Guardian (War Angel Book 1) by David Hallquist (best contemporary novels .TXT) 📕

origin of the replicator nanotechnology was based on Jupiter’s medical nanotechnology that they’d been giving to asteroid settlements around the Belt.”

WHAT! But—

“A Jovian fleet has been sighted at the asteroid, and fighting has been observed.” The image shifted to a grainy, long distance telescopic view of Eros, with a bunch of glowing blue dots moving around it and occasional sparks of light. At least they got an actual video of the fighting. Then, it zooms in more to show a fuzzy image of my frame firing the missile that stopped the Saturnine ship before it got away. Pretty good shooting for a half-blind man, if I say so myself.

“Here, we have evidence of the Jovian Navy firing on an unarmed civilian ship, killing all aboard.”

WHAT!

“Truly, the entire solar system is now wondering, is there anything Jupiter won’t do to cover up their acts?”

Enough of this. I turn it off.

I stare at the ceiling some more.

“I want to see Bertrand,” I announce.

“I’m afraid that’s inadvisable at this time, Lieutenant,” the medical chair replies in a soft and friendly voice, with just a hint of regret.

“Chair,” I bite out, “you’re going to release me to visit the injured, or I’m going to tear my way out of these tubes—with my teeth if I have to.”

“That would be highly unsafe, as well as most irregular, Lieutenant,” the chair protests soothingly.

I argue with the piece of furniture until we reach a compromise, and the chair relents to straighten up and roll me out of the room.

* * *

I’ve seen the other four members of Bertrand’s flight. One was fast asleep, but the others were clear enough. They said they’ll be flying again soon, and I believe them.

Now, for the harder part.

Dashiell Bertrand is enmeshed in more tubes and wires that I was and is being treated in his own room. He’s lying reclined, and not moving. Soft sounds come from the various medical devices attached all over his body.

I nod for my chair to roll closer.

He’s awake!

No…he’s not.

His eyes are open… but sightless, staring up past the ceiling at something only he can see. He doesn’t move or do anything to acknowledge my existence. His face is a mask of terror and anguish. A single tear pools in one eye.

Don’t make me feel sorry for you, you son of a bitch.

Too late.

Somewhere, way down deep inside, he’s still out there in the darkness with the terror and madness, fighting it. I was in that empty void for only a few seconds, and it almost ended me. His battle is still going on out there…somewhere.

He may be a complete pain in the ass, but he’s fought the enemy face to face, and he’s taken a worse hit than any of us. Whatever came before, he’s certainly one of us now.

A dark, evil part of my mind whispers to me that the Saturn virus spread from his frame to infect his flight, and then me. That if he’d maintained security properly, none of this would have happened. Perhaps if he’d brought his flight into action and released them from the tight-beam communications linkup, the virus wouldn’t have spread, or he might not have been identified as the prime target for it in the first place. Maybe if…

Shut the Hell up!

The shame of such thoughts burns me. I regret my casual contempt toward the man, who’d been doing what he thought best. But no, I knew better, so I’d given him only a surface-level of obedience and support. Maybe if we’d supported him all along and really helped him, he wouldn’t have felt so detached from his command that he’d isolated himself as a target. As for there even being a “we,” I’d remained distant and unhelpful when he was trying to help, in his own way. Maybe if I’d actually worked with him and advised him, he wouldn’t have felt the need to dive into bureaucracy and become distant from the men of his command. Over time, we’d stopped respecting him as we should have. How much of that was my fault for not setting an example as a leader?

If I’d supported him, maybe our whole squadron would have worked together as a better team. Instead, I did just what I had to do, and in so doing, let an atmosphere of subtle contempt fester. Now, maybe it’s too late to fix it.

“Fight it!” I say to him. “Fight this dammed thing.”

Nothing.

I lean in as much as my protesting chair will allow. “Come back to us, sir. We’re here, waiting for you. I’m right here next to you. The darkness, the fear, it’s all lies. I’m right next to you…all you have to do is come and see.”

Still nothing.

“We need you, sir. Your experience, your knowledge…they’re valuable. We’re stronger together, with you. Come back, help us fight this. We’ll beat it…together, we can.”

Absolutely nothing at all.

Time passes without measure. I have no idea how long I wait there for something that will likely never come. There are no clocks on the walls, my augments are down, and I don’t really want to know for how long.

Eventually, the medical staff shoos me away for the next round of treatments.

God be with you Dashiell, wherever you are.

* * *

Now that they’ll finally let me walk, I’m visiting my Angel.

Griffon is hung up on cables in the repair bay—what’s left of him, anyway. Most of the armor is ablated away, leaving an ugly, scarred, grayish material scored with black patches, deep, long scratches, and punctured here and there with a multitude of holes. A gaping hole in the chest shows the inside of the burned cockpit. Only my armored flight suit kept me from being burned to a crisp. The wings, power plant, and flight pack are missing, of