Kyle Myers as Harlan Lincoln

The comm was buzzing and it was driving him crazy. It just wouldn’t stop. Gull knew better than that – if Lincoln didn’t open the link after three buzzes, Gull was supposed to tell the idiot calling that Lincoln was dead. Or dying.

Today, it might actually have a ring of truth to it. His head felt like it had been stapled together. That’s what you get, he thought grimly, when you let Gully take you to a new dive on Sylves-Jean and drink whatever he puts in front of you.

Blindly and groggily, he snaked a hand out from under his blanket and smacked the comm. receiver. “What.” Not a question.

“Corporal Harlan Lincoln.”

He was awake instantly and his head began to pound ten times harder. What a thing to wake up to. Shit. He hadn’t been called that –

“Four years,” he grunted.

The man’s voice hesitated on the other end of the comm. “I’m sorry?”

“S’been four years since anyone called me ‘Corporal’,” he elucidated, sliding to sit up and run his hands through his hair. “I think that’s owing to the fact that I haven’t been a Corporal for four years.”

“I can assure you – ..” the voice began.

“Who are you?” Lincoln said, cutting the voice off.

“My name is Cary Taylor. I’m the CCO of the Isely Corporation.” Lincoln was silent, which prompted a follow-up from the man, Taylor. “I take it you’re listening now.”

“I’m listening.” Lincoln winced. Isely. Good ol’ Isely. If The Stars Are Your Destination, You’re Traveling With Isely. “What do you want, Mr. Taylor?”

“We’re assembling a crew to take one of the Navy’s ships into the Carina Arm – there’s an anomaly there that Isely discovered and wants surveyed.”

Lincoln tensed, then exhaled roughly. “I’m not with the Navy any more, Mr. Taylor.”

“No,” Taylor admitted, “but you had the highest pilot rating in over a decade, and no one’s been able to top you since you left. You know the systems on the Georgian-class ships better than anyone we’ve got privately or the Navy has now. Bottom line – you’re the best. And we need the best for this. This is Isely's excursion, not the navy's. The military is...cooperating with us, but we're also hiring on commercial crewmen. Best of both worlds, that way. ” Another pause before bringing up a more base topic. “We’re willing to offer you substantial compensation.”

Lincoln didn’t ask Taylor for specifics. “No.”

“I’ve been authorized to offer you –“

“I said no. I’m happy here. I like this rig and I like the crew and I don’t want to go exploring.” Lincoln turned his face away from the comm. speaker.

“I’ll send Sergeant Macree your regrets, then.” Taylor’s voice was quiet, but pointed.

Lincoln snapped his head around. “What?”

“He’s agreed to come aboard as navigator. In fact, Macree was the one who reminded us of your ratings. He seemed very eager to have you as part of the crew.”

“Fuck you,” Lincoln breathed, too quietly for Taylor to hear. Macree. It had been four years. There hadn’t been a better pairing of pilot and nav-ops than the two of them. They could get anywhere, go anywhere…which was why Isely wanted them back together again. And Taylor knew Lincoln would give his soul to sail with Macree again. How did they get Macree to sign on to this crazy bullshit?

Did it matter?

“Where’s the ship?” he asked in defeat.

“Port Alhambra,” Taylor replied.

“I’m not expected to re-enlist, am I?” The idea made Lincoln shudder.

“No, since the crew is being assembled from both military and private sectors. You’re the only one that’s served in both capacities, actually. You’ll sign on as a civilian.”

“I’m bringing my purser with me.” Lincoln began to smirk. Payback’s a bitch, Gull, he thought smugly. Shouldn’t have made me answer the call.

“But we already have -…”

“Dump him, whoever he is. Sullivan Gull is the best. He’s an engineer to boot and, as much as I know you think an Isely-made ship won’t ever incur so much as a scratch, if you’re sending us way the Hell out to Carina, you want someone who’s handy with a wrench out there.”

A pause. “Fine. Alhambra Station, in two weeks.”

“Wait, wait -…what’s the ship and who’s our Captain?”

Taylor hesitated just long enough for Lincoln to get a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “The ship is the USS Valdosta. Her captain is Avery Crane.”

