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Description
Chapter 2: Ring a Ring of Roses
SOL

From the moment I woke up that morning, I was ready for a battle. Something in my blood, something in my senses, I didn't know what. Some sense was telling me to be alert.

I didn't want to be alert. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to pull the covers back over my head and stay there.

My name is Sol Caius, and I'm a soldier. That's what I was meant to be. Five years ago I was making my way up through the ranks of the Etalia Marine Corps. Military life was my calling. Sometimes people know right from the beginning what they want to do with their lives, and I made it happen the day I became a Marine. I was truly proud.

But wars are few and far between these days. Conflicts are usually solved by one group shipping off and finding a new planet to colonize than by killing one another. Besides, Etalia is not a wealthy territory. High defense spending is frowned upon when you're not fighting anyone. The military downsized.

I was one of the lucky ones. I found work. I got a job as a security officer on board the Atlantis Paradise. I also did maintenance, answered phones, or whatever else they needed me for. It was hardly a job someone could excel in. I didn't have a purpose. I had no one to protect but fat cat businessmen and rich families who were never in danger and never started trouble, but were quick to look down their noses at me.

No one looked down on me when I was a soldier. As usual, a swirl of memories twisted up in my head. Salutes. Drills. Respect. And now…

No. I pushed the memories back down. Remembering the feeling of being a leader, of bringing out the very best in my men, while kowtowing to pathetic, smug nobodies—it was enough to push a person to breaking point.

I was lying on my back in the soft hotel bed, feeling how warm the covers were beneath me after a night of soaking up my sleeping body's heat. They were luxurious, guest quality sheets; one of the perks of working for the Paradise Group was a real hotel bedroom. The thread count was probably immense. I was far more comfortable on rough military bedding.

I reached out my left arm, curling my fingers around smooth, cold metal and drawing it back towards me. I listened to the dull scrape of the heavy object across the wooden bedside table. My gun. As a security officer, I was to have it nearby at all times. It made me feel better, too. I pressed it to my head. Why not? Why didn't I do it? Why did I think about it every morning, and never go through with it?

Maybe today. Maybe it would finally be too much. Really, why not? Did I have a reason not to? Not my family. My communication with them was infrequent, not to mention strained. No wife or children or even a pet to miss me.

My finger tightened.

One loud noise and a brief flash and a smell of gunpowder and it would all be over. I almost certainly wouldn't be around long enough even to be aware of that last one. I'd just be dead flesh and a spreading stain on the bedsheets for the cleaning staff to deal with. Somebody else's problem. Why not just do it?

Perhaps because it would be too much like giving up. Perhaps because of the feeling in my gut, warning me to stick around because of trouble to come.

Perhaps I was just a coward.

Fucking coward.

I put the gun down. It thunked heavily against the table, sounding incredibly loud in a silence so complete I could hear my own heart pounding. I grabbed the pillow from behind my head and pressed it to my face, trying to block out the heartbeat—the silence—everything. I didn't know what.

I turned on the TV. A section of wall lit up, and I adjusted the size to something much smaller.

The stern face of a female newsreader appeared. "...Breaking news from one of our neighboring territories," she was saying as the sound came on. "The territory of Mahli is reporting new details on the large explosion rumored to have occurred in a secluded area of woodland two weeks ago. A government spokesperson confirmed the event, but said that there is no evidence of terrorist involvement. Despite his statement, several minor groups are claiming responsibility for the blast."

I turned off the TV, hoping that the day would at least be interesting. I slid reluctantly out of my warm bed, feeling the cold air brush around my bare legs and stomach. Retrieving my uniform from the closet where it hung, I dressed slowly, carefully, thinking about the instinctive feeling of danger that had woken me. Finally, dressed in the military style black pants and sleeveless shirt with Atlantis Paradise logo front and center, I was ready to face the day.
Leaving my room, I walked through the hallways of the hotel towards the control center. The hotel seemed cold and empty this early in the morning. The fountains trickled, casting swirling shadows across the faux-stone walls, and trailing their ghostly echoes behind me. The carved statues, there to add atmosphere, just looked creepy. I never liked those statues.

After a couple of minutes' walk, I reached the staff section of the hotel. Pushing open the subtle, yet clearly visible door covered in the same yellowish stone-like material as the walls, I went quietly inside. The staff areas of the hotel were much less ornate. The walls were bare brushed metal, and there were no bubbling fountains, suspended walkways or intricate statues. It was brightly lit, and there were far more people in here than out in the hotel corridors at this time of the morning.

I did not make eye contact or exchange greetings with my colleagues, who were all too bleary eyed and busy wishing they were back in their beds to notice my avoidance. It was the usual routine for me, anyway.

I headed straight to the security room, and entered. My supervisor, a kindly older man named Derek, was waiting.

"Good morning, Sir, I said.

"Sol," said my supervisor. "Just call me Derek. I like to think we're friends by now, son."

"We are, Sir," I said. "It's difficult for me."

