J Mauldin - Final Solution

“It’s alright.”

“Sooo, um, yeah,” César cut in, his boyish jaw hard set with stewing fury. He gestured his head to the side. “And this is Private Kelly.”

I extended my hand once more, but this time received a natural handshake. Private Kelly was a short, thick man, with ropey muscles and copious amounts of wily black hair covering his head, arms, and face. He seemed friendly yet cautious. The pinky nail of his right ring finger was long, making me uneasy as it grazed the side of my palm like a dagger.

“Good to meet you, sir,” he said, and let go. From his jumpsuit pocket he immediately removed an old, portrait style tablet, booting it up.

“Wow. You have one of those busted old things?” César asked. “The I9s have got like, big ass shitty batteries, man. Those lithium ions, they blow up over nothing.”

“Hasn’t happened yet,” Kelly snickered.

“Yet,” Griffin put in. “And I haven’t gotten germ-tube flu either. Doesn’t mean it won’t happen.”

“I’ll leave you guys to your work,” I put in, suddenly feeling a little old. “As you were.”

“Sir.” They nodded.

I walked away and could sense Griffin’s attention on my progress. It was nice to be seen again, really seen. It’d been a long time since I’d felt I even existed. But yet, even after just a few steps, all I could think of was Liberty. I knew she was an officer, and this put her off limits from the get go, but I mean… damn. Why did there have to be such an easy opportunity given to me? Jane Griffin was enlisted, just like me, and though discouraged to get entangled, if something did happen there would be no official reprimand.

We could easily…

No, César liked her, I could tell from the get go. I wouldn’t be that guy, swooping down on a socially weaker male to steal his chance at companionship. After all, it wasn’t smart to cock block your assistant, or your friend.

“What the hell is wrong with me,” I mumbled, and began to pound back up the hallway. I went to my quarters and put on the weights. I strapped two hundred twenty-five pounds to my back and arms. I was going to run and run until I didn’t feel that profound emptiness any longer. I wanted not to be alone. I wanted to be normal again. I wanted to feel the warm embrace of another human who needed me as much as I needed them, not the cold desert of an endless, apathetic black. I wanted something real.

Liberty was far too good for me. All the good ones were always too good for me. But I couldn’t blame her. It had to be part of the double X Chromosome that females were attracted to strong and powerful providers, maternal instinct ensure their offspring would be cared for. But I’d never been that guy, the kind of asshole it took to end up on top; and with the way rules were laid out by society, I probably never would.

The lights of the ship flashed yellow, signaling the crew another firing solution was eminent. A rail gun was powering up.

“César?” I called into my watch, pausing to take deep breaths. I’d made six laps already and not even realized it. My arms are shiny with sweat.

“S eñor ?”

“You got this yellow alert? Or do you need help?”

“ Si, señor . I got it. I’ll see you on duty in three hours.”

My watch alarm went off. Two of the ion thrusters were below ninety percent efficiency. I’d needed to check on them as soon as I was done. A change in acceleration, even that small, could be bad news.

“Affirmative,” I told César, and put back on my headphones, cranking up my 20th Century Rock and Roll playlist until my ears bled.

When this mission was over I was done for good, Liberty or not. Maybe I’d have enough dough to sit back and guzzle Mr. Kensel’s gin all day and night, watching the sun rise and fall over the red planet till I pickled myself like dad. Maybe I’d get a couple skimmers of my own, tune ’em up real nice and race professionally. The circuit was small as it was, but paid well, and the women, forget about it, they were practically given out at races like popcorn. It’s just too bad they’re gold digging witches.

Wait, that’s not fair. I’m just… damn. What is wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with me?

We were attacked in short intervals for a solid week. It seemed that every five or six hours alerts went off in waves, but surely, it couldn’t have been quite that often. The enemy would have run empty far too fast. The generally accepted tactic in this manner of combat was to save forty percent of your weapon’s payload for a close range engagement. At this rate, and at a distance of over eight AU, they’d be out in days. There was no way of telling how many bullets were in their gun. It was certainly possible for them to have an absurd amount of ammo, however, unlikely. The Razor was bristling with radioactive energy, clear as day, but all signs pointed to bombs, not batteries. Just like us.

Despite missing every single time they fired, the psychological effects these attacks had on the crew were profound. All of us were edgy as it was, prompting us to shout at one another from time to time for no particular reason. When the alarms went off, the crew sprang to action, attending to their automatic tasks without question, only to collapse soon after. Some were tougher than others, like Devins, internalizing their fears to temper them into steel, but a few, César included, Doc had to put on anxiety meds to cope. This was normal for an operation, and wouldn’t get any better till the job was done. Hell, maybe not even then. PTSD was a serious concern, costing the lives of many Brethren who survived battle, only to convince them years later that eating lead for dinner was a good idea.

I knew we had to protect ourselves or be killed, but there was a part of me that couldn’t shake the idea that man wasn’t meant to kill one another. Whatever universal rules God had set forth at the dawn of time were a series of checks and balances. The more blood on your hands, the heavier your side of the scale. For this reason, ancient man made sacrifices, taking lambs to slaughter on an altar before God, hoping an act of transferred violence would suffice in appeasing his rage over our indiscretions. But that never made sense to me. We were the perpetrators, we were the sinners, we were the weights that pressed down the scales. How could an innocent lamb pay a blood price for these mistakes? I knew I wasn’t the best person, hadn’t been since I was a naïve little kid. No sacrifice could ever change that. Death would be a waste, a sin into itself.

But there was one thing that just might work. I could make a positive difference in a single life. Maybe then, I could right the scales. Maybe then I would be worth something to someone, not just a poor engineer, son of a drunk, who’d made a string of stupid mistakes.

It’s too bad that none of us will know the truth until the end. Until our time has come and the scales have been balanced, the weight of our soul lifted by God and placed into the Cold Well. I hoped my acts of goodwill prove greater than all the bad. We are man and woman, made of water and soul, and to water we will return, life and essence for our future children that they may be born of our physical purgatory. And by their birth, we will be set free, our souls to roam the cosmos in search of glory and peace.

I bowed beside my bunk and prayed for the first time in a long time. “Dear God, may my body turn to water and return life to mankind. May my soul have forgiveness and be led into your embrace. If I die before tomorrow, may others be a holy portamento, an offering of humble light leading to you.” I made the sign of the cross over my chest and stood, kissing my hand and touching it to my forehead.