Ascension

by Nicholas Woode-Smith

  Re’lien sighed. ‘Typical of the Council to tell us humans are demons while maintaining their own human colonies. I hope they didn’t treat their human subjects the way they treated me.’

  ‘Treated you?’

  Re’lien winced. She must’ve revealed the last part by accident.

  ‘Not appropriate to talk about. A little bit personal.’

  James nodded, understandingly.

  ‘Who is this colleague, anyway?’ Re’lien said, changing the topic.

  ‘Marshal Rekkie. A friend. My mentor, of sorts. He’s…been in a bad way.’

  ‘I’ve heard about him. We learnt about him in university,’ Re’lien saddened. ‘I’m sorry about his family.’

  ‘We all are. I’m worried about him. He’s a hero, but he’s letting himself waste away.’

  ‘I hope you can save him, James. He sounded like a good man in my course readings. There was even talk of his character cameoing in a v-flick about the Ganymede Incident.’

  ‘Not sure what he would think about that.’ James didn’t know what a v-flick was. ‘But I hope so too. Not for his hero-status, but for what he’s done for me. He’s been with me in my darkest hour – I owe him that much being there in his.’

  James snickered. Re’lien raised her eyebrow at the act.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Marshal taught me to be more selfish – that I can choose my own way. That I mustn’t sacrifice myself at the altar of altruism. And here I am going out to help save him.’

  ‘Marshal almost gave his life on Ganymede and countless wars on the frontier. I don’t think he’s one to talk about selfishness as a virtue. But maybe that’s not what he meant.’

  James looked at her, quizzical. Her ears twitched with each footfall. She continued.

  ‘Maybe Marshal was just making sure that you don’t burn out. It is true. You shouldn’t sacrifice yourself at the so-called altar of altruism. But that’s because you shouldn’t die. You’re no use dead and burnt out. A man that I respect once told me that we shouldn’t waste the lives of those who can serve. If someone works themselves to death – that’s the end of it. Selfishness isn’t something to aspire to, but neither is it something to detest. It is necessary for us to survive. To flourish. If Marshal told you that you can choose your own way, I think it was his way of making you realise you were on the right path all along.’

  James noticed just then that they had stopped by the door of Marshal’s apartment in the command block.

  ‘That gives me a lot to think about…’ James responded.

  Re’lien started fidgeting with her hands while holding the tab. Despite her blue skin, her face seemed to redden.

  ‘My apologies. My mouth ran off a bit.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ James smiled, faintly. ‘I should see Marshal alone. He’s a good man, but…’

  ‘He fought at Ganymede. I get it. And I shouldn’t keep Commander Yobu waiting. Bye, James.’

  James watched Re’lien’s back as she proceeded down the hallway. Her raven black pony-tail came down to her waist. It would’ve been impractical on Zona Nox, but James liked it.

  He caught himself and looked away. But he still sensed Re’lien looking back.

  Marshal didn’t answer James’ doorbell, or the subsequent knocking. James sighed and let himself in with a master key. There were definitely benefits being the boss.

  The apartment was dark. No lights. The smell of whiskey and brandy, usually pleasant, created a dank and desperate aroma. It did not smell as bad as Galis on a good day, but it somehow smelt worse. It smelt of human sadness.

  ‘Marshal!’ James called.

  No reply.

  James felt an acidity grow in the pit of his stomach. A memory.

  Billy…oh, vok, no!

  James called again, but no reply.

  Blue sparks. James had activated his conduit to emit light, but mostly just for peace of mind. The power flowing through him calmed him down. But it didn’t eliminate the growing unease in his gut.

  ‘Marshal, you home?’

  Still no response.

  He’s probably sitting on a bench somewhere. No need to assume the worst.

  James reached the end of the passage. Sliding door. Slightly ajar. It was padded with red velvet but James knew under its plush exterior was bullet proof plating. James placed his hand over the handle. His heart banged like the strident melody of artillery. He took a deep breath and pulled it open.

  Cracked glass on the floor, by an armchair looking out onto the wall-screen of the apartment. It was currently acting as a window. Ship lights could be seen through the fog and warp-shimmers. The glass was from a tumbler. Gold liquid had pooled onto the tiles. Marshal’s unkempt hair peaked out above the back of the chair. The air smelled of alcohol and un-brushed teeth.