Lincoln chuckled grimly. “Cutthroat Crane. Figures.”

“Oh, you two know each other?”

“No,” Lincoln admitted. “She and the Valdosta were fighting in the Galactic Campaign when I was doing my tour of duty with the colonial skirmishes on New Umbria. Never met her. But I heard stories. Hell, with her record, who hasn’t? Didn’t they name a planet after her?”

“Actually, it was an asteroid field. The Avery Sweep.”

“She was the naval equivalent of the boogeyman,” Lincoln recalled. “You got threatened to be reassigned to her unit if you cut up. But I actually met a guy who’d served under her, and he said she was tough, but born for the post. This should be interesting. You really are getting the best of the best, Mr. Taylor.”

“We’re taking this excursion very seriously, Corporal Lincoln. See you in two weeks.”

The comm. clicked off. Lincoln looked at it a moment, then pulled himself off the bed and went to go tell Gull the good news.

Harlan Lincoln’s breathing was ragged and hoarse. Blood and sweat ran down his bare chest in thick rivulets, dripping onto the floor in a steady pattern. His arms were outstretched, crudely tied to the metal support beams with bare wire. Two electrical leads were fused to the beams, leading to a small generator a few feet away. The smell of charred flesh hung in the air, heavy.

He ran his swollen tongue over his broken and bloody lips, wincing at the sharp pain. He tugged on the wires again, trying feebly to break the loop, but his strength was gone.

Civilian.

When beaten and tortured by these masked figures, Harlan could only tell them he knew nothing. No rank, name, and serial number for him. Not for a civilian. Not for a coward who left the service when it all fell down around him like a child’s dream.

Civilian.

The tap of boots echoed from down the hall, coming closer. It was the smaller one, the lieutenant. The silent one. He drew up on Harlan, head tilted to the side like a bird. The mask revealed nothing of its inhabitant. The eyepieces reflected only Harlan’s bruised civilian face.

He didn’t even have the spit to hurl at his tormentor.

Apparently satisfied with his inspection, the lieutenant backed away. He looked at Harlan and then down to the generator.

Civilian.

The man kicked the generator’s switch, activating it, and walked away.

When the man returned, merely two minutes later, Harlan was unconscious, passed out from the pain.

Two vicious slaps to the face woke Harlan. His vision was blurred, his back was burnt and bloody, his face was a mess of bruises, his body covered in a slick sheen of blood and sweat.

“What do you want, man?” Harlan croaked. “You’re not gonna get it. I don’t know anything.” He coughed, a spray of blood landing on the silent torturer’s mask. The man was unmoved, a statue of evil. “You’re not gonna learn shit from me, asshole.” Harlan took a breath, gathering his strength for one last moment of final bravado.

Mom, this is the right thing for me. I’ve only ever wanted to fly. And the Marine Corps will take care of me. There’s not even a war on. Hasn’t been one in almost a century. But, they’re on the front lines of spaceflight. I’ll be safe. And I’ll write to you, you know I will. I love you, Mom.

Harlan’s heart began to beat faster.

Mom, I don’t know how to tell you this, but we’re going to war. I don’t know what’s gonna happen, but I’ll come home when it’s all done. I promise. I’ll be safe. Jordan’ll keep me safe. I love you.

Mom, the war’s over. There’s no United States Armed Forces anymore. There’s nothing for me, here. Not anymore. I’m coming home. I love you, Mom.

Mom, someday I’m gonna be the best pilot in the whole galaxy! I’ll fly all over the universe and find places and planets and aliens and everything. They’ll name stuff after me, like, a planet or star or something. Okay, Mom! But, when I’m a famous pilot, I won’t have to do my homework! Just remember that!

“You ain’t gonna get shit outta me. So, either kill me, cocksucker, or let me down and I’ll show you a real man takes care of business.” His final posturing over, Harlan sagged, utterly exhausted. Defeated. He would die, now. Resigned to his fate, he closed his eyes.

I’m sorry that I never made it home, Mom. I love you.

Harlan felt the warmth of his enemy’s breath on his neck.

“I’ve got your captain’s cunt-juice dripping from my cock,” the man whispered.

