Reapers: The Shadow Soldiers (6 page)

“I’ve had this conversation before,” he grumbled. “You’re trying to lower my defenses, trying to lure me in!” he shouted.
 

Control continued speaking calmly. “I understand your apprehensions, but I assure you this mission is nothing like those of your past. What I’m offering you here may be complicated, and it may not be what you had planned, but it’s truly in your best interest. What you need more than anything, more than pills and more than whiskey, Mr. Burns, is hope. Belief that everything will be okay.” Burns still looked away from Control’s gaze. He didn’t want to get involved, and he didn’t want to have to deal with the mess that this would create.

Looking back down at the bed though, with its displaced sheets and repugnant stains, he began to feel poor again.
 

Who was he kidding? You can’t make a mess of something that is already spilled. This life here was nothing, and if Control thought he was someone important, then who was he to decline? The truth was, besides Lagona, Control was just about the only person in the past few years who cared enough about Burns to talk to him—let alone get to know his name. Despite his position and what he was asking of Burns, it was reassuring.
 

“I’ll go,” Burns blurted suddenly. “I’ll do the mission. Whatever it is you have lined up, I’ll do it,” he ensured. Control gained a pleased smile.

“Excellent,” he assured. “I promise you, this is the right thing to do. We depart tomorrow, so you had better get some rest and finish off that bottle of wine. It’ll be the last drink you have for quite some time.”
 

Burns looked back at the tall, velvet bottle sitting on the nightstand. He felt like he owed the man a drink, but when he looked back up to offer an invitation, he was gone.

Burns shook his head. It was typical. When you didn’t want Control around, he persisted, yet when you wanted to make amends, he disappeared.
 

Stepping over the pills strewn on the ground, Burns decided to take Control’s advice and finish off the expensive wine. At around the third or fourth glass, he passed out cold again. Only this time, his sleep was filled with nothing but peace.
 

FRACTURED PAST: PART I

Medical Camp 23, Fort Hermara, Mardius, 20 years and 4 standard months prior

Her carrot-colored hair draped over her head like a wildfire. As she redressed his wounds, her careful face was fixed in a concentrated position. The wounds still hurt, so much so that he could barely move, but having her made everything feel okay. It didn’t matter that the medical tent was patchy and dripped with rain, it didn’t matter that the air was filled with the screams of dying men, and it didn’t even matter that the seconds were filled with an unbearable pain. None of those things mattered because he had her.
 

Through his naive and young eyes, Ben Burns thought he could take on the galaxy. He failed to recount how easy it was to become unimportant. After being shot up and left for dead, no one thought he’d pull through. No one but a medic named Evelyn Wescott. She was there for him when he needed someone to be.
 

It wasn’t without cost. When your commanding officer calls it, and you disagree, especially when your squad is taking fire, it usually ends in court-martial. However, the Major had yet to sentence her. He was a friend of Burns’ illustrious father, and he decided it best if she was assigned to help the young man recover before any punishment was given.
 

It would be a long journey—he was in bad shape—but she gladly took it with him. He couldn’t quite muscle through the pain long enough to say thanks, but he figured she knew how he felt.
 

As she continued to redress the wounds on his bare chest, Burns moved his eyes down to get a glance at the wound. He could feel it burning profusely, but he’d never actually gotten a look at it.
 

His imagination painted an ugly picture. He’d taken three rifle rounds to the chest. He didn’t exactly know how she revived him, but she had to have done some digging. One thing was for sure: it would definitely leave a mark. Despite his best efforts, he still couldn’t see the injuries completely.
 

Unintentionally, these attempts at a glance caused him to notice that a man had entered the tent. Seconds later, Evelyn heard his boots crunch on a few rocks scattered about the ground, and, thinking it was the guard coming to retrieve her, finished redressing Burns’ wounds as best she could. She then stood upright, straightening out her white holding-cell fatigues.
 

