The Dust

Exodus

Orpheo shuddered at the thought of the pod. The mission to head back home to Earth required such a thing, of course, but the idea didn't sit well with him.

His body, patched and replaced, lagged behind his mind. He wondered how painful the awakening from the cold would be, and forced himself to push the thoughts from his mind. If he dwelled on them he would never make himself go into the pod.

Instead, he paced along the bridge, listening to the sound of feet across metal for the last time in centuries. The Federation wanted to send a survey to Earth, to see what had become of it in the centuries since the exodus. He looked out at the simulated image of the arrays and the sun. They would have to push the ship to its fullest to get it out of the system at a speed that would make the brass happy.

He could die in an unconscious instant.

His footsteps echoed through the darkness, the simulated images fading away as he turned his attention elsewhere. They were in orbit above New Haven, where another terrorist attack in Irkalla had just been carried out. Orpheo wondered if it was a prelude to a new surge of revolutionary fervor, or just a feeble outcry against the Federal presence. So many years ago he had put down rebels.

Now he was a guard dog. Someone too old to be of use in known danger, but so veteran that his wisdom would be valuable in the unknown threats of the home system.

His life was a tool to someone else's end.

He felt the disappointment of being alone.

Claxons called the last chance for sleeper pods. If he missed them he would be doomed to brief agony as the ship's acceleration turned him into a mangled heap and his organs failed. It was a good enough argument, and he turned to head down to the cryodeck.

In the chamber he took a moment to look at his fellow travelers. The dim blue lighting was enough to illuminate them. They looked clean in their Federal uniforms, tin soldiers freeze-dried for rehydration in a calmer season. A captain here, a sergeant there, a corpsman tucked between support beams. Orpheo had never pictured himself in uniform, and he imagined the figure he must have cut, his scarred and aged body compared to the elites of the next generation.

He had been the best, at one time.

He turned away from the chamber, letting the automatic door close with a hiss behind him. He didn't feel right joining the good Federals. Something held him back. Bile welled in his throat—was it because they were better than him?

He cursed his lot under his breath, striding down the hall. He had a couple minutes to make his decision. Orpheo thought for a moment of Cain wandering the far corners of the world. It was a strange image at this moment. He headed back to the bridge, ignoring the warning. They could delay their journey by a few minutes if it put his mind at rest.

***

The displays showed the world beneath in all of its tranquility. From orbit the dust turned quietly, and the screams and sobs of the world were silent. He had known them well for all his years. The Federals had pinned medal after medal on  his chest as a reward for the weights he had chosen to bear.

Chosen?

An interesting word for interesting times. He couldn't remember choosing the Federals. There was only a recurring nightmare—a desert with stars stretching into eternity, vultures and drones closing in like surgeons with knives aimed to his heart.

The house of cards began to fall. On Irkalla, when the resistance had known him. It occurred to Orpheo that he hadn't received a cover.

They had known him as their friend.