Yes, we can finally get to that.” Kreischer straightened his posture and gestured open palm, to where a now uncuffed Lorchan was flipping out a tucked in lapel. “Take a look.”
Barrick turned and furrowed his brow in confusion. Stuck onto a magnetic strip was a prisoner nameplate bearing his full name.
“Barrick Morlan is dead.” Kreischer elaborated. “In the public eye he died on the operating table only a few days past. As far as you’re concerned however, he died just now. By your hand.”
“Yeah the metaphor isn’t lost on me.” Barrick noted distantly “Why?”
“Politically it’s a…” Kreischer frowned in distaste. “... difficult situation. Security concerns are still a major consideration to the public. That can be said even more so for the perception that humanity is unified in our recovery. The reality is that those who have the greatest hoards to lose or gain are circling like Drenhari above a defeated city, ready to feast on everything it has to offer. Zephyr too, has a vault to fill and it wants it’s pound of flesh.”
“So that’s what you meant by my career being done then.” Barrick picked up the cracked chair, sat down and leaned his head over its back. “I make a perfect fall guy for them. Disobeying the orders of a star officer followed by losing their prototype. Which means they can’t not comment. They wouldn’t try to paint me as a collaborator would they? There's no way they could spin that!”
“They wouldn’t correct any rumors that happen to surface.” Kreischer suggested.
“So yes. They would.” Barrick groaned.
“It doesn’t matter much now.” Kreischer tried to reassure him. “You’re dead. You’re welcome for that little fix. They won’t try half as hard to slander a dead man. Bad taste to speak ill of a soldier amongst everyone bar young teens. The trauma of their forebears has not been kind to them. Given the model of strength we try to foist upon them? I’m not surprised they would reject such reverence when it distracts from achieving the world the fallen fought for.”
“Right…” Barrick choked out “... my family thinks I’m dead. Everyone thinks I’m dead.”
Kreischer struggled to formulate a reply as Barrick’s head fell into his hands, tears dripping from between racked sobs and shaking fingers.
“Would you care for a…” he eventually managed.
“I didn’t take it before. What makes you think I’d want it now?” Barrick replied through gritted teeth. “I’m sober…”
“I didn’t want to offer nothing.” Kreischer said somewhat sheepishly. Raising his voice he spoke to the rest of the room’s occupants. “Out! Tell the helm to begin our course to Setheran space. Route by the rendezvous.” Once the three had filtered out of Kreischer’s quarters he spoke again to Barrick. “You qualify for the Fallen Reimbursement Programme. Someone other than myself pulled some strings and had your payment set to the upper end of the bracket before the news broke. Meaning, before the paperwork even hit the desk. Setting aside my suspicions about who, your family will be taken care of financially until you would have hit retirement age. You’re twenty three now aren’t you? Or was it twenty four?”
“Someone helped?” Barrick trailed off for a moment while he gathered his focus enough to sustain a conversation once more. “I thought that programme was shutting down.”
“The Thentian funds are being withdrawn now that our economy is ‘sufficiently recovered’.” Kreischer said like he had rust in his gums. “Disregarding the strain that will place on our limited resources, we will be creating our own programme to continue the effects. It’s standard practice even if badly timed.”
“I thought it was strange that it stopped so soon. Typical deadline is a century of support. The Iveri got two, didn't they?” Barrick wondered. “The admiralty would be involved in that. Do you know what’s going on?”
Kreischer held a stony face at the remarks. Barrick noted the tension in his body only as he started breathing again to reply. “Probably best we focus on what comes next. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Right, right. You have plans for me?” Barrick grumbled, still trying to clear his head.
“Before I say, keep in mind you can always just be a ghost and live off of a comfortable pension hidden within my own personal transactions, on a planet of your choice so long as it isn’t too near Earth.”
“Terra?” Barrick asked, the word sparking him to his senses as he remembered the last time he had this discussion.
“We’re putting politics to later I thought?” Kreischer smirked. “Are you familiar with the Children of the Cradle?”
Barrick, inclined as he was to pursue a concept he felt less and less educated on, decided against it. “No. The Cradle? Am I being sent there?”
“In due time.” Kreischer calmed him. “For now I had best explain. The Children of the Cradle are an organization founded by the Thentian Grand Council. These days I believe they’re managed by the High Council as it falls within their domain. They are the direct hand of Thentian will where red tape would otherwise bind them.”
“With all due respect I am not cut out to be a spy!” Barrick stumbled over himself, the rushing realization of how far in over his head he was overwhelming him.
“Precisely!” Kreischer encouraged. “From what I know, admittedly rather little, they almost never engage in wetwork operations. Despite being entirely beyond reproach. Mostly they observe and investigate while leaving the dirty work to the regional powers. As such they tend to prioritize people who share their mentality more than just those of capacity.”
“So that’s the reason behind the test.” Barrick concluded.
“Indeed.” Kreischer affirmed. “Unfortunately I am not a witch. Nor do I possess a Thentian’s crystal eyes. So I have to render my judgment by dragging those instincts of your’s to the surface. All of this is only half accurate mind you. Each species has selected from it, a singular operative. Barring some exceptions I am either not aware of or are just not worth getting into. The human operative is retiring soon and has been rather forthcoming about his time in service, which is why we both know so much and so little.”
“They never interact, do they?” Barrick guessed at where he was going with his explanation. “The operatives I mean.”
“You’ll have the lucky privilege of being one of the only agents in history to have met another.” Kreischer confirmed. “I don’t think they like the idea of anyone directing their representatives to spy on one another.”
