Absolute Zero (The Shadow Wars Book 4) (23 page)

But it would not come. Not properly.

Something beeped. It was distant at first. He was thinking about a man in a suit of gray-green armor being pumped full of holes and sprays of pink mist beading on a titanium wall. Slowly, Allan registered the noise. It was a flat, rapid beeping, intimately familiar. So familiar, in fact, that it seemed to slip past his perception.

The notion that the beeping was, in fact, quite important, took root in his skull. He frowned and, with all the grace of a beached supertanker, rolled over. His bed groaned again, threatening to give up the ghost. His alarm clock perched on the nightstand beside his single-wide bed, usually done up military style, not that it mattered when you were in Security-Investigations. The clock was flashing in sync with the beeps.

It dawned on him, somewhat sluggishly, like sound traveling across a vast distance, that he had set that alarm. It was just past seven in the morning. The sun was beginning to creep over the horizon, slanting pale beams of pallid light into his quarters. A low sound, what might have been a groan, escaped Allan's throat.

He began the long, arduous process of getting up.

Seven o'clock. It was time for a funeral. Allan climbed to his feet and stood there, swaying for a long moment. Glancing back at his bed, he thought about how easy it would be to just lie back down and continue his long stare into nothingness. It would certainly be easier. But there was still that ember, compressed perhaps to a singularity now, burning inside of him. The thing that drove him ever onwards, somehow, someway.

Allan moved into the bathroom and stared at the armored thing in front of the mirror. He liked his suit. It came with all sorts of attachments and augmentations. When you joined up with Security-Investigations, they gave you a uniform. When you graduated from the four month training course, they gave you some armor.

As a Sergeant in command of an Investigations Squad, Allan had been granted a full suit of powered armor. It was blue-gray in color and bore the symbol of Squad Lansing Six, which was little more than a red L-6. Over the past six months, Allan's interests, hobbies and spending habits had begun to dry up. SI paid for room and board, it came free with the job. He found himself pouring virtually all his money into the armor.

As a result, he now had top-of-the-line gear, far above what was really necessary. SI provided the basic suit and gear, but you could purchase additional upgrades. There was a part of Allan that always thought that was exploitative, but he knew that he really had no case because if you really felt you needed something, you could just check it out of the armory for that particular mission. It was when he began having genuine trouble turning it all back in at the end of missions that he knew he'd be better off just purchasing them.

Allan knew that there were men like him, men who'd reach that sort of emotional event horizon and began pouring all their funds and even their life into a bottomless black pit of despair. Though usually for them that particular pit was composed of alcohol or booze or serial dating. Allan took some quantum of comfort in the fact that his was at least constructive.

The visor enclosing his face and head in the helmet was transparent for the moment. He took the opportunity to study himself. His face was a pallid mess. Dark stubble stained his jawline and neck. His eyes were baggy and bloodshot. They looked sunken, as though someone had punched him a few days ago and the black eyes were really shining now. For a moment, he contemplated sliding the visor up into the helmet, a neat feature that made it so that he didn't have to remove his helmet if he wanted to eat or take a breath of fresh air.

But he decided against it, figuring shaving, brushing his teeth, splashing a bit of cold water onto his face, it could wait. Forever if need be. There was one more thing he had to do for certain, one more task before he could comfortably contemplate the rest of his life. Allan hit the feature that made his visor opaque, turned and left his quarters.

* * * * *

Allan had spent the past thirteen months roaming the corridors of the Lansing Complex. It was the headquarters for Security-Investigations in the city of Lansing. They were on the planet Lindholm, little more than a backwater mining planet that was just trying to make it in the galactic community. The planet seemed to be composed mainly of forests and mountains, with a good amount of sun-baked dirt thrown in for good measure.

When he'd first arrived on the planet, Allan had taken a transfer to what he saw as the middle of nowhere in an attempt to take some time to get his life sorted out. He'd grown up on a busy planet that was half-covered in city where the crime rate seemed to be the only thing that was on the rise. Joining up with SI there was a fool's game, but Allan figured 'what the hell' and went for it anyway. He saw more action as a Private during his first year than most senior members saw in a decade. The result was a trial by fire.

Allan contemplated his past, his present and what might be salvageable for his future as he moved sluggishly through the carpeted corridors of the base. It was early morning, and normally the base was full of activity at this point: everyone getting up for the day, eating breakfast or preparing for whatever missions had cropped up during the night.

There was hardly anyone about at the moment.

If it had been any other time in his life, Allan would have found that incredibly odd. Now he was counted it as a blessing. He was in no mood to talk to anyone right now. Which was ironic considering where he was going and what he was preparing to do. Allan tried to put off thinking about it as he carried on through the quiet hallways.

When he'd arrived on Lindholm, he'd been tired, exhausted really. Physically, emotionally, mentally...he'd served for thirteen years on his homeworld, taking bullets, getting stabbed occasionally, putting away criminals that swore vengeance. He
had
been one of those people who'd taken to the bottle in light of a real life. Every day was nothing but a stress-filled nightmare where he wondered what was next on the list of wicked, sick shit he was going to have to see as he was sent out into the overpopulated city once more.

Lindholm was the polar opposite. Lansing wasn't the biggest city on the planet, but it was close, and its population barely broke a million. It blew his mind. Sometimes, he'd spend entire days doing nothing but patrolling around, the peaceful quietude broken only by the occasional call to throw some drunk in a holding cell.

That was back when he was still the Security side of SI.

It had lasted two months before he'd requested transfer to Investigations.

