Red Flower and Blue Waste by Andrew Baumgartner

Andrew Baumgartner

Word Count: 9889 words

Red Flower and Blue Waste

“You can’t, you’ll only get yourself killed.” He pulled on Simon’s ragged coat, the graphite grey wool frayed and darned with patches. “She’s all I have,” Simon growled back, a harsh whisper laden with desperation. “I will not leave her out there on her own.” “If they catch you…” He never needed to finish the sentence. “What would you know of love?” Simon spat back at him. “You’ve used your knowledge to leverage position and power. You feed off the bones of the helpless, just as much as these vultures running the camp.” The words cut deeply, because they were true. “Simon,” he pleaded. “Don’t.” Tearing his coat away, Simon slipped off, sneaking at a low crouch to the section of the wall closest to rise in the hill. It was not much of an advantage, but the slight hump in the ground cut off perhaps a meter of distance to the top of the wall. Watching Simon move into position, he kept his place, hiding amongst the water barrels. Simon was mindful of the spotlight’s glare, which swung about like that dark lord’s all-seeing eye, roving and searching. That was merely a story he’d read as a child, but this was more real, and more deadly. Simon disappeared from view for a moment as he slid into position at the top of the wall. He could barely make out anything at the wall’s edge, but Simon’s dark outline, a shadow of a shadow, was there, faintly. The spotlight moved past, and he tensed. Simon remained perfectly

still—his threadbare coat was the same color as the wall, and helped conceal him. When the spotlight continued on sweeping without pausing, he relaxed and Simon resumed his work. He could see the other man shuffling around, lying on his stomach as he extended the rope down the side of the barrier. The spotlight would circle around in another eighty seconds, so Simon had to be quick. All was well, until it wasn’t. A secondary spotlight lit up in the exact spot where Simon was lying. It burned like the sun, illuminating the area and revealing the perceived treachery. There was no warning, no call for a halt to Simon’s actions. There was only the shot— CRACK!—the scream of the woman outside, and the second round silencing her cry. Only two shots, no wasting ammunition. Their echoes reverberated through the valley. ⟡⟡ Paul woke with a start, unconscious tears sliding down the side of his head into the hollow of his ears. He wiped a thumb in each ear and used the back of his hands to dry his face. He hated that memory, that nightmare. The worst day in a life that had seen so many horrible days they blended together, but that one always stood apart. In the last month, the events of that hellish night came nearly every time he closed his eyes. It always brought along wracking guilt—for what had happened, and for what he’d done. Lying in his bunk, the metal pod that served as his room and office was silent and still. There was no sound of wind or weather, but there couldn’t be, anyway. Occasionally he missed the sound of rain, or the gusts of wind that rattled the windows and rippled the tents back home. Home, he mused. What was home anyway? He’d moved around so much back then, always looking for the next meal ticket. Simon had been right about one thing; he had leveraged his knowledge for position and power. Real food, cotton sheets, a mattress instead of a cot. Once he’d even had a room to himself, a real room with concrete walls and a window. Comforts for his

skills, for the data his mind contained. He’d been a commodity, though, sought after— occasionally hunted. Sometimes he’d needed to forsake comfort for the promise of security. Staring up at the smooth barren ceiling, he glanced around the room. Like everyone’s pod, the room was little larger than a closet. A door at one end, a high-seated desk at the other, with a wheeled metal stool as the only chair. Along one side, his bunk was built into the wall, slightly wider than one person needed, and just too narrow for two people to be comfortable. On the other side, there were closets for storage lining the wall. In one corner sat a small, concealable metal toilet with a diminutive sink. There were no windows. The pod was utilitarian and cramped, but space was a commodity. Paul was lucky to have it at all. Dr. Paul Howard Mercer had been a spent shell, a life no longer worth living. He’d cast it off upon arriving on this new world six years before. It was not an uncommon action for the survivors who made it. He functioned for a time as a formless, self-castigated husk, plodding along and doing his work, sparing his words like a castaway rations the last of his food. He had a job, performed it, and retreated to his pod to contemplate why he should do the same thing over the following day. Then he met her, and life became more than a yoke of burden. She was not the first person to know the same sort of loss—most everyone had left someone behind, alive or otherwise. But she was the first to actually understand the Question as he did. They never spoke of why they both knew. It had always been a silent burden to bear. As always, his dark dreams had flung him into the conscious world just before he was supposed to rise, so he started the day early. Again.

He showered down the hall, taking one of the free stalls. Hot water was a luxury he’d missed greatly. On the ship out, it could only be called tepidly warm, and in the last camp before he’d left, it was a rarity to waste the energy on such frivolities. Here, the water was hot. When he finished, and shaved, he set the razor down and examined himself in the mirror. He had more flesh on his face than when he’d arrived—they ate rather well in the domes. His cheeks were no longer as hollow as they’d been. His jaw was still angular, but not as sharp. His earthen brown hair had returned to the thickness he’d once enjoyed, a boon for any man nearing forty. His eyes, though, dark emeralds, were set within indigo shells again. The dark circles had returned with his dark dreams, a sign of his restless nights. He feared a reversion back to the man he’d been, that spent husk. It was not by choice, but the memories were crowding in, forcing an impasse. He scowled at his reflection and turned away, returning to his room. Once he’d dressed, he walked out of the hard dome and into the airy hemisphere of his workspace. The bio dome had a semi-permeable membrane to it. There was enough atmosphere outside to allow air passage in and out, but the burgeoning fauna was still too fragile to leave fully exposed. It was still only around nine degrees Celsius outside; too cold for most of the species. The atmosphere outside was thin, and would remain so for another decade, at least. In the center of every dome was a self-sustaining hard dome, where the occupants could retreat and be protected from anything short of an asteroid. Keeping the housing pods inside the hard dome was a matter of safety. Until the Stacks spewed out enough ingredients to thicken up the sky, the domes kept safe plant and human alike. Paul did not envy those working in the Stacks, as the soaring white chimneys belching the atmosphere-creating particulate were called. Working in and around those was a hot and dirty

