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"I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo.
"So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."
~J. R. R. Tolkien
Chapter Sixteen: Smoke Signals
Edward Gallant hated bagpipes. Not because he disliked the music - as a child, he'd been quite fond of them - but because he remembered all too many days like this. The music ringing in the air, the crowd assembled...
And two coffins moving along the Avenger's landing pad on rolling gurneys.
Aileen Quinn and Jane Kelly pushed Pablo Nunez, one on each side, while behind them it was Cameron Rogers and Da-Xia Liang with Carlos Mendoza. Julie Richardson had come up from the medbay, leaning on her surprise newfound friend Sylvie Richard with a nurse hanging within six paces at all times, sharing attention between the psi-op and David White, doggedly standing unaided. There was Elena Dragunova, there were Aidan MacLeod and Sophie Weber...Shen and Tygan stood at the far end of the impromptu corridor formed of the two soldiers' shipmates, and Gallant and Bradford at this one, mere feet from Avenger's starboard flank.
Wind curled over the deck, which hummed with the roaring throb of anti-grav fusion engines. Their whine filled the air, but the song carried well over it, played by a few of Tygan's science detail. Shen had offered to set up a sound system and play a recording, but Gallant and Bradford had been in agreement: a funeral called for live music.
So Gallant listened to the bagpipes, and reflected on how much he hated Going Home.
The bearers stopped their charges at the side, and Gallant nodded to each one in turn. He still saw anger in Kelly's eyes, but at least she realized now wasn't the time to express it. Quinn kept her on course, while Liang let Rogers lead her to the side, glassy-eyed and shambling. What Mendoza had meant to her, Gallant was afraid he could guess, even if he would never ask.
The music faded. Gallant sucked in breath.
"Just like the old days, sir," Bradford encouraged. Gallant nodded, as all eyes turned to him.
"Good morning, XCOM." His voice did carry through a speaker system, broadcasting from Shen's GREMLINs, set around the gathering in strategic places. He tried not to clear his throat. "I had hoped that my first public address to the organization would be one of hope, or of clarity and victory...rather than one as grieving as this."
They waited. Gallant reached out, putting one hand on Mendoza's coffin, just lightly enough to be respectful yet draw attention to the multicolored displays wreathing it.
"Corporal Mendoza and Squaddie Nunez were your brothers," he said. His throat caught as he thought of just how many times he'd given this speech, or a variation thereof. He thought of shell-shocked Malin Larsen, and how many times she'd wheeled half or more of her team through the base cemetery, while Gallant watched and berated himself, leaning on Penny in spirit and cane in body. "To you, they were friends and comrades. You entrusted your lives to them, and they to you, on more than one occasion. They were good men. They volunteered for this war, and no one could fault their bravery."
He tugged on the cloth over Mendoza's coffin. "These men died believing not in Advent, but in the power of humanity, and of their own home countries. They go now wreathed in their home colors, and I think Mexico and Spain could not have been done prouder by any soldier they have ever produced. But though they are gone, they are not forgotten, and their deaths were not in vain." His hand moved to the other flag on Mendoza's coffin, draped over where his legs ought to be. "A son of Mexico, he was; but it was for Sweden and its people that he died. The Swedish Resistance insisted he be buried as a Swede as much as a Mexican, and the same for Nunez. In that example, we can see the unity of the human race - brought on not by alien conquerors hell-bent on a singular world dominion, but forged by the humanity we all share, and the hearts that beat the same no matter from where we come.
"Pablo Nunez and Carlos Mendoza were brothers to each other, and to all of you." Gallant straightened. "But I am your Commander. To me, they were as my sons, as all of you are my sons and daughters."
Kelly looked unhappy, but Shen's eyes softened. Many in the crowd looked down, or away, and Gallant knew what that meant. He sighed.
"Mistakes were made," he admitted. "Many of them my own. I take full responsibility for the faults of incompetent ability on my part that led to where we stand right now, but all we can do is move forward, and that is what I intend to do. Mendoza and Nunez did not, and will not, die in vain." He leaned forward on his cane, teeth set. "And we will never forget what they have done, not here on the Avenger, and certainly not in Sweden. They died as heroes, and they will be buried as such."
