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  “Why did they leave me behind?”

  Neeson gestured for Alex to go on without him.

  “She was one of us, Will. When she finally saw what had happened to you, she resigned. She didn’t want her children caught up in a fight with their father on the opposing side.”

  At that, the cyborg let the silence fall again, and stared down at the floor. Neeson knew there was nothing left to say, at least for now. He would let Will grasp that information. This would be the most critical point in the mission so far. Would he stay strong, or shatter under the weight of reality? On the exterior, the cyborgs appeared invulnerable. But Neeson knew within their skull was same fragile mind as an ordinary human. That was what the Chancellor had tried to do away with from the start. Hopefully, he hadn't succeeded.

  Chapter 16 - Solitude

  April 12, 2065 – UNR Headquarters - Cell No. 0869

  Neal swallowed roughly.

  His hands were tied behind him in the chair. Mitch had tightened them without saying a word, and that had been fifteen minutes ago. Since then, he'd just been waiting. In those few moments, he contemplated what he knew for sure had taken place. It wasn’t simple recollection, unfortunately. He was hounded by pangs of agony that bounced through his skull every so often. Still, Neal surmised, he was intact.

  A single lamp hung over his head, rocking back and forth. The mirror was his only other companion in the room. He remembered the gunfight, though it was very fuzzy. Neal had no idea what had happened since then. With no way of contact, he accepted he would never know the outcome of that mission. Left forever in the dark, what a sentence. What he did know was that many of his friends were dead. He had seen their ends just as he had seen and spoken with them days before.

  There was a creak of metal moaning. Neal's chest tightened upon seeing the same cyborg from the battle step into the room. The light from the hallway was somewhat blocked by his slender form, causing the still figure to appear as a silhouette.

  Luis' face was expressionless as he stood before the man, just a few inches short of blocking the light given off by the lamp above. Neal tried his hardest to conceal his fear, but he began to sweat as if it were a July afternoon. It soaked his shirt.

  “Tell me, Neal Kaluuya, where is Will?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Luis pulled out one of his twin swords. He gently dragged it across the surface of Neal's pectoral muscles. The man felt no pain as it was pulled it away, but a thin line of blood slowly appeared seconds later. The agony came another few seconds later, but Neal now understood. He’d gotten his solace: the mission had indeed been accomplished.

  “Where is Will?”

  “South of Dakota.”

  Luis appeared to be wholeheartedly amused.

  “That’s the spirit. Venloran took one look at your initial interview and said you’d never talk. I volunteered because I like a challenge.”

  “And here I am.”

  “Excellent, Neal. Tell me, are you afraid?”

  “Yes. But I've promised God that I will not break my promise to the others. He gives me strength and I will do so in turn. I'll give you nothing.”

  That declaration caught Luis off guard momentarily. His eyes reddened as a single teardrop fell to the floor. The soldier stared at the cyborg, a strange look on his face. Neal glanced down at it for a second, and then Luis raised his sword, agony in his face. He managed to grin though. It was his trademark, a presence he had to maintain, even for this unruly bastard. “God will not even blink.”

  Val watched with crossed arms as the carnage began from the observation room. Even through the glass, she could hear the cries of suffering and the spattering of blood. The man’s screams rang in her ears like a pig’s squeal. There were no exchanges of words, only inhuman noises. Unit 23 didn’t look away for a second, analyzing each cleave of the sword into the human flesh that seemed more and more like butchered deli meat as it went on. Her only real complaint was how tedious it was becoming. Luis was dragging this execution out as long as possible, thoroughly annoying her.

  The door opened up, and in walked Commander Kane. He remained by the doorway, only glancing once inside cell 0869. What he saw was a truly harrowing spectacle, and he wondered how he’d explain the god-awful mess to the custodial crew. There was complete silence in here, the only spectator being the other cyborg. She saluted him upon his entry.

  “Unit 23,” Kane said,” what could possibly bring you here?”

  Valerie spoke as clearly and dignified as ever.