  James disabled his conduit. The warp-blue disappeared. He walked carefully towards his comatose friend.

  Marshal was still. His beard was dirty. James lifted his arm to feel a pulse. James held onto Marshal’s wrist and then felt a crushing grip on his throat. James’ artillery heart skipped a beat.

  Marshal stared him in the eyes. Manic. Bloodshot. Fury and sadness. James couldn’t speak. He clawed at the almost inhumanly strong grip on his throat. Suddenly, recognition sparked, and Marshal let go. James dropped to the floor. His combat padding was merciful, and he did not feel the brunt of the impact as his knees hit the floor.

  ‘James?’ Marshal rasped. ‘I…I didn’t know it was you. I’m sorry.’

  James took some time to recover. He rubbed his throat. Swallowed. The pain and shock weren’t going to subside anytime soon, but James had been through worse.

  ‘It’s…’ James coughed. ‘It’s fine.’

  Marshal helped James up and then collapsed back into his chair. James looked around and spotted a chair by a small dining table. He picked it up and brought it over. He felt an intense relief after sitting down but didn’t relax.

  ‘I came to check on you,’ James said, sombrely.

  ‘I don’t need checking up on. I’m an adult.’

  ‘You sure don’t need help defending yourself, that’s for sure.’ James rubbed his neck. Marshal’s eyes revealed that he was sorry. But also, a sense of apathy. The concern was habit.

  ‘But I came to check up all the same. We’ve been missing you. In command. Around the Fort. Some say you won’t even acknowledge them when they say hi in the hallways.’

  ‘My mind has been elsewhere.’ Marshal gestured and a butler-syn hovered over with a fresh tumbler of whiskey. Marshal didn’t offer any to James.

  ‘And that’s understandable, Marshal. And we’re here for you.’

  Marshal grumbled and swirled his whiskey in the glass. James continued.

  ‘I know that we are not ideal, but we’re here. And we want what is best for you.’

  ‘What is best for me?’ Marshal stared into his glass. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re our friend. My friend. My mentor. You’re our hero.’

  ‘Some hero…’ Marshal downed the tumbler and stared out the window. ‘Past wars are in the past, James. I’m just a husk now. No campaign to keep me away from my family. No family to come back to.’

  ‘The war isn’t over yet. And Mag and Ralph wouldn’t have wanted to see you like this. They’d want you to fight.’

  ‘But they aren’t here anymore, are they?’

  James winced.

  ‘That’s right,’ Marshal said. ‘Aren’t here, so might as well act like it. A memory of the dead is as good as dead. What’s the point of fighting if you don’t come back?’

  ‘There’s still something to come back to, Marshal. There’s still something to fight for. Friends. A country. An ideal.’

  ‘All I ever cared about was my family.’

  ‘Then make a new one.’

  ‘Void, James. Don’t talk skite to me. You’re a good kid, but you don’t understand.’

  James remained stony-faced, but the commen
t stung. He understood exactly. He’d lost two families already. But Marshal couldn’t be held responsible for his words right now. James pressed.

  ‘What I understand, Marshal, is that you need to keep fighting. For yourself. That’s what you taught me, right? You said so yourself – you’re a husk. But doesn’t mean you have to be. You could be the hero you were, once again.’

  ‘By doing what?’ Marshal spat. ‘No wars till the Imperials consume us. Can’t fight Zerian. They kill themselves before we get close. No point training this army of yours. No point me fighting in it. Nowhere to go. And…I’m old. Too old.’

  ‘Still able to beat me.’

  Marshal ignored him. ‘I’m a soldier without a war. Without the will to keep on fighting. Thanks, James, but there’s nothing you can do for me.’

  A soldier without a war.

  Re’lien knew about Marshal. Where had she heard about him again? James’ eyes widened.

  ‘Don’t be a soldier.’

  ‘That’s what I’m doing. Nothing to fight for.’