task. Smooth and gleaming white on the outside they might be, the atmosphere generators were even more utilitarian on the inside than the domes. They were essentially vertical wind-tunnels. At the bottom, powerful turbines propelled the ingredients of atmosphere creation up and out. Paul knew when he arrived that he would never survive as a Stack worker, so he had taken advantage of his knowledge once more for a job in the dome. Kalen, one of his only friends, worked in the Olympus Stack. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d said that they often had to go inside the machine itself, out onto the metal-grate walkways, where they had to pray that their protective suits remained intact. Otherwise, a rupture would force the life-sustaining elements into their suit and they would suffocate. Irony has a sense of humor, Kalen told him once with a wistful smile. He started the day testing a plot of hardy algae that would help sustain the environment before anything like trees could be planted. Through the heavy, organic scent of algae, Paul caught a wisp of fruitiness in the air as he leaned over the test plot. Then, a delicate hand slipped across the nape of his neck and a thrill ran through him, spreading from his neck out to his arms to create gooseflesh. He knew it was Anna. He knew it from the size of her training shoes, from the light touch of her slender hands. He knew who it was before she touched him, from the scent of her bonsai-apple soap, yet still the thrill remained. Paul turned to look at her. His heart jumped up into his throat, using his lungs as a stepping block. She was beautiful; a singular young woman. She had the keen intelligence of someone who had faced what the old world had to offer, and had come out evenly matched. Adept at adaptation, Anna always assured him with her abilities. She could learn a task once and never make a mistake again. It was an unexplored brilliance sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d never truly been able to apply before, and it still astounded him daily. Had he remained the man he once was, he would have been jealous, even. Nothing had ever come as naturally to him as everything did to her.

Paul imprinted her face in his memory, the only way he could mimic what she did unconsciously. Every day, he felt as though he was seeing her for the first time. She had the small scar by her left ear from her brother’s fishing hook catching when she was fourteen, and her nose was slightly crooked from being broken in a boxing match at nineteen. Her long blonde hair was pulled up in a ponytail, and her steel blue eyes focused unwaveringly at him. Her pale rose lips made a moue, but she was not upset. Her eyes sparkled rather than flashed. Standing among the algae plots looking at the woman he had come to love, Paul considered what Anna meant to him. They were different in thousands of ways. The most obvious difference was their age; Paul was thirty-nine and Anna twenty-four. He had grown up in the United North American States before the Wars of the Godless. She had grown up in the former Russian Confederacy, eking out a living with her brother and father in the drowned ruins of Петербург, a city once called Saint Petersburg which lost its saintliness in the Drowning. Paul had lived through the early days of the Wars of the Godless, as a teenager. He’d seen the fighting for food and supplies, and survived the worst of the battles for land and consumable resources. Anna had been too young to remember the very worst, though she had lived through her share of difficulties in the aftermath of the world going to shit. As a biochemist, Paul had value to the various presidents of the UNAS; they wanted to use him to produce food when land was becoming a precious commodity, when weather patterns were changing rapidly. He taught them, playing them off one another for his benefit, but there was only so much to be done. There were times when he had outgrown his usefulness, and he had to find new patrons, slipping away in the night. There were times when he had to accept meager accommodations in exchange for his life, for protection against assassination. Sometimes the very people he had helped decided that they preferred he never help anyone else.

“You left the probe in,” Anna pointed out, speaking quietly as always. Her accent was light, hardly present at all. Her English was, for all intents, flawless. Turning back to the algae plot, Paul saw he had nearly ripped the probe from the meter. The last thing he needed was the commander cursing him for ruining irreplaceable equipment. “Thanks,” he told her, tucking the probe and meter into his tool belt. “Have you seen outside?” she asked. “Lately? No. Why?” Anna took his hand wordlessly. The grip of her long slender fingers was strong and reassuring. Leading him to the west exit, they passed through the entry chamber without pulling on the atmosphere suits hanging on pegs on both walls. The white suits were dusted with rusty red in parts, and looked like a tracksuit with a small lunchbox on the back, connected to a dentist’s gas mask and goggles. “Should we put suits on?” he asked, curious. “We’ll only be outside for a few minutes. We can survive.” Anna spoke with certainty. Paul swallowed his unease. He trusted her. Anyone could survive for a few minutes without a suit, but the atmosphere was not strictly for human benefit yet. For now, the Stacks were more concerned with making the atmosphere thicker so the Sun would never get the chance to lance its deadly rays through them. The inner door of the entry chamber sealed, and with a shrill chirp of an alarm, the outer door opened. Anna led him outside, her ponytail swishing from side to side as she pulled him along, however willingly. The air was thin, as if they were on top of a very high mountain and not on a low plain in the shadow of Olympus Mons. It was, however, breathable. Paul had never

been out of the dome without a suit. There was a strange freedom to it, a lack of being contained as they usually were. He smiled as he surveyed the red, rocky landscape. “Look,” Anna caught his attention, focusing her eyes up and to the northwest. Paul followed her gaze and saw what she meant. Earth. “I’ve never seen it so close before,” he breathed in wonder. It must have been in an irregular orbit, or more likely they were. A shiver pulsed through him with the eerie sensation of looking at the past—their past. “You can actually see some of the detail.” Anna produced a hand lens, a portable telescope powered by a microcomputer. “You can see more than that.” “Where did you get this?” he asked in surprise. Capable of automatically magnifying objects in space, a hand lens was a rare, and expensive, item. Kalen had one, and they’d looked at Jupiter once. It had been as clear as looking at the moon with the naked eye, back on Earth. “I traded it for a jar of that beet vodka Silas is making,” Anna replied. “It seems not many people want to look back at our failures.” Paul hefted the scope and lifted it to his eye. Earth pitched into view through the automatic focus. Clouds obscured half of the planet, and the other half filled him with regret and shame. The haunting memory from his sleeping hours clawed back into his thoughts. He sank down onto the dusty red rock. His chest began to heave, his eyes closed tightly, and he sucked in ragged breaths as the memories filled his mind. There was no crying, just flashes of the last fifteen years. The past struck like a boot shoved in the middle of his back, and each past drama was a spiked heel in his side. The last one, the nightmare past, was a hot iron through his gut, the most devastating of all. Anna dropped to her knees and pulled him into her chest, holding his face under her chin.

