by Casey Herzog
“We honor our dead in the manner instructed to us and befitting loyal serviceman of the One Earth League Space Division. Please stand for the honor roll of the dead.”
At this, the crew of the Retribution rose to their feet. They stood to stiff attention, faces stony and eyes forward as though on inspection parade. The crew of Unity slowly rose in turn. They did not salute, but stood in a reverent silence, their heads bowed in respect.
Jude took a deep breath and began to read the names. “Vice Admiral, Steven Richards.”
At once, all those in the room from both crews spoke as one: “Your name will endure forever with your brothers and sisters on the Monument of the Pilgrims.”
“Chief of Navigation Officer, Christine Peerman.”
“Your name will endure forever with your brothers and sisters on the Monument of Pilgrims.”
“Chief of the Armory, Jeremy Monkton.”
…
It took ten minutes to call out all the names, Jude giving a moment of pause between each name, trying to give each lost member of their crew an appropriate moment of thought. When he was done, despite having only had to read names from a list, he felt heavy and tired. It had taken effort, and he felt like each name he spoke added an invisible weight about his neck. After the last name had been called, he gave a salute before nodding to the strange congregation of familiar and unfamiliar faces to be seated.
“You did well,” Ana assured in a whisper as he took his seat beside her.
Jude didn’t answer. He sat with his body leaned forward, studying Minerva and the crew of the Unity, intrigued to see how they would honor their own fallen. The Martian had mentioned storytelling earlier in the corridors. Despite not knowing anything about Minerva, other than her skill at arms, Jude got the feeling that the woman was not much of a storyteller. He looked to her in fascination as the second half of the makeshift remembrance service was brought under way.
“Following in the tradition of those who live and survive in the in the unforgiving fringes of our solar system, we honor our fallen with tales of their deeds. We ask all who hear them to carry these stories in their hearts so that the dead may never truly die.” Minerva spoke in the same commanding voice she had before, then nodded to one of the black uniformed men seated near the circle.
The man who approached was, like nearly all the crew of the Unity, known to Jude and the Retribution. He was cohort member Francis Beard. He had grown a rugged beard and sported an interesting set of scars on the right side of his face that looked like little shooting stars passing over his eye, which was clouded and clearly no longer functional.
The storyteller took a deep breath. It was a good way to begin. As his chest swelled, it gave the impression that something truly momentous was about to be said. Despite the man’s rugged look, he possessed some aura that drew the listeners to him.
“Brothers and sisters. We are family here. Retribution, Unity, our two vessels both embarked from Earth with similar purpose. Like you, we were sent off into the void to secure Earth’s control of the outer planets. Restore order, end the secessionist threat. We were sent, like you, with these words drummed into our hearts and minds. We never even knew who the secessionists were, nor why they were fighting us. All we cared about was making Earth proud and securing peace between the planets.
Many souls known to us were lost today in the taking of the Retribution. We knew that someday this would happen. Eventually, Earth would demand blood in payment for our perceived crimes. It seems fitting then that I not tell the tale of any one individual, but the tale of us all. For this narrative, I will draw inspiration from the highest ranking of us to fall in this battle: our dear friend and brother, Peter Gabell.”
When the name was spoken, Jude felt Ana’s hand squeeze on his arm. For a second they both looked at each other, but only a second. Peter Gabell was one of the key instigators in downfall of the Unity and her crew. Though the Retribution had failed in its mission to bring the Unity to ruin, it was a small comfort to consider they had succeeded in bringing the key figurehead of the secessionists to justice.
“Our story begins, much as I imagine yours did: in the desert.”
CHAPTER 3
Armstrong Space Center, Nevada, was the goal. To those given up at birth, Armstrong was both mother and father. Be good, work hard, be exceptional, and she would take you into her arms and give you the family and purpose birth denied you. For those riding the number one shuttle bus from “Little Vegas,” the journey was nearing its end, and the goal line was in sight.
Of all the souls riding in the “Golden Road,” Peter Gabell was unquestionably the proudest. He was by no means the smartest, best looking, or talented passenger, but he might be the most unexpected. He was very strong for his age, but that was about it. His presence on that bus, as far as he saw it, was a miracle. To others, it was an affront. It was no great secret that some who rode across the desert sands that day felt their achievement diminished when they looked on him. If Armstrong were willing to accept a boy of such mediocre talent into her arms, then who knew what other riffraff she would welcome.
If Peter was aware of the indignant looks he was garnering, he didn’t let it show. He sat with his window ajar, letting wind and sand tousle his coal black hair. Sand and dust, whipped up by the bus wheels, assaulted his face, but Peter just closed his eyes and enjoyed it. His crooked nose and scarred face had faced harsher conditions than the baking plains of Nevada could conjure. His skin was likely as rough as rhino hide, and it was doubtful he was even aware of the sand whipping against him.