Given his background and abilities, they'd foregone the prerequisite training and rising through the ranks parts and simply given him a Sergeant's position with a two-week probationary period and slotted him into a team. Lansing Six, to be specific. He'd had a good run with them. Lots of flying out to isolated locations and checking out distress calls or mysterious comms blackouts. The days seemed to disappear into weeks.

And now it was truly over.

Allan turned a corner and spied a familiar face. Over the past several months, Allan had become more and more detached from his humanity. This latest incident, his dead team, was just the final nail in the coffin, as it were. His dislocation had always been there, perhaps since his birth, hovering eternally over his life. But the finer points of the human condition had kept it at bay. It was after a particularly brutal breakup that he had really started to let go. As a result of that pulling-away, the amount of people that talked to him had diminished.

Lynn was one such person, although he'd been getting the sense that she'd been pulling herself away from him as well lately. She was talking with someone about something a little bit further down the corridor. Allan hung back, making his visor transparent. He'd be lying to himself if he said he hadn't entertained thoughts of some kind of relationship, but it was obvious that she wasn't into him, so he'd never even brought it up.

She finished the conversation up and turned. At the same moment, Allan kept walking, a momentary feeling of queasy uncertainty breaking through the dull blanket of lethargy and apathy he'd felt rapped in ever since he'd realized he was the last one alive and the mission had gone to total shit. Lynn caught sight of him and stopped. A brief but very clear look of alarm passed over her face, then she managed a tight smile.

“Hello, Allan,” she said.

“Hi, Lynn,” he replied.

A moment of silence passed.

She swallowed and cleared her throat. “I...I heard about your team. I'm so sorry. I understand the funeral is...” she checked her chronometer, “well, now, actually.”

Allan nodded. “That's where I was headed.”

Lynn shifted nervously. “I'd go myself, I just...early shift. You know? I...have a lot I need to do. I'll catch you later.”

She left before he could respond. Allan sighed and replaced the opaque setting to his visor, darkening the world slightly, making his face invisible from the exterior. He set off again, trudging down the corridor like some armored beast in its lair. Up ahead was the funeral parlor. It spoke a lot about the job that every facility came with one.

There were some people going in. One of them glanced at Allan and then quickly look away. For a moment, just a moment, he wondered if this was such a good idea. But the moment passed almost as quickly as it had come. Allan had never really been one for good ideas. He tended to think of himself as a blunt instrument.

He moved over to the open doorway and peered in. The room resembled a church. Twin rows of benches led up to a raised platform that supported a podium and pictures of the dead. No caskets. Allan had long ago gotten used to the practice of day-after funerals. It wasn't in any way a real funeral, more of a paying of respects ceremony preformed on base, because Security-Investigation wasn't just a job. For most people, it was a way of life. You technically had the option to live off-base, though only if you were in the Security portion, but it was heavily hinted at that it would be better if you resided within the actual walls of the facility.

This was a ceremony for the co-workers. Investigation Squads did live on-base and so they tended to be that much closer to all the other personnel. Allan had gone to a few of these himself, not nearly as many as back on his homeworld, but people still died from time to time. There were just over two dozen people situated among the rows of benches. For the moment, Allan satisfied himself with slipping in and sitting quietly in the back.

He watched a few people take the spotlight behind the podium and talk about the team. Letting their words wash over him with all the meaning of waves on a beach, Allan thought about what might be coming next. After the mission, the blood and the death, he'd been checked out by a medic but he was fine, physically at least. His commander, the man who basically ran the entire base singlehandedly, Captain Carpenter, had debriefed him.

It had been a brutal and grim after-action report. One of the worst he'd ever had to deliver. When it had been over, he'd asked the Captain what would become of him. Carpenter seemed uncertain and evasive, simply stating that they'd do a follow-up report in the morning and maybe talk about what came next.

Only Allan knew what would come next. He'd likely be put on leave, what they'd call 'mandatory R and R', which was really just them letting enough time pass while they pretended to deliberate on the issue. In reality, they would have already made up their minds. Allan knew that he wasn't anyone's favorite around here, not after the breakup and he'd withdrawn into his armor. He knew there were rumors that he slept in the damned thing.

While it wasn't that far from the truth, he
had
been spending more and more time in it, that notion might soon become his reality. Allan perked up as he realized the latest person was stepping down from the podium. Without thinking about it, as though his body was acting all on its own, he stood up, walked swiftly up the aisle and took the podium. He thought he'd be more nervous, but all Allan could feel was a growing well of lassitude.

“I suppose you all know me,” he said, his voice being transmitted via a small microphone in his suit and into the microphone embedded in the podium. A long moment of uncomfortable silence passed. Allan cleared his throat.

“I'll keep this short. I knew my team very, very well. We'd been working together for nearly a year at this point, but in this job and working with these kind of people, it might as well have been half a lifetime.” He paused, collecting his thoughts, wondering what to say next. Nobody has spoken or even made a noise. It was dead silent in the room.

Allan suddenly tossed aside his thoughts and cut to the meat of what he meant to say. “I'd have gladly died in their place. I'm aware of the cruel irony that I'm sure you're all thinking about. '
They
all died, but
he
stayed alive?' Believe me, I'd kill myself in a second if I knew it'd bring them all back...I guess that's all I have to say.”

Allan left podium and began making his way slowly down the aisle, done with this grizzly task now. He wanted to go back to his quarters, maybe take a heavy sedative, find sleep that way. A hand shot out and gripped his wrist suddenly.

Allan stopped, turned, stared down at the person clutching him. It was one of the security personnel, a large man that had been a good friend to one of the crew. Allan tried to remember which one, but that only brought pain and misery.