-1- Unrequited
“…I think she went to camp in Corpus. Maris was unhappy at first, but she liked to be near the coast. She’d never even seen the ocean before then. Wait I think I have her photo.”
The gray haired old woman paused to show an image of her granddaughter.Her red hair pulled into a ponytail, the RLA flag waving behind her. She stared indifferently at the camera.
Kenneth Maxwell didn’t turn to see the picture.
He sat with his dark shades over his eyes, staring out the window as the elevated train speed through the desert. The dome of Ft. Perch now mercifully in sight.
This was what he hated about the officer's uniform. It stood out in the civilian world and grieving parents and spouses thought it was open season to tell him about their drafted loved ones.
He’d much preferred the venomous reactions. They felt more sincere. A group of young men at the Dresden Air Field had to told him to fuck off and a woman had tried to spit in his face on the plane.
“Those bastards shot her company’s plane out of the sky for no reason,” the woman continued. “Her full name was Maris Doning. Did you know her?”
Maxwell shakes his head
“Was it worth it?” she asked, her voice suddenly hard.
Maxwell knew enough to know this woman’s granddaughter’s plane wasn’t shot down for no reason. It’d most likely been carrying illegal bombs or stolen items. This conflict was a messy conflict and the RLA was far from pure.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Maxwell said dryly and stands to signal the train to stop.
He was getting off three stops early, but he needed to get away. Ft. Perch had become the RLA Headquarters and he was able to blend in better once he was on the ground. The citizens who lived here could afford to buy out of the draft and there was less hostility towards the RLA.
He reached into his pocket and took the last inhale of
cannibas. He’d built up some tolerance, but it still made him feel carefree about the fact that he was
going to a review panel where he would likely be fired. His lips burned
with the memory of the morning . It was a mistake and he hoped Haley was smart enough
not to tell anyone.
For now Maxwell had to push it out of his head, afraid the evidence would show on his face.
As he rounds the last block he is met by the architectural feat of glass and steel that was the RLA Headquarters. The building rises well above the tallest skyscraper in the old skyline and runs two city blocks. Two bolstering flags stand on either side of the gold stair way.
Maxwell takes the stairs slowly, but his heart still begins to race. Pausing at the sliding door he refastens the Purple Heart and waits patiently through three body scans before being allowed inside.
The vast atrium of Headquarters always reminded him of the courthouse with the murmured voices and clacks of heels on marble.
“Sergeant!,” a female voice calls in his direction.
Maxwell turns and for a moment it feels like the world had slowed. His brain was playing catch up to reconcile with what he was seeing. It was as if his past and present has collided in a lopsided way he couldn’t interpret.
Her copper curls and dimples were exactly the same but he checks the name plate to be sure. The bars below her lapel catch him by surprise.
Lt. Winthrop
“Ma’am,” he salutes her.
“At ease,” Cassia says and then smirks.
He hadn’t seen Cassia Wintrhop since the third year of law school when they’d had their final break up, he had no idea where she’d gone off too after graduation.
“You look great,” he tells her.
“You look better than I expected,” she smiles. “I’d like to have a late lunch with you--”
“I can’t. I have a meeting--”
“I know,” she cuts him off. “I had your meeting moved to later. I made us reservations at the Officer’s Lounge.”
Maxwell glances just over her eyes to see if he can see any reflection of her Syndicate in her eyes. He can make out the outline of a tracking ware.
“You’ve been waiting for me,” he says. “What the hell is going on ?,”
“Nothing. Come on, I’m famished,” she says and walks towards the elevator.
-2-
He follows her to the elevator, his eyes lingered on the generous amount of her toned legs displayed by her uniform skirt. He’d never seen the uniform worn with such high heels. Cassia swipes her wrist on the elevator censor and hits the button for the 100th floor; the top floor.
She raises an eyebrow at him as the elevator ascends. He
remembers the countless times he’d spent pressed against her in campus elevators,
his fingers tangled in her curls, him begging her for release.
It also reminds him of how long it had been since he’d slept with anyone.
The doors pull open to a short hallway, on one end of the hall was a large mahogany door with an engraved RLA crest and two heavily armed guards outside. The name Major General Barrister-Finch was engraved in gold above an RLA insignia.
On the opposite side of the hall a pair of open doors led to the Officer’s Lounge.
The Officer's Lounge patrons were lieutenants, majors and generals who gave Cassia acknowledging looks, but she didn’t salute any of them. She walks through the dining room to the expansive outdoor balcony that was lined with tables.
