by Josh Collins
“All I require is a mark on a map,” the man answered, pulling out a tattered map and handing it over. Burns grimaced as he pulled his arm up and pointed to the location his unit had been patrolling prior to the attack. The man smiled as he pulled the map aside and marked it with a pen. He then folded the map and pocketed it once more.
“Thank you, this is much appreciated,” he told him, still with his thick accent. Burns nodded back as the man moved to leave. Only, Evelyn caught him.
“I thought you were an undercover agent? What do you have to do with a map?” she asked.
“It’s a new assignment. I’m working on infiltrating the resistance hideout in that area. If I succeed, I believe the whole region will become pacified, and as such, one further step to Mardius becoming united,” he answered.
“Be careful,” Burns warned, the forced words causing a sporadic sensation of pain throughout his chest. Noticing his pain, Evelyn began doing what she could for him.
“He’s right,” she added while still working on Burns, “that whole area was littered with explosives,” she told him.
Gambi bowed his head. “Then I must ascertain a way to disarm them,” he assured. “Thank you for the information. I bid you farewell,” he wished again as he gave a hearty nod and then promptly exited the tent.
Burns was alone with Eve once more. He painfully slumped back down so she could finish the redressing of his wounds. It didn’t take that long, and soon the actual guard had come to retrieve her.
Without Evelyn’s presence, the wounds flared up a bit, making life difficult to live for Burns. It was always the worst when she was gone. He wished he would have gotten more time with her and was frustrated that the intrusion cost him precious minutes, but he knew that she’d be back. That was the silver lining in every bout of pain—it meant he still had months left with her before they split ways for good.
SYNCOPATE
A breath of recirculated air flowed through Burns’ nostrils as he awoke. Before he had even opened his eyes, he could feel the all too familiar symptoms of a hangover throughout his body. He was weak, his tongue was dry, and it felt like someone had used his head as a drum.
Opening his eyes, a stark-white ceiling with bright lights overwhelmed him, causing everything to become ten times worse.
He rolled over and waited for the pain to wear off. It was clear that this wasn’t the trashy Tamberbuilt apartment he’d passed out in, but whatever it was, it was quite possibly the worst place to spend a morning with a hangover—and that was after he’d awoken in a trash-filled alley the day before.
Sitting up slowly on a hard bed with no sheets, he squinted his eyes. It didn’t look like anybody else was in the room. In fact, it didn’t look like anything else was in the room. It was bleak and empty, like some sort of purgatory.
He threw his legs over the edge of the bed and tried to stand, but the pulsating headache got to him. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to fight through the pain.
After a few minutes, he opened his eyes and looked around the room some more. Except for the gray floor, the room was almost purely white walls and white ceilings. It wasn’t a sterile white though—the metal used for the paneling made it look almost industrial. He also noticed a door to his left that all but blended into the wall.
Standing weakly, he held onto the frame of the bed as he cautiously hobbled toward this door. He was surprised when it suddenly hissed open by itself. Standing in its place was a tall, muscular, dark-skinned man who wore gray military fatigues. This man had a strong face with an uncompromisingly black mustache and similarly colored buzz cut hair.
Even though it was futile to battle in his current state, Burns balled up his fist, readying for a fight. The man noticed and slowly showed his hands out of caution.
“Be at ease; we are friends,” he assured him. “My name is Marcus Rhett.”
Burns gave a slight, apprehensive nod. Trust never really came easy for him these days. Nevertheless, if he were to survive in his current physical state, he’d have to at least attempt to be diplomatic.
“Rhett,” he acknowledged, still on guard. Rhett slightly bowed his head as he stepped into the room, door hissing shut behind him.
“I came to see how you were doing—subspace travel is not to be taken lightly,” he informed calmly.
Burns squinted his eyes again. “Subspace? What kind of place is this?” he wondered out loud.