Harlan’s eyes opened. His breathing became regular. His eyes wandered, almost lazily to his tormentor, only one lunge away.

Mom, please pray for me.

With sudden viciousness, Harlan lunged forward. A cry of inchoate rage tore from his throat and he sunk his teeth into the man’s neck, arterial blood spraying and foaming in his mouth as he bit down. The man shrieked and tore away, leaving a chunk of his neck in Harlan’s teeth.

Hateful strength flowed into Harlan’s arms. Fueled by this sudden surge of adrenaline, he tore his arms free, the wire bindings snapping like dry twigs. Blood dripped from his wrists and slid down his fingers.

The lieutenant stood swaying, hand clamped on his neck. Harlan heard a hiss from the mask. With sudden snake-like speed, he spun and slammed a kick into Harlan’s head, flinging him against a wall. Howling, Lincoln rebounded and barreled into the lieutenant, picking him up and smashing him into a bulwark. They both fell to the ground, grappling and hurling fists. Smaller and in peak fighting condition, the lieutenant threw Harlan onto his back and leapt onto him, fists raining down like judgment upon the wicked.

Knuckles slammed into Harlan’s face, white spikes of pain stabbing into his brain.

“When you are in combat, you are not a man! You are a killing machine! You will let your training take over, and you will do everything humanly possible to kill the poor bastard trying to kill you! Your entire body is a weapon! Anything you can grab is a weapon! WHEN IN COMBAT, YOU ARE NOT A MAN! DO YOU GET ME, CADET LINCOLN?”

Lincoln heard the hissing of the man atop him, the expulsion of air as he punched down. Each blow snapped Harlan’s head back, rebounding his skull of the steel floor.

Not long, now. Head swimming. Body going numb. Not long, now.

Captain’s cunt juice.

Dimly through the haze of pain, the fog of excruciating pain, Harlan was aware of his hands moving on their own, exploring. As the fists exploded against his face, his fingers wrapped around something cold and metallic.

A wrench. Slick from arterial blood falling on it.

Gotta get a good grip. Only one chance.

Captain’s cunt juice.

And then, something ancient and fierce and hateful and animal and inhuman and angry and suddenly free roared. The beast that waswasnot Harlan swung the wrench into the lieutenant’s head. He howled and fell off Lincoln.

Harlan threw the wrench to the side and picked up the dazed enemy. He slammed him into the wall, pinning him there and smashed his forehead into his torturer’s face. He did it again. The man kicked him and Harlan didn’t care and he crashed his elbow into the lieutenant’s face and the mask flew off and it was just a normal man and Harlan screamed and drove his knee into the man’s stomach.

The beast named Harlan Lincoln stepped back and reared up and lifted up his tormentor by the throat into the air and saw the fear in the man’s eyes and screamed an inhuman scream and only dimly heard the howling echoing in the corridors and choke-slammed his hated enemy onto the hard steel floor.

The impact shivered the bones in Harlan’s arm and he didn’t care and he picked up the body and slammed it down again and he saw the man try to fight back and he let go of his neck and punched him in the face and then again and again and again and he knew he wasn’t dead. Hate blurred his mind and stood up and stomped on the man’s crotch and he smiled at the scream and he stomped again and he dropped his knee there and then grabbed the man’s crotch and dug his fingers into the fabric and punched the man’s face again with his free hand and was only dimly aware that there were teeth in his knuckles and punched him again and didn’t care that his fists were red from blood not his and slammed his fist into the face again vicious this time and there was a piece of bone stuck to his knuckle and he squeezed with his right hand and pulled and cloth and skin and blood vessels ripped and he threw the quivering bloody mass away and he knotted his fingers together and brought them both down with all his might on the man’s chest and he heard something break and he heard the man groan because he couldn’t scream anymore and the monster that wore the skin of Harlan Lincoln tore of the man’s jacket and rent a hole in his shirt and dug his fingers into the flesh of his chest and tore and scrabbled with his fingers until he felt the red water that let men live flow under his fingers and he pulled and shredded muscles and roared and threw pieces of chest away and then he knew the man was dead.

