The Genetic Imerative

by P. Joseph Cherubino

  Arnold’s eyes flashed to the old Marine for a moment. It was like glancing at a statue. He shouldn’t have done that. It added to his unease. He let his frustration go, figuring he had nothing to lose. Arnold went full offense.

  “OK,” Arnold said, drawing his line in the sand. “Colonel, I’m not here to play the interrogation game, so please. Let’s spare everyone the preamble.

  Yes, I’ve been in twenty years. My career path is very unusual. This only proves my dedication to service. I’m clean, and you know this or I wouldn’t be sitting here. You’re right, I don’t know what you do. I only know it’s above top secret and even if the rumors of the rumors are true, then I want in.

  If there is a shred of truth to supercomputing, advanced satellite intelligence, and space-based operations, then I’m your man. With my training and IQ score alone, I could retire and go CIA in a heartbeat and not look back. Instead, I’m here. I applied here. To you. After you contacted me in a seriously strange and clandestine way.”

  He started out firm but at the end, color rose to his cheeks, and he was not aware of how his voice modulated. Shit, he thought to himself. He just demonstrated temper and impulsivity. He feared he went too far. He concentrated on making his face hold the bluff. The three sat again with their long, stony silence.

  “Well this Unit isn’t so big on insubordination,” the Major replied. The haughty reply told Lieutenant Triska that the gambit did earn some dividends.

  Triska was about to say something more when old Marine broke his silence. The old man’s mouth moved, but the rest of him remained a statue. Arnold got the sense that this man sees things that others simply do not. He caught a jarring sense that he was being investigated by someone window shopping for a soul. It was weird.

  “Got your big-boy Army pants on then, eh son?” the General said.

  His voice was surprisingly deep for a small man, coming from a great well of lived experience. His right eye twitched slightly, but that was all the movement he displayed, aside from the motion of his lips. His sonorous tones continued.

  “You say you’re ready for what we do. You simply have no idea. In fact, as you are right now, you have no way to comprehend what we are all about. But you will.”

  Arnold forgot the game and let his expressions show. Things were getting weirder. He got the impression that by "we," the general referred to much more than people in this room. Arnold’s brow furrowed and he cocked his head, trying to piece out the sudden cryptic turn of conversation. Was this old man senile? Was this part of the interrogation? Was this even sane?

  The Colonel broke character also and allowed herself a slight, enigmatic smile. The Major kept a straight face and leaned back in his chair. He stared at the ceiling. He gave a muffled but audible sigh. The spell was broken. It appeared a decision was made and the interview, or interrogation, was cut short.

  “Well, that was quicker than I thought. Lieutenant, you have your answer. You’re in,” the Colonel said. Her smile broadened and then she said a word that made Arnold’s testicles attempt a retreat to his abdomen.

  “Guards,” She called.

  The doors swung open, and four fully-armed soldiers in black fatigues swept into the room, their assault rifles bobbing on their shoulder slings as they came. Arnold came slightly unhinged. He shot out of his chair and backed away from the approaching soldiers. He assumed a combat stance. Arnold was an instant away from using the chair as a weapon.

  “What the fuck,” he phrased each word as both question and statement.

  “Lieutenant Triska,” The major said, holding out his palm to the soldiers who immediately stopped, “Please, just relax. They are part of our group. Your group now. I’m afraid this part falls under the heading of ‘be careful what you wish for.’”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong,” Arnold said with far less confidence than he intended.

  “Of course not, Lieutenant,” the major added. “You are not under arrest. This is your escort. Until you are briefed or debriefed—depending on how your mind holds up—the fact is that you are as much a danger to yourself as you are to us. They are here to protect the Unit as well as you as you travel, ah, down the rabbit hole as it were.”

  The lead soldier raised his chin and glanced at the Colonel, arching his eyebrows in a silent question. The Colonel nodded, and the man spoke up.