Silence. Wind pulled at Gallant's coat, and it played with the hair and clothes of all the assembled. The Commander turned to the two bodies, then to Bradford. He nodded.
"Pre-sent arms!" the XO ordered. Gallant waited as six rookies raised rifles loaded with blanks, taking aim at the sky-
"Fire!"
Crack! A loose volley, that brought back a thousand memories from a hundred funerals. Gallant thought of his command in Iraq, his soldiers in the Old War...
"Fire!"
Crack! Gallant saw Tygan flinch. Shen had tears in her eyes, and Gallant wondered if Bradford had put her father to rest this same way. He'd known Gallant's funeral speeches every bit as well as the Commander himself did...
"Fire!"
Crack! The detail lowered their rifles, and Gallant took a breath as the sound of the shots was snatched away by the wind. He waited as soldiers from each of the three countries honoring the fallen took the flags and folded them away.
"It's time," Bradford finished, and the two coffin details approached. They took their gurneys, and they rolled them right to Avenger's broad flank. Gallant turned to watch.
With the flick of two switches, Jane Kelly and Da-Xia Liang lifted the rear end of each gurney, and Mendoza and Nunez slid quietly into open air.
Gallant didn't bother looking down at the rushing Mediterranean waters, not like the crowd that pressed past him. He just leaned on his cane, closing his eyes while the ocean wind pulled at him and the scent of sea salt overwhelmed his nostrils.
How many more times am I going to have to give that damn speech?
"Julie." Elena Dragunova patted the psi-op on the back, as she limped into the hangar bay with Sylvie in her wake. "Good to see you about."
"Good to be about," the redhead muttered, pausing to check her amp and her rifle. "Where's Liang?"
"Finishing her preparations." Elena took comfort in the weight of her vektor on her back, then set to pacing with hood down. "Possibly spending a moment to mourn."
Julie looked down. "I know Mendoza was her friend. It must be hard for her."
"We have a job to do, and bitching about me isn't it." Da-Xia Liang's appearance made Julie jump and stutter, but then the black-clad Grenadier stormed her way to the center of the bay, machinegun and grenade launcher ready, carrying a backpack of spare munitions. "So let's focus on doing that, shall we?"
"...right." Elena overrode Julie's mumbling attempts at apology. "Avenger is on station over the Indian Ocean right now. Firebrand will drop us on the mainland not far from New Madras, where we'll meet my Reaper contacts, Raj and Mordecai."
"And they know how to get into this prison," Julie finished. Elena nodded.
"They will guide us through the security perimeter or we will all die in the attempt," she agreed.
"Comforting," the psi-op grumbled. Sylvie looked similarly nonplussed.
"You'll be careful, won't you?" she asked. Elena blinked slowly.
"Yes. Very."
"Good." The Frenchwoman mustered a smile, directed at her new friend. "If you died, I'd have to Volunteer to take your place."
"You should do that anyway," Julie encouraged. "The lab will be empty while I'm gone. Talk to Hiroshi."
"Don't," Liang shot in. "For your own benefit, just don't."
"I think having another psi-op would be of immense benefit to all of us," Elena objected. She threw up her hood. "But for now, we have more pressing concerns."
"Whatever." Liang started for the Skyranger. "Let's get aboard before she leaves without us."
"She can't." But Julie dutifully started for the dropship, pausing only to wave goodbye. Sylvie waved too, watching her new friend ascend the ramp on the road to battle.
"I will return her," Elena promised, voice low. "The Commander has already impressed on me her importance to the Resistance. You need not worry about the future of our war effort."
"I..." Sylvie nodded. "I'll try not to. But the thought of not having a psionic on our side is just...it's frightening."
"It will not come to pass," Elena repeated. She clapped the Frenchwoman on the shoulder, then turned for the ship. "We will return in a week's time, and with Pratal Mox at our sides."
"Fair travels!" Sylvie urged, as Elena started up the ramp into the Skyranger's belly. "Good luck...and give them hell!"
Consciousness, in a flash. Or...was it consciousness?