“I’m sorry,” she said as she stroked her fingers through his thick brown hair. “It’s still difficult for you.” “No fault of yours,” he finally replied hoarsely into her chest, choking out the words in gulps of the thin air. “I thought I was past all of it…” He left the rest unsaid. “I should have thought of that.” She kissed the top of his head sadly. Paul stood, knowing better than to wipe at his face until he could scrub the dirt from his hands. Anna led him back into the dome’s entry chamber, where they cleaned off the crimson grit with a vacuum hose. He scrubbed clean his fingers and hands and arms. When he finished, he looked to Anna and pulled her close, holding her tightly as if he would never see her again. “I just wanted to show you how far we’ve come,” she sighed. Paul stood back, looking at her, all well-intentioned and now bruised by his reaction. He sighed, regretting his lapse. He was strong, or so he had been telling himself for years. “I know. I’m sorry. Our past lives should never define us, or else we’ll always be stuck living in the past. But we have to learn from it, and I also have to let go. You can help with that, if you’re willing.” “Of course, любимая.” Lyubimaya. Beloved. His Russian had improved. “Come to my room tonight, and we can talk. I know we’ve never spoken about our personal histories, but I think it’s finally time to share mine. I just ask that you listen.” ⟡⟡⟡ Anna Volkova was not unaccustomed to death and loss; no one was entirely. When she met first Paul, it was clear he had a traumatic past. He was a wretched man back then, mired in self-loathing and consumed with grief. He did his job, spoke to no one, and went to his pod every night, eating alone in his quarters. Anna, for reasons she never truly understood or could explain

to herself, made it her mission to befriend him. It became one of the best decisions she had ever made. Their friendship had flourished over time, and evolved into a romance neither of them had expected. It was fulfilling, to have someone else to sit with, to hold. Paul had spoken to her of losing people before, in general, but there was more to his reaction today. Seeing Earth up close, seeing the detail that only a hand lens could produce, had affected him profoundly. Now he wanted to talk. They might have spoken of their past traumas, but never in any detail, not even to each other. Their pasts were only silently present, in the background. It was the way most people who had escaped now lived, leaving their ghosts lurking in remote shadows, without exorcising them. She had her own ghosts, those of friends and family she had lost and left behind… ⟡⟡ The imperial government’s starship launch pad had been built into the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains. At twenty, Anna had been assigned to guarding the perimeter. She’d been tasked to the facility for nearly six months. The attack came as they were preparing to launch the last ship—resources were depleted, and the stolen technology from the former United Kingdom and Rajas of India was no longer available. The rapid crack-crack-crack of gunfire sounded to the northeast. The burning, twisted wreckage of the vehicles lit up the night in the distance. The Emperor and Empress would certainly never make it to the ship now. The enemy’s missile had seen to that. “What do we do now?” everyone had asked their fellows. The convoy carrying their fleeing leaders was a smoldering ruin, now, and pandemonium had set in. Serves them right for planning to abandon us, Anna thought uncharitably.

The base commander and all of his captains were dead, killed by the other missile. The command post had been far enough away from the ship for their unknown attackers to risk firing the second missile, and it left the imperial guards without leadership. Finally, a lieutenant had decided they would hold the line, and stop anyone else from boarding the ship. It would lift off with the passengers already on board, the Imperial Family be damned. “You should go,” Daria said, crouched next to her. “It’s the last boat out.” Anna looked over at her friend, clutching her assault rifle, and covered in someone else’s dried blood. Daria had picked up many idioms and small phrases from her lover, a former soldier who’d served one of the princes of Canada. “What do you mean?” Anna asked. “I should go? Go where?” “Get on that ship,” Daria urged. “Save yourself. Start over.” “I could never.” “The Emperor is dead. No one will stop you.” “Then we both should go,” Anna pointed out. Daria sighed. “I lied.” She swallowed. “This isn’t someone else’s blood. Not all of it.” Anna dove for her comrade, hands seeking injuries, angry at Daria for lying and deathly afraid. Her only real friend left in the world. “No… no,” Daria pushed her hands away. “There is nothing you can do to save me. These people, whoever is out there shooting at us, they want this ship. They will kill us all to get it. I know there is nothing to be done for me. I can feel it. But save yourself. Please.” Anna hesitated. The pleading look in Daria’s eyes burned at her. She kissed her friend’s cheeks. “If I ever have a child, a little girl…” “I know,” Daria nodded, smiling softly. “Go.”