The thing that was not human, but only wore the skin of a man, was quiet and faded away and left Harlan Lincoln alone.

A scream echoed down the corridor.

The Captain.

And, suddenly, the human being named Harlan Lincoln was on his feet, taking the pistol that the lieutenant never pulled and raced deeper into the ship, following the scream.

(Holy...crap. Kyle this is both beautifully written and gruesome. I'm highly impressed.)

It’s quiet, now, Harlan Lincoln. You’ve won.

Sinner.

Walk. Run. Move faster! You carry this weapon in your hand. Its weight is unfamiliar, its shape barely remembered.

Civilian.

Tighten your grip. Check the safety- off. Move quickly! Move silently! There is at least one more. Surprise is your only hope. You’re too tired and too weak and you don’t know if you have any skin left on your back. The nightmare that walked in your skin won’t help you now. It’s just you.

FASTER.

There, resting on the counter in the medbay. The Captain’s shotgun. Your Captain. You heard her scream. Follow it.

You have the shotgun. You haven’t fired a weapon in six years. Remember its kick. Remember the spread, you want to be close.

A pistol and a shotgun. It’ll have to be good enough.

Check your corners, marine.

Civilian.

There. The leader. Move quietly. You can do this.

A flurry of movement. It’s the doctor. Hold your fire. Get closer. You can hear the other captain speaking. It doesn’t matter.

“Hey,” you say. He sees you. He sees the gun. He surrenders. Others swarm out. Somebody takes the pistol. They bind the man, Vetrone. You don’t see them move past you. They are alive.

You see the Captain. Your Captain. She’s hurt.

She needs you. She doesn’t belong her, laying in a pool of blood. Her blood, his blood, their blood.

The Captain belongs in the bridge. At her proper place. The command chair.

Take her where she belongs.

You see her. She barely acknowledges you. Doesn’t matter. This is important. You pick her up, she’s not heavy. Left arm under her leg, right across her back. She loops her left arm around your neck. She looks at you. Her eyes see into yours. She understands.

“Come on, Captain.”

She nods. The shotgun lays across her stomach. You carry her out. Past Gully, the doctor, past Sadie. Down the corridor. Past medbay. Into the bridge. You carry her. Her strength flows into you. You will not falter. You will not fall. You will be strong, because she is your Captain. And she needs you. You are strong. Your arms are tireless.

You set her gently, tenderly in her command chair. You put the shotgun across her lap. Weary, wounded eyes search out yours. She’s grateful. You understand.

“This is where you belong, Captain.” Again, she nods. You’ve done the right thing. It’ll all be okay, now. The Captain is where she belongs.

Your Captain.

Everything will be okay.

You remember the lieutenant. Shame and misery clench your soul. Guilt digs its claws into your heart. Black, vile loathing creeps over your mind.

Your Captain straightens.

Everything will be okay.

Harlan's head rested on the thick plastic viewport of the civilian shuttle that carried him
and the Captain to Alhambra. It was quiet on the shuttle, with only Harlan, the Captain,
and a few other scattered individuals onboard. Beside him, Captain Crane rested with her eyes closed, dozing lightly.

He glanced at her briefly, envying her ability to sleep while being ferried by an unknown pilot. Harlan found that he could never rest in flight if he, himself, wasn't doing the piloting. It wasn't so much a lack of faith in the abilities of the other pilot; it was more a firm knowledge that if something went awry, Harlan would know immediately what to do. To put it simply, other pilots are good, Harlan is better.

He smiled faintly at his own irrational smugness and returned his gaze to the world outside the shuttle. Space. The realm of infinity. Where he belongs. Where he will be shortly returning.

Then, that nagging feeling that he'd been studiously ignoring thrust its way back into his
thought.

Harlan Lincoln was nervous.

Nervous at the thought of returning to the Valdosta. Returning to her.

Her, because no matter how much he tried to convince himself that Emerald was simply alien and genderless, Harlan knew that the Viridian firmly identified as female. And with it, he mused, all the complications therein.

He smiled again. Oh, such complications. Not only had it been a good five years or longer since he'd ever entertained even the thought of. . . .

