Chapter 1: Honored Dead
The musky stench of cheap beer filled the dimly lit bar. No music played as a
heavy weight pressed on everyone inside. Lance kicked back his twelfth shot; it burned just as
bad as the first. Wincing, he slammed the glass upside down on the worn, wooden bar top. He
looked at his hand; there was no tingling, no delay to his movements, no muting of the sound
Dexter made when the grenades went off.
He turned to Justin, holding a pint with both hands. He finished chugging it before
slamming it down. He pointed at the salt and peppered bartender, then at the cup. After giving a
drink to an S4 member, he walked over to Justin, grabbed the pint and started to fill it.
“I bet you’re making a fortune today,” Justin said with a slur.
“No S4,” the bartender looked at Lance. “Or former S4 gets charged today.”
As he filled up the cup, he set it down in front of Justin, who immediately started
chugging again.
“You put beer away faster than anyone I’ve ever seen,” Lance mused, leaning
against the bar.
“Just because I have a small body doesn’t mean I have a small belly!” Justin said,
wiping his face.
“Just try not to get alcohol poisoning.”
“Me? You’re the one with half a bottle of tequila in your system.”
“Yeah, but the stupid Predecessor upgrades aren’t letting me feel it,” Lance
countered.
He turned, leaning backward on the bar as he looked at every S4 team that still
existed. They all were missing at least one member; some only had one left. The bar door swung
open, letting in the blinding daylight and causing everyone to wince. As it shut, Leon Warder
stood in front of the men. In the blink of an eye, everyone, aside from Justin and Lance, were on
their feet, at attention.
“As you were,” Leon ordered.
Everyone returned to their drinks as the Admiral walked toward the bar. He
motioned to the bartender, who poured him three fingers of whisky. As he approached his son,
he took the cup and threw back the entire drink.
“Final counts are in,” he said softly.
“How many this time?” Lance asked, turning back around, looking at his father.
“One thousand, two hundred and half the S4. Everyone who went rogue had the
Class C C.R.I.S.P.R. shot.”
“That’s what I figured,” Lance said as he pinched the bridge of his nose and shut
his eyes. “Even though they’re all gone, the Veles found one last way to stick a dagger between
the ribs.”
“The billion-dollar question is, how’d they figure out how to hack the synthetics
of the shot?”
“They knew how to manipulate Predecessor tech, and once you get your head
around that, there’s not much you can’t do,” Lance replied, glancing around the bar. “What
happens to those who are left?”
“We’re looking at disbanding the S4 and sending them back to their respective
squads.”
“Don’t,” Lance countered, shaking his head. “They’re fractured. If you disband
them, they’ll break entirely. They’re angry and want someone to pay, but there’s no one left to
punish.”
“What do you propose we do, then?” Leon asked.
“Turn them into a hammer, galvanize them together, don’t just have them be
squads of four, make them their own platoon and point them at the Cytes.”
Leon scoffed and shook his head.
“Look, I may believe you about them, some of the Alcazar might believe you
about them, but I’m going to level with you. Because you declined to be reinstated as an S4 or a
S.O.A.T. and decided to remain a mercenary, none of your reports are being taken seriously. No
one in any form of power is going to take your reports seriously, and that includes any
retroactive mention of the Cytes as well.”
Lance’s heart sank. He flicked his thumbs as he looked at his father up and down,
tilting his head to the side.
“And what about you?” he asked. “Do you take my reports seriously?”
“I do, but I’m also catching a lot of heat for how many times I’ve bent the rules
for you,” Leon replied. “They’ve opened an investigation on me. I could lose my job, my access
and every contact I’ve made if they find out exactly how much I’ve helped you.”
Leon tapped Lance’s multi-tool. Anger flared in the former soldier. He pulled the
device off his forearm and slammed it down on the bar in front of his father. Everyone fell silent
as they looked at both men.
“Ohhh, the fan just got hit,” Justin drunkenly whispered.
“Fine, take it back, then. I’d hate for you to lose your precious job,” Lance snarled
before pointing at the S4 in the room. “Swear to me you’ll look after these men and women, that
you’ll keep them together.”
“Lance, I can’t...” Leon started while motioning to the bartender.
“If you break them up, I can promise you that this time next year, this room is
going to be a lot more empty. Do you really want that on your conscience?” Lance interrupted.
Leon’s head dropped; he shook his head.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he muttered as three more fingers of whisky was set in
front of him.
“Don’t sound so defeated, Dad,” Lance said, grabbing the glass.
One of the drunken S4 members climbed onto a table, faced Lance and raised his
glass.
“Who’s like us?!” he shouted.
“Damn few!” Lance shouted back.
He threw his dad’s drink back, set the glass down and looked his father in the eye.
“And they’re all dead,” he added.
Pushing off the bar, Lance looked at Justin, still half a pint in hand.
“I’ll be out when I’m done,” the pilot slurred.
Lance nodded before making his way to the bar door. He looked at the S4
paraphernalia and photos that littered the walls, going as far back as the first squad. Beer stains
covered nearly every inch of the structure, with the occasional replaced board trying to play
catch up here and there.
As he reached the door. He placed his hand on it, turning back to the remaining
S4 before looking at his father, who kept his back toward Lance. Clenching his jaw, he shook his
head, pushing on the door. As it cracked, daylight flooded in once more, catching the heavy dust
floating in the air.
