Peace Walker
Lawrence gazed up at one of many, many Peace Walkers lined up, parked. Each waited to be loaded up onto the transport shuttles, the sheer size already dwarfing these already titans of war.
He loitered, biding his time for no particular reason. He stood on a catwalk, and turned his attention below to the great mass of people on the runaways. There unfolded a grand ceremony, a real joint PR stunt if there ever was one, being conducted without issue and gaudy as ever. Military bands blared with solemn diligence, the tunes of the Confederacy’s anthem.
The en masses, Lawrence figured, didn’t mind the whole ordeal. It was nonetheless a great congregation of civilians tearfully celebrating with their loved ones, and hopefully not for the last time. Each and every one prayed to any god willing to lend a ear to their pleas. They eagerly and with sincerity bid farewell to their soldiers, sending off spouses, sons, daughters, fathers and mothers to fight a distant, uncaring war. The only collective concern was for their wellbeing, as they yearn for their return once more to their families.
The senior politicians and their posse took center stage. The only notable one of real important was the Minister of Defense Ronald McCarthy. He delivered rousing speeches of camaraderie, of the triumphs to come. Nothing but praise for the soldiers of the Confederacy. But to Lawrence it was mere word salad, not the kind of appetite he has for that sort of thing. It was no less the kind he’d expect from a dark horse in Confederate politics. A real rising star.
Soon enough, the politicians wrapped up business. Ronald led the way saluting the warriors defending their proud democracy, then he lead his cast of snakes out of view. The ceremony was coming to a pass, winding down fast. The crowds peeled off one after another, giving away for the shuttle transports to prepare for launch. All that was left to do now was to wage war.
Lawrence leaned on the railing. There was nobody waiting for him, of course. No one to share this moment of fleeting moment of comfort with.
A tap on his shoulder, and he turned to see a woman—and not just any woman. Lawrence was stunned for a second, unable to believe his eyes. It was, of course, Charlotte Frenda.
Lawrence smiled. She did the same. She extended her arms and Lawrence stepped closer to embrace her in a hug.
“It’s been too long,” Charlotte said.
“Yeah,” Lawrence said, “it has, hasn’t it?”Lawrence gave her a squeeze, then stepped back.
She stood by him on the railing, and leaned against it as she faced outward. It was slightly windy, and boy was it hot. It was an unusual summer in mid October. Scorching hot in this part of Fasnakyle. Lawrence didn’t think to wear a summer uniform because the weather report said it’d be chilly. Sometimes, you just can’t put too much faith in any kind of hardware.
“About a year or two, I suppose?” Charlotte said. Lawrence nodded. Then: “You never called.”
“Was I suppose to?”
Charlotte could only smile.
“Is Boris still in your unit?” Lawrence said.
Charlotte thought for a moment. “I’m the squad leader of Suntory Whiskey Toki now. He’s in the same company as me though, as squad leader of Skrewball.”
“Well, at least I left it in good hands,” Lawrence said. For a brief moment, painful memories of Luke Starrunna emerged, but Lawrence suppressed the thoughts. If he were alive, Lawrence could imagine him as leading a squad of his own by now, continuing the tradition of keeping hotheads in check.
His gaze fell back on the Peace Walker. It’s mono-eye was dim. But for a moment, a brief moment, Lawrence had an episode of staring down Jonathan von Churchill’s Walpurgis all these years ago. In those catastrophic corridors of Zeta, ready to ram it until that terrible otherworldly trick of Churchill made him steer off-course his kamikaze assault.
He felt a hand on his arm, caressing him gently.
“Everything good?” Charlotte’s voice pulled him from the nightmare. He looked into her aquatic eyes and smiled.
“Yeah, no problem,” Lawrence said. He cleared his throat. “Boris just wasn’t the same after... I expected him to jump ship after Zeta. Part of me wishes he did, and you too.”
There was a moment of silence between them.
Lawrence cleared his throat and spoke: “Boris... is he in this operation too, I’m assuming?”
“Yeah, he’s with me in the Seventh Star Fleet,” she said. Lawrene nodded. Makes sense, considering they’re part of the same Hoshiga company.
“Unfortunate—being in the Seventh, I mean,” Lawrence said. She shot him a curious look. “I’m in the Third.”
Charlotte couldn’t conceal a grin. “You saying Boris and I are unlucky?”
“What’s that suppose to mean?”
“Just so happens whatever Star Fleet you’re in always comes out on top—I wonder why that is?”
“I think...” Lawrence trailed off. He didn’t know how to answer that. He certainly didn’t like what it entailed. “Well, I’m sure you two will manage just fine. Just because I’m not there on the wings of my Hoshiga...”