Harlan shook his head. Keep it simple, stupid. Worry about one thing at a time. You've avoided the Valdosta because the Captain told you not to complicate things. But, dummy, you took it too far. And now, you've totally complicated things! Now, you need to approach a complete-well, not completely complete- alien entity and explain why you've not come to see her. And the reason, Harlan Lincoln, deep down, is because she confused you.

You sprang forward to pledge your aid when she asked. You didn't pause to consider it. You acted because you knew it was the right thing to do. They needed help. And, even though it had been years, some remnant of your old life persisted. Some part of you was still a soldier, still a protector.

Then, she’d inhabited the Captain's body, and that complicated things a hell of a lot more. You had a schoolboy crush on the Captain and had to sort out your feelings for the Captain with these new emotions that were engendered by Emerald.

Complicated.

Harlan chuckled softly. The problem is, Harlan, you're not sure if you volunteered because you wanted to protect the Viridians, or because you wanted to protect Emerald. And, that night, you spoke with Emerald. And you knew, regardless of everything else, that you wanted, want, to protect her.

The newly minted Corporal sighed. And he realized that it was a mess of his own making.

Running a hand through his hair, he blew out a breath . Just focus, Harlan. Give honesty a shot. This whole mess isn't just about you. Think about her, how you've probably hurt her by your absence, when everyone else has visited.

Just bloody talk to her, Harlan Lincoln.

"Harlan, you're fidgeting. Settle down," the Captain admonished, eyes still closed. Her arms were crossed over her chest, rising and falling with each breath.

"Sorry, Captain," he responded, sheepish. He turned to look out the window and saw Alhambra station. Final approach.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Only a matter of minutes, now.

Her name was Gina Lee. In all honesty, she was a rebound, something to fill the void left in Harlan Lincoln. She was fat, dumpy, and slow. She was a second-rate date, used and abused and all but abandoned.

"She very well could be the ugliest ship I've ever seen," Harlan remarked to the mechanic attending to her boarding ramp. Sighing, he dropped his duffel bag beside him, kicking up dust. The mechanic straightened and stepped away from the open servo-motor panel. He was shorter than Harlan, stockier. The man stepped out of the shadow of the Gina Lee and into the blistering sunlight. He squinted and cocked his head at Harlan.

He was filthy, covered in caked dirt and oil, face glistening with sweat, hair flowing wildly behind his head. He jabbed Harlan in the chest with a massive wrench. “You got a problem with this ship, shithead?” Though he was at least a head shorter than Lincoln, the man had a fighter’s hunch in his shoulders.

Harlan blinked, taken aback. “Easy, pal,” he said, rubbing his chest. “Don’t get all uncool and heavy.”

The man standing before Harlan Lincoln grunted. "Whaaaaaaaatever," he grumbled. "Just keep your negative thoughts to yourself. The Gina Lee isn't fancy and expensive like all the new Isley ships, but she's strong and dependable. So, clam up." The man ran a hand through his hair. "Besides, the hell does it matter to you?"

Harlan glanced at the name tag on the man's coveralls. Gull, Sullivan. "I'm this bucket's new pilot. And, I hope she flies better than she looks, Mr. Gull."

Sullivan Gull whistled, shaking his head. "Fuckin' fantastic. You're the prissy boy Navy flier that got demoted to us, huh? Well, guess what, asshole, this ain't the Navy, and this ain't a Navy ship. We ain't a couple billion credits to drop on a shiny new paint job and a big ass team of maintenance techs. Just me and my wrench, got it?" Brandishing his wrench like a club, he gestured to the two big Hevro boosters. "Does that look like a Van Buren to you? No?"

Harlan rolled his eyes. It had been a shitty week, and the last thing he needed was to be harangued by a grease-monkey. "Look, man. I just want to stow my gear and familiarize myself with all her systems. Can you at least give me an estimate on when that boarding ramp will be fixed?"

Gull sneered. "It ain't broke, Mr. Navy Hero. The Captain just wanted me to smooth out its deploy phase. Said he can feel it stick on the drop." With a disgusted grunt, Gull stepped over to the hull and slapped the boarding ramp's lower mechanism. As the ramp lowered, Gull gestured into the hold. "After you, flyboy.”

