A Private Little War(56)

It was cold. Ted blew into his hands and rasped his knuckles against the edge of the table. Together, he and Eddie wrote a new history and predicted a new future in anticipation of that call: victory in a month. Or a week, why not? A minute. All they were begging for was time. A new clock to be started. Mercy. It would be the only chance they’d get. A moment where, perhaps—with the right words, the right numbers—their future could be changed. So they’d hunched together, head to head, light spilling across the table from a lamp, and they’d waited. They drank all the coffee and when it was gone, there was nothing but the lingering warmth of the cups.

When the final call from corporate came in, Ted crouched silently beside Eddie with earphones pressed to the side of his head, listening to every word. Eddie was polite, businesslike. He said all the right things. He laid out their position in the brightest possible light. He bargained. He made impossible promises. None of it mattered. Eddie grew strident, then angry, then desperate. The voice on the other side (Loewenhardt, Ted thought, though he wasn’t entirely sure) was cold and distant the whole time, speaking with implacable tones like a cash register ringing. The voice said no and no and no some more, and Ted felt himself falling into the void of it, a gentle rush like the nearness of death. At a certain point, he closed his eyes. The voice gave spreadsheet reasons that were difficult to argue against. “We cannot, at this time, see a way to profit from any further expansion of the Carpenter mission and have shifted resources away to more likely theaters.”

“I’m not asking for any expansion, sir, just—”

“At this time, the company can’t commit any additional resources, owing to a rapidly shifting political situation.”

“Sir, we don’t need resources. If you could—”

“Currently, your operation is in danger of jeopardizing other ongoing company projects, and any further direct action from the company would only expose us to more risk. I’m sure you can understand this from the shareholders’ perspective.”

“Sir, I think that the shareholders would be anxious to—”

“As far as this company is concerned, this operation was never intended to be a sustained commitment. As observers, you were never expected to single-handedly fight this war.”

“Observers? But we never—”

“And we thank you for all your efforts in the past two years.”

“I understand that the company might need to—”

“Good. We’re glad you understand. This hasn’t been an easy decision for any of us. And as soon as the situation, both on the ground and in council, becomes more tenable, we look forward to renewing a relationship with you on Iaxo.”

“Wait, what?”

No answer.

“Wait. You can’t just leave us here.”

No answer. Dead air. The whistle of empty, impossible distances.

“We just need a fucking ride!”

Ted laid a hand over the controls and killed the connection. He shook his head, suddenly deprived of the power to speak. This was his fault. This was all his fault. He stood up, dragging his fingertips across the FTL relay until his hand fell leadenly off the console.

“Wait. Commander, this is ridiculous…”

Ted just smiled at Eddie—a thin and brittle thing. He had an overpowering urge to pat him on the head like a child. Loewenhardt, he thought. It must’ve been Loewenhardt. He’d met the man before. A couple of times, in passing. Better days. No one else in the world was able to talk that way. To speak completely in a language of abstractions. To wring assent out of words like squeezing oil from a stone with his bare hands.

“Commander,” said Eddie.

Ted pushed things around on the table with numb fingers. He stacked cups and gathered the pens, tried to shuffle the papers together.

“Ted,” said Eddie.

He turned down the light of the lamp until it was barely a firefly glow. Conservation of resources. Everything they had was suddenly finite.

“Tell me this isn’t what they mean, Commander. We’re being left here?”

“We’re being lost,” Ted said. His voice sounded very loud inside his own head and though he thought he’d spoken in barely a whisper (conserving even breath, never knowing which might be his last), he thought he might have been screaming.

“Why?”

“Am I shouting?”

“What? No. You’re not shouting.”

“You sure?”

Eddie nodded. “Why are we being lost?”

“That conversation? It was all being recorded. It’ll play if legal sanctions are ever brought.” Ted smiled at Eddie again—a doddering old man’s grin, lips peeling back from his fake teeth. “Am I shouting?”