“Any S4 who wishes to join the Obsidian Nightbirds, my channel will always be
open, and there will always be a bunk for you,” Lance announced.
Pushing the door open, Lance walked out onto the patio. A chorus of men and
women’s muffled cheers sounded through the ramshackle building at his offer. Lance squinted
while his eyes adjusted to the daylight. Once they did, he saw a large, black car with several
military police around it parked next to a cherry red hover car.
“Are you okay?” Valdivia asked.
He looked to his right to see the elegant, adventurously dressed Jarog in a rocking
chair with her legs crossed.
“I may or may not have just invited all of the S4 to join the Obsidian Nightbirds,”
Lance said.
“That was reckless,” Valdivia replied as she stood up.
“The military wants to break them up. These men and women can’t handle that
right now.”
Valdivia walked over toward him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, resting
her head against his chest. Warmth and safety washed over the former soldier at her contact.
Lance embraced her, resting his cheek against the top of her head.
“Are you going to be okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” Lance replied.
“You know what fine stands for?”
“Freaked out, insecure, neurotic and emotional,” Lance replied. “I’m the one who
taught you that.”
Valdivia leaned back. She looked him in the eyes, her smooth skin crinkled over
her brow as the fronds on the side of her head drooped.
“But are you actually fine, or F-I-N-E?”
“I’ll be okay.”
They released each other. Lance took her hand as they made their way to the car.
“Do I need to drive?” Valdivia asked.
“I’m not drunk,” Lance replied. “Not even tipsy thanks to my little upgrade.”
Valdivia pulled the keys from her shorts and handed them to him. Immediately,
one of the military police stepped in front of them, placing a hand on Lance’s chest.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you drive, sir,” the M.P. said.
Lance looked at the man’s hand on his chest, then back to the officer.
“We’re not on a base, I’m not part of the military anymore, you have no
jurisdiction on me.”
“That may be, but I can’t let you drive in your condition.”
“I’m not drunk,” Lance countered as anger started to boil in his gut. “Now take
your hand off me, or you’ll need a cybernetic replacement.”
The other M.P.’s hands went to their side arms. Valdivia’s fronds lifted, vibrating
slightly. The military police relaxed. The man in front of Lance lowered his hand.
“Shall I pass?” Lance asked.
The military police officer took a step to the side. Lance looked at Valdivia and
gave her a soft smile. They made their way to the car. He opened her door, letting her in the
passenger side before making his way to the driver’s and getting in.
“Were you really going to take his hand off?” Valdivia asked.
“If he didn’t stop touching me?” Lance started the car and put it into gear.
“Absolutely. Thank you for de-escalating them.”
“I’d have de-escalated you, but you’re almost impossible to get a read on now.”
Lance smirked as they drove off. He saw Calvin sitting in front of the Green Tail
among a grove of trees with a book in hand.
“How’s Justin holding up?” Valdivia asked.
“He lost one of his best friends. We’re the last of the people we went through
training with. I don’t imagine he’ll be bouncing back any time soon.”
“You saw it happen. How is your bounce back?”
Lance gripped the wheel as he kept an eye on the speedometer. His foot screamed
to be pushed all the way down. Fighting that urge with all his might, Lance kept the car within
the speed limit.
“We’ve got bigger things to worry about,” Lance said. “I can mourn the dead
later. If I get distracted, I may end up in the ground with Michael, Mattias, Dexter and
Crestbow.”
He let go of the wheel with one of his hands. Extending it to Valdivia, she took it,
holding it tightly in her lap.
“The only way I know you’re safe is if I’m alive. I won’t let myself get distracted
until the Cytes are dealt with.”
Lance turned off the road. As he drove into a field, where the Obsidian Nightbird
and Gladius were on the ground, waiting for them. He parked behind the tank in the cargo bay of
the Obsidian Nightbird.
Valdivia was the first out of the car. Lance shut it off. He looked into the back,
memories of surfboards flooding his mind before he stepped out as well. He shut his door and
locked it, looking at Akta behind the armory bar.
“Are you sure you want that posting?” Lance asked.
“I like working on weapons. Where’s a better place for me to do it?” the Tardig
asked.
Lance gave the man a thumbs-up as he and Valdivia entered the elevator.
Selecting the medical bay, they stepped out upon reaching the deck. Valdivia took Lance’s hand,
holding it tightly as they walked into the med bay.
Keppler and Kolar lay in bed, unconscious, hooked up to stem cells. Charred
marks from an explosion covered the walls and ceilings as they made their way to the back of the
ship. Amber stood over a comatose Stephanie, monitoring her with a data pad. Lance handed the
physician her keys.
“How’s she doing?” Lance asked.
“The reduction of the C.R.I.S.P.R. shots in her system is the only reason she’s
alive,” Amber replied. “Thankfully, she grabbed that wire before she was compelled to get into
our vital systems. The problem is we won’t know how much brain damage she has from the
shock, or from what was left of the shot in her system until she wakes up. If she ever does.”
“She’ll wake up,” Lance said softly.
He looked at his friend. Electric burns stretched from under her gown, up her neck
and across part of her face. Her breathing was quick and shallow with the monitor showing her
heart rate was elevated.
“She has to wake up,” he added. ...
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