“Think about it. Five survivors: three Rangers, one pilot, and me. One hundred killed, between the Americans, insurgents, and locals. One hundred people dead to turn five super.”
“Shut the fuck up, hostage.”
“For superpowered warfighters. Ones beholden to the state. No matter how many others died.”
“I said shut the fuck up!” Flowers’s hand shot across the table, grabbing Sebastian by the collar.
“They wouldn’t do that. Not to us.”
Sebastian put up his hands in submission. “Maybe not.”
“We weren’t nobody grunts. We weren’t native security forces. We were American Rangers. You know how much money they put into just one Ranger’s training?”
“You’re probably right.”
“No chance. No fucking chance.”
Flowers rolled his knuckles into Sebastian’s throat, an act of suggestion more than anything, then let go. Sebastian tried not to exhale too loudly.
They were of the Found Generation. They’d been raised to trust the government. They’d been raised to believe the government. And Flowers was a loyal soldier. A Ranger. A Volunteer. Sebastian got all that.
He, though, was none of those things.
“You useless shit,” Flowers muttered. He wasn’t yet done. “We weren’t even there for you. You shouldn’t have even been there. Why do you get to live when our brothers got snuffed out? That’s what I hate. That’s what I think about. I’d trade you for any of them. Even the shitbags. Even the officers. I want you to know that.”
Sebastian nodded, reflexively rubbing at his throat. He thanked Flowers for his time, praying it didn’t come across as sarcastic. Then he told Britt he’d try to make their show later, not meaning it. He needed to be alone, and needed to be someplace he could think, so he could reason with what he’d just conjured.
In front of the Sniper, no less, he thought, an insolent smirk finding him. In front of the goddamn Sniper.
He moved north, and east, across a footbridge over an expressway to a bench near the river. The bench was just as he’d left it, as were the river and its dirty water, and the bridge, too, with all its cables and pillars and might. Across the water, the defunct smokestacks and the sugar plant sign of Gypsy Town stood proud, surrounded by shiny condos made from every color of glass. Sebastian sat down on the bench and brought his hands together, half-bowing his head.
So, he began. Let’s say this is true. That would mean someone in the military, someone in big government, had set them all up. His presence in Tripoli had been, at best, an alibi. More likely just happenstance. Fine, Sebastian decided. So be it. I’m still here.
Who would risk an elite Ranger platoon, though? Flowers had a point there. It still felt like blasphemy to Sebastian to think like this, but also freeing. His mind erupted with possibilities. The president. The Council of Victors. The generals, the consuls, the business titans, anyone and everyone who stood to profit from the wars going on and on into infinity, the lifeless bodies of homeland soldiers and foreign legionnaires and brown wogs all but marks and tallies to keep the days with.
Slow down, he told himself. This is how conspiracy theorists talk. Conspiracies are for the vacant-eyed, the mediocre-minded, the not-quite-read-enough. Be better than that, he thought. Focus.
Loose, barbaric shouts came up the river path, a pack of teenage boys laughing loudly and kicking at the bushes. A couple were holding long, pointy sticks like spears and they passed around a bottle filled with some sort of clear liquid. Sebastian found himself envying their sense of verve until he realized what they were after.
“It’s somewhere in there!”
“Can’t fly away? What kind of bird can’t fly?”
“Come out, come out, it’s time to end the hunt!”
Ahh, man, Sebastian thought. They’re fucking with Simon.
There were five of them, fourteen, maybe fifteen years old, Sebastian thought. A passing jogger told them to stop. One kid with slicked-back hair and neon sneakers told her to come closer and he’d start doing something else.
Not our best and brightest here, Sebastian decided. He needed to do something.
The wild turkey emerged from the foliage, clucking hysterically. It darted across open dirt to Sebastian’s rear. The boys spotted it and began whooping in chase.
Why hell, Sebastian thought. Let’s give the people a conspiracy worthy of the times.
He stood up, adjusted his sunglasses, and moved the lever in the back of his brain to invisible. A warmth like bathwater filled his body. As the teens neared his bench in a wild sprint, he channeled his best morning show Tupac impression. “Greetings, young players,” he said. “Better back the fuck up before you get smacked the fuck up.”
All five stopped on a dime, their faces awash in confusion.
“Who’s—who’s there?” one boy asked, voice squeaking like a rubber toy.
The one in neon sneakers spat on the ground. “Faggot wind,” he said. “That’s all.”
Sebastian took two steps forward and smacked the boy on the nose, harder than intended. It felt good, he thought, hurting someone who intended to hurt others.
“Defy, my dudes,” Sebastian said, before they fled down the path the other way. He tried again, louder. “Defy!”
CHAPTER 17
THEY WERE A year from the election, to the day. The presidential announcement had come as a surprise to much of the staff. But it made sense. For the general, for the party, for the country. Mia believed that. The stakes now, though—nothing mattered more. The dream of American Service would be reality.
There were different pathways from dream to reality, different approaches, different strategies. All required the green of capital.
“That’s why united service is the answer to what ails us.” General Collins was finishing her fund-raising pitch in the summit auditorium. It was technically sponsored by Lehman Brothers but financiers from all over Wall Street were in attendance. And ready for the cocktail reception, Mia noticed. “That’s why united service for our young people will bolster and reinvigorate the republic.”
They’d learned to avoid words like “mandatory” and “national” in speeches—it made their centerpiece idea sound like a chore. “United service for all,” though, was soft and inclusive. Something that both intrigued and inspired, vague enough that people could see themselves doing a variety of different jobs between high school and college. Teach. Build homes. Join the parks department. It had worked in other countries. Why not here?
The general had improved her delivery, too. She was smoother on the pitch now, less stiff and mechanical. She got up at five in the morning to practice, before practicing again on the gym treadmill during lunch.
“That’s it from me,” the general said. “Any questions out there?” Someone in the auditorium groaned. She still needed to improve at reading an audience. Young suits in finance were not as disciplined as the soldiers Jackpot had commanded for three-plus decades.
A hand in the front row shot up. More groans followed.
“General Collins, very interesting idea. And I do think it’d have some of the net civic gains you mention.” Mia knew that voice. It was Liam Noonan. We should’ve made this invite-only, she thought. Noonan continued. “But given the state of foreign affairs—the Mediterranean Wars keep expanding despite operational victories, and the very real possibility of conventional ground conflict with China in Africa—isn’t this just a dressed-up way of bringing back the draft?”