Worldly fame is but a breath of wind that blows now this way, and now that, and changes name as it changes direction.
Firefly: Seven Deadly Sins
Chapter 3: Envy
Sentinel reminded Dante of a skyplex.
He'd seen skyplexes before – mainly in books and holos, but also when he's shipped off from Londinium. Skyplexes were located above planets, a waystation situated above a planet or moon, similar to a skyhook or space elevator. The difference was that skyplexes weren't tethered to the surface, and were more a port of call for starships, acting as a transfer point. Designs varied, but they all followed the same general mushroom-like structure, its rim rotating as a means of providing artificial gravity. A bit antiquated, considering that gravity manipulation went as far back as the 21st century, but almost as effective as any grav drive. And cheaper to maintain as well.
Seeing Sentinel, Dante saw all the same technological and functional markers of a skyplex. Only thing was, it wasn't in orbit of a world. In fact, there wasn't any world within sight. Certainly none within range of the shuttle that was heading towards one of its umbilicals.
"Delta-eleven, requesting clearance," the shuttle's pilot said.
"Delta-eleven, we have you on LIDAR," came a voice. "Please submit clearance codes."
"Transmitting."
Dante stood in place, watching Sentinel come into view through the shuttle's cockpit. He glanced at Riggs – or rather, the man who let Dante call him Riggs, the former SAS member reminded himself. Either way, the man's face was unreadable.
"Codes accepted. Proceed to umbilical two."
"Roger that. Delta-eleven out."
The shuttle continued through space, Sentinel coming ever closer, leaving their mothership behind them. After Hera, Riggs had taken Dante onto the IAV Wu Cheng'en, a Xuanzang-class transport ship that had ferried them across the 'Verse. Away from the Border, past the Core, all the way to the depths of space that no man was meant to tread. Or something. He glanced at Riggs, reflecting that no such joke had been made.
"Nice place," Dante murmured
So of course, it was up to him to set the tone.
"Out here, in the airless void," Dante continued. "I'd have thought the Operative training facility would have been on Londinium, or Shinnon."
Riggs remained silent, though a slight smirk had formed on his features.
"I mean, obviously that isn't true," Dante continued. "But-"
"You scared, Lodovico?" Riggs interrupted.
"What?"
He glanced at him, the smirk now indeed a smirk, and at risk of becoming a smile. "Are you scared?" Riggs repeated.
"No," he answered truthfully. "Just…wary."
And the smirk did indeed become a smile. And Dante frowned.
"Good," Riggs said. "Because you should be."
"Why?"
"Because I was when I first came here."
The frown disappeared. And Dante returned his gaze to the space station. It began to disappear from his field of vision as the shuttle did a 90 degree turn, ready to connect its port hatch with one of the station's umbilicals.
"Lodovico, you're looking at Space Station Sentinel," Riggs said, not taking his eye off the cockpit's plexiglas, even as the station was removed from view. "Only the highest ranking administrative and military officials know this place exists, and even fewer of them know its location. You're looking at one of the most secret installations that exists in the 'Verse."
"And all the way out here," Dante murmured. "Out in this…nothing."
Riggs sighed. "It's called Sentinel, Lodovico. Why do you think that is?"
"Because someone wanted a fancy name?"
"Funny," Riggs murmured. "But no. It's called that because it trains men like me, and hopefully, you. Sentinels – that's what Operatives are. That, and its position is a watchtower for this region of space. Anyone trying to reach the Core from this side. Rebels, pirates…heck, even aliens."
"Aliens," Dante blurted out. "You're joking, right?"
The look on Riggs's face told him he wasn't.
Aliens, Dante reflected. Somewhere, in some vault, on some base, there existed protocols for the event of alien invasion. Heck, the Alliance had placed Sentinel out here in the first place, going beyond any level of secrecy he'd seen in SAS. Why not aliens as well? If men like Riggs existed, if someone had trusted individuals like Riggs with the authority to command entire fleets without even possessing an official rank, then it wasn't surprising that there were people in the Alliance who considered alien invasion a distinct possibility.
The shuttle connected with the umbilical. The pilot, without a word or even a glance, got out of his chair and headed for the airlock. Riggs, however, gave Dante a glance. But given the gleam in the man's eye, he felt he could do without it.
"Well then," Riggs asked. "Shall we?"
Dante nodded.
When Dante entered Sentinel alongside Riggs, passing through umbilical 2's airlock, he was taken aback as to how few people there were – two. Neither of them saluted, and nor did Riggs. They just stood there. A man and a woman. The man wearing the same black body armour that Riggs did, a pistol holstered on the right, a stun baton on the right. The woman wearing the same all-black uniform bar the armour and weapons, but was instead equipped with a data pad. Amongst all the black, currently wearing his light blue dress uniform, Dante felt out of place.
"No salute?" the man asked.
He immediately snapped to attention. And the man scowled.
"Put that hand down you little ben tian sheng de yi dui rou," the man snapped. "Do you think salutes mean a damn around here?"
Dante dropped the hand, meeting his gaze. Grey eyes, no hair, no features bar a scar that ran across the right side of his face, running from his ear to his scalp. Everything about him screamed "veteran" and "don't mess with me."
The man looked at Riggs. "You sure about this?"
"Course I am," Riggs answered.
Dante let the conversation play out – he'd heard this before. He'd heard it when he was assigned to Corporal Adolphe, he'd heard it when he'd been assigned to SAS, and it didn't surprise him at all that he was hearing it now. Instead, he let his gaze drift to the woman. The woman who was shorter than he was, dark skinned, and with black hair done in braids, some of them falling around her chocolate-brown eyes. She smiled at him.
And he smiled back, before he reined it in. He'd been around women before. Spectre Two had been a woman. Adolphe had been a woman. His drill instructor back on Balkerne had been a woman. He'd never let that be an issue before. And now, out here, he wasn't going to let that change.
But still…she was beautiful.
"Well then," Riggs said, interrupting Dante's thoughts. "I'll be off."
Dante glanced at him as he headed down the umbilical. For a moment, he felt like a school child, when his mother had left him on his first day. There was no reason for Riggs to remain, he reminded himself. Or at least, there was no obligation for him to. And he certainly wasn't in the position of Riggs being a surrogate parent. After all, Vergil Lodovico was long dead. And the official story was that his son was missing in action.
He returned his gaze to the man in front of him, mental discipline keeping him from letting his gaze stray to his companion. He looked up at him. The man looked down. He wondered what the man's name was. And whether he'd even learn it.
"What's your name?" the man answered.
"Lodovico, Dante," he replied. "Formerly-"
"No."
Dante stopped talking.
"Dante Lodovico died on Hera," he said. "Your name is whatever I say it is. And right now, your name is Puke." He smirked. "Does that bother you, Puke?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I've been called worse," Dante said. "And right now I don't give a damn what you call me."
The man slowly smiled. "Very good," he said.
An eerie silence descended upon the trio, broken only by the hum of the shuttle leaving. Dante wondered about the station's supplies, how often they came, what level of contact was allowed, if any. He-
"Something bothering you, Puke?" the man asked.
He kept silent.
"Ask me now, or not at all," he said.
