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PREVIOUS CHAPTER INDEX NEXT CHAPTER Dark Crimson By Nick P. “There has been a new development regarding your mission, which we must now communicate to you. Months ago, a man was ordered on a mission that was identical to yours. We have reason to believe that he is now operating with Kurt himself. ComSec in Washington pronounced him MIA for his family and friends’ sake. There war was raging and they assumed he was dead.” I stopped reading for a second. With all that stuff flashing across holo-TVs, it wasn’t hard to believe. ComSec couldn’t cover everything up. I found that I was more right than I knew as I read on. “Then they intercepted a letter he tried to send to his wife (attached to page).” The letter went:
SELL THE HOUSE SELL THE CAR SELL THE KIDS FIND SOMEONE ELSE FORGET IT I'M NEVER COMING BACK FORGET IT
It was Captain Richard Colby. And now he was with Kurt. I stood there for a while, staring at the letter. It told me little, but it showed me to just what level Kurt had brainwashed the Captain. Kurt was a dangerous man, perhaps more dangerous in his mind than his army. Then again, who said he had been brainwashed. Maybe it was just an enlightenment, a revelation. Kurt had pursued what he thought true and worthwhile. Maybe this Captain Colby had seen it too. And what was to stop me? I had a feeling that Kurt had plenty to show me, and I feared it, all of it. “Hey guys, I got another box from Eva,” Chef was saying. Lance cut in, “Hey, they had a vacation. Fuck, this here’s way better than any vacation.” Chef was reading a newspaper. “Steven Ferguson Miller killed twenty applicants for the military in his way of protesting the war¾that’s some weird shit!” Clean was rummaging through his package. “Hey, I got another disk from my mom. Hope it’s files aren’t messed up like the last one she sent…” He pulled out his personal database and inserted the disk. Shaking his head, Chef put the paper down and gazed at his letter again. “Eva, Eva. She just can’t picture me here. Don’t know why, she’s always talking bout that. Sees me back home cooking and watching TV and having a cold beer. Damn, I could really go for a cold beer… She’s complaining, doesn’t think she can have a relationship with me.” He looked at Clean. “What do you think? Here I am, a thousand light years away trying to keep a relationship with my ass.” Clean started playing a video message that was recorded on the disk. Without warning, a bright beam of light that could only be that of a blaster flew through the air. It narrowly missed Chef’s head and flew into the distance, the concentrated energy eventually dissipating into nothingness. Immediately, the soldiers dropped to the floor. More and more energy blasts filled the air, shot towards out buggy. Some hit the metal, charring it, while making holes in the weaker sections. And occasionally, a heavy thump was heard and immediately, a streak of red appeared out of nowhere. Somewhere, high in the rocks on our right, someone was shooting with a heavy rail gun. A sniper. And along they had brought dozens of others with blasters. Things were not good. Lance made his way to the cannon and, ducking behind the fireguard, sent shot after shot into the rock-face. Rocks fell and fire lessened. Chef reached behind the heavy chain gun and unleashed his own fire. But our attackers fired back. Several more hurling bolts of energy flew through the air before all fire ceased and peace set in. That is, after one of blaster shots got Clean. He had headed for the section away from the side that was being attacked. His feet had barely carried him towards the corner when one of the stray shots hit him in the back and exited out the front, bringing along with it a spray of blood. Clean staggered forward, his database dropping from his numbed hands. His eyes stared blindly ahead for his mind was preoccupied with pain. The poor soldier stumbled before falling forward and slumping against the guard-rail. Blood trickled down the metallic beams, over the wheel ducts, and on the ground below. And he stood there, shocked at first as to what was going on. His hands held on to the railing moments before life left his body and the heavy Stroggos gravity did the rest. The Chief stopped the buggy to see if all was alright. And when he went around back, he saw Clean. “Chef, check him out. Clean? Captain, he’s, uh, he’s hit! He’s… hit! Clean’s hit!” Lance looked down from his cannon, face expressionless. Meanwhile, the video message on his database was still playing. The LCD screen was showing his mother’s face, grinning with sympathy. “… Don’t get too caught up and be very careful. Stay out of the way of the bullets! Not that I need to tell you that for you to know… Just come home in one piece. Because we really, really love and miss you.” The face smiled for one last time. “Love, mama.” The Chief hovered over his dead body and stared at him. And now they had finally seen death. But they had already caused it to the colonists. You can’t cause death without experiencing it. Now they knew. It was war, and war was death. And death was inevitable. Seeing this brings wisdom, but then one comes to wonder if death is worth the extra knowledge. Someone had to die; someone had to open the other’s eyes. And unwillingly, it had become Clean. Clean from the Bronx. But the journey went on. It wouldn’t be until months from now that the face recorded on that disk of his found out about what had happened. It would be months from now that the cheerful expression would droop into a solemn look. Months. But I was more interested what would happen to us over the next few months. As the darkest hours of the night set in, there was the sound of crumbling rocks, ones besides our own. It was distant and yet, in the near-silence, seemed to occasionally drown out the sounds of our own transport. And then, repetitively, boulders would tumble and roll down the hills and mountain slopes through which we ran, making us jump. It was no secret, we were being followed. But whoever was following us, was human, or at least under human orders. If it had been Stroggs, that initial attack would not have ceased. They wouldn’t have stopped until all of us, or all of them, were dead. But instead, they stopped firing and pursued us. Maybe for intelligence? Or perhaps they were just curious? Regardless, they were patient and the night went on uneventfully. Whatever our fate, one thing was for certain: the journey went on. It proceeded onward, through the night and into the thick mist that the morning offered. |
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