Rhett seemed troubled with the answer. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge that information,” he said, circling around Burns and causing the man to become uneasy. “I’m sorry if your questions are not fully answered, but the nature of the work done here is best kept a secret.”
Oh, that kind of place, Burns thought to himself.
“Now, if you would walk with me. We have a schedule to keep,” Rhett said as he arrived back at the door and motioned for Burns to follow.
Burns took a deep breath and then hobbled forward. He still wasn’t sure about this place, but Rhett seemed alright. He’d at least tried to be calm.
As they came out of the door, they were immediately led into a long hallway. This hallway looked to be furnished in a way that was similar to the room: white walls and bright lights, only it bestowed Burns the fortune of windows and a gray generator every so often. The windows seemed to peer into a giant hanger that existed underneath the hall. The hanger housed a varying ensemble of aircraft, based upon designs that looked alien to Burns.
Rhett noticed his interest and spoke again. “Impressive, aren’t they?” he exclaimed.
Burns nodded back. “Indeed. I’ve never seen anything like them before.”
“They’re…prototypes. Everything in this facility is a prototype.”
Burns wondered how many things he’d used throughout his life that were originally designed here. He didn’t even know what here was. He saw plenty of workers, but the work itself was still a mystery to him.
“This facility...what is it?” he asked Rhett as they continued down the long stretch of hall above the hanger.
“It’s called the Syncopate,” Rhett answered. “It’s interesting enough, but try not to ask too many questions.”
“Ah?” Burns murmured.
“You don’t want to know the cost I’ve had to bear for the answers,” Rhett warned, a sudden ominous tone entering his already deep voice. Burns caught the hint, and the rest of the walk was done in silence. A mysterious facility was exactly the sort of place he was trying to avoid. He could already feel the strings of an Intelligence plot being wrapped around him.
The long hall then ended as Rhett and Burns turned a corner and entered another section of purely-white walls and flat, closed doors. Only, these doors had a single, red number inscribed on them. Those numbers were the only discrepancy in the otherwise total uniformity of the hall.
The two walked for a short stint down this corridor before stopping at a door with a red number “15” inscribed onto it.
Rhett pushed a key code into the panel, and the door came hissing open. He then put his hand out to the side, kindly offering Burns to enter first. Burns bowed his head reluctantly and proceeded forward into the room. He didn’t like entering first when he was in company he didn’t trust, but he was still trying to be diplomatic.
A lone man sat at a table in this otherwise empty room, and he seemed to be passing the time by reading a book. He was of thin build and average height, his skin seemed pale, and he had immaculately styled short, blond hair. He put the book down as he heard the men enter. It was then that Burns noticed this man was young, about mid-twenties. He looked to be a part of Intelligence. Burns then became even more confused—they went through all the trouble transporting him from Altias, only to stuff him in a closet with a bookish agent?
Rhett stepped up from behind. “If you’ll excuse me, I must attend to another matter,” he interjected, giving a slight bow before he departed.
As the door hissed
shut, Burns was left alone with the agent. He still felt horrible, so against his better judgment, he hobbled forward and sat across the table from the man.
The headache was really getting to him now, so he rubbed his head lightly. If one thing was for sure, he’d definitely made a mistake. He was supposed to stay strong, but he had folded and went along with Control’s plot. They got him when he was the weakest. He should have known better.
He thought the mission would make him feel better, but this facility was actively making him feel worse. It was massive and confusing. He decided the best solution would be to not think about it at all. Instead, he looked over at the man sitting across from him. He was quiet, unobtrusive. He simply sat, read his book, and didn’t ask for anyone to pay attention to him. Burns lightly smiled—this kid reminded him of himself when he was that young.
“Do you have a name?” Burns asked, interrupting the silence. The kid looked up from the page, putting the book down once more.
“It’s David Brosi,” he informed him. Burns was glad this wasn’t one of those antisocial agents.