"I…I was wondering how many people this station has," Dante said.
The man remained impassive.
"I mean, it's like a skyplex," Dante continued. "Only you two (he again kept himself from meeting the woman's eyes) are the only people I've seen."
"Does that bother you?" the man asked.
"No. But I'd like to know why."
Another bout of silence descended. And this time, there was no shuttle to break it.
"This is Sentinel," the man said eventually. "Your friend has no doubt told you why it's called that, that you're either going to be a sentinel, or not. And the reason why there aren't many people is threefold." He held up a hand – a very, very large hand, that Dante swore could have grabbed his entire head if the man wanted. "One, supplies – we're deep in the Black, so it saves our masters time and credits. Two (he counted on his fingers as he went), security – less people here the better. And three…" He smiled, before continuing, "only one Operative is trained on this base at a time."
Dante's eyes widened.
"Oh yes," the man said. "One at a time. No set period. So whether you win, lose, or die, you're here until I say so." He cast his long arms around. "Welcome to your new world Puke. Enjoy your stay."
"I intend to," Dante said firmly. He straightened his back. He recalled what Riggs had told him on Hera. About being a protector. Of being the best of the best. And how, even with Riggs gone, he still wanted that. "And I'm ready to begin."
"Good," the man said. "Because training begins now."
The man drew out his pistol and fired.
Dante had lost count as to how long he'd been in the cell.
Its walls were a sterile shade of white, its floors a checkerboard of grey and black. Illumination came from lights mounted along the edge of its roof. He hadn't tried to count the days he'd been in here – there was no way of marking the time. His internal clock was messed up due to the constant illumination. His eyes stung. His stomach growled. His throat was as dry as one of the deserts of Bellerophon. But unlike the planet in question, there was no way of quickly getting to water.
He lay against the wall, thumbing his fingers against it. Keeping his eyes closed. Reflecting that maybe the analogy wasn't so apt. Bellerophon was divided between desert and ocean water. And salt…proverbial salt was in his proverbial wound. Even now he could feel where that bastard had shot him. It had been a dart gun – he recognised the type of imprint in his stomach, and that he hadn't bled to death was evidence enough that the round hadn't been lethal. But being shot in the gut at point blank range, lethal or otherwise…it still hurt.
Bastard.
Everything hurt, for that matter. He squinted his eyes, wishing the brightness would go away. His eyes hurt. His stomach hurt. His throat hurt. And his pride, what was left of it, hurt. He'd come here, assured that he'd be the best of the best. Now…now it was as if he'd been left to die. And maybe he had. Maybe…maybe…
Did I mess up?
He slowly got to his feet, looking at the layout of the room – 5 by 5, with nothing else. Four walls, the only exit being a lone door with a plexiglas window. As he'd done more times than he could count, he walked up to it. Peered out into the grey, but just as sterile corridor outside. He'd woken up in this cell after being shot, and theoretically, he could have been transferred to another station entirely.
Or I'm actually dead.
Well, if it was Hell, it wasn't doing much on the fire and brimstone front. And if it was Hell, he supposed he'd have seen his father by now.
God I'm thirsty.
But being dead, under the premise that he was still alive, was getting to be more and more of a possibility. He'd done a survival course as part of training for the SAS, he knew how important water was for the body. At least here he hadn't lost too much of it, even though he'd had to let himself go in the corner once or twice. The urine had no smell though, the cell having an anti-septic system of some sort. This room, that was his cell. And perhaps his coffin.
Or is it?
He put a hand to his chin. There had to be a way out of here. There just had to be. If they wanted him dead, they could have killed him. And wanting him dead, he could understand – he knew of the station's existence, and killing him would remove any chance of leaks. A bit of an extreme rationale, but still explainable. But leaving him to starve to death? No. There had to be a way.
But how?
There wasn't any way through the door, he'd already tried kicking it down in desperation. The plexiglas was just as impenetrable. He'd already gone up against the walls, looking for any kind of hidden switch, but had no luck. He could try again, but looking at the walls, he wondered. Suppose this was a test, somehow. Feeling around the walls for an exit…it was too easy. And that left only the floor.
Great.
The floor. Black and grey squares in perfect formation, all of them smaller than his hand, meaning that there was a hell of a lot of them. There was nothing unusual about it. It was no different from the bathroom he'd used on Londinium, when he'd lived in his old house. Course the colours were a bit different but that was it. Black, grey, black, grey, grey-
What?
He headed over to the right wall. The tiles had gone in the usual order – black, grey, black, grey. But at the end, with the grey tile, there was another one. Half of one. As if it went under the wall, or was part of something else.
Could it be?
He crouched down and moved his hand across the tile, right up to the wall. He felt nothing. Or at least he did until the tile rotated, revealing some kind of device attached to its underside.
Huh.
He picked it up – it looked like a data chip. But pulling off its top where the data port would have been, there was instead a red button. A red button that didn't have any kind of "press this to blow up the world" sign on it, but a red button all the same.
So on instinct, he pressed it. And just as quickly, the door to the cell hissed open.
"Yes!"
He composed himself as quickly as he could – he'd been alone for God knew how long, and he had indeed talked to himself. Survival training had actually encouraged it in the event of solitary confinement as a way to keep the mind focused. But the game had changed. And opening the door was only the first step.
So what now?
He slowly made his way up to the entrance. Just as slowly, he glanced down both sides of the corridor – neither passage gave any indication of where on the station (assuming this was the same station) this area was located. Both ways looked exactly the same – about ten metres each way, with each turning to the right/left.
When in doubt, turn left.
So he did so. Moving swiftly and silently down the corridor, he headed for what he hoped was freedom.
And hopefully answers.
The corridors didn't do much to help Dante's navigation, but he was able to keep his sense of direction all the same. He was progressing in rings, either heading deeper into the station, or towards its circumference.
Which is better though?
He wasn't sure. Assuming that Riggs's counterparts didn't want him dead, he could only assume that this was a test of some kind. But was he meant to escape, or confront an enemy? If this were the SAS, he would have gone with the former – evasion was sometimes the better part of valour, and the Alliance didn't want its men and women dying needlessly. But on the other hand, this wasn't the SAS. This was something else. It-
He stopped. He'd arrived back where he'd first arrived with Riggs. He could see the airlock that led to the umbilical. And the vacuum of space that lay beyond.
Ta ma duh.
Escape wasn't coming from here. And even then, he wasn't sure if he was meant to escape at all. But if so, then-
Click.
He dived to the side, coming to rest beside some crates. The landing was rough. But far better than taking a bullet to the back. Because indeed, a bullet whizzed past. And it was only from hearing the sound of a pistol's safety lock being taken off that he had any warning at all.
"Not bad," came a voice.
He recognised the voice as well – it was from the man that had greeted him at the start. The man who had shot him.
"Using live rounds?" Dante called out.
The gun fired again.
"That wasn't an answer."
A third shot didn't come. He peaked around the crate, towards where he'd walked out from. For a brief second he saw the man, indeed pointing a pistol at him. A 9mm, standard issue Alliance service pistol, with eighteen rounds per magazine. Or right now, fifteen.
Bam.
He ducked back into cover. Make that fourteen, he reflected.