While Cassia chooses a booth Maxwell wanders to the edge of the balcony. There is no physical barrier but when the toes of his shoes touch the edge a weight censor pushes him back. Looking down he can see most of Ft. Perch sprawled before him. An artistic arrangement of holograms, towering edifices and strategically placed Greco style buildings. It is beautiful.
He imagines having this view every day and it gives him
both a sense of longing and disquiet.
Turning his back to the view he joins Cassia at the corner table.
“You seem to have done well for yourself, lieutenant,” he says hoping she can’t detect his bitterness.
Cassia swipes through the holographic menu and quickly chooses two meals and drinks without giving Maxwell a second look.
“Dad was smart and joined the ranks of the RLA early. He’s one of Barrister-Finch’s advisors and recommended me for the post. I’m second in command of the Judiciary Department.”
Daddy’s girl as always he thinks but doesn’t say.
“So you know why I am here?,” he asks.
“I do. And your superior asked me to speak to you--”
“Hinkley knows about us ?,” he asks, his voice more tense than he meant.
“Monterrey College wasn’t that big,” she says. “People talk--”
“Shit.”
“Relax, Ken, She just knows we were acquainted. It’s not like I told her about you had a fondness for leather and ball gags--”
“You mean you had a fondness-”
“Right. Because I put a knife to your neck--”
“If I’m not mistaken you did.”
“Once--”
“We shouldn’t be talking about this,” he say catching himself falling into familiarity with her. “I assume everything anyone says in this place is recorded.”
“It is. But not in here,” she says with a satisfied smile.
“Can we get back to business ?,” he asks.
“Right,” she says. “First you need to know you won’t be fired or court martialed.”
The news doesn’t give him the relief he expects.
She smiles and continues.
“In fact my analysts have found your RCP Center has the lowest recidivism rate of all 10 pilot sites.”
“RCP ?”
“Remote Correctional Productivity Center”
“You mean prison camp ?”
She bristled at the term, the practiced bureaucrat she was, but kept going.
“The higher ups like your results. A Capital Development Unit is being deployed as we speak. They're building you a real admin office and quarters. We are also allocating some of the space for boot camp for enlistees to give your Corporals some leadership opportunities.”
“What are you hiding ?,” he asks. “If I'm doing such a good job and they just want to give me shiny new things why did I have to come all the way out here ?"
“Well,” she sighs. “They need you to sign a binding renewable 7 year contract to lead the operation.”
“I’m not doing---,” he says.
The server nervously circles the table with their meals and two martini glasses. Cassia signals him over to drop off the plates. In the few seconds of silence, as a salad lands in front of him, Maxwell’s frustration turns to anger. When the waiter leaves Cassia beats him to the first words.
“Listen, Ken--”
“No you listen. I refuse--”
“Don’t interrupt me , Sergeant,” she commands.
She’s pulling rank on him. He stares her down powerlessly.
“One of the reasons you have the lowest recidivism rate is because two boys died in your camp. They can't commit crimes, so we call it a win. The RLA covered those up for you and do you know why ? Because you know about Operation Risen Sun and how the RLA got it's own espionage team killed by mistake--,”
“You knew I was on that mission ?”
“Of course I do. I know everything. You shot your own pilot--”
“I should not have been there--”
“But you were, Sergeant. Not to mention you used to work for Julian Walker, who committed the most notorious act of treason in the world--”
“I was only a fellow. Does the RLA really think he told me he was trying to sell the country to the East ?,”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s all about optics.”
“Optics ?,” he says. “ I see. The RLA is keeping me in its ranks to keep an eye on me, but also sending me so far out of the way they never have to see my face. All while I do all the dirty work. What if I don’t sign the contract?”
She nods her head and picks up the fork and slices through bright red tuna.
“Then we pick our favorite charge we swept under the table and keep you in an underground military prison forever.”
She picks up her the martini glass—the drink is most likely a sapphire sin, a drink she claimed to have invented but he'd seen it on the menu at a resort in Atlantis. She motions for him to pick up his glass and she clinks glasses before draining half of hers.
Maxwell takes a sip out of habit, even though it's gin--which he hates. He knows she knows he hates gin.
“Let’s say I sign this contract,” he says. “What happens when the Conflict ends in a couple years ? What happens when there is no RLA ?”
She smiles over the glass.
“You’re so sweet,” she says in a condescending voice.
“Excuse me ?”
