Brock's eyes were bloodshot and his hair a mess, but he had a huge, optimistic smile. Last night be damned, that smile said, today will work itself out.
"Long night, buddy?" Anderson asked him, slapping Brock on the back. Anderson's skimsuit was polished so slick that it glistened in the artificial light of the station. I imagine he smelled like the same damn cologne he wore every day.
"You got it," Brock answered, still all white teeth.
"How 'bout you, big guy?" Anderson continued, turning his smirk to me. "You have a wild time like old Brock?"
I didn't give him a smile, or the satisfaction of a rejoinder. "Just had dinner." I shrugged. "You know me."
"Ri-ight." He chuckled slightly and then rocked back on his heels. "You know, if they're gonna break my flow-" He paused and glanced at Cynthia. "No offense, honey." Then he winked dramatically at Brock. "You know, if they're gonna wake us up so damned early, the least they could do is tell us why."
Ten minutes later, we learned about the enemy's battle group. Twenty minutes later, we were in our ship. Two hours later, we were all dead.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Arthur says that to get beyond living, I need to confront the past. I suspect that he's really just trying to justify the multi-volume memoir he published after uploading. But maybe he's right, and maybe it'll help.
***
Everyone talks about the smell of fear, but that's really just the smell of sweat, which can just as easily be the smell of honest work or sports. You can't smell sweat through a skimsuit, anyway. Still, it's dramatic to say that Brock smelled of fear as we unfolded from our warp cleft. I know I was scared as hell.
What we had been told was a battle group turned out to be a full-fledged fleet. Later, here in the Wheel, we learned that the fleet preceded the arrival of one of their world-burning dreadnoughts and was the vanguard of their last big push against our strongholds. At the time, all I knew was that there were more ships than I had ever seen.
"What are we doing here, Alan?" Brock whispered. "What the hell are we doing here?"
"Stay calm," I answered. "Cynthia, how many are there?"
"The computer's still calculating."
DeLilo cut in, "Captain Salem, permission to reset the engines?"
Before I could answer, Anderson shouted, "Yes, you idiot, do it! I'm turning us around now."
"No," I said softly. "Not until we transmit a warning."
I doubt it made a difference. The enemy frigates probably would have overtaken us whether we had attempted to retreat or not. None of them will admit they blame me. But I know they do.
I had a choice. And that is why we had to stay. We are defined by our sacrifices. Despite what the enemy claims about our decadence and egoism, our freedom gives us to opportunity, the duty, to do what we know is right. To stay and hold the line. Stay despite knowing that if we fled and escaped, the penalty might be discharge, not execution, that DeLilo might hold his wife once again, that Brock might still feel the summer rain.