"You can give up you know," the man called out. "There's no shame in that. You did escape from the cell after all."
"So you know about that?"
"You're out here, aren't you?" the man asked. Dante glanced aside – the man wasn't going to hit him from where he was standing. Then again, he couldn't escape either. It was a stalemate, unless the man entered the room for a better shot. And then at least, he had a chance of taking him out.
"So then," Dante called out, "do you shoot everyone who comes onto this station?"
"Only initiates. The good ones are meant to grab the gun and disarm me. The good ones are meant to be in actual training by this stage."
"And the bad ones?"
"They're sent home after failing to escape the cell. With non-disclosure and all that."
"So then?" Dante asked. "Where do I fit?"
The man said nothing. He only fired.
And Dante was hit.
He yelled as the bullet tore into his stomach. It was a blank – he could tell that much by the lack of blood. But it was the angle – the man had fired at an adjacent wall, and ricocheted the round off into him.
Son of a-
And then he was there, standing before him, gun in his hand. Dante tried to grab it. And failed, the man pistol whipping him on the neck. He swore. And fell silent as he felt the gun against his temple.
"By all rights you should be dead," the man said. "Twice."
"How…how…"
"How? Well, first I shot you a week ago. And I could shoot you just now. Besides, since you have a simulated stomach wound, you're pretty much screwed anyway."
The man kicked him against the wall. Dante wheezed – the boot had contacted in the same place the blank had. But in a way, he welcomed it. It was a chance to just lean back and face the bastard who'd done this. A chance to meet the man who'd bested him. A man that he couldn't help but admire in a way.
"So what now?" Dante asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I failed," he rasped. His stomach hurt, his throat was dry, and his pride was going out the airlock. "Like I said, what now?"
The man holstered his pistol. "Do you think you failed?" he asked.
"You bested me," he said. "Twice."
"And if I hadn't?"
Dante remained silent. The man frowned.
"I could let you go," he said. "We only train one Operative at a time here, after all. And there are other opportunities in the 'Verse. I could-"
Dante kicked him in his manhood. He cursed, recoiling. And it was all the time Dante needed to spring up, grab his pistol, and push him to the ground. Pointing it down at him.
"Stomach wound or not," he said, "I don't think you'd walk away from this either."
The man smirked. "I can see why Patrick vouched for you." He got to his feet. "And I can see why you're still alive."
Dante kept the pistol pointed at him. "Usually I kill people by now."
"So I've heard." He paused, before saying, "how'd you like to kill some more?"
"I wouldn't. But I'm willing to, if that's what it takes."
"Trust me Lodovico, it will. But you can also trust me when I say that the people you kill will prevent far more deaths occurring." He held out a hand. "Now give me the gun."
Dante paused, before obliging. It could have been another test. But he was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. If only because he'd called him "Lodovico," and not "Puke."
"Come on," he said. "We'll get you something to drink."
Dante began to follow. But he stopped. The man looked round at him.
"Patrick," he asked. "Who's Patrick?"
"That would be Riggs," the man said. "Or rather, the man you know as Riggs."
"And is that his real name?"
"Course it isn't."
"And do you know what it is?"
"I do," he replied. "I was the one who trained him. I've trained almost every Operative since this branch of the Alliance military was established." His gaze narrowed. "Just like you, Lodovico. I'm going to train you until you're either dead, or you're one of us. And when you'll never be allowed to call yourself Dante Lodovico again."
Dante remained silent.
"Does it bother you?"
"No," he murmured. He met his gaze. "It doesn't."
What surprised him was that it wasn't a lie. And why he asked, "what can I call you?"
"Master," he answered. "Or mentor. Or whatever else you want. Just like I'll call you what I want for the next few years."
Dante's eyes widened. "Years? Riggs said nothing about years."
"I just did." His mentor smiled. "So we best get started."
Years. His superior would hold his life in his hands for years. He could be as brutal as he wanted, and likely answer to no-one.
He hated him.
And envied him.
Dante's swordsmaster was a man named Yu Samar. He looked like something out of feudal Japan, he acted like something out of feudal Japan, and when Dante was handed a sword for the first time, he could have sworn he was in feudal Japan.
Difference was, the swords of Earth-That-Was didn't deliver electric shocks every time they made contact.
The swords used straight blades of high carbon, tempered steel, about as long as his arm from hilt to tip. Standard issue for all Operatives, apparently. Day after day, Dante continued to train with him. Day after day, he was returned to his quarters, bruised and bleeding. Only alive due to the blunt edges.
"Again," Samar would say, every time he struck him down.
It went on and on. His mentor, as Dante called him, had explained that firearms training was unnecessary for now. Anyone could shoot straight. He'd been proven to be able to do so during the Unification War, and kill quite effectively. Dante's aim didn't need work. Close combat however, did. Once, he had trained in combat knives, but swords, they were something else. Weapons that he had no experience in.
"Again," Samar would say.
So he went on.
"Again."
And on.
"Again."
And on.
It was hell. His only respite was when he took his meals – fifteen minutes breakfast, ten minutes lunch. No dinner. He was simply left to his own devices as of 2200 hours, as long as he was ready at 0600 hours the next day. The skyplex used a 24 hour standard. And it was in the first week that he made a friend.
"You alright?" she asked.
He looked up from the noodles he'd been given for his lunch. It was her. The woman he'd seen when he'd first arrived.
"Hmm?"
"Hanging in there?" she asked, taking a seat opposite him in the station's mess room (not hall, he noticed, room, and even that was being generous). "I mean, Samar's hard on recruits at the best of times and-"
"I'm fine," he lied.
She smiled. And he couldn't help it, he smiled back. Her lips, her eyes…she was gorgeous. If only he knew her-"
"My name's Miranda, by the way," she said. "I'm a systems specialist."
"And you're stationed here?" Dante asked.
Stupid question, of course she is.
"Yeah," she said. "Get some leave, but my existence is about as classified as yours."
"Oh," he said. He couldn't help but keep smiling. The idea that both of them were "classified." "So, who else is on the skyplex?"
"A few people, like me," she said. She leant forward. "Course it's people like Samar that run the show here. Best of the best and all that."
"Best of the best," he mused. He pushed the noodles aside, sighing. "I wish-"
"Don't worry," Miranda said. "You'll do fine. Samar kicks everyone's arse when they first arrive."
Dante raised an eyebrow – "how long have you been here?"
"That's classified," she said, repeating that bloody word. But she still smiled. "But long enough to know a winner when I see one."
Dante grinned, feeling like a child again. Back on Londinium. In a different life. A normal life, one that so many people were living. Unaware of his existence, or that of Sentinel.
He kind of envied them.
"Again," Samar said.
It was always the same. No matter what he did, Samar parried his blows. No matter how fast he swung his sword, the swordmaster broke through his defences. Every single time, he was struck eventually. Like now, as he fell to the ground, his chest aching from what would have been a lethal blow had he not been wearing insulating armour, not to mention the bluntness of the swords.
"Again," Samar said.
He lay there on his knees, trying to fight the pain.
"Again," Samar said.
"Fuck. You."