⟡⟡ Standing in the hall outside Paul’s room, Anna remembered her own losses. Daria would have burned up in the rocket engines’ powerful wake, along with everyone else. The ship had launched mere minutes after she’d boarded, escaping a third missile with defensive countermeasures. After losing her father and brother, Daria had been the only person left on Earth for whom she’d cared. She had been the sister Anna never had. Her father, Vladimir, died during the Battle of Minsk when she was fifteen. She and her brother, Alexei, moved inland after that, to the Polkranian Empire. Alexei died from pneumonia after falling into icy January water, when the water was still cold enough to kill. From age seventeen, she’d been on her own. To stay alive and safe, she’d enlisted in the Imperial Army. She was protected. She had been trained to protect herself, to fight and die for the Imperial Family, if necessary. It had been the best option, at the time. Then the water started to rise again. It crept forward like a crocodile, moving slowly and swallowing anything in its path. The last of the imperial starships had been a planned escape route for the Polkranian Emperor and Empress. Instead, they burned. Anna never once felt an ounce of pity for them. She knocked at the door, and Paul answered immediately. He had been waiting for her. He looked tired. His ivy green eyes were ghostly, with dark circles under them, and his thick brown hair was disheveled, as if he had been rubbing at his head frequently. He was nearly as despondent in his heart as when they first met two years ago. She took a seat on the edge of his bunk, and he sat in the chair at his desk. “Anna,” his bass-thrumming voice was heavy. “I have no idea how to start, so I think I should just begin with what’s most important. I’m not who you think I am, at least not entirely.” “What do you mean?”

“My name is Dr. Paul Mercer, not Paul Delacroix.” “Paul Mercer?” she tilted her head and frowned. “Why change your name?” “This establishment, the Olympus region, was founded by President Rainier of the Appalachian Islands, so it is a North American encampment. I used to work for Rainier, and his successor, President Naruta. When I first came here, my name was known, and I was wanted.” “Wanted? What did you do?” She straightened her posture. “I killed people. Soldiers. A lot of them. You know I’m a biochemist… well, I released a fast-acting synthesized version of the red plague into the soldiers’ barracks at Chattanooga. It killed 5,356 people.” The number was a heavy weight on his voice, straining his vocal cords. Anna closed her eyes, trying to process what Paul had just admitted. “Why?” she finally asked. Paul was not a wanton killer—not a sociopath. She knew him well enough, she thought. “They killed my brother… Simon,” he whispered, his voice laden with grief. He inhaled a deep breath. “He was shot in the back trying to pull his wife over the encampment wall.” Tears formed in his eyes. “I never saw his face, but I know the shock and betrayal that filled his eyes as he died. I see it in my dreams.” Leaping up, she caught him before he tumbled from the chair. He had been ready to simply fall. He crouched on the floor, on his hands and knees, tears pooling on the metal surface. “I could have done something,” he groaned. “I had power, and influence. I could have stood up and called for the guards to halt.” His body shook from the sobs. “I just hid behind the containers and watched him die. He knew I could have stopped them.” Stroking his back, Anna felt she understood him at last. The tormented soul he had been when they met was there for a very good reason. There was some Russian in him, in part. The side that sought vengeance. She knew that side well. Paul scrubbed at his eyes, sitting up and

looking at her, searching for her disgust. The look on his face when he found none was full of hope. She helped him back into the chair, and he continued. “I couldn’t bring myself to look at Simon’s body, or his wife’s—I can’t even remember her name.” He swallowed, and spoke more calmly, reflectively. “I had to pretend I had no knowledge of it. I would have been expelled from the camp for stopping the guards, but I could have saved his life. I don’t think I would have been killed. I could have even asked President Naruta to let Simon’s wife in, but I was too cowardly, and Simon too impatient.” “I can understand revenge,” Anna admitted. It was the right time to tell some of her past, though she had only planned to listen to Paul’s. His story had changed her mind. “My brother and I executed the soldier who killed our father. I was sixteen. We caught him sleeping, tied him up, and hung him upside down with his head underwater. He drowned once he tired of bending at the waist.” Paul looked at her sharply, his face a mask of surprise. “I never thought you had to deal with cruelty like that. Hardship, certainly, but that… I’m sorry.” “We all dealt with the cruelty of Earth at one point or another,” she sighed. He thought of her as innocent. She was far from that. No one could be innocent after the Drowning. Not if they wanted to live. “If I could have sought retribution against the illness that claimed my brother’s life, I would have.” “I remember. He died of pneumonia, yes?” Anna nodded, and asked the Question. “Do you regret what you did?” “Every day,” he whispered, shaking his head but looking in her eyes. “I ask myself every morning when I wake, and every night before I sleep, if Simon’s life was worth 5,356 others.” “I regret what my brother and I did… sometimes.”

“You regret killing the soldier?” Paul’s brow knitted. “No,” she quickly replied, “not for killing him.” The satisfaction of watching the soldier drown still burned in her, not the white hot brand of regret, but the basking red glow of a warming fire. “He took pleasure in seeing our father die. But, we also killed the former Commissar of Minsk. He’d ordered the pointless defense of a shrinking island; an island that was underwater a mere month later. Alexei and I, we felt that the man had been greedy. He used the battle as a cover to flee into the Polkranian Empire, leaving with stores of food and goods to set up a lavish new life.” “How did you kill him? The same way?” “No. We shot him in the kneecaps, the elbows, and the stomach, and left him to bleed out on his Persian rug.” It had been a slow death of a different kind. She shrugged. “But now I wonder if everyone back on Earth hasn’t taken advantage in some way, at some point. I’ve since wondered if killing him was the right decision. It might have been Alexei’s idea, but I went along with it without protest.” Paul took her hand and she allowed him to pull her close. She inhaled the minty aroma of his scent. It was always refreshing. He grew mint in his room to mix into the soap he used in the shower, just as he grew the bonsai apple for her soap. “I suppose we somehow understood that about each other,” he mumbled into her hair. “Anyone who has taken someone else’s life has to ask the Question,” she replied. “But I think you’re right. Even if we didn’t know how, we both understood that we’ve taken the lives of others.” She extracted herself from his arms and held onto his shoulders, locking eyes with him again. “I cannot give you forgiveness. It is not mine to give. I can tell you I empathize with what you did. Does that help?”