  “Sir, it's been over 24 hours since Unit 18 brought this prisoner in. I just can't believe a court martial hasn't been put in order.”

  Exasperated, Kane felt like slouching in the doorway. She just wouldn't give it up.

  “Understand this is a chaotic time, Unit 23. For the first time in a long time, we've actually suffered losses. For those of us who've been stationed here for years now, it's been hard.”

  The cyborg wanted to debate further, but could tell the Commander didn't want to converse about the matter any longer.

  Suddenly the door to the cell opened up. Both of their heads turned to see Luis. His face was speckled red, his sword covered in blood as well, right up to the hinge. Slowly, he put it away. Luis seemed to be breathing uncontrollably, but calmed himself in their presence. Luis only glanced at them both briefly.

  “Sir,” he said plainly.

  The Commander handed a handkerchief to the cyborg. Luis looked down at it, and accepted with a single nod. Kane handed it to him and stepped aside as Luis stormed out of the room. Even if he or Unit 23 had wanted to speak, neither one had the slightest clue what to say.

  ***

  The cyborg slammed the door to his quarters, and collapsed onto his bed. His sheathed sword clattered against the hard floor. He didn’t even bother to clean it. Excess blood stained the carpet in a trail right to his bed. The cyborg put his hands on his head in anger and in pain. All I want is you. That flame that had burned so brightly that night was now dead. All this time Luis had fooled himself into believing vengeance would ease his suffering. He let every fiber of his anger tear into that filth till there was damn near nothing left but a pile of minced meat. Staring into that mound of flesh that was once a human being, he expected to find solace. There was none to be had.

  Then he remembered that nightmare he’d had on the greatest night of his life. That night with Bia had been in such sharp contrast to that damned nightmare. He began to understand, though, that it was no nightmare. No, it was a memory. Perhaps now he knew why that very night, the memory had chosen to return to him.

  ***

  The man sat up slowly, his eyes hazy. He felt so cold, and a bright white light was shining down on him mercilessly. As he struggled to regain his vision, everything in the tiny room seemed to be quivering. As he made out a towel on a rack above him, and bashed his head into something seemingly hard as stone, the man got an idea of where he was. The half-empty bottle of tequila was his only other companion on the bathroom floor. Grasping it, he held the bottle firmly in his right hand. The Valium hadn’t mixed so well with the shots, or perhaps, technically, it had. He placed an arm on the toilet seat, struggling to balance himself. Somehow, he managed to stagger to the door, turning the light off.

  He reached his soft bed, clearing laundry out of the way. His favorite film was currently broadcasting on the small television across from the bed, his favorite scene too: Randle McMurphy laying into that bitch, Nurse Ratched. Good old Nicholson, he mused, smiling to himself. There was a distant crying coming from down the hall. He grunted and took a voracious gulp of tequila. It burned, but it drowned out the noise. He rubbed his closely shaved head and finally pulled it away from his lips. The crying returned, so loud and obnoxious. His relief was slipping away, his stomach felt like a churning whirlpool.

  “Shut the HELL UP!!”

  But not a second later after he roared, a voice answered him: “Luis, what the hell?”

  Th
e man tensed. Son of a bitch...the door opened to his bedroom, and in came Amy. Is it midnight already? How could he have lost track of time? He’d meant to sober up an hour before her shift ended, but somehow he’d failed to do so. Amy was indeed still in her slacks and company T-shirt, looking exhausted. In her arms was their daughter, who was sobbing. Luis looked away, staring at the wall.

  “How long has Alyssa been crying?” she asked angrily, “She’s wet for God's sake! What have you been doing?! Just sittin’ here locked up in our room?”

  He made no reply and just sat there on the edge of their bed. Amy handed a cup to Alyssa before sitting her down in the doorway.

  “Go eat your dinner, okay baby? I have some on the table for you.”

  Alyssa did so, finally calming down. Amy calmed herself down as well, knowing that Luis was different now, all because of that damned draft. But she wouldn't let it take him away their family.

  “Luis, I know it's been hard for you. It's been hard for all of us.”