  “I’m sorry for the shock, Lieutenant Triska. I am Sergeant Skeates. I will lead the escort to your new assignment. Welcome to the Unit.”

  Lieutenant Arnold Triska, just shy of two meters tall, weighing in at a lean hundred and six kilos, a twenty-year veteran of the United States Army, including two combat deployments, glanced around the room. He smiled in resignation. His knees were slightly wobbly. Whatever he’d gotten himself into, he was along for the ride now and appeared safe for the moment. Rabbit hole indeed, he thought.

  “Well, take me to the head first because you almost made me piss myself,” Arnold said.

  Everyone in the room jumped when the old Marine burst out in a brief but hearty laugh.

  “Good Man, Triska. You’ll do. You’ll do fine,” General Breslin said. The broad smile on his face surprised everyone even more than the uncharacteristic laughter. The old man was rarely known to smile or to laugh, at least not in a setting like this. He only gave indications that he was human to those closest to him.

  The soldiers parted, and Skeates bowed slightly and swept his hand toward the door. They were a tight group. They communicated with glances that told each other to give the Lieutenant plenty of space and to keep their hands deliberately and obviously far away from their weapons. Triska was grateful their subtle and constrained behavior.

  The men left, closing the door behind them. For a while, the officers sat there staring at the table, the world around them seemed to weigh them down.

  “Do you really think he’ll do?” Major Spivey asked the room, eyes still glued to the table There was a coffee ring there. He thought it was a new table, and he wondered who made the stain. He was sure it had a story.

  “He damn well better,” the General replied. “We are not ready for what comes next. Maybe never have been. To manage this thing, we just need more bodies and time. Bodies are easier to get than time.”

  The old general’s face faded from tough to tired before their eyes. He was a fine old soldier, but there may not be more like him. The hope of group leadership was that people like Triska and Skeates would pick up where the old general left off.

  The major nodded his head as he spoke. “According to Lieutenant Conteh’s report, his psych checks out. He is certainly smart enough. There are a few questions about temperament as we have seen. The fact that he’s a lapsed Catholic is a good indicator—foundation of faith/belief and all that. But I wonder about consistency. He seems a bit unpredictable.”

  Rachel studied the Major as he spoke. It was true. The Unit did prefer people of faith, particularly Catholics, lapsed or otherwise. In her early days with Army Intelligence, Rachel took part in the discovery that people of faith made good workers in a covert setting. It wasn’t necessarily about the belief in God. People of faith simply proved more reliable. They kept secrets better than most and stayed trustworthy as a point of personal pride.

  They didn’t want fanatics, though. People whose belief in far-off ideals were too easy to subvert. Faith rooted in fanaticism was a wild flame. Instead, covert endeavors searched for people who could develop an indelible dedication to attainable, tangible ideals who could work toward a common purpose. They wanted people whose faith was bound by reason based on things they could clearly understand, feel and otherwise access. They had to believe that purpose was good and right, and then they would work toward it in spite of any hardship. Rachel herself had faith that their mission was indeed right for humanity. This was partly due to her understanding of the inevitable. That was why she was in the game.

  “We’ve certainly watched this one long enough, Major.” General Breslin said. “We pointe
d his career in the right direction. Twenty years of data should be sufficient. Now it’s up to you to guide him. He’ll do or he won’t.”

  The General fixed Spivey with a gaze that transmitted respect and confidence. The statement was also an order. The major nodded a final time and turned away, suddenly saddled with a new mandate.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Rachel said. “It’s bloody depressing.”

  The Major smiled as they all stood. “I would join you two, but I need to be on my way back to Colorado. Colonel, please give my regards to Lev.”

  “Thank you, Major. I certainly will.”

  With that, the Major made his exit, leaving the two old warriors alone in the room.

  Chase smiled again, this time without pretense. He reached out and took Rachel’s hand. The touch of his rock hard, scarred and calloused hand was surprisingly gentle.

  “It’s so good to see you. I’d like to come by to see Lev if I may.”