Only this man wasn’t the guard. Burns didn’t actually know who he was. He wore the same standard issue gray tactical pants as Burns, but his chest was covered only by body armor. He had a dark face, black goatee, and his head was completely shaved. Evelyn realized this and relaxed.
 

“Ah, Jonathon Gambi,” she said, seeming to know the man. The man silently greeted her as he approached them.

“Forgive my intrusion,” he wished, speaking in a thick accent. Burns assumed he was one of the Mardians who’d remained loyal to his government after they decided to join the Dominion. “I do not wish to badger a sick man, but I must ask some questions about the ambush,” the man explained. Burns nodded compliantly back to him as he painfully tried to sit upright. Eve instinctively grabbed his shoulders as he struggled. Her hands were cold on his bare skin.
 

“What is it?” she asked, covering for Burns on account of his collapsed lung.
 

“All I require is a mark on a map,” the man answered, pulling out a tattered map and handing it over. Burns grimaced as he pulled his arm up and pointed to the location his unit had been patrolling prior to the attack. The man smiled as he pulled the map aside and marked it with a pen. He then folded the map and pocketed it once more.
 

“Thank you, this is much appreciated,” he told him, still with his thick accent. Burns nodded back as the man moved to leave. Only, Evelyn caught him.

“I thought you were an undercover agent? What do you have to do with a map?” she asked.
 

“It’s a new assignment. I’m working on infiltrating the resistance hideout in that area. If I succeed, I believe the whole region will become pacified, and as such, one further step to Mardius becoming united,” he answered.
 

“Be careful,” Burns warned, the forced words causing a sporadic sensation of pain throughout his chest. Noticing his pain, Evelyn began doing what she could for him.
 

“He’s right,” she added while still working on Burns, “that whole area was littered with explosives,” she told him.
 

Gambi bowed his head. “Then I must ascertain a way to disarm them,” he assured. “Thank you for the information. I bid you farewell,” he wished again as he gave a hearty nod and then promptly exited the tent.
 

Burns was alone with Eve once more. He painfully slumped back down so she could finish the redressing of his wounds. It didn’t take that long, and soon the actual guard had come to retrieve her.
 

Without Evelyn’s presence, the wounds flared up a bit, making life difficult to live for Burns. It was always the worst when she was gone. He wished he would have gotten more time with her and was frustrated that the intrusion cost him precious minutes, but he knew that she’d be back. That was the silver lining in every bout of pain—it meant he still had months left with her before they split ways for good.
 

SYNCOPATE

A breath of recirculated air flowed through Burns’ nostrils as he awoke. Before he had even opened his eyes, he could feel the all too familiar symptoms of a hangover throughout his body. He was weak, his tongue was dry, and it felt like someone had used his head as a drum.

Opening his eyes, a stark-white ceiling with bright lights overwhelmed him, causing everything to become ten times worse.
 

He rolled over and waited for the pain to wear off. It was clear that this wasn’t the trashy Tamberbuilt apartment he’d passed out in, but whatever it was, it was quite possibly the worst place to spend a morning with a hangover—and that was after he’d awoken in a trash-filled alley the day before.
 

Sitting up slowly on a hard bed with no sheets, he squinted his eyes. It didn’t look like anybody else was in the room. In fact, it didn’t look like
anything
else was in the room. It was bleak and empty, like some sort of purgatory.
 

He threw his legs over the edge of the bed and tried to stand, but the pulsating headache got to him. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to fight through the pain.
 

After a few minutes, he opened his eyes and looked around the room some more. Except for the gray floor, the room was almost purely white walls and white ceilings. It wasn’t a sterile white though—the metal used for the paneling made it look almost industrial. He also noticed a door to his left that all but blended into the wall.

Standing weakly, he held onto the frame of the bed as he cautiously hobbled toward this door. He was surprised when it suddenly hissed open by itself. Standing in its place was a tall, muscular, dark-skinned man who wore gray military fatigues. This man had a strong face with an uncompromisingly black mustache and similarly colored buzz cut hair.
 