  ‘No, not this. Not idling. Don’t be a soldier but continue your legacy. You’re a hero, Marshal, even if you Terra-damn won’t accept it. You’ve got much more to give to this galaxy. Start an academy. A military school for the frontier. For all the Trooper recruits who can’t make it to Mars. You’re the hero of the frontier. The man who helps the core worlds still remember us backwaters.’

  James stood. ‘Marshal, I won’t give you an order. I don’t think I’ve got that right. But I ask you – mentor a generation of soldiers if you won’t be one yourself. Mentor them the way you mentored me. War is coming, and we need more people like you. Make them.’

  Marshal didn’t respond, at first. He swirled a new glass of whiskey. Then stopped. He looked like he was about to put it down, and then…

  ‘Please go.’

  James nodded once, and left, closing the door behind him. Once he was out of the apartment, he sighed, heavily.

  He couldn’t reach Marshal. As much as James was no stranger to grief, he could not understand losing a son. But there was someone who could. Someone who may need Marshal as much as Marshal needed him.

  

  ‘An academy…’ Marshal muttered, as he stared into the tempestuous gold of his brandy. He had already drunk the whiskey. ‘What a skite idea.’

  He lifted the tumbler to his lips and stopped. The doorbell rang. A dring-dring. He ignored it and tipped the tumbler back.

  ‘Marshal, it’s Quok,’ a voice came over the intercom.

  ‘Skite,’ Marshal swore through gritted teeth, spilling brandy. ‘James must’ve put the intercom on when he left.’

  Marshal was simultaneously irritated and impressed. James was a crafty grako. But what was the exanoid doing here? Marshal didn’t have much to do with Quok after their jaunt on Zona Nox. He was pleasant enough, but Marshal and him didn’t have much in common. Marshal had spent his entire life fighting endless wars. Quok was just a businessman. He looked at war with the wide-eyed awe of a naïve child. He hadn’t seen what Marshal had seen. Besides Zona Nox – they had nothing in common.

  Marshal ignored Quok. He would go away. Hopefully, James hadn’t left the door unlocked. Marshal was about to tip the tumbler back yet again, when Quok spoke. His voice sullen, earnest…

  ‘I know you might think we have little in common, Marshal. And maybe you’re right. But we’re both fathers. Fathers without families. We all have our own way of getting through this, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t help each other.’

  Marshal froze, tumbler to his lips. He placed the glass down, gold liquid leaving spittle on the side-table. He lifted himself up with strain – more emotional than physical. Despite his protestations – Marshal was still fit enough to fight an extended battle, much less get out of a chair. The room swam as he made it to his feet. Some distant lights through the fogged window passed in a blur – like wisps.

  Marshal staggered to the door and leant up against the wall.

  Why am I doing this?

  It won’t bring them back.

  Nothing will.

  But you’re still here.

  Marshal opened the door.

  Quok stood. Short, stubby legs. A bow-shaped back. He gave a weak smile with his furry snout.

  Marshal had a hidden distaste for exanoids. They were pacifists, who let robots and humans fight their wars for them. For a soldier who sacrificed everything, an exanoid was akin to a parasite. A coward. But Marshal was also a smart man. He knew this to be unreasonable. He knew that judging the exanoids for not fighting a war was illogical. Many humans didn’t fight wars. That was the point of being a soldier. You fought so others didn’t have to.

  Marshal stepped to the side and let Quok pass. The exanoid only came up to Marshal’s chest as he waddled down the hall. Marshal followed. He only now noticed the wreak of booze and the broken glass. Quok seemed not to notice. Marshal indicated the chair James had been using to sit. Quok pressed a button on the side of the chair and it reshaped to fit his physique.

  ‘I didn’t know you had lost your family,’ Marshal finally said, taking a seat.

  ‘Likewise, for you, until James told me,’ Quok responded. Marshal remembered him as eager. Almost youthful, despite the grey on his snout. Quok still had the façade of his former self, but Marshal could see that it was just a façade. A mask of familiarity hiding a hollow shell.

  ‘It is unlike James to meddle.’ Marshal crossed his arms and leaned back.

  ‘He’s a leader now. He’s doing what is expected of him. And…he is worried about us.’

  ‘He should focus on leading the Defiant.’