“Telling you the truth has helped, but I have to stop hiding from my past.” He stood and paced the room, three steps down and back. “I have to become Paul Mercer again. I have to tell the commander.” Anna narrowed her eyes. She didn’t like what she was hearing. “You said that this base is an establishment of the Appalachian territories. They could execute you for your crimes.” “They could, but I don’t think they will. Commander Tyro learned last week from the commander of the Marineris Stack that the Appalachian Islands and the High Plains Territories exchanged nuclear strikes.” “I thought that was all over.” Anna’s eyes widened. “They should have learned their lessons from Imperial Mongolia and the Tsar States.” The first major nuclear strike over territory had been devastating, killing millions, but it had not been the last, unfortunately. Apparently, there were now desolate wastelands on three continents, useless to all. “Or from Free Argentina and the Chilean Highlands, I know,” Paul agreed. “Apparently not. They killed each other off. Total loss on both sides. That’s what the President of New West England reported to Marineris. What it means for me, though, is there is no one left in charge. The territory where this camp originated is now extinct, so perhaps I can come clean at last.” Anna said nothing. She was doubtful, and unhappy with his plan, but Paul was important to the survival of the dome. He might be right. Perhaps his contributions would outweigh his crimes. Still, it was a risk not worth taking, in her opinion. “Why take the risk that you’re wrong?” she had to ask. “I’ve been reliving the nightmare about my brother more and more lately,” Paul said quietly. “Almost every time I close my eyes. It’s a sign, Anna. I need to finally admit what I did and who I am. If I don’t, I doubt I can ever sleep through another night.”

“If you think it will help,” Anna replied finally, with great discontent nonetheless. He embraced her again. “I’m sorry about today, outside. You were trying to show me our progress here. But you must know, I would have given up a long time ago without you.” She brought his hands up to her lips and kissed them softly. “You gave me a purpose when I arrived here. First, to bring you out of your shell.” He smiled fondly, gratefully. “Then, you taught me what you know; all about the plants we have flourishing in here. I bring life now, instead of death. I don’t have to be a soldier anymore to survive.” “You may not be a scientist, but you know more than anyone else here. If they do choose to execute me, then at least I know this place will survive through you.” Anna felt a sharp pain throughout her heart at the thought of Paul being executed, like a million biting fire ants fighting to stay above water. “We should not think about that, Paul.” She pressed him down to sit on the edge of the bunk. “I’ll stay here with you tonight.” They squeezed into the bed that was slightly too narrow for the both of them and slept. ⟡⟡⟡ Commander Darin Tyro felt his blood pressure rising faster than any rocket. He clenched his fists on top of his desk, digging his knuckles into the steel surface as if trying to bury them. “You’re telling me that you are Dr. Paul Howard Mercer?” he stared at the man across from him, sitting in one of the room’s two guest chairs. As dome commander, he had the sole pod that was not a combination of office and living quarters. His sleeping space was down the hall. Tyro wanted to leave his office and punch the metal walls in his room. He liked Paul. The scientist was respectful, helpful, and obedient. Instead, Tyro asked questions he never thought he would need to ask. “You’re the same man who released the red plague into the Chattanooga

barracks eight years ago? The one who killed over 5,000 soldiers before the antivirus was shipped in?” The man Tyro knew as Paul Delacroix grimaced, his unease evident, his regret palpable. He could feel the man’s pain radiating across the desk like a sonar pulse. Paul looked like a scolded hound, his ears tucked back and his tail between his legs. It was unimaginable. A mass murderer he could not see in this slim, gloomy biochemist he’d known for six years. “Yes, Commander,” Paul finally answered, shoulders slumped and world-weary. “I am the same man.” He exhaled a long breath. “Why come forward now?” “Because I am tired of living with the secret of my shame. I would rather be scorned for what I did than hide it and let it rot my soul a minute more. In one moment of pure wrath, I committed an unforgivable act that claimed thousands of lives.” Tyro recoiled from Paul’s vehemence, pulling his head back slightly. “Doctor, you understand that President Naruta issued a standing execution order on your life after you managed to escape.” He paused. “How did you get out, anyway?” “I erased my identifying features from the Appalachian computers—retina scans, fingerprints, and I changed my eye color in the system. Then I paid a man to smuggle me onto the Revelation VII. I bribed him with stores of food and bottled soda. I hid for six months in a cargo hold with my own rations, until the ship’s captain airlocked someone. Whatever the man’s crime was, I never knew, but I took his sleeping pod and successfully hid amongst the rest of the crew for the next year and a half, until I came here. I claimed I’d lost my ID upon arriving, and they assumed that I came from another UNAS territory, since my retina scans didn’t come up.” “They didn’t question why you weren’t scanned before boarding?”

“I told them there must have been a mix up, because I was one of the last passengers to board. I said I was a botanist, then, rather than a biochemist.” Tyro’s body was still leaning forward over his desk, fists ground into the top like it was sand. “Paul, I lost several friends from your little plague. Are you asking me to ignore the fact that you killed thousands of people simply because you have skill with the plants here?” “I’m telling you the truth because it was past time I admitted the greatest error I have ever made. You could kill me, and Anna could take up where I left off without a problem. I know that as well as you.” Honesty seemed to have made him stoic, peaceful even. His exhalation had been a release. For the first time since meeting Paul, the man actually looked unburdened. Tyro thought about what Paul had said. It was true, Anna was not a scientist, but she had a very good memory… what was the word? Eidetic. “I don’t even have to give you a trial. You’re considered a traitor, and you can be executed without due process.” “You do what you must. I know I sowed chaos, and all for revenge of one life. My brother versus 5,356 others. It is a very unbalanced scale, I realize.” He looked back to the door, and returned his gaze over the desk. “I lied to Anna about when I was coming here, in case you decided to kill me. She should be spared watching me die. But I can accept my death if you deem it necessary, Commander.” Tyro’s stomach twisted. “You’re under arrest for now, Paul. Two guards will be stationed outside your room, and you are not to leave until I decide what to do with you.” “Very well,” Paul nodded, accepting his fate. ⟡⟡⟡

