Swan Song (Book Three of the Icarus Trilogy) (4 page)

“If Carver could hear you now,” Templeton said, a sly smile forming on his face.  Atlas laughed at that before turning and heading back to his chair.

“God, Darius.  Who could ever measure up to him?”

-

Carver laid down in his bed and wondered how this had all happened.  Douglas hadn’t lasted very long into his tour before exhaustion took him.  The old man was grateful for it, he wasn’t the best tour guide and he had already started to run out of things to say, so when the broken announcer nodded off Carver gently rolled him to the infirmary, letting the nurses take over for him.  The soldier had taken one last look at Douglas before setting on back to his own room.

The old Crow had died thousands of times, each one just as painful, but he wouldn’t have traded it for what Douglas Finnegan had endured.  It wasn’t even a question.

Carver had returned to his room and milled about, trying to find some use for his time, but after a half hour the old man decided that it would be best just to lie down and ease his decaying body, a reminder of his years of service.  He had only remembered his sixty-first birthday because of an absent-minded look at a calendar.  When he had sunk into his cot, he could hear his bones creaking and his tendons giving way.  His day was clearly past.

Yet he was still fighting in another war.  It had been his life for so long and even though the times, the employers and the causes had all changed, it meant little to the old soldier.  His reality was a bitter and grim one; he didn’t seem to have the ability to escape this constant presence of death.

But now it seemed like things were on the right track.  He wasn’t tasked with killing civilians like in the EOSF; he wasn’t constantly dying and being resurrected as a form of entertainment.  This revolution was the right thing; the best thing Carver had ever done.

That didn’t change how it felt.  War was the same no matter what the consequences.

Carver sighed as he laid out on his cot.  If nothing else, he could rely on a few things in this particular war.  He didn’t have to worry about morality; he didn’t have to worry about money.  The only thing he had to worry about was protecting his friends and their hopes for freedom.  And this time around he had plenty of help.

He couldn’t help but feel proud of Ryan.  The boy had become quite the man, with or without Carver's tutelage.  It seemed crazy that just a few months ago this same boy, this same soldier, was the one who had killed himself.  Now Ryan was about to be the leader of a revolution; he was about to be the figurehead of a world-wide movement.

For the first time in his life, Carver thought that he might not need to fight anymore.  He might be able to leave this world to the children.  If men like Jenkins were going to take over for him, it might not be so bad.  He’d probably do a much better job than Carver.

But in his heart, Carver knew that he would never abandon the boy.  They had been through too much; seen too much.  There had been just over two dozen Crows before that last day on Eris.  Now there were only six.  If nothing else Carver had to fight on for their lost brothers.  If nothing else he had to honor their memories.

Jenkins would never be alone.  Carver wouldn’t allow it.  But as the old man laid in his bed and turned to his side, sleep finally coming to claim him, a desperate thought came to his mind.  Maybe he would just be able to stay in the background.  Maybe he could just stand back and watch; leave the responsibility to those who would claim it.

Jonathon Carver allowed his eyes to rest and drifted off, claiming what peace could be found.

-

Endless waves stretched out beneath Jenkins.  Ryan could feel the salt air whipping around him and he pushed again with those powerful wings of his.  He was soaring, letting the thermals guide him across the infinite darkness all around.  The man looked to his side and could see the black feathers catching hold of the air.  In the darkness it was difficult to see, but the moonlight reflected off of some of the jagged edges and twisted barbs running through those dark wings.

Jenkins looked forward in the night sky and couldn’t remember why he was flying.  He couldn’t remember what he was trying to do.  There was something at the back of his mind that he couldn’t quite reach; some sort of purpose that was burning away at him.

The soaring man pushed the thought from his mind as he flapped the artificial wings once more.  He could feel the harness tightening around him and wondered what he had done to obtain his wings.  He didn’t know if he had made them or someone had made them for him, grafting the construct to his back.  All he knew was how to use them.  He used his back muscles to flap the wings once again and felt the salt air hitting his face.  It was a wonderful sensation.

He was looking down at the crests of dark waves when he noticed the light.  It was incredible how sudden it was.  One minute he was staring at the pitch black of the sea and the next a creeping light had started to reflect on the tops of the waves.  The young man looked up to see the first sliver of the sun peeking over the horizon, but what amazed him was the dark shape beneath it.

In front of him, stretching across the horizon was a dark line.  From what he could tell, from how the light bounced off of it, it wasn’t just another wave.  There was land ahead of him; there was a possible end to his journey.  Jenkins was filled with joy at the prospect and flapped the artificial wings once more.  As he did he felt a stray piece of the barbed wire tear at his side.

Ryan woke with a start, covered in sweat.  He lifted his hand to his face and then slid backwards to rest his back against the headboard.  He breathed out deeply and sucked in air, still in shock from the dream.  The end always hurt.  At some point during the dreams, some part of the wings would fall apart and Jenkins would awaken to the pain.

It had happened often since they had returned to Earth.  Jenkins had thought it was just a strange side-effect from being resurrected off of an old brain mapping, but the dreams had persisted even after they had landed on the ruined planet.  It was always the same.  He would be flying in the darkness, his artificial wings covered in metal, barbed wire and black feathers.  Jenkins was no bird lover, but he guessed they were the feathers of crows.  His subconscious was obviously affected by the guilt.