Yes. Yes, it was: though it came slowly, in fits and starts, she was sure this was indeed the waking world. She hurt all over, lying on her back on something hard, surrounded by this sickly emerald glow...
Evangeline Moreau's eyes went wide as she remembered what had happened in the Gene Therapy Clinic.
Glass. That was glass over her head, framed with hexagonal black supports, and Evangeline frantically reached for it. Or, she tried. Her arms wouldn't respond. Neither would her legs, nor her shoulders or head, and though she tried to shriek as she discovered how little autonomy she possessed, her jaws wouldn't open. It came out muffled and broken from behind clenched teeth.
What's happening to me? It was the only thought she could think of. Her eyes darted left and right, and her heart raced. She moaned in terror as she made the mental connection between her green and black prison and a coffin, and the size and shape and nature of her confinement was almost identical. It hummed softly, and somehow Evangeline was certain that was the cause for her immobility.
She screamed. She tried to thrash and twist, struggling against the confines of the energy field that pressed down on her. When that did no good, she hoarsened her throat, but the noise only seemed to echo in on her...echoing, and echoing...
Stop! Evangeline told herself, realizing it wasn't going to do any good. Stay calm. Stay calm...there's been a mistake somewhere. Just wait for your chance and you can explain that to someone. Or maybe this is preparation for surgery? It would have been nice to be warned, but...but...
She was grasping at straws. What kind of surgery prep involved soldiers in the room? What kind of mistake would lead to being locked in some kind of forcefield-coffin like this? But it helped keep her sane and patient, and that was what she needed.
She didn't know how long she waited. It might have been hours...it might have been days. It was a long time, she knew that much, but she didn't sleep, and none of her other bodily functions made themselves a nuisance. Numb in all limbs and unable to lift her head to look at herself, it took Evangeline most of this time to realize she was also naked.
Finally, she saw motion through the green, even without her glasses, and her eyes widened.
"Six-seven-three-four," muttered a voice outside, and Evangeline strained to hear it. "And three-five, from Paris."
Someone else? Evangeline's heart flew into her mouth. Charlotte must be next to her. Her being here was bad enough, but her friend's being involved...suffering like her...
This couldn't be normal.
"Where are these two headed?" wondered someone else. "With the rest?"
"Yeah, just like the rest." Someone grabbed one end of Evangeline's coffin - and she had to stop thinking of it like that, or she'd panic - and then someone else the other. She tried to get their attention, shouting and wishing she could bang on the glass-
"They should arrive at the black site day after tomorrow."
Evangeline had been wrong. She'd thought she was close to panic before.
She shrieked, thinking of the darkened rumors she'd heard about places like black sites, and resumed her frantic thrashing, heedless of how every movement was arrested by that accursed field. Her eyes darted left and right, peering through the green in the hopes of-
Her jaw would have dropped had she any agency. Picking through the haze of her faltering vision, she saw another container...and another...and another and another...there had to be hundreds of them, all stacked in orderly rows like packages for shipment.
They set Evangeline down. They left. She squirmed and shouted and screamed, but nothing she did provoked a response.
Her eyes turned left and right, and she saw containers on both sides. She saw a roof overhead...but only for a moment.
She screamed as another container was set overtop of hers, and continued screaming for what felt like hours as she heard more and more put into place.
Long before the train was fully loaded and began its journey to the Advent black site, Evangeline had made the discovery that, stasis field or not, she could still weep.
Bang! Bang-bang-bang!
Gallant had never fancied himself an earth-shattering marksman. A capable close-in combatant, yes, and certainly not a bad shot, but there was a reason he'd never become a sniper. Patience wasn't his strong suit by anyone's definition, and that had been true before his crippling.
But firepower was something he appreciated, and even if he had to lean his hip against the firing range wall while he supported and aimed the glorious device in his hands, he relished the way it ripped apart its downrange target. An Old War sectoid would probably have lasted less time than the fragmenting, shattering plywood frame Gallant hurled magnetically-accelerated rounds into.
"It's a damn fine gun," the Commander muttered, as he lowered it. He studied the broken remnants of his target, and almost sighted in again to continue its demolition down to the atomic level. "You've done good work over the last week. This should even the odds on the ground a good bit."