  “What are you complaining about? My damn check is payin' for our asses. I'm the one who damn near got killed for this country. You understand…the gravity of that?”

  Even though his words were terribly slurred, his eyes could still see the beauty in his Amy’s face. She looked sad though, and he knew why.

  “It's not the money that bothers me, baby,” Amy said, sitting next to him on the bed, “it’s been five months since you've been back. You know I love you, and how happy I am to have you with us again. So we can be a real family. Before, when you were over there, I felt like dying every night.”

  She grabbed hold of his left hand with one of hers.

  “And now your time in recovery is over. Our daughter is growing. The nightmares are gone. You don't need that anymore.”

  She reached for the liquor, even grabbed hold of it. Luis released her hand and knocked her away hard with his arm. Amy flew to the floor, staying down.

  “What the fuck do you think this is?!” he yelled to her, standing up now.

  Amy was afraid to even get up. She laid there on the carpet, seeing the stain of blood deep in the fibers. She looked up at him and their eyes locked. This was not the man or relationship she used to savor. Now his eyes were glazed and half-shut. The only thing that kept him going was his rage, and he wasn't ever going to let that go. Not for anyone. She finally concluded there was no other way out.

  Amy stood up, her lip bleeding. She said nothing and began to storm out of the room. As Luis watched her back, he lost whatever control he had left. He realized even in his drunken state the one thing that drove fear into him more than anything did, ever since the war: solitude. He'd been alone before, in that God-forsaken battle zone, nothing but the bodies of his friends to keep him company. God, the smell, he remembered, the damn smell. Nothing could be more Hell-like. He grabbed on tightly to her left arm, enough that it hurt her.

  “Amy, please,” he began to sob.

  “Luis, stop,” she pleaded, “let me go...”

  “Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me alone!”

  “LET ME GO!”

  Amy whirled around, far too fast for the drunkard to react. Even as a lethal soldier trained to bring down enemies in close contact, his tainted blood took its heavy toll. Her movements were practically a blur, yet he still begged. But with that, Luis felt himself lying on the floor.

  When Luis woke in the morning, he found himself face first in the doorway. There was dried blood on his head, and on the picture frame lying next to him on the floor. Its corner was broken off, the glass cracked. As he stood up, he did not bother to pick it up. The man couldn't bear to glance at the image it held, or how he had shamed himself. He went over to the dresser, close to the bathroom. Luis stumbled, knocking a bottle of cologne off the top. He found his clothes, but not Amy's. The sluggish trek down the hall to his daughter’s room felt as if took days to complete. The stained carpet felt dry beneath his cold feet. When he reached Alyssa's room down the hall, he knew he was too late. The drawers were tossed about and a portion of his daughter’s clothes were gone.

  As Luis went back into his room, his body felt heavy. The half-empty bottle of tequila still sat there on the carpet. Luis collapsed onto his bed, considering whether or not to ease his pain again. Was there any point in moderation now? There was truly no one left to please.

  The phone rang, and Luis' heart sped up. Could it be her? The call was a restricted number, a private caller he assumed. After last night, though, he wouldn’t rule out Amy changing her number. It seemed incredibly sudden, but he couldn’t blame her.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Luis Viramontes?”

  “This is him,” he said with a groan, “but who is this?”

  “General Venloran. I need you to report to your C.O. immediately. I have a grand proposition for you, soldier.”

  Luis’ eyes remained still, as did his body. His mind, however, was on the move. Drifting like a freighter, heading into the shadow of gathering storm clouds. There is no love. There are no bonds that bind us to one another. Those are only limitations set up by the weak to hold others down. For a love or bond broken can cripple and devour a soul, tear it apart, and destroy it. When one feels that kind of pain, such a wound never heals. The only real key to self-preservation is loyalty: unconditional and undying, not to a single man or a group. No, to a single ideology: a thing that never ceases to exist. When a man dies, only his ideology is remembered. The will to power will never leave me.