Though he willingly confined himself to his room, the minutes seeming to stretch into long hours as Paul waited for the commander to decide his fate. He felt liberated in having revealed the truth, but at the same time… The waiting is worse than death, Paul thought. He might have told Anna that he would accept death if the commander decided to follow orders, but that did not mean the occasional spike of fear might not strike at his heart. The door to his room opened, and two men stepped inside, dressed in the ghostly grey uniform of the commander's guard. The base still had a military presence, however small, because of the threat of the unknown. There was always the possibility something could happen to their camp, though there was a general peace and cooperation between all the establishments on the planet. They had to get along to survive, to make the planet livable. Still, the distant yet looming threat of the unknown was enough to keep guards. They were all in uncharted territory, doing what no one had ever attempted. “Did the commander make his decision?” Paul asked. Looking at the clock, he realized it had only been 35 minutes. “No, but we have, Dr. Mercer,” one of the men said. Dark and menacing, his eyes were veiled with anger. An apropos guard, with that appearance. Just thuggish enough. Paul looked down into the hands of the other man, a pale man with hair so blond it was nearly white. He held a thick, heavy sock with a large square lump inside, protruding just enough at the corners to betray its presence. Soap. He realized at that point what was to happen. “I had quite a few friends die in your little genocide,” the second man said. The pale one was equally full of malice. Just as hulking as his partner. If the dark man’s eyes were burning with anger, then the pale man’s eyes held a raging inferno. His lips parted in a rictus snarl unconsciously, and his meaty hands gripped the sock tighter, knuckles whitening in tension.

Fully aware of what was to come, Paul found that he could accept it. He deserved his fate, for the lives he had claimed. Hopefully, they would not kill him. That was why the soap and sock were chosen. It would hurt like hell, but leave no outward marks. Or so it was supposed to be. Looking from Coco to Ivory, as he'd decided to name them, a small smile escaped Paul’s lips. They were sudden, ridiculous names. It was not the reaction they were looking for. The sock was forgotten. The punch landed on his jaw, from Ivory. “Dammit, we agreed!” Coco placed a hand on Ivory's arm, to stop him from landing another blow. “It's why we brought that.” He pointed to the discarded sock on the metal floor. “But I deserve it,” Paul said through a freshly aching jaw. He already felt the swelling and pain of the punch. “I deserve that, and more.” “You don’t get to speak!” Ivory bellowed. “I lost my friends. I lost one of the best commanders I ever had. I lost the man I loved. Because of you.” Coco, whatever his real name was, took the last as news. In his surprise, he released Ivory. The blows rained down like a torrential storm, the worst mixture of punches and kicks. Paul curled up on the floor, trying to protect himself, but he did not scream, or groan, or protest. He deserved it, and more, just as he had said. Avoiding his face was a gift from his attacker, unintentional or not. The rest of his body took the punishment. His torso bore the brunt of Ivory's beating, but his limbs got a few kicks as well. Out of breath, wheezing and huffing, Ivory stopped. Coco had done nothing, standing back. Paul hazarded a peek out of one eye. Coco’s face was stony, blank as new canvas. Ivory took two steps back. “Why didn’t he cry out?” he asked his conspirator. “Why didn’t you defend yourself?” Ivory spat at him, but the venom was no longer in the question.

“I told you,” Paul croaked, his voice soft through what he knew to be broken ribs. “I deserve this. I deserve worse.” Ivory stared at him incredulously, the comprehension absent. The fire had died in his eyes, and he exhaled a long breath. “Let’s go,” he told Coco. Wordlessly, the dark-haired man scooped up the sock, abandoned in its purpose, and the two men left the room. Paul waited for ten seconds, counting silently in his head, before dragging himself up and into his bunk. He groaned finally, letting the guttural gasps of pain escape his lips at last, and tried to sleep. ⟡⟡⟡ Darin Tyro stared at the coffee mug in his office. The silvery steel cup was a standard utilitarian issue, but someone had engraved the symbol of Olympus Dome into the side as a birthday gift, along with his name underneath. It was a small gesture, but appreciated. The man who’d so thoughtfully done that was Paul Delacroix. Paul Mercer. A man whom Darin could not reconcile with the man Paul was supposed to be, reported to be. He was conflicted; his report demanded that Dr. Paul Mercer be executed for killing 5,356 soldiers and staff members of the Appalachian Island Territories. He was a traitor, a mass-murderer, a monster. But how could the man who had wrought such death be the same man who engraved his mug. By hand. Overnight. How could Paul be that Paul? ⟡⟡ Report 11656: The earlier report of red plague in the Chattanooga headquarters has subsided. The final casualty count is 5,356 dead. From collected evidence, it has been discovered that the incident was not an accidental contamination, but a deliberate act of terrorism designed to incapacitate the defense of Chattanooga headquarters. New evidence shows that Dr. Paul Howard Mercer, Chattanooga camp's resident expert in biological 22