"Advent will upgrade its armor and equipment when they find out we're using these," Shen warned, accepting the rifle. Gallant grunted, sweeping the magnetic sidearm she'd prototyped up from its own resting place.
"Granted. But we still have a window to act." He claimed his cane, too, and took a side-on Wild West gunslinging stance, instead of the efficient two-handed grip they'd taught him in Basic. With one hand needed for support, he had no choice unless a convenient hip-bracing table presented itself.
Bang! An orange tracer appeared for just a fraction of a second, then what was effectively a railgun pistol round hit one of the heavy crates the sectoid target had been braced on, and Gallant snickered when the crate shifted backward from the blow, rattling in place.
"How many do we have?" he asked, after taking three more shots just to shove the crate from its position. "Ammunition?"
"We should be able to keep up with munitions requirements," Tygan said, from Gallant's other flank, "but at the moment these prototypes are our only examples of magnetic weapons. We should be able to produce more over the next few days using the Avenger's fabrication unit."
"Good. Consider that a top priority." Gallant lowered the pistol. "And what about armor?"
"Still working on it. We don't have an awful lot of alien alloys-"
Beep! Beep!
"Oh, shit. That's me." Gallant reached up to his ear. "Gallant."
"Sir." That was Bradford, and Bradford sounded...
"John...are you concerned?" He frowned, and Shen and Tygan traded looks. Gallant set his teeth. "What's happened, Central?"
"Sir...we've triangulated Big Sky's point of origin."
Gallant stiffened. "Where?"
"Southeast Asia. We're changing course now, but..."
"But what?" Gallant stumped for the door, forgetting all about his science and engineering divisions. "What is it, John? What's going on?"
"Sir...we've picked up a transmission." Bradford let out a breath. "Sir, it's Doctor Vahlen."
"To Mendoza!" Jane raised her glass. "To Nunez!"
"To the fallen," Aileen echoed, and they toasted. They showed their respect for lost friends in the oldest way humanity knew how, and for a moment both Irishwomen were quiet as the bar mumbled around them.
"Two more names on the wall. Two more names on the list." Jane sighed. "At least it's not three, or four. You and Julie made it out all right."
"Girl power, I guess." Aileen moodily studied the table, eyes dark. "We almost didn't."
"How are you?" Jane reached out to put a hand on her friend's shoulder. "I heard what happened."
"I still think...sometimes, I think I still hear its voice, even a week later." Aileen shivered. "Like a whisper from the edge of my hearing...the kind of thing that makes you turn around and look, until you remember it's not real."
Jane grunted. "And you've-"
"I got myself checked over. Hiroshi and the psi-team say there's no trace of the alien left in my brainwaves." She mustered a grin. "Nothing at all they can detect."
"Comforting," Jane muttered. "Very comforting."
"You're telling me." Aileen leaned back, taking a deep drink.
Jane glanced at the memorial wall. Only four pictures, but there were so many more who could be there...should be there. Her old friends, David's old team, the Resistance members from Sweden...
Why had she lived, when no one else had?
"Aileen-"
"Mission Alert! All hands, report to general quarters!"
That klaxon went off, and they both flung themselves up at a moment's notice. Jane paused to finish her drink, then slammed her shot glass on the bar.
"Let's go be heroes," Aileen suggested. Jane couldn't help sparing a glance for the memorial wall.
"Heroes," she mumbled, wondering if they even had a picture of her to put up if she went down in action.
But regardless, she followed Aileen out of the bar at a scurry, trying to make sure she remembered her sword this time.
"Play it again."
"Yes, sir." The tech pressed buttons, and Commander Gallant gripped the rail, jaw working in what was probably a very unhealthy way.
Interference. Static, flickering in and out, back and forth. It twisted and grated, striking at Gallant's ears and soul.
But it was also oh, so glorious to hear, filling him with mixed hope and trepidation.
"...throughout this area...are of particular concern...all attempts should be made..."
"It's her," Gallant whispered. "That's Moira. It has to be her."
"We can only hope." Tygan stood at another console, and Gallant turned his attention. The scientist chewed his lip. "Sir, there are a number of unusual energy signatures in this area - temperature variations, psionic energy, and the like. You know what that means."
