Beyond the Sky
There was something just…wrong, with Eros, Graff reflected.
He supposed it could be down to a lot of things. The lower than normal gravity, even when compared to Battle School or ISL. That he was further away from Earth than any other human, bar those currently engaged with the formics. That he was residing on an asteroid that was once inhabited by the buggers themselves. Decades since the Second Invasion, and even now, it felt…alien.
And it's not just that, is it? the colonel reflected, taking a sip of his coffee, long cold. You know what the problem really is.
He did, and it wasn't that the coffee tasted bloody awful. In a matter of days, the Third Invasion would be over, either with a human or bugger victory. In a matter of hours after that, there was a strong chance that Earth would be consumed in conflict as its nations would turn on each other, with no common enemy to unite them. There was very real intelligence that elements of the International Fleet were commandeered, from Russia to the Americas, from China to Europe, even African and Australasian elements. There was a very real chance that the buggers would be dead, and as mankind turned on itself, humanity would join them.
He took another sip of the coffee. One enemy at a time, he told himself. First we've got to have Wiggin win. I've got to keep him going long enough to send the buggers back to hell. And then…He slid the coffee aside. And then he'd deal with whatever bullcrap world politics threw at him.
"You look tired."
He looked up at the source of the voice. Even if he hadn't, he'd have known it was Mazer Rackham.
"You also look like shit."
Like shit. Well, that was I.F. Common for you, he reflected. He remained seated as Rackham took a place opposite him.
"And out of uniform."
Graff looked down – his uniform was unbuttoned, his undershirt there for Rackham to see. After that surge in weight, he'd given up trying to button up his uniform. Now, even after losing it, he'd not fallen back into the habit.
"I think we're a bit beyond having to conform to the Uniform Code," Graff murmured.
"Why?"
Graff remained silent. He didn't want to answer that. He felt like crap. He could barely sleep. One war was ending, another was starting, and he was facing a court martial to top it off. But of course, you didn't complain to Mazer Bloody Rackham. Hero of the Second Invasion. A man who had given up everything so that he'd be alive for when the Third Invasion began.
"Wiggin is damaged," Rackham said. "But not so damaged that he may not suspect that the simulations are real."
"I can cover that," Graff said. "If Wiggin fails, Bean can take over."
"And if that happens during a battle?" Rackham asked. "What then? How many people die for this…change of hands?"
"Fewer than have died already. Few enough that I can live with myself."
Silence lingered between the two men. Graff looked at Rackham. Old, bearded, wise. And in uniform himself. As if nothing was wrong. A front for Wiggin and his crew, but he couldn't help but wonder if Rackham really was that confident. That Wiggin would win, despite the insane odds being piled against him. That Mazer Rackham could walk in tomorrow, supervise the "final exam," and salute without hesitation when Wiggin either defeated the buggers, or failed, likely starting a Fourth Invasion.
Well, least that would keep the bastards on Earth placated for a few more decades.
"I miss Earth," Rackham said suddenly.
Graff snorted. "You shouldn't."
"Why? Last I heard there's some semblance of peace. And technology has improved as well."
"It's not worth it, trust me," Graff said. He glanced at the holographic display nearby, confirming the figures that he already knew – surveillance had indicated that the formic homeworld was defended by thousands of ships, while Wiggin would be going up against them with a few dozen. Vegas odds, as the saying went.
"Uniforms aren't bad either," Rackham said. "Sky blue, crisp, clean…" He sighed. "Like the sky, really."
"You already said sky blue."
"I did," he said. He sighed. "I miss Earth. I miss the clouds. I miss breathing real air. I miss Kim. I miss…" He fell silent. "Well, you know what I mean."
Graff nodded. He did know what Rackham meant. There wasn't much that he missed on Earth. His life had become one with Battle School, and now, it might as well be tied to Eros and Command School.
He looked at the sleeves of his uniform. The chevrons. The signs that they hadn't been ironed in weeks. They were like the sky, he reflected. Out here, in the depths of space. They'd taken a bit of the sky with them.
"Well then," Rackham said, getting to his feet. "Graduation Day, eh?"
Graff nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Graduation."
For a moment, he felt like a child. Back home. With his father. Beneath the sky, and clouds, and son. In normal clothes, with normal children.
But only for a moment.