The control tower of Armstrong Space Center was the first thing the passengers could see of their destination. Its iconic viewing platform, modeled after the Seattle Space Needle, reflected the fierce glare of the sun as a solid beam. It was like a lighthouse, only its light was, by magnitude, more blinding. Eager as they were to see their destination, none of the passengers on the bus could look at the glimmering object for more than a few seconds at a time. Nonetheless, its sparkle was intoxicating to them, and they chanced as many glances as they could toward it, their minds envisioning a utopic heaven existing under that warm light.
As the bus drew closer to its destination, other things became visible to the pilgrims. The launch pad; the dock yard, containing the fleet of shuttles that routinely made trips to Lunar and the Gate; climatization facilities; living quarters; and, of course, the Monument. It was this last part of the facility that would serve as their point of arrival.
The Monument of Pilgrims, less affectionately known as the Wall of Orphans, was Earth's way of paying due reverence to those they sent into the into the cosmic void for an extended span of time.
To be a colonist on Mars, a fisherman on one of Europa’s sea farming operations, or even a humble engineer on a hauler was a tremendous sacrifice. Not all who took the journey past the Gate would return, and of those who did, the best years of their life would be taken. To serve humanity's needs in the wider solar system required a greater sacrifice than any tour in the armies, and anyone who made that sacrifice deserved to be honored.
As the bus pulled up outside the Monument, Peter looked out on a sea of reporters, media representatives and fans. The throng that had come to greet them was unique to their mission, a reminder of the singular nature of voyage they were about to undertake. Five other buses had pulled out before them, each containing a cohort of the pioneers; bus one was the last. As the vehicle eased to a halt, the green uniformed man at the front stood up.
“Pluto Cohort, attention!” Peter looked to the man, then to his companions. Many had not heard the command, their minds preoccupied with waving back at the crowds of people who were cheering and photographing them. “I said, PLUTO COHORT, ATTENTION!” The officer’s second shout was somehow able to rise above the hubbub outside, and the passengers brought their attention forward in unison, their backs straight. “Peter, close up that window. I don't want to compete with that damned noise.”
Peter reached over and closed his window, taking a moment to try and flatten his windswept hair after catching sight of his reflection.
“For god's sake, boy, stop fussing with your hair; no amount of hair combing is going to make up for your ugly mug!”
There was a ripple of laughter amongst the other recruits, and Peter felt himself shrinking back into his seat, trying hard not to blush or show weakness.
“In a few moments, you will receive the honor of having your names marked forever on the Monument of Pilgrims. This accolade is the dream you and your fellow pilgrims have studied, strived, and fought for since the day you came into this world. To get your place here today, you had to surpass over one hundred and fifty million other orphans on the planet today. There are one hundred and fifty million people who will be watching you on TV and reading about you in the papers, wishing they could stand in your shoes. So, when you get off that bus, I want to see you giving this ceremony the respect it deserves. Those folks with cameras and banners are not why you are here. You are here to have your names immortalized alongside all the brave men and women who have come before you. I will not have any of you cheapen this occasion by acting like fools in front of the world press. That means: no waving, no talking to people with microphones, and no breaking line. There are traditions to be upheld here. Are we understood?”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant,” the group answered in perfect unison, each adopting the focused mindset they called upon on parade. Still, the lure of the roaring crowds was strong, and more than a few eyes snuck glances sideways as they waited to disembark.
“Rise and file out as I call your name.”
The lieutenant began to call each member of the cohort by name, in alphabetical order. As he came to the G's, Peter prepared to stand. He was half way to his feet when he heard the name “Nisha Goswami.” The lieutenant's eyes flicked in Peter's direction, clearly aware of the omission he had made. Other had noticed too, and Peter felt several other eyes glancing in his direction as he sat back down and listened to the names of his colleagues read aloud. Eventually, he was the only one left on the bus, waiting for the lieutenant to give an explanation. He already knew what the man was going to say, but he wanted to hear it confirmed.
“Peter, you will wait here until the rest of your cohort has marched along the parade way to the Monument. Once their names have been engraved on the memorial wall, you'll take a walk with General Lindsey.”
Peter took a deep breath and pursed his lips. He did not like this. He was already a pariah among his cohort, and the last thing he needed was to be singled out for more special treatment. The others in his division would not give him an easy time for it. It wasn’t like his story was even all that special anyway. True, he had been rescued from an illegal slaver ring at age four, but everyone in the cohort, hell in the entire project, had their own story to tell. They were all orphans after all, why did his tale have to be picked as the special one?
The lieutenant shared a private word with the driver before stepping off to join the rest of the cohort. The wild cheering and shouting settled to a more reverent quiet as the cohort was received by a contingent of men in pristine uniforms, each bearing a plethora of medals on their left breast. After a few minutes of handshaking and saluting, these generals moved to the side, and a steady, respectful applause came from the crowd. The cohort filed out, marching in seamless steps up the parade to the Monument of Pilgrims. Each would stand and watch as their name, age, and year of departure was engraved on the great stone tablet. Should they return, their age and the year would be inscribed again.