chemistry, is the mastermind behind the attack. Current evidence indicates that he acted alone, though the Appalachian Territories government will continue to investigate the possibility of other conspirators. As of this report release, Dr. Mercer remains at large, whereabouts unknown. He is to be considered highly dangerous, with the capacity to release another biological weapon to aid any escape or evasion. He has been officially listed as a traitor, and is to be treated with extreme prejudice. However, by order of President Naruta, Dr. Mercer is to be captured alive if possible. Anyone who encounters or captures him is to report his whereabouts or capture to Chattanooga headquarters immediately. A detailed description of the suspect follows. Darin stood in front of Commander Urda’s desk. He was stunned. Enraged. He had to keep his calm in front of the Olympus dome commander, though. “Sir, I have a number of friends at Chattanooga headquarters. Is there a full casualty list I might look at?" Urda, an aging commander who'd only been cleared to board a shuttle because of President Naruta’s favor, pushed a second report across the desk. Scanning through the alphabetical list, he found several names he’d been looking for, but hoping not to see. Five of his closest friends from Chattanooga, dead. Killed by a terrible, painful death, and one they had no hope of fighting. It was the worst way to die for a soldier. “That bastard killed General Paroon, among others,” Urda rumbled. “For that alone, I hope to be the one that finds him.” “What do you mean?” Darin asked, looking up from the list, confused. “How could he ever make it here? No ship would allow such a dangerous man to board and take off.” “The Rajas of India would,” Urda countered. “Mercer was very friendly with one of them... I can’t recall which, but he went to work for them for a while as a favor to President Rainier. They don’t like Naruta, so at least one or two of them would let him board a ship.” 23

“But Commander, he would have to make it halfway across the world. He would have to find a jumpjet willing to take him first, or steal one. He could try a ship, but the swells are too much for most vessels now. A wave can break them in half. Especially around the Indian Ocean. Besides, even if he managed to get all the way there, why wouldn't he just stay?” “Because he couldn’t risk the Rajas, or anyone else, turning on him eventually. Coming here would guarantee he wouldn’t be sent back. Starships are one way. They can’t risk landing on Earth again, and everyone knows that. Mark my words, Tyro. Mercer will find his way to Mars.” ⟡⟡ The old codger was right, Darin thought. Pompous, full of himself to the very end, but right. Mercer had made his way to Mars. Whether the reason why was as Urda had suspected or not, the end result was the same. He was here, sitting in a pod down the hall. Darin looked at the mug again. Paul Delacroix had been half-human when he arrived on Mars. Not feral, but wounded. He had been an automaton, functioning on basic tasks. His work had always been good. He strove to make certain that the dome’s flora thrived. It had showed; Olympus Dome had the most success of any dome across the planet. But Paul Delacroix had lived solely for the work. He had been a one-dimensional figure. It had taken Anna to get him to come out of his fugue. He became a person again, with a vibrant personality. Four years of never hearing a man laugh, hardly ever seeing more than a ghost of a smile on his face—Anna had transformed him. Paul had a wonderful sense of humor, and he had developed friendships. Not many, but a few. Those who could not exactly name him friend could at least admit that he was a kind person. A person who performed small, thoughtful gestures. Like engraving a mug as a surprise present.

“Damn you,” Darin muttered in the direction of the mug. “Why did you have to come here? Why did you have to be someone I respect, and admire?” He swatted the mug off the desk, spraying the cup’s contents across the ground and leaving the metal clanging against the floor. The report outlined the man’s treason, and the order stood, regardless of the death of Naruta. Darin was a military man, someone who followed orders. But could he follow through with the order of a dead man? “Damn you, Paul,” he repeated. “Sir,” one of his lieutenants opened the door. “I’m not sure how it got out. Someone overheard who Paul really is.” “What happened, Viner?” Darin knew instinctively it was not going to be good. “He was beaten, Commander. In his quarters. He’s sleeping in his bunk, but I discovered him when I was supposed to take the evening meal to his pod.” “He’s alive?” “Yes, sir. I feared to wake him, but I checked.” “Has Anna heard?” “No. She would be down your throat if so, I imagine.” “True enough,” Darin agreed. “Alright, start your search for whoever did this. Look at the guards I posted first. They’ll be the primary suspects. Paul is still a human being, no matter what his crimes. I want the perpetrator punished.” “Yes, sir. What about Paul, Commander?” “I’ll see to Paul.” Leaving his office, he was afraid that the only answer was coming into play. Leaving him free would only spark more incidents. Paul would never be safe from someone else’s anger.

⟡⟡⟡ Paul stood, hands tied behind his back. He felt no fear, strangely, only regret that he could not hold Anna again. After the beating, it had not taken Tyro long to decide. Standing there, blindfolded, the black cloth shrouded him in total darkness. But even that could not spread a seed of fear inside him. He now knew his fate, and that left only calm… and a pang of regret. “Paul Howard Mercer,” Commander Tyro intoned gravely, “by the order of the President of the Appalachian Island Territories, you are charged with five-thousand three-hundred fifty-six counts of murder, for the deaths of those in the employ of the state. You have been levied a traitor, having committed treason against the commonwealth you were sworn to serve. Therefore, you have been found guilty under the direction of the late President Henri Naruta. The penalty for your crimes is death by firing squad. Have you anything to say?” “I have,” Paul replied, speaking loudly and clearly to be heard by all. Before they tied the blindfold on, he saw at least a hundred witnesses gathered. “To all those who have known me in the last several years, you can now understand why I was a melancholy soul. I committed a terrible crime, which I have lived every waking hour regretting since, and I fully admit my guilt. I had an awesome power, which I misused in an ill-fated manner of seeking retribution for my brother’s death. I do not ask for absolution in life. For those who knew one of my victims, consider instead one day granting me forgiveness after I’m dead.” “Your words have been acknowledged, Dr. Mercer,” Tyro responded. Paul thought he detected a note of regret in his voice, and felt better for it. “Detail, present arms!” Tyro ordered the executioners. He heard the shifting of rifles being raised, but then there was a thud, and a man’s loud, startled grunt. There was some sort of commotion. He heard a pained groan, and suddenly