He couldn't help it. He hated him. He hated being here, he hated that he couldn't win, he hated that for all of Riggs's…no, Patrick's talk of making a difference, he wasn't doing that at all.
"Again," Samar said.
"I said fuck you!"
And he hated Samar most of all.
Especially when the swordmaster kicked him in his jaw, breaking it.
"You alright?" Miranda asked.
He couldn't talk – he was in the skyplex's infirmary. As harsh as the training was, he was temporarily excused from fencing lessons. Instead he was given a data pad with the expectation of plotting fleet movements in various simulations, ranging from retrieval to naval combat. An Operative could be called upon to command any number of vessels at any given moment. And it was expected that such an operative have an understanding of naval strategy, even if they were entitled to ask for advice from more experienced commanders. And just as entitled to ignore it.
"Well, don't worry," she said. "You'll be out by next week. Samar's pacing around all day now." She giggled. "I think he likes you."
Dante wanted to tell Samar to shove it. His feelings weren't alleviated when his flagship went down in flames. He tossed the pad down to the end of his bed.
"I mean, well, he won't admit it, but you're doing good," she said. "Better than most. Course there was Kalista, but…" Her smile faded. "Well, like I said, hang in there."
Dante wouldn't have said anything even if he could have talked. Being told he was doing better than most – that meant nothing to him. People like Riggs/Patrick/whatever…what they were supposedly doing…that meant something to him.
He envied his old sergeant, for the life he led. He envied Miranda, for the life she was spared from. He envied everyone in the 'Verse, for not having to go through with this.
"Anyway," she said. She kissed him on the forehead. "I'll see you."
Alright, Dante reflected, watching her leave, feeling something warm spread through his chest. Maybe he didn't envy them that much.
"Again," Samar said.
Dante remained silent. His jaw still hurt, but even if it hadn't, he wouldn't have had anything to say anyway. Nothing he said made him feel better, insulting Samar had no effect, and in the event of really duelling with swords, what use would words be?
"Again," the swordmaster said.
Dante swung his sword. Samar didn't even move, simply bringing his own blade upwards with such force that Dante's weapon was knocked out of his hands. And before his brain could even process that fact, he was kicked to the ground with Samar's boot.
"You are distracted," his master said.
Dante slowly got to his feet. 'You are distracted.' Well, that was a change from "again."
"You can do better than this."
He went to pick up his blade, bending down. He'd done better. Right. He couldn't even call that praise through faint damnation. Not to mention-
"Pay attention!"
And he felt a boot connect with his back, kicking him to the ground.
"Hwen dan," Dante murmured. He slowly got to his feet, expecting Samar to make physical contact again. And not caring in the slightest. So when he finally got to his feet, sword in hand, he was surprised to see that the swordmaster had done no such thing.
"You are bothered," Samar said.
And surprised to not hear the word "again" again. He shook his head – was that a double positive, or double negative?
"Yeah, I'm bothered," Dante said.
He thought he might as well go for it.
"I'm bothered because-"
"Because you feel you have made no progress, that swords have no relevance in the twenty-sixth century, and that you are wasting your time."
Dante remained silent.
"I have trained many," said Samar. "I was trained myself as an Operative. You are no different."
"And let me guess," Dante murmured. "This is the same speech you gave all of them."
"Yes."
"…oh."
An uneasy silence rose between the two men. Dante didn't doubt Samar's words. And even training one Operative at a time, that still didn't mean that there weren't more out there. More people like Riggs/Patrick, for instance.
But there was still Miranda. Sweet, beautiful Miranda, with those big brown eyes, those lips, that smile…God, that smile…she-
"Actually," Dante said suddenly. "I would like to know why I'm training in the use of the sword."
Samar's gaze didn't change. "Go on."
"Well…" Ah, screw it. "It's useless. It's a waste of time. Name one way in which a sword is better than a gun."
"No ammunition."
"But firearms outrange swords, and-"
"Look around you," said Samar, inclining his head to the right wall. A featureless, sterile wall, that was the same as the three other walls of the room they were in. "What worth does range have here?"
"Well, yes, but…" He wanted to say that range did matter on the battlefield, but not all battles were fought at range. On Sturges and Hera, charging the Independents with a sword would have been useless. But in a place like this…
"But…no-one uses swords," Dante murmured. "They're-"
"Exactly," said Samar. "No-one uses swords. So no-one will be able to match you in close quarters."
Dante frowned. "I trained in CQC with the SAS. That's already a given."
"Indeed? Then why have I beaten you time after time?"
"Because you're using a sword." He smiled. "Go on then master. Throw it away. Let's see how good you are without your precious blade."
Samar shrugged and threw the sword aside. Dante did likewise. A second later, he got himself into a fighting stance.
A few seconds after that, he'd been pinned, and his arm had been broken.
"First the jaw, now the arm. Believe it or not Lodovico, we don't have an infinite supply of medicine here."
Medicine. Right. No painkillers this time I noticed you son of a-
"Do you like failure, Lodovico? Do you want to leave?"
He didn't meet his master's gaze. He just lay in his bed as nano-probes healed his broken bones. Some of the finest medical technology in the 'Verse was being used on him, technology that wasn't even accessible to most Alliance soldiers. His superior had made it quite clear that he was in a privileged position.
Privileged my arse.
"One more day," the man said, not leaving the bedside, standing over it like he was Death himself, and the bed was his coffin. "One more chance against Samar, or it's over."
"Come on," Dante protested. "So he's a better swordsmaster. I'm good at-"
"You're good at being a soldier. You're good at thinking on your feet, at killing, at staying alive." He leered in, his scalp clean, his teeth cleaner. "And that's not enough."
Dante remained silent.
"Do you want to be here, Lodovico? Do you believe in mankind? A world without sin? Better worlds?"
"That's a bit melodramatic, isn't it?"
"Your words," the man said, drawing away from the bedside as he did so. "Words spoken above Hera. Words recorded by Sergeant Riggs for your psychological record." He paused, before saying, "your words, not mine."
They had been, Dante reflected. But they'd been words spoken in the belief that he could actually accomplish them.
"One day," the man said, walking out of the room. "One last chance."
As Dante got his sword ready, he wondered whether Samar would say "again" at all. Whether he'd have more than one chance to strike a blow. The time for reflection quickly passed however as the swordsmaster went on the offensive – a series of vertical cuts that Dante easily parried.
He's not even trying.
Vertical cuts were some of the easiest blows to avoid. While they held great physical power, they could be parried either from below, or a swipe to the side. Or simply sidestepped. And even then, the power a vertical slice held wasn't that necessary – the human body was a frail thing. But even so, he kept up his guard. Parried some blows, giving ground. And stopped parrying as soon as he stepped to the side, sending his own sword forward in a thrust. Towards Samar's exposed side.
The swordmaster evaded the blow and brought his sword down, hitting Dante's with force. The vibrations ran through the blade, and he barely had enough strength to keep his grip on it.
"Drop your blade and lose," Samar said.
So the rules hadn't changed then – one of the swordsmen had to disarm the other. Dante began circling his foe, Samar in turn mimicking his movements. Waiting for him to strike.
Course you are. You don't have to worry about being kicked out into space.