"I know," said Derek, "but you're not in the military now. Let's not be so formal."
I must have looked downcast, because gentle, gray haired Derek rose from his chair and smiled. "Come on, Solomon. It's time to feed the fish."

After a short walk through the staff corridor, we were facing the reverse side of one of the hotel's larger fishtanks. The tanks were set flush with the guest side of the walls, and they extended a little way out into the staff areas of the hotel, allowing for cleaning of the tanks and the like. They were intended to look like windows into the ocean to the guests, giving the impression that one was in a sunken city, underwater.

Unseen by any guests on the other side of the tank, we regarded the fish. They were swimming sluggishly, as though very tired. One of the smaller sharks was floating upside down at the top of the tank, unmoving.

"Looks like we got here just in time," said Desmond. "Myrtle's run into a spot of trouble." He leaned a ladder against the side of the tank and climbed it, pulling the lifelike—and lifeless shark from the water with ease, and passing it down to me. I flipped open the hatch on the fish's side and with a deftness that came with plenty of practice, removed the spent battery and slotted a new one in its place.

"Heard there was an explosion on Mahli a couple weeks back," I said, conversationally. "You know anything, Sir?"
"No more than you, Solomon," he said, "but I reckon there's going to be trouble. Probably those backward idiots on Lethika.
The "backward idiots" he referred to were a group who rejected the life extension that everyone else took for granted. They thought it was immoral to eliminate aging and all of the illnesses that plagued us in the olden times, so they segregated themselves away on a planet where no one came to bother them and they could sicken and die in peace. They didn't approve of much modern technology. They barely accepted space travel.

There was not much evidence that the Lethikites were involved in any kind of terrorism, but as with anyone significantly different from normal people, there were suspicions. They threw away the chance of something most of us saw as a gift and a miracle, or simply took as a given. People had to wonder if they knew something we didn't.

We worked in silence for a while, thoughtfully, and then broke for lunch.
Walking down the corridor, the sound of trickling water in my ears, I wondered if anyone had been hurt. I wondered if it would come to anything more, if it turned out some group of people were involved with setting the explosion.

I walked in the direction of the staff restaurant, thoughts thudding heavily in my mind as I tried to sort out the feelings of confusion and resignation and despair that returned more strongly each time I awoke and that pursued me throughout each day. My steps faltered and I stopped dead in my tracks. I had just walked past the hotel's chapel. Almost before I knew what I was doing, I pushed open the door and entered the small room. Not being a religious man, I was unsure what drew me inside, but it seemed like a quiet, reflective sort of place, and so I slid down onto a bench and rested my head against the back to think.

Description
Chapter 2: Ring a Ring of Roses
SOL

From the moment I woke up that morning, I was ready for a battle. Something in my blood, something in my senses, I didn't know what. Some sense was telling me to be alert.

I didn't want to be alert. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to pull the covers back over my head and stay there.

My name is Sol Caius, and I'm a soldier. That's what I was meant to be. Five years ago I was making my way up through the ranks of the Etalia Marine Corps. Military life was my calling. Sometimes people know right from the beginning what they want to do with their lives, and I made it happen the day I became a Marine. I was truly proud.

But wars are few and far between these days. Conflicts are usually solved by one group shipping off and finding a new planet to colonize than by killing one another. Besides, Etalia is not a wealthy territory. High defense spending is frowned upon when you're not fighting anyone. The military downsized.

I was one of the lucky ones. I found work. I got a job as a security officer on board the Atlantis Paradise. I also did maintenance, answered phones, or whatever else they needed me for. It was hardly a job someone could excel in. I didn't have a purpose. I had no one to protect but fat cat businessmen and rich families who were never in danger and never started trouble, but were quick to look down their noses at me.

No one looked down on me when I was a soldier. As usual, a swirl of memories twisted up in my head. Salutes. Drills. Respect. And now…

No. I pushed the memories back down. Remembering the feeling of being a leader, of bringing out the very best in my men, while kowtowing to pathetic, smug nobodies—it was enough to push a person to breaking point.

I was lying on my back in the soft hotel bed, feeling how warm the covers were beneath me after a night of soaking up my sleeping body's heat. They were luxurious, guest quality sheets; one of the perks of working for the Paradise Group was a real hotel bedroom. The thread count was probably immense. I was far more comfortable on rough military bedding.

I reached out my left arm, curling my fingers around smooth, cold metal and drawing it back towards me. I listened to the dull scrape of the heavy object across the wooden bedside table. My gun. As a security officer, I was to have it nearby at all times. It made me feel better, too. I pressed it to my head. Why not? Why didn't I do it? Why did I think about it every morning, and never go through with it?

Maybe today. Maybe it would finally be too much. Really, why not? Did I have a reason not to? Not my family. My communication with them was infrequent, not to mention strained. No wife or children or even a pet to miss me.

My finger tightened.

One loud noise and a brief flash and a smell of gunpowder and it would all be over. I almost certainly wouldn't be around long enough even to be aware of that last one. I'd just be dead flesh and a spreading stain on the bedsheets for the cleaning staff to deal with. Somebody else's problem. Why not just do it?