Even though it was futile to battle in his current state, Burns balled up his fist, readying for a fight. The man noticed and slowly showed his hands out of caution.

“Be at ease; we are friends,” he assured him. “My name is Marcus Rhett.”
 

Burns gave a slight, apprehensive nod. Trust never really came easy for him these days. Nevertheless, if he were to survive in his current physical state, he’d have to at least attempt to be diplomatic.

“Rhett,” he acknowledged, still on guard. Rhett slightly bowed his head as he stepped into the room, door hissing shut behind him.

“I came to see how you were doing—subspace travel is not to be taken lightly,” he informed calmly.
 

Burns squinted his eyes again. “Subspace? What kind of place is this?” he wondered out loud.
 

Rhett seemed troubled with the answer. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge that information,” he said, circling around Burns and causing the man to become uneasy. “I’m sorry if your questions are not fully answered, but the nature of the work done here is best kept a secret.”
 

Oh, that kind of place,
Burns thought to himself.

“Now, if you would walk with me. We have a schedule to keep,” Rhett said as he arrived back at the door and motioned for Burns to follow.
 

Burns took a deep breath and then hobbled forward. He still wasn’t sure about this place, but Rhett seemed alright. He’d at least tried to be calm.
 

As they came out of the door, they were immediately led into a long hallway. This hallway looked to be furnished in a way that was similar to the room: white walls and bright lights, only it bestowed Burns the fortune of windows and a gray generator every so often. The windows seemed to peer into a giant hanger that existed underneath the hall. The hanger housed a varying ensemble of aircraft, based upon designs that looked alien to Burns.
 

Rhett noticed his interest and spoke again. “Impressive, aren’t they?” he exclaimed.
 

Burns nodded back. “Indeed. I’ve never seen anything like them before.”
 

“They’re…prototypes. Everything in this facility is a prototype.”
 

Burns wondered how many things he’d used throughout his life that were originally designed here. He didn’t even know what
here
was. He saw plenty of workers, but the work itself was still a mystery to him.

“This facility...what is it?” he asked Rhett as they continued down the long stretch of hall above the hanger.

“It’s called the Syncopate,” Rhett answered. “It’s interesting enough, but try not to ask too many questions.”
 

“Ah?” Burns murmured.

“You don’t want to know the cost I’ve had to bear for the answers,” Rhett warned, a sudden ominous tone entering his already deep voice. Burns caught the hint, and the rest of the walk was done in silence. A mysterious facility was exactly the sort of place he was trying to avoid. He could already feel the strings of an Intelligence plot being wrapped around him.

The long hall then ended as Rhett and Burns turned a corner and entered another section of purely-white walls and flat, closed doors. Only, these doors had a single, red number inscribed on them. Those numbers were the only discrepancy in the otherwise total uniformity of the hall.
 

The two walked for a short stint down this corridor before stopping at a door with a red number “15” inscribed onto it.
 

Rhett pushed a key code into the panel, and the door came hissing open. He then put his hand out to the side, kindly offering Burns to enter first. Burns bowed his head reluctantly and proceeded forward into the room. He didn’t like entering first when he was in company he didn’t trust, but he was still trying to be diplomatic.

A lone man sat at a table in this otherwise empty room, and he seemed to be passing the time by reading a book. He was of thin build and average height, his skin seemed pale, and he had immaculately styled short, blond hair. He put the book down as he heard the men enter. It was then that Burns noticed this man was young, about mid-twenties. He looked to be a part of Intelligence. Burns then became even more confused—they went through all the trouble transporting him from Altias, only to stuff him in a closet with a bookish agent?
 

Rhett stepped up from behind. “If you’ll excuse me, I must attend to another matter,” he interjected, giving a slight bow before he departed.

As the door hissed shut, Burns was left alone with the agent. He still felt horrible, so against his better judgment, he hobbled forward and sat across the table from the man.