Samar thrust forward and Dante stepped to the side. Samar withdrew his blade and the dance continued.
Come on, Dante reflected, desperately trying to find an opening. Come on!
He thrust his sword. Samar parried it. He began to wonder if the swordmaster was even trying.
For God's sake!
God couldn't help him, he reminded himself. His only consolation was that he'd held his blade longer than he usually had. Samar had barely attacked him.
And if I strike…
If he struck, Samar would parry the blow, and possibly disarm him. Samar was stronger, and months of training hadn't given him the edge.
Samar thrust. Dante dodged it.
But what about…
He stopped. He took his left hand off his sword, holding it one-handed. Samar raised an eyebrow. And that was all the opportunity Dante needed to swing it.
Samar dodged, but Dante remained on the offensive. Samar thrust his blade, but he dodged in turn. On and on he swung his sword, driving Samar back. The eyebrow had long returned to normal, and if anything, Samar's eyes had narrowed. They narrowed even further as he parried Dante's blade. As he thrust his own sword forward. Dante stopped looking at them as he delivered a spinning kick, his boot making contact with Samar's head. The swordsmaster stumbled backwards. And fell as Dante did a flying kick into his chest.
Yes.
He quickly rose to his feet. He plunged his sword downwards to Samar's chest. He rolled aside, bringing his own leg against Dante's sword, knocking it out of his hands.
No!
He'd lost. He'd been disarmed. He saw as Samar reached for his own blade. He grabbed the man by the head, slamming it against the floor. Buying enough time to grab Samar's sword, grab him by the throat, and hold the steel against it.
But I lost.
Yet still he held him there. The two men glaring at each other. It wasn't true hatred, Dante told himself. Samar had humiliated him, bruised him, broken him. But he wasn't an enemy. He had only been an adversary.
"You lost your blade," Samar said.
Dante remained silent. Not hating the man before him was starting to become difficult.
"On the other hand," his foe continued, "I'm in the position of you being able to slit my throat at a moment's notice."
Dante didn't respond. A few moments passed before Samar spoke again.
"Tell me," he said. "How did you beat me? Why now?"
"I don't understand."
"What did you do differently?" Samar asked firmly. "Why this time, of all times, did you win?"
Dante frowned. He couldn't say. Well, there was a difference but…
What the hell.
"I fought one-handed," he said. "I kicked as well."
"Exactly," said Samar. "You used agility. Instead of meeting me with strength, you used agility. Cunning. Brute force."
Dante wasn't sure what to say. Had he passed, or not?
"Keep this in mind, Lodovico. Strength of body is not needed. Your sword is your weapon. If you become an Operative, you will be able to wield any kind of weapon in the 'Verse. But if you face someone like me, you will not need strength. Strength of character, and agility, will carry the day."
"And if I don't get that opportunity?" Dante asked, trying to steady his heartbeat. "After all, I lost my sword."
"That you did," said Samar. He got to his feet, and Dante let him. "But you won today." He put a hand on his shoulder. "And you have won my respect."
"The celebration of Unification Day was met with protests in New Glasgow. Civil protection forces responded with tear gas. Colonel Kahin Lear of the Alliance naval garrison of Muir has commented that these dissidents represent a small but vocal minority, and that a year on from the end of the Unification War, peace and stability are finally returning to the outer reaches of the 'Verse."
Dante watched the flatscreen in the mess room, slowly picking his way through the noodles he'd been provided. He watched as rioters tore their way through New Glasgow, the capital city of the planet Muir. He watched as the image shifted to another world in the Rim, displaying the same unrest, the same da bian hua, the same discontent that had occurred before the Unification War. And how even in the Core, there were scenes that mirrored those in the Border and beyond. Not to the same scale, and far more civilized, yet even so, still there.
"Here with me now is sociologist Joachim Bajner, along with professor-"
Dante returned his gaze to the noodles. Right now they looked prettier than anything that was on the flatscreen. And noodles didn't yammer on about fey wu.
"Professor Bajner, in light of-"
He drowned the conversation out. He'd once heard of a man who'd found God in a bowl of soup. And that on Earth-That-Was, a man had discovered the secret of gravity when an apple fell in his bathtub. Or something. Staring at the broth before him, he wondered if there were any answers here.
He didn't count on it. So like the noodles, he let his feelings simmer.
One year.
Well, actually a few days short of the required 365, but he was happy with rounding it up. 365 days had passed since the end of the Unification War, of the cessation of hostilities between the Alliance and Independents, and of the dawn of a new era. A year, minus a few days, since he'd come to Sentinel. Months had passed since he had bested Samar, but the duels had continued. Despite his master's words about already knowing how to shoot, he'd also been given training with advanced ranged weaponry – reload times, marksmanship, even maintenance. And coupled with that were fleet tactics, going beyond the data pad, and entering a simulator, designed to simulate commanding a space battle as realistically as possible.
"If you want my opinion, the Alliance hasn't done nearly enough in reparation efforts in the Border Worlds. When you look at what's happening on Kerry for instance…"
He shoved some noodles in his mouth. Cunts, the lot of them. He'd fought. He'd killed. He'd seen people die. After all that had ended, he'd practically given up his life to ensure that nothing like this would happen again.
Bastards, he reflected to himself, taking a sip of water, looking up at the screen as Barjner and Professor not-Barjner debated the finer points of civilization. Ni ta ma de, tain xia sou you de ren dou gai shi.
And yet, he envied them. The ability to live a life where such discussion was allowed. The life that allowed such luxuries. To not have to worry about what was happening, to not be affected by it, but to be seated in comfy chairs, in TV studios on comfy worlds. He might one day have to give his life for his people. And they would never know he did it.
Yes, he thought, finishing the noodles. He envied them.
"Want some company?"
He looked up, and not at the screen.
"Because it looks like you could use it."
He smiled. "Yeah," he said. "I could use it."
He wouldn't have minded being left alone. But seeing Miranda there, a glass of water in one hand…all of a sudden, he found himself appreciating the merits of company. Merits including someone who made him feel…something…strange…
"Same crap, huh?" she asked, gesturing towards the screen. The newscaster had since moved onto a two-way communication with the magistrate of Lilac, a moon in the same star system as Muir. "One year on, and we get this boscrap."
Dante knew what he felt for Miranda right now – admiration. Respect.
Yeah, that's it.
"Anyway," she said. "One year, eh?" She took a sip of the water. "If you ask me, you've got it."
"Got it?" Dante asked.
"Got it," she repeated. "As in, you'll get through. Most of the people who don't have 'it' are sent off by now."
"Yeah, well…" Dante smiled, taking a sip of his own water. "I'm not most people, am I?"
"No," Miranda said. "You're not."
A silence dwelled between them. Silence that not even Magistrate Slype's inane prattling could break. Silence that Dante desperately wanted to break himself.
"Listen," he said. "I mean…"
"Yes?"
"How…how'd you end up here?" he asked. It wasn't the most eloquent question, but he was desperate to say something, anything, that would keep her in the room with him. "I mean, I know you're a systems specialist, but-"
"There's your answer," Miranda said, smiling. "I'm a systems specialist. I help keep the station up and running. After all, it's a long way out from…" She trailed off before gesturing towards the newscaster, and by proxy the studio that was situated on Osiris. "Well, from there."