“Pleasure to meet you, Brosi,” he returned. “I’m Ben Burns…although, I’m sure you already knew that,” Burns stammered, remembering that he was dealing with Intelligence here.
“You’re the Colonel, right?” Brosi asked, leaving Burns confused.
“The Colonel?” he restated. “I’ve never been a colonel.” It was true. The highest rank Burns had ever achieved was corporal.
“No, it’s propaganda,” Brosi informed him. “It’s not a real rank, just a title. Were you not fully briefed?” he asked.
Burns slightly tilted his head. “The most briefed I got was a half-bottle of wine,” he told him, feeling the effects of the alcohol surge as he said the words. “To be a colonel, wouldn’t that mean I need a team?” he asked.
Brosi gave a nod. “That’s me. Or, at least, part of it is me,” he said. It took a while, but Burns realized what the man meant. He did have a team, and David Brosi was the first of several members. So, he wasn’t an Intelligence Operator after all, or at least that was not the reason he was here.
“Well, I’m sorry you were dragged into this,” Burns apologized to Brosi, wishing that he were the only one being dropped to Silverset. Yet, Brosi didn’t seem as mad as Burns thought he would be.
“I wasn’t dragged into anything,” he stated. Burns’ face loosened as he realized that Brosi actually wanted to be here.
“Don’t tell me you signed up for this?” Burns grumbled, surprised that anyone would be so naively trusting.
Brosi nodded heartily back. “They said they needed a technical expert. I spent four years at one of the best technical academies in the Dominion, so I thought it would be a good way to do something right for a change,” he told him, seeming very sure about his decision. Burns was again reminded of himself by the man.
“I’d say keep looking. There isn’t anything ‘right’ about this,” Burns murmured. Whatever was going to happen on Silverset wasn’t for naive idealists. Only cold, ruthless men survived from here on out. Yet, Brosi still seemed determined.
“LME technologies—that’s what’s wrong,” he countered. “I’ve worked there for years, and the only thing they care about is the money,” he grumbled. “We had technology being developed that could help millions of people, but we withheld it until it was more profitable to be released.” Brosi then pushed his book aside as he leaned toward Burns, gaining a slight look of ire—the same look that had become the whole of Burns’ personality. “I didn’t go to the academies to make LME’s wallets bigger, I did it to help people. They weren’t gonna let me, but maybe Intelligence will,” he finished, leaning back in his seat once more.
Burns looked at him with a stern face, unfazed by the passion in his words. “It’s a noble goal,” he assured. “Just get out as fast as you can. Deal?”
Brosi gave a nod back. “After we free Silverset, then you have a deal,” he promised. Burns gave him a smile; he hoped the man would listen. Though, hearing that spark of angry frustration in his words didn’t promise guarantees. Burns knew because he’d felt the same way—once.
The conversation stopped there. Brosi returned to his book and silence overcame the room.
Burns still needed a release from his thoughts, so he removed the blood-strewn picture of Evelyn and looked down at it. He was surprised he had even managed to pocket the picture before he passed out the night before. Used to be, it was a struggle to keep the photo from getting lost. Now he couldn’t get rid of it even if he tried—not that he would want to.
“Is that your wife?” Brosi asked suddenly, cutting the silence. Burns looked up at him with a long face.
“She was…special,” Burns let on, “but that was a long time ago.” Brosi slightly bowed his head and then looked down at his book. He played around with the corners a little, visibly thinking of something.
He then looked back up and spoke. “I’ve actually got a fiancée myself,” he announced proudly. “We’re trying to decide where to have the wedding. It’s a tough choice.” Burns looked back down at the picture solemnly. Meanwhile, Brosi continued on. “I mean, she wants it on Alleloth, but I’m not quite sure. So, we go back and forth.”
“You should just point at a map,” Burns grumbled, still looking down at the bloody photo.
“Excuse me?” Brosi asked as if Burns had offended him.