“ At my last count the RLA is making 10,234 demands of the East. This Conflict, although lets just say it, war, is never going to be over. The RLA is making a shit ton of money, crime in the Sprawl is actually down and Merry loves the power. ”
“Merry ?,” he questions
And she laughs the infectious laugh that make his lips quirk.
“Dad thinks the RLA will just take over the government anyway so it’s best to be on their good side. Besides Ken I know you, you like power and you’ll have that at the RCP, here you’d be just another subordinate. Trust me, working here isn't that glamorous, I have people up my ass all day.”
“I’ll be 40 when the contract ends,” he says. “I wouldn’t have accomplished anything.”
“40 isn’t that old,” she says “And I didn’t even tell you about the raise.”
“You don’t get it, Cas. You wear your heels, have restaurant meals and go out on the weekend. I’m in the middle of fucking nowhere on my own...It’s doing things to me.”
“It will be fine, Ken. I think it will be good for you. You’re single, you don’t have kids, you never visit your family. It’s better you than someone else. Besides you can probably negotiate a few sabbaticals.”
She scraps at the last of the tuna and moves to the vegetables.
“I don’t want to talk shop anymore--,” she declares.
“Shop is all I have,” he retorts
“Come on.”
“Fine,” he says. “If you knew about Operation Risen Sun and that that I was injured how come you never visited me in the hospital?”
Her fork fumbles.
“I’m terrible--,” she admits. “I was just… busy.”
“You were busy for 9 months ?”
She sighs.
“I’m sorry. I really am.”
“I’m staying the weekend in Ft. Perch. I still have a condo in Pacific Bay… if you’d like to come by. I’m sure you’d love to pull rank on me again.”
She gives him a withering look and raises her left hand to reveal a large wedding ring. He wondered if his subconscious been intentionally ignoring it.
“Of course,” he sighs. “Who is he?,”
“You don’t know him. He’s a district judge.”
“Does he let you do the things you did to me ?”
“He lets me do a lot of things you’ll never hear about,” she laughs.
A beep sounds in his Syndicate and an alert tells him his review will begin with the Undersecretary of Arms in 30 minutes. He hears the same alert go off in Cassia’s syndicate.
“I know this isn’t the career you wanted,” she says. “Hell, I don’t think any of us could have predicted the RLA, but this is a chance for you to do some good. Don’t forget; we're the good guys.”
***
20 minutes
Kenneth Maxwell had spent 2 hours in a transport van, 5 hours on a plane and 1 hour on a train for a review that only lasted 20 minutes.
General Hinkley and the Undersecretary sat on one end of a table, with lawyers sat on either side as they explained the terms of his contract. He didn’t even try to look like he didn’t know exactly what was coming. At the end Hinkley slid a printed contract over to him and told him to bring it back on Monday either way.
He’d gone back to his condo, it was an renovated efficiency filled with the expensive things he’d never had a chance to use. The clothes in the closet were too small, from before he started working out.
He could go and see his parents, but then he’d have to explain that he’d be living in the middle of the desert for the next few years and they’d tell him to give it all up. They’d fight and then his mother would try and patch it all up just in time for him to leave.
He could finish his trip down nostalgia land see his last lover, the civil liberties law professor who introduced the word ultra-barbiturate into his vocabulary. But he doubted the older man would seem as appealing as he once did.
Slamming the door shut, Maxwell strips off the uniform and leaves it piled on the floor. He finds two dusty bottles of
bourbon on his liqour cabinet. After rinsing out a shot
glass he walks out the sliding doors to his outdoor patio. The view made up half the cost of
the condo. The building was located on the edge of the city and the patio overlooked nothing but the rolling Pacific Blue Ocean—giving the
effect the building was right in the middle of the sea
Not having any balcony furniture, Maxwell spread out on the floor. He ran his fingers over the RLA tattoos and brands on his body. He’d gotten them in basic training when he and his cohort of other officers-in-training were amped on adrenaline and testosterone. They’d been told they’d be leaders and would change the world if they showed their loyalty to the RLA. Maxwell never liked the idea of fucking with his own body, but he’d become addicted in those few months.
Tilting his head up he tipped the first shot of bourbon to his lips.
When he’d drained the 12th he could feel the sound of the ocean and alcohol lulling him to sleep. He opened his Syndicate and sent Audrina a message
You won’t be getting rid of my ass so easily.
----
SHV: Did we write a chapter about our fictional futuristic bureaucracy ?
Muse: I mean... yeah. Making up titles is fun! Now, let's take it to 10 and make an org chart for the RLA---
SHV: Why am I actually considering this ?