Dante remained silent.
"It's hard," Miranda said. "I mean, I can't complain, not after what you and the other operatives go through, but…" She pushed her water aside. "Well, it's lonely."
Dante's heartbeat picked up. He started feeling warm, and wanting a lot more water.
"And there's the whole classification thing," she said. "I mean, it's not like I don't exist but-"
"You do exist," Dante blurted out.
She looked at him.
"I mean, you must have friends," he said. "I mean, family?"
"Family…" She trailed off. And instantly Dante knew that he'd said the wrong thing. Something as wrong as wrong as could be.
"My family…aren't with me," she said softly.
"I…I'm sorry," Dante murmured.
He meant it, much to his surprise. He'd killed, he'd taken lives, he'd left people to die on both Hera and Sturges. But seeing Miranda before him…those gorgeous eyes…how tears came to those eyes, like diamonds in a dark sea…
"They were killed by the Independents," she said. "Bernadette, 2506, back when war broke out. They…" She paused, and Dante could see her throat trembling. "There was an explosion. A colony ship, they…" She trailed off. Dante could see that she was on the edge. And right now, he wanted to do nothing more than hug her. To tell her that it was over. That the war was over. That no-one would have to go through what she did again.
But he couldn't. Because this thing could happen again. It was the entire reason he was here.
"Listen," Dante said. "I've got today off. Do you…want to…"
"Do what?" Miranda asked.
"I mean…well…there's windows, aren't there?" He rubbed his hair. His shaved, regulation-length, black hair. Hair that felt sweat from his palms run through it. "I mean…if you want…"
Miranda extended her right hand, putting it on his length. And as a result, his own right hand became very sweaty.
"Yes," she said, smiling. Her eyes shining with both tears and something more, as the news moved on to the disappearance of the Endeavour on its way to Blue Sun. "Yes. I'd like that a lot."
"You're doing good," said his mentor. "Very good."
Dante remained at attention, keeping his gaze impassive. The man seated at the desk behind a computer terminal said one thing. His tone and his lack of focus said another.
"You've been here for, what? Fifteen months?" he continued.
"Fourteen," Dante murmured.
His master remained silent. He continued looking at the terminal. Moving a hand to his chin.
"Sir, if I may-"
"Denon."
"What?"
"Not 'Sir,' Denon," the man repeated, the tone, gaze, and hand position not changing. "My name's Denon." He hit what looked like the "enter" key. "Figure we're on a first name basis by now."
"And is that your real name?"
"For the purposes of future communication, it is." He continued typing. "Course you can call me whatever you want I suppose."
Dante didn't say anything. If he said what was in his gut, he'd have mentioned that no, they weren't, that they'd barely seen each other over the fifteen, no, fourteen months that he'd been on Sentinel, and that over the course of those fourteen months, he hadn't given a second thought to what his superior's name might have been.
"Anyway," the man named Denon said. "We're graduating you. Provided you pass the final-"
"Graduated?" Dante blurted out.
"Yes, Puke, graduated," Denon said. He pressed another button on the keyboard, one that looked like "escape." He met Dante's gaze. "Is that a problem?"
"Um, no," Dante murmured. "It's just…well…"
"Is it Miranda?"
Now it was Dante's turn to look bothered.
"Yes, Puke, you're not fooling anyone," Denon said. He leant back in his chair. "This is a small space station, and there's few places to hide. And staring out an observation port, yammering on about how beautiful Earth was isn't keeping any secrets."
"What I do on my off-time isn't any of your business," Dante said.
"Actually, it is," Denon responded. He leant forward, resting his chin on his hands. Like a sleeping lion woken up by a mouse. "It's my business because I'm the person that, on a moment's notice, can send you back to Londinium."
Dante tried to keep his composure.
"Does she love you?"
And failed.
"Does she love you?" Denon repeated. He leant back in his chair. "Is it love, Lodovico? Because if it is, if you want to leave, I won't stop you. If you become a full-fledged Operative, that's another story, but-"
"No," Dante said.
"No?"
"No," he repeated.
"No, as in, you won't go?" Denon asked. "Or no, as in, you don't love her? That all that hand holding, kissing, and whispers don't mean anything?"
Dante remained silent. He couldn't answer. Couldn't answer because he didn't have an answer to give.
Miranda. Kind, caring, beautiful Miranda. He didn't know which adjective was the most important. He didn't know if it was her words, her eyes, or just her mere presence that made him distracted. That made him spur himself on. That gave him comfort at night. It was uncanny the kind of hold she had over him.
"Anyway," Denon said. "Like I said, we're graduating you."
"Despite Mi…what you've said?" Dante asked. "Despite you saying it would take years?"
Denon smirked…sort of. It looked like a smirk at first, but it turned into a frown. As if the man was amused for but a moment, but lost all joy the next.
Probably lost all sense of joy a long time ago.
"You want the truth, Lodovico?" he asked. "Is it that you're just that good? Or that we need to accelerate your training?"
Dante paused, before saying, "I'd like the truth." He took a breath. "No matter what."
"Very good," said Denon softly. He continued, "it's both. You are good, Lodovico. Not the best we've ever seen, but still good. So yes, despite your infatuation with Miss Atkinson, I'm confident in sending you out in the field."
"And yet…" Dante began.
Denon sighed, rubbing his eyes. "You've seen the news, Lodovico. Riots. Insurrection. Browncoats who forgot they lost the war." He let out a grunt. "Basically every little shit with a six-shooter wants to take a shot at the Alliance, and they're willing to do it from White Sun to the Rim. It's the kind of thing the Operatives were created to deal with."
"And you need more," Dante murmured.
"Dang ran, we need more," Denon said. "And we're going to get them. That, and the Alliance's psy…" He trailer off and looked at his computer, frowning. "Well, it doesn't matter. I'll let you know when your final test is to be held."
"A test?" Dante asked.
"A test," Denon repeated. He met Dante's gaze, his eyes tired, yet firm as well. "To see how committed you are to making a world without sin."
"Spectre here. In position."
He'd been given the call sign of "Spectre." Or rather, been allowed it. Spectre Team had been a group of five individuals that had taken part in the final battle of the Unification War. Five of those individuals were officially dead, and in four out of five of them, that was actually true.
"Report, Spectre."
"Hostages. Civvies, about ten of them. Five female, two female. Three children. And one of them Miranda Atkinson."
Miranda…
But it made no difference, he told himself. Dante Lodovico was dead. He was an operative now. He would never be called Dante Lodovico again. He'd be called whatever he wanted to be called. Would be whoever he wanted to be. And do whatever was ordered of him.
"Threat assessment?"
"High. Radiation levels are peaking."
Like what he'd been ordered to do right now.
When he'd departed Sentinel, he'd…he blinked, staring through his rifle's scope mounted on top of a Londinium office block. He could barely remember Sentinel anymore. It was like a dream now. After he'd graduated he'd…
"Shit," came the voice over the radio.
He blinked again. He could barely remember graduation either. Months, years…
Focus.