"Someone fought someone," Gallant agreed. He inhaled. "Doctor, man the bridge. Keep tabs on those signals."
"Commander." Tygan saluted. "If I may ask-"
Gallant waved him down. "Listen. When Central gets here-"
"Finish that thought."
Gallant paused. He turned, and his cane thumped as what was at first just a glance became a full about-face.
"John..." Gallant's eyes hardened, and hardened further, when he took in not just the XO's craggy features and harsh-set gaze, but the rifle hanging from his shoulder, and the hilt protruding from over his other one. "John..."
"Sir, I'd like permission to deploy with Menace," Bradford said, sketching a salute.
Gallant's eye twitched. "Denied."
"Commander, you and I both know what Vahlen meant to our operation-"
"Which is why you'll be manning the bridge, Central." Gallant started down the steps from his raised podium. "Let Sergeant Kelly know I'll-"
"You'll what?" Bradford took a step, and in a moment the two men were in each others' faces. "Sir, I'm afraid I can't let you go into a combat zone."
"You don't have the authority to stop me, central officer."
"We're not military any more. I'll have Shen's pet robot sit on you if I have to."
Gallant tightened his grip on his cane. "Just try it, old man, and I won't be the one slack-jawed in the infirmary."
"Sir, no one questions your personal gallantry." Was that a pun? Gallant almost whacked the XO on that alone. "But you can't go into a potential firefight."
"I'm hardly a cripple," Gallant seethed. "If you think I am, let's find a boxing ring. I'll hold my damn own."
"Sir, that's not it." Gallant wasn't sure if Bradford meant it or not, but he chose to disbelieve him on general principles. "I know you're a soldier of rare skill, cane or no. We've gone toe-to-toe before, and I remember who came out on top - and that was in my prime."
"Then you know you can't stop me-"
"Volk and the others need you in one piece. Shadow Man." Bradford shook his head. "You are this organization, Edward. We lose you, we lose the war. I'm..."
Gallant paused. "Expendable?"
"Certainly more so than you."
Gallant shook his head. "Bradford...it's Moira. I can't just leave her there."
"We're sending Menace-"
"I have to do this myself," Gallant snapped. "I owe it to her. After everything, I owe it to her to-"
"That's why I'm going," Bradford insisted, reaching out to put a hand on his CO's shoulder. "For you. I got you out of Paris, and I can get Doctor Vahlen out of this place. I swear to God, sir: if Vahlen's down there, either we both leave or neither of us does."
Gallant ground his teeth. "It has to be me."
"No. No, it doesn't." Bradford squeezed his shoulder. "Let me do this, sir. You lead from the bridge, and I'll be your point man on the ground. We'll do this together. As a team."
Gallant struggled. He clutched his cane and he clenched his fist, and he couldn't stop grinding his teeth back and forth for long minutes. Thoughts of Vahlen, and honor, and how long it had been since he'd seen her...
And the nagging thought about what Vahlen herself would have to say, or Penny, if either of them were involved in the decision-making process.
"All right, John." Gallant let out a long breath. "We'll do this your way."
Author's Note 16: Emotional Investment
I enjoy action scenes. They get the heart pounding, they're fun, they're badass, and so forth. I love watching them, and I love reading them. There's nothing like a big battle to really get me interested in something and make me love a work.
But for my own purposes, I always remember the quote from the audio commentary of The Legend of Korra's season three finale. I forget which of the developers said it, but he was remarking on the scene where Korra and her father were embracing before everything went down, and he said(paraphrased):
"Without scenes like this, none of the rest of it matters."
I can write action scenes until the cows come home, and I can out-Michael Bay Michael Bay when it comes to explosions and dramatic vistas of things coming apart. But if my readers aren't invested in the people about whom any of it is happening, all I'm doing is out-Michael Baying Michael Bay.
Since that revelation - despite how I know it's Writing 101 - some of my favorite scenes to write have become the quiet drama scenes, where my characters really have to contemplate what they believe in and why they're willing to fight for it. I hope you're enjoying them too.
Until next time, Vigilo Confido.