Lincoln coolly entered the crew quarters and calmly entered the head. The door scissored shut behind him.

Then, hissing in fury, he slammed his fist into the counter. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The Commander was 100% wrong. Esprit de Corps, he said, you don’t leave a man behind, Gull is more of a marine than you are. The words inflamed him. The falseness enraged him.

Nova abandoned her post. She was the one who took the tags off. Nova was the ship’s councilor, and now Harlan knew that he could not depend on her. The crew was hammered, defeated and thwarted at every step. Even the V was taken from them. And, the Ghost had crumbled. She took off her tags. You don’t leave a marine behind. She was not a marine.

That woman would never be a marine. She was playing at it. And the Commander’s relationship to her clouded his judgment. No, it wasn’t the Captain’s duty to give those tags back to the Ghost. A ridiculous gesture. ‘Hey, it’s okay. Let me coddle you and fawn over you like a child.’ No. In a time of war, that was desertion. Punishable by death. Any other ship. Any other deserter.

He pounded his fist down again. He knew that during the chewing out, the Commander was able to see the furious set in Harlan’s jaw and hear the grinding of his teeth. The fierceness of his salute spoke his anger. The Ghost was playing at being a marine. Spitting in the face of all the Corps stood for.

He hunched over, staring at his reflection in the mirror. A haggard man looked back at him. Shaking his head, he turned on the faucet. He wet his hands with cold water and rubbed his face, trying to scrub the rage away.

Five minutes later, Harlan was sitting on the outer hull of the ship. Mag boots kept him anchored to the hull and he had nearly an hour and a half of O2. Plenty of time to cool off.

“Pilot! Disengage! Return to orbit immediately!”

Private Harlan Lincoln lashed out his hand and mashed the transmit button. “Negative, sir! Task force is not accounted for! Repeat, task force is not accounted for!”

Suddenly, the small shuttle shuddered, a close mortar hit rocking the craft. Small arms fire pinged and ricocheted off the vessel’s hull. A marine leaned out the open airlock and returned fire, the rifle’s report loud and explosive. Spent brass tinkled on the metal floor. The marine, Kemple stenciled on the back of his body armor, barked at Harlan.

“Just five more minutes, man! Delay them! Just give Chestwick time!” He ducked back into hold as a hail of bullets slammed into the hull, cursing. The interior of the Remora shuttle resounded with the metallic chatter of bullets impacting on the steel hull.

Harlan twisted in the pilot’s seat, looking at the HVT strapped into the acceleration rig behind him. The balding man looked up at him, eyes wide with terror. Sweat ran down his face, his pallor pale and chalky.

“Private! You are ordered to disengage and return to orbit!” Another explosion, closer the time. The blast threw Kemple down, his rifle skidding along the walkway. Dirt and dust rained down the exterior, obscuring Harlan’s vision.

A small marine dove into the hatch, amidst a holocaust of gunfire, howling.

“Prezchek are all over this area. We can’t hold them, we have to dust-off or we’re toast!”

The HVT shrieked at Harlan. “Get me out of here! You need me! You need the information I have!”

The pilot pounded the console in fury. “FUCK!” He jammed down the transmit button. “Copy that! Disengaging and returning to The Hidalgo!” He released the button and palmed the hatch controls. “Kemple, strap in, we’re out of here!”

The marine pushed himself up and scrambled to an open acceleration rig. “Goddammit, Lincoln! Chestwick is still out there. He’ll be here in two minutes!”

“I know, goddammit!” The pilot threw the throttle open and yanked back on the stick, thrust crushing the entire crew to their couches.


“Harlan, are you okay?” Macree slid an overfilled mug of watery beer towards the pilot, the contents sloshing over the rim.

Harlan accepted the mug wordlessly, gaze on the pitted plastic of the table. The canteen was full that night, as it usually was after a major action. Despite the number of patrons, however, the mood was quiet and defeated. Though Operation Heavensent was nominally a success, thanks to Harlan’s retrieval of the Prezcheck defector, the fleet and ground forces had taken a major pounding. Prezcheck resistance had been more fierce than Intel had believed, tearing a full 1/3 of the operation’s forces to pieces. The death of friends was weighing heavily upon the crew.