The business of inscribing twenty-eight names onto a stone block was a long one. Peter sat for nearly two hours, alone and bored on the bus, trying to ignore the pointing fingers and curious faces that strained to peer in on him. When he became too uncomfortable, he moved to the other side of the bus, out of sight. After the first hour, Peter asked the driver to turn up the air conditioning, and he tried to sleep as the overhead vent blasted him with cool air. True rest proved impossible, however. Combining the long ride, the noise of the crowd, and the Christmas Day feeling that enveloped the occasion, Peter could find no sleep as he waited.
The sound of the bus door squeaking open made Peter open his eyes. He sat a little straighter in his chair and stared blankly at the man who had boarded the vehicle with the lieutenant. This was doubtless the General Lindsey; only non-active military personnel who spent their lives behind a desk had that kind of round potbelly. His many medals caught the light of the sun, sending an awful glare into Peter's eyes. He squinted as he looked at the man, hoping his derision was not plainly written on his face.
“So, you must be the star of the hour: Peter Gabell. A pleasure to meet you.” The general waddled down the aisle of the bus and extended a hand to him.
Peter flinched as the man's giant fingers wrapped around and squeezed down on his wrist. He could swear the blood supply to his hand had been completely cut off by that grip.
“Yes, General, this is Gabell.” Peter was used to other people answering questions for him. This was not the first time he had met a random military official, and he knew the drill by now. Nevertheless, the general saw fit to remind him.
“Now young man, your walk down the parade to the Monument of Pilgrims is going to be a little different than that of the rest of your cohort. The media have been following your progress and story since you were four, and it is important we give them the chance to take this next step with you on your journey.
Peter nodded, a slight hitch in his breathing the only clue he was unhappy with this. It was a bizarre and hard thing to have his life and progress so closely monitored by the press. In the last year alone, there had been two television documentaries made about him, both required he give an interview. There was even talk of a true-life movie being made about him: From the Cave to the Stars. It was an uninspiring and insipid title, and he prayed something would happen to the director, or the production company would be inexplicably bankrupted before the feature could be made.
“When you exit the bus, you will meet with the rest of admiralty giving you the opportunity to salute, share greetings, that sort of thing. When the photographers and media have documented that moment, we will begin the walk down the Hall of Monuments together. I will be on your left, and on your right,will be Sergeant Christopher Denver.”
“Denver's here?” Peter's eyes glanced to the window, trying to see if he could spot the man in the crowd. He should have expected this. Denver had been there at almost every other milestone of his life. The media liked to portray the brave officer as an all in one: father, brother, uncle, teacher, and savior figure to Peter. In every interview he had ever been forced to give the press, Peter always had to mention the name of Christopher Denver.
“He is indeed. We thought you'd be pleased.” The general beamed, not seeming to have properly read Peter's expression. “Now, I know we told the rest of your cohort not to do this, but do make sure to wave and acknowledge the crowd...at least when we get off the bus. Obviously, we don't expect you to be waving when you make your walk down the parade.”
Peter nodded. He was now a robot; it was the same whenever men in fancy suits paraded him in front of a camera. All his expressions, words, and movements were automated, relying on a well-rehearsed script. As he stepped off the bus, he gave a wide grin and waved with exaggerated eagerness to the crowds. He continued to smile as he saluted and shook hands with five strangers in posh uniforms. Then, when Sergeant Denver was revealed, Peter feigned shock and emotion as he broke rank and ran over to hug the man. Denver was now equally adept at putting on a show, and knelt down on one knee as he stretched out his arms to embrace him.
“Last time we'll have to do this stupid routine,” Peter whispered in the man's ear as they held each other in a fast embrace.
“One can only hope.” Denver eased himself back to his feet. “I swear my own kids are going to need therapy when they’re older. The way the media portrays ou
r 'special bond' they must think you are more my child than they are.”
Peter snorted and shook his head. “For what it's worth, Sergeant, I am sorry you got caught up in this whole publicity stunt.”
The man continued to wear his false smile and made a show of tousling Peter's untamable mess of hair. “I know it's not your fault kid. And hey, the necessity of showing up to your every interview and birthday has meant the military chiefs have kept me well away from any real combat for the last nine years. So, I guess I owe you for that.”
“Are they going to make us do an interview together later?”
“Undoubtedly. The Chief of Communications has already had me memorize an impromptu, spur of the moment speech to make later. Be sure to get the waterworks ready; it's a real tearjerker.
Before anything more could be said, Denver was encouraged to step to the side. General Lindsey came forward to and gave a nod to Peter.