  Chapter 17 - Humility

  April 13, 2065

  Gabby carried her suitcase-sized medical kit with her and set it down on the floor before getting down on her knees. Beside her, on a narrow cot, lay her patient. She prepared to re-bandage the man's arm. What should have been a standard field dressing, had been done incorrectly, and now his condition was considerably worse. His sun-kissed skin had paled to an almost ghostly white. He cracked his green eyes open when he felt Gabby lift his arm to treat it.

  “Good morning,” he said to her warmly.

  “Good morning. How you feeling today, Pat?”

  “Honestly, I feel like shit. But it could be worse, right?”

  Gabby felt herself smile back. Patrick was one of her oldest friends, and one of the few who refused to beat her down like her brother. Under the old bandages, she spotted the small wound. The entry point, caused by a “lucky miss” as Pat had first called it, had not yet begun to heal. Instead, it had taken on a reddish-tint, accompanied by a slight odor. Pus was forming at the center.

  “Pat, why didn't you tell us about this sooner?”

  “Gabby, I know how it looks, but hold off on the treatment, please. Others need it far more than I do. Just do whatever it takes to slow it down.”

  She felt his head. Even in this cold infirmary, his body was burning up. Gabby stood up off the floor taking a blanket off Patrick and rolling it back up.

  “I don't think you can afford to avoid treatment any longer. You need some penicillin. I'll be right back, okay?”

  Patrick looked up at the ceiling.

  “If you really think it’s necessary,” he said, closing his eyes.

  Gabby went over to the medicine area, pulling out a set of keys. On her way there, she had been forced to look at all the patients lying on their individual mats on the floor. The rows seemed endless, among them amputees and the deathly ill. Pat was right about the number of people needing treatment, but she wouldn't let him die. We’ll just ration out the dosage level, as we always have. Gabby made it to the large locker, but as she tried to unlock it, her key didn't seem to do much of anything. A nurse walked by, pausing as she sensed Gabby’s irritation, though the woman said absolutely nothing.

  “Why the hell doesn't my key work?” she asked. The nurse cleared her throat.

  “Sorry, ma’am, but your father has specified that all medical orders must be run by him first.”

  “But my rank! Doesn’t that fucking mean anything?!”
r />   “We're low on supplies, ma’am, nearly on empty. He told me critical condition patients are priority. I'm afraid some may have to wait it out.”

  Gabby withdrew her key, resting her head on the door. She honestly felt like screaming, her head pounding. Holding it all in though, she faced the nurse again.

  “Okay, so again, why don't I have access?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. You could bring it up with the lieutenant. He has access as well.”

  What kind of shit is Dad pulling? Only then did Gabby remember where she was supposed to be. Patrick's dilemma would have to wait. Her anger ate away at her, deep inside where no one could see the damage. She didn't even dismiss the nurse, in fact said nothing more to her. She didn't even return to give Patrick the latest update. She couldn’t face him with her failure.

  ***

  Jacob tapped his foot in his restlessness. Alex and Dr. Neeson were with him, all standing next to the locked door. The two remained composed and quiet, but Jacob wasn’t one for subtlety.

  “Where the hell is she?”

  Neither of them responded. They only continued to wait. Then the sound of footsteps was heard coming down the hall. Sure enough, it was Gabby, pulling out the necessary key.

  “What kept you?” Jacob demanded.

  She said nothing in response. The brother and sister both pulled out their keys and inserted them into locks on opposite sides of the door. Simultaneously turning them both, the door opened up for the small group. Alex took his post at the computer, as the other three formed a semi-circle in front of the silent cyborg. It didn’t even look up at them.

  “His vitals are stable,” Alex reported.

  “Will, are you ready to talk?” asked the doctor.

  The dimly lit room was empty of noise, aside from Alex's busy and never ending typing. Jacob was devoid of sympathy for the murderer. Somehow, its silence was even more angering than its voice.

  “It's been two days now. We’re wasting our time, and I refuse to spare this thing any longer,” the lieutenant made his disgust evident, “Alex, shut it down.”