Roentgen spent ten seconds processing the thought; it refused to process. Then tried again and this time his brain not only refused to process it but pushed back against it, expelling it violently, knowing the consequences of accepting the thought as truth. He attempted to access his BrainPal once, and then again and then again and then again and then again, each time fighting back a sense of panic that fed on itself exponentially. He called out inside his head. No one answered. No one had heard him. He was alone.
Alex Roentgen lost most of his mind then, and for the rest of his fall twisted and kicked and tore at the sky, screaming with a voice he used so rarely that some small, disassociated part of his brain marveled at the sound of it in his skull. His parachute did not deploy; it, like nearly every physical object and mental process Roentgen used, was controlled and activated by his BrainPal, a piece of equipment that had been so reliable for so long that the Colonial Defense Forces had simply stopped thinking of it as equipment and considered it as a given, like the rest of the brain and the soldier’s physical body. Roentgen plummeted past the deployment line unknowing, uncaring, and insensate to the implications of passing through that final barrier.
It wasn’t the knowledge that he was going to die that had driven Roentgen insane. It was being alone, separated, unintegrated for the first time and the last time in the six years he had been alive. In that time he’d felt the lives of his platoon mates in every intimate detail, how they fought, how they fucked, every moment that they lived, and the moment when they died. He took comfort in knowing he was there in their final moments and that others would be there for him in his. But they wouldn’t be, and he wouldn’t be there for them. The terror of his separation was matched by the shame of not being able to comfort his friends who were plunging to the same death as he was.
Alex Roentgen twisted again, faced the ground that would kill him, and screamed the scream of the abandoned.
Jared watched in dread as the pinwheeling gray dot above him appeared to gain speed in the final few seconds and, revealed as a screaming human, ground into the meadow with a sickening, splashy thud, followed by a horrifying bounce. The impact shocked Jared out of immobility. He shoved Sagan, screaming at her to run, and ran toward the others, hauling them up and shoving them toward the tree line, trying to make them get out of the way of the falling bodies.
Seaborg and Harvey had recovered but were staring at the sky, watching their friends die. Jared pushed Harvey and slapped Seaborg, yelling at both of them to move. Wigner refused to move and lay there, seemingly catatonic; Jared picked him up and handed him to Seaborg and told him to move. He reached down for Manley; she pushed him away and began crawling toward the meadow, screeching. She picked herself up and ran as bodies tore apart on impact around her. Sixty meters out she stopped, turned around rapidly and screamed away the rest of her sanity. Jared turned away and missed seeing the leg of the body that fell next to her clip her on the neck and shoulder, crushing arteries and bones and driving shattered ribs into her lungs and heart. Manley’s scream clipped off with a grunt.
From the first hit, it took only two minutes for the rest of 2nd Platoon to hit the ground. Jared and the rest of his squad watched from the tree line as they fell.
When it was over, Jared turned to the four remaining members of the squad and took stock. All of them seemed to be in varying stages of shock, with Sagan being the most responsive and Wigner the least, although he finally seemed aware of his surroundings. Jared felt sick but was otherwise functioning; he’d spent enough time out of integration that he could function without it. For the moment, at least, he was in charge.
He turned to Sagan. “We need to move,” he said. “Into the trees. Away from here.”
“The mission—” Sagan began.
“There is no mission anymore,” Jared said. “They know we’re here. We’re going to die if we stay.”
The words seemed to help clear Sagan’s head. “Someone needs to go back,” she said. “Take the capture pod. Let the CDF know.” She looked directly at him. “Not you.”
“Not me,” Jared agreed. He knew she said it because she was suspicious of him, but he didn’t have time to worry about it. He couldn’t go back because he was the only one who was entirely functional. “You go back,” he suggested to Sagan.
“No,” Sagan said. Flat. Final.
“Seaborg, then,” Jared said. After Sagan, Seaborg was the next most functional; he could tell the CDF what had happened, and tell them to prepare for the worst.
“Seaborg,” Sagan agreed.
“Okay,” Jared said, and turned to Seaborg. “Come on, Steve. Let’s get you in this thing.”
Seaborg wobbled over and began removing foliage from the capture pod to get to the door, moved to open the entry and then stopped.
“What is it?” Jared said.
“How do I open this?” Seaborg said, his voice squeaky from nonuse.
“Use your…fuck,” Jared said. The capture pod opened via BrainPal.
“Well, this is just fucking perfect,” Seaborg said, and slumped angrily next to the pod.
Jared moved to Seaborg, and then stopped and cocked his head.
In the distance, something was coming closer, and whatever it was was not worried about sneaking up on them.