So he did. He made out the faces. Innocent people, caught up in a Browncoat attack. Miranda's terrified, beautiful face. He knew she was on Londinium. He knew…somehow…that she was…
Focus.
Terrorism, pure and simple, he told himself. He didn't know whether they were trying to start a war, or prolong a war they still believed to be ongoing, but it didn't matter. They were here. They'd taken over a restaurant, the media and police descending on them like crows to a corpse. They'd got the attention they wanted. And the operative that was once called Dante Lodovico knew that they were going to go the extra mile. Detonate a dirty bomb that would destroy everything in a mile-wide radius, and contaminate New Cardiff for miles more.
"Take them out," the voice ordered. "HE round."
"What?" he whispered.
"Take them out," the voice repeated, as if Death himself were talking to the living. "End this."
"Sir, Mi…there's children…there's got to be still-"
"Do it!" the voice repeated.
The Operative kept looking through the scope. It showed distance, highlighted vitals, measured windspeed, and just for this occasion, had been equipped with a radiological metre.
"HE rounds may not be needed," he murmured. "If I could just hit-"
"Make the shot," the voice said.
He lay in place.
If I could save her.
"Make the shot," it repeated.
Children, he thought. There's gorram children there.
He shifted his scope to them. Four, five, three? He couldn't tell.
Who deserves to die like that?
The Browncoats were shouting. Radiological levels were spiking.
She…they…could die.
"Fire," the voice said. "Fire. Fire. Fire."
Once, he had believed in God. He had believed in making a better world. He had believed that he'd do something that…that…
Oh God…
But God was not in Heaven. And there was nothing right on this world.
"Do it," said Death.
The Operative inhaled. He lined up his sights at the centre of the room. The HE round would detonate a microsecond after its delivery case was attached to a surface. It would deliver a blast that would incinerate any living thing it touched, courtesy of a cocktail of compounds such as white phosphorous. If they were lucky, death would be instant. If unlucky, they'd live long enough to experience being burned alive.
"Forgive me," he whispered, imagining the children. Fathers. Mothers. Friends and family. Miranda. He hadn't seen her since Sentinel. But he'd thought about her. And now…now he was going to kill her.
"Please forgive me."
"Fire," said Death.
And so he did. An HE round was sent 133 metres through the air, landing in Kenyon's, No. 57, Trafalgar Street. And an instant after that, Kenyon's, and everyone in it, ceased to exist.
Forgive me.
He watched it explode. He watched the police scramble for cover. He watched as no secondary explosions followed.
Forgive me.
"Wake up Dante," said a voice.
He blinked. Suddenly he felt so…tired.
"It's time to wake up," the voice said again.
Wake up? He squinted his eyes. Everything…the sky, the city, the fire…it was all out of focus. Closing in on itself. As if reality itself was coming apart.
"Wake up," the voice said. "You passed."
Dante sprung upwards, finding himself in a dark room. A dark room that was familiar, that consisted of a bed, that was also familiar. Veryfamiliar.
Have I been dreaming?
He peered through the darkness. A figure stood before him, next to a monitor, displaying a city. One that was connected to him through two electrodes on his forehead.
"Here," said one of the figures, handing Dante a glass of water. "Drink this."
Dante silently obliged as the figure removed the electrodes. He pushed his back against the end of his bed, staring through the gloom. Soon, he could make out the features of the one before him.
"Denon?"
"That's right, it's me," he said. Denon shut off the monitor. "But since you're an Operative now, I suppose you can call me whatever you want."
An Operative. Dante just sat there. Just like that. He was an operative. It was…something, at least. Taking a sip of water, he didn't know what to think.
"Am I dreaming?" he asked.
"No," said Denon. "But you were."
Dante put the glass down. He frowned, before asking, "that city," he said. "On the monitor."
Denon said nothing.
"I know it," he said. "I've seen it before."
"Minutes ago, actually," Denon said. "But maybe hours. Your mind can alter your perceptions of time when you're asleep."
"I…I've been dreaming?"
"You tell me," Denon said. He drew up a chair and sat in it. "Tell me what happened."
Dante opened his mouth to speak…but said nothing. Not at first. Because Denon's words aside, he felt like this was still a test. Somehow.
"You know," he said softly. "You know what I saw."
Denon didn't say anything.
"What I did," he said. "How I…killed…those people."
"How your subconsciousness killed them," Denon said.
Dante stared at him.
"The dreamscape is a recent invention, based on the concepts of the Rorschach test," Dante's superior said. "It's a way of testing a candidate's subconsciousness. Simulations, training, they have their purpose, but an outsider can only observe the body. The mind is known only to the one whose head it inhabits, no matter how much of it you show to us through your actions." He paused, before saying, "So we test you. To see how far you'd go. To see if you have, shall we say, the killer instinct."
"And I do," Dante said.
"Quite," Denon answered. "Only a small percentage of the human species are natural killers. But you, Lodovico, are in a percentage of your own."
Dante closed his eyes. "So…Londinium…those people…"
"Londinium isn't standard," Denon said. "It's drawn from your subconsciousness – your homeworld, in this case. And…" He smiled. "I notice Miranda was there as well."
Dante opened his eyes. And stared.
"I won't tell her," Denon said. "But it's good to know where your loyalties lie."
"I love her," Dante blurted out.
"Your heart says one thing, your mind another," said Denon. He got to his feet. "But it doesn't matter. For all intents and purposes, you're an Operative now."
Dante closed his eyes again. An operative. There were those words again. And Miranda…
I killed her.
It had been a dream. But it had felt so real. He'd been in full control. He'd honestly believed he was on a mission. And he'd followed it through to the end.
I killed her.
"The dream," Dante said. "It…how did you…"
"Drugs," Denon said. "Simple process really."
Dante remained silent. All he could think of was the dream. Of what he'd done. How he'd killed Miranda. Killed children.
"But it doesn't matter," said Denon. "Because five hours from now we'll be on a ship to Londinium. And ten hours after that, you'll get to see the planet in reality."
Home. After a year on Sentinel, he was going home.
The journey to Londinium had been uneventful. Dante, Denon, and Miranda had departed Sentinel in an Arrowhead-class courier. An unremarkable ship that touched down on an unremarkable landing pad in Glamorgan Spaceport – one of a number of spaceports located in New Cardiff, and no different from any of them. They'd been on the shuttle for nearly twenty-four hours. And like everything in that period, the journey itself was unremarkable.
Please stand clear of the hatch.
Dante winced – he was an Operative. Once he entered the Alliance parliament to meet with the Minister of Defence, he'd officially be an Operative. Or at least, in as much officially capacity as being an Operative allowed.
Hatch opening.
No, really?
He glanced at Miranda and she smiled at him. That gorgeous, sweet, smile. They had barely exchanged words in the trip. Not with Denon sitting between them. But even then, Dante didn't know if there was anything he could say. Not after his dream.
But he smiled back. And he liked it.
The hatch opened and a blast of warm air entered the craft. Dante squinted as White Sun blazed away from the sky above – it was warm. Blinding, even. Staggering outside, he tripped, his hands stopping his face from hitting the warm tarmac.
"You alright?"
He glanced up at Denon. His superior had disembarked, and had offered him a hand. Dante didn't say anything, and got onto his feet on his own.