“Our operative is coming here?” Barrick asked, increasingly overwhelmed by the complexities being dropped upon him.
“You’ll depart above mars and meet her there.” Kreischer replied. “You still have a mess to clean up on Uiscelin . I happen to think it provides a wonderful training opportunity and a chance for the woman herself to decide whether or not to recommend you. It will be entirely up to the both of you how you want to approach it and entirely up to her if you proceed beyond that.”
“How am I supposed to recover an entire ship?”
“Recover?” Kreischer almost mockingly questioned.
“Ah!”
“As if it was never there.” Kreischer insisted. “The same goes for the organization involved in carrying out the ambush. Find out who they were working for and then…”
“... As if they were never there.” Barrick finished morbidly. “What about the Abyssinia Corporation? Or their subsidiary, Memnon R&D? I feel like even saying the word accountability would make you laugh.”
“Oh no, accountability, public not legal, is precisely what you’ll be facilitating going forward! They play their games and we clean the court after them. Maybe hand them a water bottle every now and then if they get too tired to continue. Keep the game going for the audience.”
“That feels counterintuitive. Why divert the resources to manage a problem you could just fix?”
“Who do you think is left for the audience to watch, when their star players step off the court?”
“I…”
“Need time to think on it.” Kreischer interrupted him with a raised hand. “Just remember, you chose to play this game with me when you picked up that gun. Besides, I suspect Zephyr sees this as a prime moment to finish what they started after the war. Pin it on Abyssinia whether they have evidence or not and put a gilded boot on their throat.”
“Why bother?” Barrick held his forehead as the gears spinning in his mind began to churn and grind from being overworked. “Stomping out a dying company seems like a waste of time.”
“These people aren’t satisfied with victory. They fear any obstacle to their obsession. They’ll erase it and stand solitary at the top of the mountain, pushing anyone off who even gets halfway.” Kreischer replied, letting slip some inkling of a deeper, vitriolic hatred of the kind of people he was referring to.
“Am I dismissed then?” Barrick asked hesitantly, weary of more bombshells to process. “Sir?”
“Ah, ah, ah!” Kreischer admonished him. “You don’t answer to me anymore. You never will again. Officially we don’t know each other and unofficially I don’t expect you to help me in any regard. However, there is a reason I gave you the opportunity.”
“Didn’t you just say you don't expect me to help you?”
“Correct. I don’t. I chose you because you showed me a known variable. One that I’m comfortable interjecting into an equation I can only make passing guesses at.” Kreischer looked long and hard into Barrick’s eyes, driving home the gravity of his appraisal. “You can follow orders but you aren’t bound by them. You shot a man on my word despite every reason to the contrary. You broke formation and saved thousands, despite every reason to the contrary. You absorb information like a sponge and can decipher answers to questions that most wouldn’t even see in the moment. Most importantly, you care.”
Barrick chose not to interrupt or contradict him in spite of his aversion to the praise.
“That little part of you? That itch, that became a burn, that became a blaze. That part that doesn’t plan. That part that decides. That part that aims towards a goal and takes the shortest route there, be it complex or worryingly expedient. I can’t speak as to what it’s aiming at but I think I have a fair idea. I’m confident you can’t put a name to it either. Not yet at least.”
Kreischer paused and let himself gather the next burst.
“I would advise you to follow orders for the most part. However, should the day come where that ember stays your hand. Should the day come where you find yourself irresistibly brought to life by it. Should the day come, where you understand me better than you ever could now. Should that day come. Listen to the ember. Let it consume you. Do not quell the brightest part of your spirit for an act that would quench it.”
Withdrawing a nondescript, long and thin black box from his coat pocket, he took one more hesitant breath to finish.
“If in your consumption, you find yourself lost, in need of guidance or even just desperate to share your mind with someone who could make use of its contents. Use this. It’s Setheran technology. It can store an incredible amount of data and…” he slid down the top of the black box which split into multiple pieces, merging seamlessly into its body in less than a second, unveiling a black button. “... when you press here, it will transmit everything stored on it to me, along with a recording of any audio or video you have connected to it for the next two hours. No matter how far, no matter where I am. With only a single stop in between. I’m certain any Witches in the area paying attention will be able to tell that it is transmitting. Where on the other hand? As far as they’ll be concerned it will be routed to a known thorn in their side. ‘The Blue Princess’ as people with such grievances tend to call her. You’ll be known as a traitor but I trust her to honor our deal and make sure that data reaches no one but her and I. More accurately her queen has forbidden her from revealing that data. I must say, the privileges of my Setheran investments are wider reaching than I would have anticipated.”
Barrick reached out tentatively, searching for some caveat beyond the open invite of treason which admittedly, the admiral had not stated any preference as to what should be contained on the intersystem flash drive he now took into his palm.
“I’ll keep it in mind…” Barrick caught himself, uncomfortable with how fast he was adjusting to the idea of the position he was being offered. “... what should I call you?”
“Not my name at least.” Kreischer stood and strolled towards his bed, lifting the crumpled dress slacks by their lavish hanger with a grimace. He pulled the jacket from its hanger and slipped it on, changing from a weathered gentleman to a deeply imposing figure as soon as he’d closed the golden chain fasteners across the chest. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out, Ember.”
“You know you said I didn’t answer to you anymore?” Barrick chuckled, staring at the red and golden phoenixes rising from his shoulders.
“I’m going to regret saying that, aren't I?” Kreischer groaned, pinching his nose and folding his arms over his chest in an effort to shrink away from a comment that would no doubt make him cringe.
“I think you might…” Barrick failed to stifle a well earned cathartic laugh. “...Bird!”