  ‘Like it or not, Marshal, we are the Defiant. Grag-Tec, ex-Troopers, Zonians…we’re his people and he looks after his people.’

  ‘I don’t know how this helps…’

  ‘Talking can help.’

  ‘Talking is just words. Empty sounds. Not action. Doesn’t save lives.’

  ‘That’s where we disagree,’ Quok frowned. ‘Talking is probably the most important thing you can ever do. It is how we connect with each other. It is how we connect with ourselves. It chips through this muddied universe with all its atrocity. With all its nonsense physical laws. It helps us try to understand the incomprehensible – such as the fact that those we love can and have died.’

  Marshal didn’t respond. Quok’s frown deepened.

  ‘James tells me he thinks you should start an academy. I think that’s a great idea.’

  ‘It’s a stupid idea.’

  ‘Why?’

  Why?

  Why? Because I can’t.

  ‘It won’t help anything.’

  ‘It would give meaning to a lot of people. We have an idle youth epidemic. They need a strong mentor to guide them. To teach them to be dutiful adults.’

  Marshal shook his head and sighed deeply. ‘How can I teach a bunch of kids when I don’t even know this skite myself?’

  ‘You know a lot, Marshal. A veteran. A saviour of humanity, and my people. You’ve fought. You’ve served. You’ve led. You know so much. Don’t squander that knowledge. You’re a hero.’

  ‘I’m no hero,’ Marshal clenched his fists, but then let them hang loose. Weak. Futile.

  Not a hero.

  Marshal slumped down in his chair. His expression erupted into anger. Then despair. And then apathy. A shadow grew, and Marshal muttered:

  ‘What type of hero lets their family die?’

  ‘A human. A being. Weak. Fallible. Real,’ Quok said, eyes unblinking. ‘But, a hero is weak. A hero has fear in their heart. Vice. Sadness. Despair. But a hero perseveres despite that. A hero fails but keeps on going. You were a hero, Marshal. And you can be one again. All you must do is stand up. Start this academy, or not. But do something.’

  Marshal considered his lap, silently.

  Seconds grew to ages.

  Distant traffic and mining apparatus hummed. The wisps continued their abstract dance in the fog beyond
the wall-screen.

  Quok broke the silence with a whispered, sullen tone.

  ‘My daughter’s name is Muur. She was twenty years old by your human standard. She was living on Mars. I brought her up without a mother on Eran-Lar for fifteen years of her life, until she insisted she go out on her own. She claimed it was for her own independence, but I knew better.’

  Quok blinked.

  ‘She wanted to stop stifling me. Wanted me to go back to what she thought I loved – adventuring, business and all that. I don’t think she realised that my true love was her, but I let her go all the same. Couldn’t stop Muur from doing anything. Like her mother.’

  Quok look away and whispered. ‘Just like her mother.’

  ‘What…happened to her?’ Marshal asked, hesitantly.

  Quok looked Marshal in the eyes. His eagerness, gone. The façade was gone. A husk was left.

  ‘She was murdered by xenophobes.’

  Marshal did not respond, but he twitched. A noticeable twitch.

  Quok noticed.

  ‘You see now, how we are alike? We both failed. We both let our babies die. And there was nothing we could do about it. Impotent failures. But that’s not what Muur would want me to think. She would have told me to keep on adventuring. To let her fight her own battles. And that’s the Muur I want to remember. I don’t want to think about her now – countless kilometres from where she should be. I want to remember her for what she was. A smiling, joyous, wonderful daughter. My daughter. And while I failed, I’m still here. I have to learn to live with this pain. And, so do you. And above all of that – you must remember what your family meant to you. What they would have wanted for you. Love them, even though they are gone. And respect the love they had for you.’

  Silence. Quok did not cry. His face was stern. No hint of the usual open emotion of an exanoid. Quok had done his crying already.

  ‘Live, Marshal. Live for them.’

  And as he said that, Quok’s eyes glistened with a thin layer of tears. Marshal saw that Quok was a husk, and so was he. And a husk he would always be – but a husk could live.

  Marshal wept.

  And while he found no peace, he remembered his family. Not the corpses. But alive. Smiling. His reason for being. And while they were gone, they would be his reason once again.