“I just—I think you should have made that decision before you headed off to war. Do you really want to leave her all alone—without a ring?” Burns questioned, feeling even more akin to the man.
“She understands,” Brosi murmured quietly, looking back down at his book.
“Does she?” Burns asked. Brosi looked back up, gaining an uncomfortable smile.
“Colonel, I feel like you and I are talking about different people,” his voice crackled. Burns slightly nodded his head in agreement and then looked back down at the picture.
Perhaps he was talking about more then just Brosi’s situation. He’d seen so much of his own self in the man that he felt like he could save him from what might happen. Maybe it wouldn’t though. Brosi was his own man, with his own life. He still had a chance to have a wonderful marriage. He didn’t deserve these cynical musings.
“Yeah—I think we are,” Burns muttered with a deep sigh. He definitely wasn’t a colonel like Brosi originally thought. A proper colonel wouldn’t turn his soldiers against him.
Feeling sick of distracting himself with thoughts, Burns began to solely focus on his hangover. It was unbearable, especially in the stark light of the facility. He really needed some relief—perhaps a warm meal and some water. He wasn’t going to get them in this room, he knew that. He needed to find the mess hall. Rhett probably wouldn’t approve of needless wandering, but this wasn’t up to him.
“Hey, do you know where the mess hall is?” Burns asked.
Brosi finished the last few words on the page and then looked up. “It’s just down the hall and to the left...I think,” he stammered a little. Burns gave a nod back; he was glad that he hadn’t completely burned his bridges with the man.
Standing, he pocketed the picture and set off for the door, hoping he wasn’t going to accidentally enter the wrong room and see something he wasn’t supposed to.
Making his way down the corridor, Burns kept aware for the first left that looked like it might have been the mess hall. Door after door, he didn’t see anything. It seemed that even the mess was going to be an enigma in this place. In fact, he ended up walking so far down that he entered the corridor he’d been down earlier with Rhett.
Realizing that the man wasn’t here to cover anything up, Burns peered down into the hanger. It was high time he'd gotten some answers, though this didn’t seem to be the way to go about it. The hanger was big and the ships inside were indeed very impressive, but they didn’t offer up any answers.
However, Burns noticed two people below that weren
’t wearing the white jumpsuits of engineers. He slightly shook his head. One of the people was the agent who’d posed as Alex, and the other seemed to be Rhett. If he was going to get answers, this was his best chance. He couldn’t miss out on it. He looked around behind him and quickly found a staircase that would lead down to the hanger floor. Pushing through its doors, he made his way down the winding, industrial structure and onto tarmac of the hanger.
The hanger was a hectic place, but he couldn’t say the bustling, militarized nature of it wasn’t familiar.
“Oh, my,” he muttered as he approached the two. “What will your father say when he finds out you left the pub without telling him, Alex?” The woman shook her head, and Rhett looked back at her.
“Index, what’s he going on about?” he asked.
She stepped forward with a sour face. “The Colonel is making an attempt at mockery,” she said jeeringly as she crossed her arms.
“Ah? So, I’m a colonel now?” Burns grumbled back.
She gained an unpleasant look, like she somehow found this entire situation to be beneath her. “We thought it might help if people had a figure to rally behind, but I still think you’re better suited to assaulting people in abandoned alleyways.” Burns slightly squinted his eyes at her remarks, trying to decide if he should mention how pitiful of a job she did at shadowing him.
Before he could make the decision, Rhett caught the tension between the two and stepped between. “Peace,” he broke in. “We have enough problems to worry about without you two coming to blows.” Burns nodded stringently and stepped back a little, turning away from the woman whom Rhett called Index.
The man then continued on with his conversation as Burns listened in. “Anyway,” he started. “We have a number of infiltration methods charted out, but I feel like the Dusk-Falcon will be the safest route for the team.”
Burns lightly scoffed and turned back to him. “What do you care? You Intelligence types just like to use people—you don’t care about their safety,” he grumbled.