Perhaps because it would be too much like giving up. Perhaps because of the feeling in my gut, warning me to stick around because of trouble to come.

Perhaps I was just a coward.

Fucking coward.

I put the gun down. It thunked heavily against the table, sounding incredibly loud in a silence so complete I could hear my own heart pounding. I grabbed the pillow from behind my head and pressed it to my face, trying to block out the heartbeat—the silence—everything. I didn't know what.

I turned on the TV. A section of wall lit up, and I adjusted the size to something much smaller.

The stern face of a female newsreader appeared. "...Breaking news from one of our neighboring territories," she was saying as the sound came on. "The territory of Mahli is reporting new details on the large explosion rumored to have occurred in a secluded area of woodland two weeks ago. A government spokesperson confirmed the event, but said that there is no evidence of terrorist involvement. Despite his statement, several minor groups are claiming responsibility for the blast."

I turned off the TV, hoping that the day would at least be interesting. I slid reluctantly out of my warm bed, feeling the cold air brush around my bare legs and stomach. Retrieving my uniform from the closet where it hung, I dressed slowly, carefully, thinking about the instinctive feeling of danger that had woken me. Finally, dressed in the military style black pants and sleeveless shirt with Atlantis Paradise logo front and center, I was ready to face the day.
Leaving my room, I walked through the hallways of the hotel towards the control center. The hotel seemed cold and empty this early in the morning. The fountains trickled, casting swirling shadows across the faux-stone walls, and trailing their ghostly echoes behind me. The carved statues, there to add atmosphere, just looked creepy. I never liked those statues.

After a couple of minutes' walk, I reached the staff section of the hotel. Pushing open the subtle, yet clearly visible door covered in the same yellowish stone-like material as the walls, I went quietly inside. The staff areas of the hotel were much less ornate. The walls were bare brushed metal, and there were no bubbling fountains, suspended walkways or intricate statues. It was brightly lit, and there were far more people in here than out in the hotel corridors at this time of the morning.

I did not make eye contact or exchange greetings with my colleagues, who were all too bleary eyed and busy wishing they were back in their beds to notice my avoidance. It was the usual routine for me, anyway.

I headed straight to the security room, and entered. My supervisor, a kindly older man named Derek, was waiting.

"Good morning, Sir, I said.

"Sol," said my supervisor. "Just call me Derek. I like to think we're friends by now, son."

"We are, Sir," I said. "It's difficult for me."

"I know," said Derek, "but you're not in the military now. Let's not be so formal."
I must have looked downcast, because gentle, gray haired Derek rose from his chair and smiled. "Come on, Solomon. It's time to feed the fish."

After a short walk through the staff corridor, we were facing the reverse side of one of the hotel's larger fishtanks. The tanks were set flush with the guest side of the walls, and they extended a little way out into the staff areas of the hotel, allowing for cleaning of the tanks and the like. They were intended to look like windows into the ocean to the guests, giving the impression that one was in a sunken city, underwater.

Unseen by any guests on the other side of the tank, we regarded the fish. They were swimming sluggishly, as though very tired. One of the smaller sharks was floating upside down at the top of the tank, unmoving.

"Looks like we got here just in time," said Desmond. "Myrtle's run into a spot of trouble." He leaned a ladder against the side of the tank and climbed it, pulling the lifelike—and lifeless shark from the water with ease, and passing it down to me. I flipped open the hatch on the fish's side and with a deftness that came with plenty of practice, removed the spent battery and slotted a new one in its place.

"Heard there was an explosion on Mahli a couple weeks back," I said, conversationally. "You know anything, Sir?"
"No more than you, Solomon," he said, "but I reckon there's going to be trouble. Probably those backward idiots on Lethika.
The "backward idiots" he referred to were a group who rejected the life extension that everyone else took for granted. They thought it was immoral to eliminate aging and all of the illnesses that plagued us in the olden times, so they segregated themselves away on a planet where no one came to bother them and they could sicken and die in peace. They didn't approve of much modern technology. They barely accepted space travel.

There was not much evidence that the Lethikites were involved in any kind of terrorism, but as with anyone significantly different from normal people, there were suspicions. They threw away the chance of something most of us saw as a gift and a miracle, or simply took as a given. People had to wonder if they knew something we didn't.

We worked in silence for a while, thoughtfully, and then broke for lunch.
Walking down the corridor, the sound of trickling water in my ears, I wondered if anyone had been hurt. I wondered if it would come to anything more, if it turned out some group of people were involved with setting the explosion.

I walked in the direction of the staff restaurant, thoughts thudding heavily in my mind as I tried to sort out the feelings of confusion and resignation and despair that returned more strongly each time I awoke and that pursued me throughout each day. My steps faltered and I stopped dead in my tracks. I had just walked past the hotel's chapel. Almost before I knew what I was doing, I pushed open the door and entered the small room. Not being a religious man, I was unsure what drew me inside, but it seemed like a quiet, reflective sort of place, and so I slid down onto a bench and rested my head against the back to think.