"Nice, isn't it?" Miranda asked. She took a breath, as if there were flowers among the concrete jungle that was the starport – an offshoot of the larger jungle that was New Cardiff. "It's been so long since I've been planetside."
Dante remained silent. But Denon spoke anyway.
"You've been in space for over a year," he said. "Less gravity, recycled air, lower temperature…" He smiled. "There's limits to the human body that not even the Alliance can overcome."
Dante nodded – Sentinel had relied on centrifugal force for its gravity rather than the grav drive the courier had used. The one it must have kept on while the hatch opened.
"We'll give you muscle supplements, immuno-boosters, the works," Denon said. His gaze shifted, and Dante followed it. A pair of officers were coming their way – their uniforms indicated that they were in the Alliance Navy. And their insignias indicated that they were high ranked as well.
"Excuse me."
Denon walked over. No salutes were exchanged, only words that he couldn't hear in the wind. He watched as they walked off to a waiting jitney.
"So," Miranda said, coming to stand beside him. "Nice to be home?"
"Londinium isn't my home," Dante murmured. "Not officially at least."
"And unofficially?" Miranda asked, still smiling. She placed a hand on his shoulder.
Dante sighed. It looked like home. It sounded like home. The buildings, the sky, the air (actual non-recycled air, he reflected). But it didn't feel like home. Sentinel had been his home for over a year. The entire 'Verse had been his home for years longer than that as he'd served in the Unification War. Now, finally back on Londinium, he felt…nothing.
"It's nice," he lied to her. "It feels like I've never left."
Another lie. And he knew that Miranda Atkinson was far too intelligent a woman to buy into it. But also intelligent enough to not press it.
The pair walked across the pad to a nearby bench. There was no sign of Denon. Or anyone else. But he wasn't in a rush. This would be the first day of the rest of his life, as the saying went.
"So, what now?" he asked. "Do we wait for someone?"
"No," Miranda said. He looked up at her.
"So?" he asked.
"I'm supposed to take you through the terminal," she said. "But I…"
He watched as she played with her hands. He'd been trained in psychology in both the SAS and as an Operative. Yet even without that, he'd have to be an idiot not to see that she was uneasy.
"But I…"
He was starting to feel like an idiot though.
"Dante, you don't have to do this."
She knelt down, and took his hands in hers. Stared at him with those gorgeous eyes.
"Miranda, what-"
"Dante, there's still time," she said. "You don't have to become an Operative. You…you can do better."
"Miranda, I-"
"Dante, I've seen too many people like you. I've seen them go off, never to be heard from again. I…I don't want to lose you."
Wo cao, he reflected to himself.
"I…I love you."
Very wo cao.
"And I think that you love me."
Dante sat there. He couldn't think straight. This fresh air, this higher gravity, the summer heat, the sweat that was coming from another source…
"Please," she said. "We can…go, somewhere. Anywhere. We can have a life."
"Miranda…"
She kissed him. Repeatedly. He didn't even resist.
"Please," she said. "On Sentinel…I know it was real. It…can be real here."
He kissed her back. He couldn't help it. Over a year, in close proximity to…to…
I want her.
It was a simple admission. But it was true. He was only human, he told himself. He had been trained to-
I believe in Man. I believe in a world without sin.
His words came back to him. The words he had told Riggs at Hera.
"Come on," she said. "We can leave. I…I don't want to lose you. I don't want to live my life, wondering what happened to you."
And are you willing to put everything from your past behind you? To be a ghost? To live a half-life, so that others may live theirs to the fullest? To even cast aside your own name?
More words. But they were a question this time. Yet he knew the answer. Or at least, the answer he had given Riggs back then.
Or was it Patrick?
"Come on," Miranda said. She took his hand, trying to get him to stand up. "Let's leave."
But he remained in place. Because he remembered the answer.
"No," he said.
He remembered the dream.
"I can't," he said. "God help me Miranda, I want to. I…really…want to."
Miranda Atkinson was an intelligent woman. Intelligent enough to know what he was saying. And had a heart large enough that he could see into it through her eyes.
"But I made a promise," he said. "I can't turn back now."
"Of course you can," she said. "The Alliance can't make you do anything. They can't force you to do this!"
"They're not forcing me to do anything. But I have to do this."
"You don't!" she yelled. "You don't!"
But he had to. But for reasons he wasn't telling her.
"I can't," he said. He felt her hand slip out of his grasp. "I want to. I would love to. But I…can't."
He'd killed. He'd maimed. He would do all that, and more. But that wasn't the reason.
It was that he had killed her. In his dream. He had been lucid, and decided that the orders of his superiors were worth more than Miranda's life. Statistically, the rationale was sound. But…
"I'm sorry."
But he couldn't do it. Because for all his sins, Dante considered himself to be an honest man.
"I just can't."
He couldn't live a lie. He could live as a ghost. But not as a liar.
Miranda nodded. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. Nor did she say anything as they walked through the terminal. As their passes were cleared, military credentials (faked, but official to the starport staff) giving them priority of passage. As he looked around – men, women, children. Families. Traders. Soldiers. All of them living their lives. All of them uncaring of what he felt. Of how it hurt him to see Miranda like this – her silence. Her refusal to meet his eyes, or hold his hand. He wanted to scream when the final desk clerk said "welcome to Londinium." To strangle the bastard. To make him go into the depths of space. To make him sacrifice everything, so that another fat slob could have a life of stamping passports and telling people to smile for the facial scan. He wanted that. He wanted to do that, and come home, and have a life. He even wanted to see his father again.
How he envied them.
But he kept walking. And the pair came to the arrivals terminal. Passed the loved ones waiting for friends and family. Past people who lived. Past citizens of the Union of Allied Planets, that he had given up everything to protect.
"Last chance," Miranda whispered.
He winced at her words. He winced as a husband kissed his wife. As a child met his aunt. He winced, and turned his eyes away. Only to find Miranda's boring into them.
"I can't," he said. "I just can't."
"Fine," she said.
She didn't say anything as they exited the terminal doors. As they saw Denon standing beside a government-owned coupe that would take them to the Alliance parliament. As he smiled, and complained about bureaucracy.
"Everything alright?" he asked.
Dante glanced at Miranda, already on her way to a taxi. For a moment, her gaze met his. For a moment, he wanted to run after her. For a moment, he wanted to throw everything away, just so he could be with her.
"Yes," he said. "Everything's fine."
But only for a moment.
But as he stepped into the coupe, as it rolled off, as he closed his eyes and burnt Miranda's face into his mind, he remembered something he'd realized during the war. As he'd fought, and killed, and lost, and grieved.
A moment could last a long time.
A/N
Despite the length, there's not too much to discuss in this chapter from a writing standpoint. This was one of a few chapters I considered splitting into two because of the length, but other chapters didn't have a good middle cut-off point, so it ended up being one chapter.
Fun fact, managed to track down a replica of the Operative's sword from the film. Used it as reference for the swordsplay sections, as I felt it was important to provide a justification as to why, in the 26th century, the Operatives use swords at all. There's arguably a precedent via Shindig, but duels are different from everyday use.