“Harlan, hey! Talk to me.” Macree prodded again. “You haven’t said a word since you got back on board. Been here the last few hours.” He glanced at the pile of empty mugs. “Drinking, it seems. And believe me, chum. I know drinking.”

“Fuck, man. Chestwick is dead. Or close to dead. Or whatever the fuck.” Harlan gripped the edge of the table tightly, his knuckles turning white.

“Chestwick? No. No way, man. That’s impossible. . . .” Macree shook his head in disbelief.

Lincoln glanced across the table at his friend. He could see that Macree was taking the news hard. He and Chestwick were closer than Chestwick and Lincon, both of them having come from military families. They came from the same area and had similar upbringing. And their love of crude humor had cemented their friendship.

“How. . . how did it happen?” Macree’s voice wavered, an outward sign of his internal anguish.

“When we set down on the surface, command had me send out two fire-teams to hit both depots, because Intel couldn’t pull their damn heads out of their asses long enough to give us a solid lead on which depot the fuckin’ switch-hitter was at.” Harlan shook his head and chugged down half the beer. “Anyway, FT 1-Kemple was leading that one-made contact with the HVT and brought him back. Problem was, they brought about a billion Prezcheck potshooters with ‘em.”

Got the HVT on board, tried to hold out as long as we could, so that Chestwick and his team could make it back. Command ordered me to disengage.” He sighed painfully, eyes watering. “We. . . I left him down there, man. You know what those animals do to POWs. I’m sorry, Jordan. I delayed them as long as I could, but. . . .” Lincoln looked down. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, man. People. . . people die in war. And. . . FUCK.” Macree answered.

Lincoln understood. Sometimes there are no words to describe the hollow feeling in your gut, knowing that you’ll never see a brother again.

Macree was quiet for a few minutes. The soft hum of the bar floated over the two friends as they drank in silence. After they both had polished off their beers, Macree stepped to the bar and bought two more, dropping one on the tabletop in front of Harlan.

Harlan gripped the handle of the mug tightly. He finally raised his eyes to Macree.

“To Chestwick.” Harlan raised his mug.

“To Chestwick,” Macree responded. “A damn fine groundpounder.”

“The only knuckle-dragger in the whole damn mouthbreathing Corps worth a damn.”

They touched their mugs together and drained them both. Grunting, Macree wiped foam from his mouth.

“So, I guess we go back to hating the jizzfists, huh?” He asked, suppressing a belch.

“Yep,” Harlan nodded. “Lesson learned. Never again.”

“Never again,” Macree repeated.

And so the two fliers, through promotions and demotions, war and peace, kept Their emotions and friendships close.

Of course, nothing lasts forever.

The library exploded. Harlan, twisting and weaving, diving and juking, banking and climbing, saw the sudden white flash and the orange blossoming and hurtling toward him, churning steel and energy. He knew that he could do nothing. His only regret was that he would die alone, never knowing what became of the crew.

He closed his eyes.

When they opened, he saw that he was on the Venture nee Baxley. He was unharmed. The vice-like pain in his stomach gone, the agonizingly hot metal that had cocooned him was absent. And he was not alone. The entire crew was with him.

They related their last moments. The final stand of the crew of the GSS Valdosta. Parr, broken. Avery, ripped apart and barking orders, always leading. Gull, his face torn and mauled. Denton, immolated in a hateful fire. And, Macree bleeding out on the floor, dying far from Lincoln.

Yet, all were on this Venture, this fiction. They passed the night easily, enjoying their company, all secretly believing this to be their final moments before they passed into Judgment. There were those who didn’t believe that they’d won. That the Crimson Death had been eradicated. Harlan knew, believed, hoped that it was true. It needed to be true.

He’d failed once, but not this time. Not this time. Emerald, wherever she was, was safe. Forever.

He lay down in his bunk one final time. She was safe. Never again hunted. Never again stalked. Safe. Emerald.

“I love you,” he whispered. Live. Die. No matter. He’d won. She was safe.

He closed his eyes, ready for eternity.