This time had been different, though.  It had always been the moon that had shown bright during the dreams, giving him just enough light to see, but this time the sun had started to creep over the horizon.  It was somewhat worrying, but in the end he remembered the joy he had felt.  That was better than the alternative.  Most of the time the dreams let him sink further and further into his depression.  The crows’ feathers made him think of his teammates.  It made him think of Cortes and Warner and Roberts and Feldman.

It made him think of Charlotte.

They were all important, of course.  Feldman had shown him true honor and integrity; Roberts had shown Ryan what a man could really take.  He would never forget them or any of the others.  But Charlotte was something else.

The dark wings reminded him of her raven-black hair.  The coffee eyes.  The moon reminded him of her skin.  But that was not what mattered to Ryan.  Charlotte had been the first truly decent and good person he had ever known, and somewhere along the line he had fallen for her.

But she would never know.  He had assumed he had all the time in the world; he would tell her how he felt once they were both on Earth and fighting the good fight. 

That reunion had never taken place.  Before anyone was able to react, Jasper Montgomery had destroyed every living soul on Eris.  He had released the poisonous gases held within the asteroid construct and had killed all of the newly-freed slave soldiers, a necessary action in a rebellion, and along the way had killed every member of the support staff and the families of everyone who had lived there.  Eris had proven to be quite the motivation for the revolution.  There were not many people who would side with a mass-murdering dictator by choice.

It felt selfish to Jenkins, because he knew millions of people had died that day, but Charlotte’s death hurt the most.  He had just been traded his own life at the expense of all of his friends, but he had had a real shot at happiness and love.  But he hadn’t acted; he hadn’t forced Charlotte aboard the shuttle with him.  Ryan had left her to her duties, thinking that he would have another chance.

And now that love story would never happen.

Jenkins laid down in his bed, tears falling down his cheeks.  He had no intention of sleeping and falling into another dream about flying.  All he wanted to do was remember that soft smile and those kind eyes.  All he wanted to do was hear her laugh one more time.

Ryan closed his eyes and pretended yet again that he had brought her with him.  He pretended that Charlotte Kane hadn’t died along with those millions of people.  He told himself a story; a story where it all went right; a story that didn’t have a happy ending because it never ended.

He fell asleep and fell in love all over again.

-

Elizabeth Kane could feel the light through her eyelids and opened them slowly.  It almost seemed like the beam of light coming through the window was solid, but after a few seconds her eyes focused and she could see the dust hanging in the air.  The young woman sat up, the effort almost being too much, and let her dark, black hair fall in front of her pale face.  She sat there for a few minutes, unable to justify moving, but soon enough used her hands to sweep her hair behind her ears.  Elizabeth looked around her room and sighed.  Nothing had really changed in the last few months; her white dresser was as cluttered as always and the door to her closet was perpetually open.

But Elizabeth Kane felt like everything had been taken from her.

The young woman slid her legs out from under her blankets and placed them on the carpeted floor.  The scratchy surface of the material would have been pleasant back before this revolution.  It would have meant that she was home and away from college.  It would have meant that she could come down the stairs and see the smiling face of her father and mother and almost get sick from the smell of too much bacon.

And maybe, just maybe, she would have found her older sister Charlotte looking up from the Sunday crossword.

Just remembering the woman’s casual expression was enough to set off a few echoes of heartache.  It had been two months since Elizabeth had heard about Eris and those selfish revolutionaries.  Two months since the Trade Union had been forced to kill millions of people just to stop a violent uprising of maniac convicts.  Two months since her sister had become collateral damage.

It still hurt like it was just five minutes ago.

The young woman brought herself to her feet but refused to straighten up to her full posture.  She could feel the static building up from dragging her exposed feet across the carpet, but she didn’t much care.  As she passed by the mirror and saw the loose blue shirt and the pajama bottoms she thought briefly about changing her clothes.

Instead, Elizabeth decided that she wouldn’t need to change today.  She opened her door and walked down the hallway, building static as she went, and when she reached out her hand to touch the metal of the banister she felt a small shock.  The young woman looked at her hand a moment before walking down the stairs with a heavy step.  None of it mattered, anyway.

When she walked into the kitchen filled with morning light, all Elizabeth could think about was how busy the room used to be.  Both of her parents had worked constantly; Mr. Kane was middle management at a tax service and Mrs. Kane was a professor at Babylon University.  It was how they were able to afford such a nice home in a nice district of the city.  But since the revolution had started nobody was really concerned with taxes and none of the aristocracy wanted to send their children to learn in a war zone.  This troublesome resistance was more than just a nuisance.

Now, instead of the sounds of busy preparation for work and panicked catching-up, the kitchen was unused and filled with stale air.  As Elizabeth went about fixing a bowl of cereal, she knew that her parents were sitting at the dining room table only a few meters away.  She looked up from her task to see her father staring at his hands and her mother reading the same page of the romance novel she was reading the day before.  It was all just a show.

They were all stuck on the same page.

Elizabeth brought over the bowl of cereal, a tasteless mix of rice and grains, and sat down between her two parents.  She set her spoon into the bland food and wondered if it was more appropriate food for rabbits, but that didn’t stop her from lifting it up and placing the food in her mouth. 
Yep, rabbits
, she thought as she chewed the health cereal.  The food was a habit of hers, and even if she didn’t like it she didn’t see the point in changing anything.  She remembered her sister and how it was Charlotte’s way of keeping healthy while she was home.