  “Of course. Seeing you would do him good.”

  Rachel covered his hand with her own and smiled warmly in return. She was tall enough to see the top of the General’s balding head. She bent down and kissed the cheek of her oldest, dearest friend. Some color rose to old man’s craggy cheek. With a spring in his step, the General fell in with Rachel down the hall. They couldn’t escape the building fast enough.

  It was a short drive across the base to the on-post house Rachel shared with Lev. The general’s driver opened the car door for them wordlessly. Rachel took note of the new driver, a young corporal. More and more new faces were showing up in the Unit with increasing regularity. Their Unit was changing and growing by necessity. Rachel worried that she wasn’t able to give oversight to as many of the new recruits as she wanted. She would just have to hope that her many long years of developing and training and developing Unit culture would pay dividends in the form of capable soldiers. The Unit she created would have to go on without her whether she wanted it to or not. If not, all her hard work would mean nothing.

  In ten minutes, the black Crown Victoria pulled smoothly into the clean white concrete driveway of the little two-story house. In proper military fashion, it was almost identical to every other house on the street of zero-lot-line dwellings. Military neighborhoods were orderly and quiet. This particular street housed mostly singles and small families who belonged to the other intelligence communities. It was easier that way. Fewer questions.

  The general tried to hide the start he had on crossing the threshold. The house was perfectly tidy, but the smell of illness was impossible to escape. Rachel did the best she could. The Unit’s medical team provided nurses to care for Lev, and they helped with house chores also. But nothing could be done about the undertones of death. In the neat little house, a once-proud and strong warrior slipped away from life. Rachel and Chase knew each other long enough to understand without having to speak. Chase was uncomfortable. The General gave his bravest smile, took a deep breath and walked into the living room where Lev lay dying.

  Chase moved over to the hospital bed. The twilight interrupted by the bay window frame made a broad, crepuscular line across his old friend’s face, and cast a shadow across his forehead. The light set aglow the parchment-thin skin around his eyes, cheeks and mouth. The oxygen machine puffed and gasped for Lev while he dozed. Chase noticed the breathing mask had slipped away from Lev’s mouth.

  Chase reached out and gently put the mask back in place. He adjusted the elastic to prevent it from biting Lev’s skin. For a second, he thought about snapping the band to give him a jolt—a harsh joke like old times. But the time for that was long past. The General’s eyes moistened as he placed a hand on Lev’s shoulder. Lev gave a start, and his eyes popped open.

  “Hey!” Lev recognized his old friend instantly. His face seemed to glow more intensely than the evening light.

  “Hey! Hey! Hey!” Lev repeated. A huge smile appeared and Lev was recognizable again. He reached up to pat Chase’s hand, grunted and made a fist with his opposite hand. He shook the fist at Chase.

  “Ha! Sneaky. Got drop on me,” Lev said, but the happiness seemed to take a significant measure of energy to express. Lev breathed heavily in his effort to laugh.

  “Hi, Lev. Good to see you, buddy.”

  “I know, old man. Good to see you too. Been through it, you and I. Been through it …” Lev trailed off, and his fist became a hand again as it fell limp.

  “Yes,” Chase replied, suddenly remembering blood and pain.

  “When…” Lev trailed off, concentrating. “When…” Lev struggled with his breath as Chase waited patiently. “When did you get here?” he finally managed.

  Lev scowled and fumbled with the mask. “Goddamn thing,” he said. “Helps me breathe, but so dry.”

  Chase found a cup with a straw already set on a tray near the bed. He helped Lev drink from it and then rearranged the mask. Lev gasped and sighed, and the water seemed to give him some energy.

  “Got in late this morning. From North Carolina. I live there now,” Chase replied.

  Lev’s face sank and pinched reproachfully.

  “Just now you come?” Lev asked.

  “We had meetings, Lev. You know how it is.”

  Lev nodded gravely and squinted. It seemed he understood. Chase was forgiven.