“Yeah, yeah, I was only joking!” Charlotte said.
“Boris... is he already up in orbit, then?”
“Maybe,” Charlotte said, the uncertainly all too clear. “He might’ve taken a shuttle already.”
“What’s the rush, I wonder?”
“Can you blame him? It’s wicked hot!”
“True,” Lawrence said. He looked at his watch.
“Your shuttle about to launch, I take it?”
“Yup,” Lawrence said. “We should get a move on, it’s a nice view up here and all, and I’ve love to catch up with you some more, Charlotte, but I’d rather not expose ourselves to the heat any longer.”
“I’m with you there, think mine is about to depart, too,” she said. The two hurried down the flight of stairs and were soon enough at Lawrence’s shuttle, which wasn’t too far off from where they are. For a moment, Lawrence considered walking Charlotte to her shuttle, but he wasn’t too sure how much more of the heat he could handle.
Lawrence turned to face her, as she had done the same. They stared intently into each other’s eyes. Then, she lowered her gaze.
“Victoria . . . you were never able to track her down, were you?” Charlotte said.
Lawrence shook his head. She looked back up at him.
“Stay alive so you can continue searching for her, won’t you?” She said.
“Dying isn’t exactly on my agenda,” Lawrence said, a smile of confidence to fool even himself. He reached out with his right hand. She gripped it intently with her left. “I hope to see you and Boris in Ishtar Fortress.” She squeezed his hand. “I hear they have some fine quality wine over there.”
“Well, you’re a commodore now—I’m not sure how they’d let the Fool of Chizan rise up the ranks so quickly, but it’ll be on your tab, alright? Soon enough, I bet, they’ll be calling you something like His Excellency Rear Admiral Mengde once this is over.”
“I hope not,” Lawrence said. “I’m only twenty-nine, far too young to being called sir... or His Excellency, really. Not looking forward to it.” Lawrence took a deep breath, then a scoff. He shook his head. “Say hi to Boris for me, it’s a shame he couldn’t wait around but I really don’t blame him—this heat is dreadful.”
“You can say that again, I’m sure he’ll be relieved to know you’re still alive after all this time,” Charlotte said. She stepped forward, closer to Lawrence. She tugged the handkerchief wrapped around his neck and planted a smooch on his cheek. She stepped back, beaming. Then she procured a small handkerchief and proceeded to wipe her mark casually.
Lawrence reached for her hand to do it himself. “Do you mind if I keep this as a amulet?”
“Wanting to steal some of my lady’s luck?” Charlotte said. “I expect you to return it, served with that whiskey in Ishtar.”
“Well, I’ll try,” Lawrence said. She turned around and walked briskly for her shuttle, it wasn’t too far off. Lawrence patted his cheek with the cloth—he sniffed it. Charlotte smelled nice. He tucked it in his breast pocket.
Lawrence looked on as she hopped onto the shuttle’s airstair, running up it excitedly, brimming with hope. Lawrence turned and stepped onto his, leaning on the arm rest as it brought him up slowly. He wandered down the aisle, sitting at a empty cushy seat and enjoying the newfound relaxation after sitting so long. After turning on the seat’s video screen, he opted to tune in to the first episode of the fantasy drama Dama, realizing until now he never gave it a try and had time to spare until he was on the Star Monitor. If nothing else, it’d give him something to obsess over if he ever saw Brutus again. Where was he now? Lawrence said inwardly. Last he heard, the brute was preoccupied with the tense business going on down there in the Guilin Canton.
Lawrence sat next to the window and stared out it as the shuttle jolted—first on land, then in the air, before long, space. The remaining satellites of the Maginot Line glimmered over Fasnakyle’s horizon. Scores opon scores of Star Monitors littered the cosmic seas around the capital planet.
Lawrence reclined in the chair.
“A toast in Ishtar Fortress,” Lawrence said, under his breath. His eyelids heavy, but keeping his eyes squinted to watch the opening scene of Dama play. But needless to say he was more preoccupied with letting himself be absorbed in his thoughts. He wondered if such a feat was even possible—even with their battalions of Peace Walkers. Seven times the Confederacy tried, in vain, to capture Ishtar Fortress, and seven times entire generations of young men and women paid personally the failed endeavors—their politicians back home nothing to show for it, the widows and orphans who wept for the dead. At the end of the day, now, millions upon millions of lives rested squarely on the authority of the admirals leading the Seventh Coalition. And yet, wonder Lawrence did: Who, inevitably, reserves this chance to truly play God?