someone collided with him, falling backwards into him. Paul was knocked to the ground. He fell back and to the side in the dirt, curling instinctively to protect his head. His ribs crackled with a sharp jolt of pain, which was forgotten as soon as he realized the blindfold had been shifted down over his right eye, allowing him to see partially. He scrunched up his face, successfully shifting the blindfold more and giving him a clear view of what was happening. It was Anna. He felt the bile rise in his gut at the same time his heart soared. The feeling of peace had vanished. He had demanded the Tyro get the execution over with quickly so Anna would not find out once the decision had been made. As she cut through the other guards, though, he could not help but kneel in rapture, in complete awe of the woman he loved but had never deserved. She was majestic, a terrific force sweeping through the armed men. She said nothing, but flowed through the guards like water. She kicked one in the stomach, sending him flying as a second approached behind. Thrusting her elbow back, she struck the man’s diaphragm and pivoted, sweeping his legs out from under him and bringing him crashing down into the dust. A third and fourth approached, and she dispatched them with ease. Number three raised his arms, protecting his face against a launched rifle. It was instinct, but a mistake. Anna kicked out knees and slammed the butt-end of another rifle into the side of his head. The fourth man tried to move in, but Anna swept her left leg back and up, kicking him squarely in the chest and sending him careening backward. A fifth guard tried to tackle her, down low at her legs. She leapt up, kicking a boot into his back and smashing him into the ground, launching herself the other way, toward Paul. She landed on in a crouch, and scooped up a rifle and a pistol. “Is this what you want?” she asked angrily to Tyro. To the guards. To the crowd entire. “His death is really necessary? Well fine, shoot him. And shoot me as well. I will not move out

of the way. I promise, though, if you decide to fire, I will take many of you with me. I might not be able to shoot all these guards, but I will end several lives. I swear this upon the flooded graves of my family.” Her voice crackled with certain death, a growling, fierce sound. Suddenly, she turned, and Paul’s head swung to the side. His cheek stung with the resounding slap across his face. It struck with enough force to remove the blindfold the rest of the way. He stumbled and fell into the dust, landing on his left shoulder. “How could you try to keep me away, Paul?” Anna sounded more betrayed than he’d ever heard. “I…I couldn’t…” he tried to defend himself. “You can never claim to make decisions for me,” she snarled at him. “And You,” she turned her attention back to Tyro. “You cowardly, spineless man. Have you no backbone of your own? Are you a man of metal and wires?” Tyro tried to say something in his defense as well, but Anna forged ahead. “The Appalachian Island Territories are gone, yet you continue like a faithful dog to follow the orders of a dead man. Why obey their commands?” “The Appalachian territories founded this base,” Tyro was able to reply, “and the other leaders in the UNAS have agreed that the indictment must stand.” “The United North American States are united in name only,” Anna retorted, her voice carrying across the open terrain, “and have been for years. They fight with each other more than they cooperate. They have no hold on us any longer. They’re all blown to hell, and we’re on our own. This is a new planet, where life should rule supreme. Or are we going to continue the vicious cycle of death that has consumed Earth?” Tyro said nothing. He listened. He decided. Paul could see that he was struggling with the proper course of action. The crowd was just as silent.

“Look at him, all of you,” Anna commanded. “This man was beaten for his crimes. I heard of this, as you all have by now. Many of you might think he deserved it. He released a plague, and killed many. You might think that he deserves to be executed. But look at him. He has beaten himself up day after day for years. He was hardly a human being when he first came here. Many of you know this. You saw him in this state long before I arrived.” “She’s right,” someone said. Paul’s eyes widened as Ivory stepped forward, hands bound, but standing on his own. “He has lived with the guilt. He will always live with it. It is a more fitting punishment than anything else.” “Corporal,” Tyro growled towards Ivory. “You are lucky to even be outside a cell.” “I was angry, sir,” Ivory replied. “But I was wrong. I can’t forgive what he did. Not now. Maybe not for a long time. But I’m not sure I can forgive myself for a long time either.” “It’s not right, Commander,” someone else called out. “Let him live.” “His knowledge is very useful.” That one almost sounded like Kalen, from the Stacks. Paul looked at the men lined up to execute him. They had all dragged themselves back to Tyro. Their guns were all lowered, though, and they looked to their commander. Tyro, for his part, was staring at Anna, and at him. The commander walked up and hauled Paul to his feet, gripping him under the arm firmly and looking him in the eyes. “Lieutenant Viner,” Tyro called to one of his men, still facing Paul, “please take this statement down to be relayed to the other states in the UNAS.” The young lieutenant stepped forward, data pad ready to transcribe. “‘Dr. Paul Howard Mercer is dead,” Tyro began. “‘My investigation has revealed that he was discovered under a false name on board the Revelation VII and subsequently executed by ejection out of an airlock.’” Paul raised his eyebrows, but Tyro continued. “‘As per my earlier

report stating that I had found Mercer, an investigation has proven that to be false. A suicidal man named Paul Delacroix decided, upon learning his physical similarities to the accused, to claim that he was, in fact, the homicidal doctor. He has since been exonerated and reinstated to my staff.’ Send that exact statement to the remaining UNAS leadership immediately.” “Thank you, Commander.” A warm smile melted the icy expression from Anna’s face. “You were right,” Tyro admitted. “Life should be our chief concern. Paul will dedicate himself to ensuring that life flourishes on this new world, won’t you, Paul?” Still reeling, he nodded. “Yes, sir, I will.” “Good. This planet brings a second chance to us all, as it has for you today.” Before walking away, the commander added, “Don’t fuck it up.” “Commander?” Paul called before Tyro had taken two steps. The other man turned back. “If I can be spared, then so should the Corporal. Please be lenient with him, if you can.” Tyro nodded slowly, understandingly, and walked away. “I’m sorry,” he told Anna once his hands were freed. “You are smarter than me in every way. I was foolish to exclude you.” “Idiotically foolish,” she agreed, embracing him tightly. “Do you think I’ll have to fear more beatings?” he asked, glancing at the dispersing crowd. “Some people will be unhappy about this.” “If they are unhappy, they have to go through me first,” Anna replied sternly. Paul smiled slightly. “I’ve never felt safer in my life.”