  “The Mission,” Lev said clearly. “The mission….” His eyes suddenly grew wide. He began to shake.

  “Rachel!” Lev said. His voice boiled in his chest. “Is she OK?” He wheezed. With legs thrashing and hands pushing against the bed rails, he struggled in frustration at the confused limbs that would not allow him to stand.

  “Where is Rachel? Rachel!” he yelled and glared at Chase.

  On the ride over, Rachel told Chase about "sundowning." It was a strange phenomenon of dementia marked by increased anxiety in the evening. Lev had it bad at this stage. The day before had been particularly challenging. Rachel hurried over. He calmed down immediately as she leaned over him with a beaming smile.

  “Hey doll, hey doll. You OK?” Lev cooed, and captured her hand tightly in his with the old strength renewed.

  Lev brought her hand to his mouth roughly, pushing aside the mask. He kissed her hand and squeezed it hard.

  “Isn’t she beautiful, Chase. Just like the day we married. Never changes. Never changes …” he seemed to forget his anxiety in contact with Rachel. She gently replaced the breathing mask.

  Chase couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. He crossed the room staggering and managed to find a chair. He sat down heavily. He was so glad that, in his old age, he could cast away all the tough-guy bullshit that caused him so much pain in the past. That same nonsense continues to cause much pain to the young men who believe they have to be so tough all the time. Chase realized late in life that to feel completely was true bravery. That was because it was so hard. So damn hard, he thought.

  Chase wasn’t expecting to get hit like this. He’d seen Lev on his ninetieth birthday, six years ago. He was fine then. Lev was alert and upright. This felt so sudden to Chase, but Rachel had been with Lev’s dementia for years. Being with friends dying in battle was nothing like this. The brand of death here was far outside Chase's experience.

  A fist closed around his heart and squeezed all the blood into his belly. It collected and cooled queasily. The weight pushed him down into the chair. The man he’d known for more than forty years, his mentor and fellow soldier, was dying. Slipping away. Fading out.

  In battle, a man could be there and then suddenly gone. Being or not being was announced with a bang, a flash and the appearance of blood, Chase had seen death and thought he understood it. Even with a grievous wound, the man remained. The kind of death Lev faced seemed to change him so completely.

  This form of death was an entirely different picture. But there were layers, Chase thought. Parts of Lev were sloughing off, others remained. Perhaps the purest elements remained. With these oldest friends, Chase found something else amid the pain. He smiled as
the tears burned hot trails down the cool skin of his cheeks. He smiled for love and at the love shared between friends. That was it. Through all the violence he’d experienced, that was his big discovery. These were friends. Not much else mattered, even the forces that loomed almost larger than a human mind could grasp.

  Rachel smiled down as the morning star on the face of her man. It seemed to Chase she saw nothing else. Chase was a lonely witness in orbit. Here was the man Rachel loved for nearly seventy years. Chase believed the house could burn down and Rachel would just stand over him smiling until they both turned to ashes. Chase felt Rachel would gratefully burn.

  Their impossible union was forged in war and countless trials and challenges. Stretched thin by impossible knowledge and the dark secret of humanity, that love survived. Rachel was not even human. She called herself an Advocate Warrior. That was certainly true though. The actual name of her race was nearly unpronounceable by most humans. As Rachel explained it, the name meant so much more in her language. “Advocate” was the closest human term that fits.

  Perhaps she was truly human, and it was him and Lev who were not, Chase thought. He’d dealt with the knowledge of the Advocates for nearly forty years and he still questioned how humanity fit in. It didn’t matter, he decided. The struggle was the same. She was an angel from the heavens, or, at least, a creature from another planet, and damned if she wasn’t the finest person Chase had ever known. Besides Lev of course. In the end, all that mattered to a soldier were those he fights beside.

  “You didn’t recognize me yesterday, Bear,” Chase Rachel whispered. She stroked his fine, thinning hair and touched his cheek.

  “I’m sorry lover. So sorry. I’m here now.”