Sebastian couldn’t talk about going invisible. But he could talk about becoming a hero.
“Only thirty seconds left,” Jamie Gellhorn said. “We must have you back, and soon. Before I let you go—Sebastian, care to shed any light on the rumors that you’re now an honorary Volunteer? A ‘Page Six’ item today.”
Sebastian smiled, wide and happy. He’d done well, and he knew it. You too can lead at life and dominate, he wanted to tell Noonan. But he didn’t. Instead he said the one thing he could think of even more obnoxious.
“That’s too much. They’re friends, sure. They’re the best of us. They’re warfighters. Me?” he asked. “I’m just a normal citizen who cares.”
* * *
The segment finished and Sebastian and Noonan made way for a discussion on the recent flurry of anti-colony demonstrations. A panelist compared their potential to the peacemonger movement that had marked the early Vietnam War days. Sebastian found the analogy intriguing. Divisive as they’d been, those protests had led to the all-volunteer military and the International Legion. Could these also effect positive change? Maybe they need an almost-famous propagandist to help lead the cause, he thought, casually. He wanted to stay and listen to the entire thing but he was meeting up with Pete and didn’t want to be late.
Sebastian turned on his phone in the cab. It lit up like a glow bug. Text messages from friends, from family, from numbers he didn’t recognize, congratulating him, letting him know they’d seen him from everywhere. “Looking good, kid,” read one. “You made that meat-rocket look like a fool, yo!” went another. “Drink soon?” asked at least four. There was even a voice mail, just one, from his mom, saying he’d made her proud.
The cab stopped and Sebastian overtipped. “Share the cheer,” he told the driver, who responded with a thumbs-up. An Indian summer greeted him outside, the air washed and sticky. Global warming or good fortune? Sebastian didn’t care. He felt too right to care about things beyond his control. He passed through the gates of Columbia, inhaling what he imagined to be bright air. The quad green was an ocean of frisbee and idle gossip. They’re all so clean and beautiful, he thought, admiring more the untouchable energy than any specific person or body. Not for the first time Sebastian thought about applying to grad school here. Which program didn’t matter. He wanted to hang a framed Ivy League degree someday.
He found Pete sprawled across the library steps in jeans and a long-sleeve thermal. The other man had taken to walking the city in his combat boots, ragged and torn and caked in the dust of faraway lands. A man in repose, Sebastian thought, yet a soldier in wait. When would the Volunteers return to the war? The War Department had extended their leave indefinitely, much to Pete’s chagrin. “Why?” he kept asking. No one who knew would say.
Pete’s eyes opened at Sebastian’s approach, dark eye blending with the twilight, the coral one piercing through it. He’d grown out a half beard and hair had reached the top of his ears. A folded envelope lay on his chest like a chevron.
Pete untangled himself and sat up, flexing his back with a wince. He handed the envelope to Sebastian.
“Can’t make heads or tails of it.”
Sebastian opened the envelope and looked over the enclosed letter. It was from the IRS. “You need to report your income for the past four years.”
“I’ve been deployed.”
“You still need to file. For their records.”
“Fucking Christ.” Pete spoke loud, an iceberg of heat beneath his words. Passing students turned to look at the large man in his anger. “Goddamn stupid.”
“Should be straightforward enough. I’ll help you with it.” Sebastian put the letter and envelope in his back pocket. “See the segment?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Pete put out his arm to be helped up and Sebastian obliged, though it didn’t feel like he provided much lift. “Good work. Liked that bit about the wars being everywhere now.” He rotated his neck. A sharp popping sound followed. “That last part, though. Super douchey.”
“Oh.” Shame chilled Sebastian, but so did defiance. How many super-douchey things has this guy said to reporters? he thought. “Good to know.”
They walked the campus, free and youngish. They split a six-pack Pete had brought and talked about how much Navy SEALs sucked and how much Liam Noonan specifically sucked. The beaux-arts buildings and walls draped in ivy gave the school a sleepy quality; there was a soft and gentle quiet that Sebastian at once wanted to bathe in and shatter. They passed the famous alma mater statue, the one of Athena seated on a throne that’d been bombed in the seventies by homegrown radicals. They passed the new business school and the antique liberal arts center. Along the eastern border of campus, beneath the cliff occupied by the school on the hill, loud yellow lights roared up from Old Harlem streets.
Sebastian considered asking where the others were, but there was no need. Britt and Flowers were together, doing something. Dash was alone, doing something else. Pete slept on Sebastian’s couch now. He said he found the lofts boring. Maybe that was it, maybe it wasn’t. He’d fought with his sister about something. Sebastian had steered clear of knowing much about it, or anything at all. It seemed personal.
In front of the dining hall girls too young for them asked if they wanted to party. Pete said no but Sebastian asked where, just in case. Near the bookstore an international affairs professor asked Pete if he’d come visit his class to talk policy. Pete said sure, maybe, but then again, probably not. Only policy I care about is right here, he said, holding up his trigger finger. Near the school pond a group of young Republicans in polos recognized Pete and thanked him for his service. He thanked them for not serving. Someone’s grumpy, Sebastian realized, later than he should have. Pete had been deep in his own head for much of their walk.
“Let’s get out of here,” Sebastian said. The insulted youths were slinking away. “Do something different.”
“Different, huh,” Pete said. “Got just the thing.” As always, he had a plan. This one involved going west, to the river, past the large Gothic church with a social justice bent, then north along muddy banks to a tomb of white granite a bit out of the way with a cupola and a façade of two angels and the epitaph “Let Us Have Peace.” West to the river, then north, to the resting place of the man who wrote in his memoirs, “Nations, like individuals, are punished for their transgressions.”
It was a quiet place. Tranquil too, Sebastian thought. A fine place to spend infinity. The river churned and crickets trilled and the two free and youngish men sat along the tomb’s front, leaning against marble columns under an arcade of pine trees.
“Best spot in the city.” Pete took a long drink from a bottle and held it against the moonlight as tribute. His plan had also involved buying chicken sandwiches and a fifth of Old Crow bourbon on the way there. The bourbon tasted like castor oil to Sebastian but it’d been General Grant’s favorite. “No bullshit, no hysteria. Just…” He paused to take another sip. “Hard-earned grace.”
Pete nodded to himself again, pleased, and handed over the bottle.
“Glad the bomber left this alone,” Sebastian said. Pete raised an eyebrow. “Jonah Gray. Such a stupid fucking name.”