The Impossible Future: Complete set Frank Kennedy (freenovel24 .TXT) 📖

“Here’s to fifty dumbass indigos,” he shouted. “Fuck them.”

The spec-ops team broke their toast and cheered Michael on.

“Cooper,” Percy Muldoon waved. “Pull in here, you beast.”

Michael tapped his pipe and slithered into a seat between 1st Lt. Muldoon and Col. Rachel Broadman, who turned up a fresh glass and slid it next to his empty bottle. She grabbed a carafe with sparkling red liquor and poured him a shot.

“Still wasting your life on jube?” She laughed. “Lock your teeth into a shot of Hansen rum, you miserable A-Spec.”

Michael filled his lungs with poltash and held the glass eye level.

“Never heard of it.”

“They do one thing right on Hansen’s Landing.” She pointed to the carafe. “A sorry lot, but they know how to drink.”

He exhaled smoke and threw back the rum. In fact, Michael did hear about Hansen rum – something along the lines of flames searing off the back of one’s throat – but after two bottles of jubriska, Michael detected no particular charge from Rachel’s favorite drink. His non-reaction drew mind-boggled stares from his team.

“That’s it?” Percy muttered. “Damn, Cooper, you must be blottered.” He turned to Rachel. “Didn’t Nilsson say this one spent an hour in a medpod reg?”

Rachel grabbed Michael’s face and looked deep into his eyes. “Muldoon makes a good point, which is a rare treasure. How many synthetics did they pump you with?”

“Dunno.” He sniffed. “Enough so I’m ready to kill more Mongols tomorrow. Because fuck if that ain’t why we’re here. Right?”

“Top ‘em off and stack ‘em up,” said 1st Lt. Matthew Learner, sitting across the table. “They damn near stacked on top of you this morning, Cooper. Going to lose your edge if you’re not careful.”

Michael wasn’t so plastered to realize those were the most words Matthew ever spoke to him in one sitting. Matthew was a hardline Chancellor, from an old-school descendancy. Michael saw the man’s umbrage and disdain buried in that rigid jaw and the brow that tensed in Michael’s presence. He never taunted Michael; the distance and the silence were more troubling. Michael assumed if he were killed on this mission, Matthew would hold the blast rifle.

“Man, you say it like you care.” Michael motioned for another shot of rum. “Me? Shit. I got a permanent edge. People been trying to waste my ass for three years. Pretty fucking good aim, too. But me? By next morning, I’m right as the driven snow.” He laughed. “Reckon I’m mixing my metaphors, but I’m blottered. Who cares?”

He held his second rum as if to offer a toast.

“And by the way, my brothers and sister, I am not an A-spec anymore. You are looking at a third lieutenant. Cheers.”

Percy slapped Michael on the back. “Four paces up the chain? Now that’s worth a round. You’re serious, right?”

Rachel leaned over. “Nilsson told me you’d earned enough keep for a promotion, but that’s a tall climb.”

“Weren’t Nilsson. It was Cabrise. Having one of his shows. You know how he gets when he wants to feel important.”

“He is,” Matthew said, setting down his drink. “Longest active duty in the Guard. He commanded fleets.”

“Didn’t mean nothing by it, Learner.”

“But now he’s a lonely asshole past his prime.” Matthew hinted at a smile. “Hanging on to an obsession. He’s a miserable cud.”

Matthew raised his glass until the others joined him.

“To 3-L-T Cooper. As soldiers go, I’ve seen worse.”

In better times, Michael would have welcomed any sign of warming from Matthew, but it struck him as little more than the byproduct of post-combat exuberance. Earlier, after Michael stormed out on Capt. Forsythe and retreated to his quarters, he opened the first bottle of jubriska and planned to keep chugging until his supply ended. Yet the thought of being a lonely drunk seemed pathetic somehow, so he searched for those who might share in his alcohol-infused excursion.

“Way I’m going,” he said, “I reckon all I need is to kill a hundred more people, give or take, and I’ll be giving orders to you lot.”

“Nice thought, Cooper,” Matthew said through a stern jaw. “But if it were all about kills, I’d be a rear admiral. And Broadman, here? She’d still be my superior. No. Command is about descendancy and leverage. Always has been.”

Percy nodded. “And always will be, however short.”

“You,” Matthew told Michael, “have no descendancy, but you have a through-line to a supreme. You two survive the next six months, Poussard is just crazy enough to make you a CO.”

Michael thought he should be offended, but the talk about Supreme Admiral Angela Poussard’s policies since halting the Guard invasion of Earth came under withering criticism down the chain of command. Too soft. Doesn’t understand tradition. Traitor to Elevation Philosophy. And on it went. Michael understood what Forsythe meant by Poussard’s “fine line” in choosing to bail on Samantha should the invasion of Hiebimini be successful.

“Six months?” Michael joked. “I don’t think ahead six hours.”

“Obviously.” Matthew sipped his drink. “Or else you would have realized that a synth regimen followed by jube and rum is like to send you back to medpod for a day or two.”

“Shit. Nilsson threatened me with Praxis. They ain’t gonna send me anywhere. Those goddamn Mongols will get what’s coming, first thing at dawn.” Michael realized who was missing. “What’s up with Carver and George?”

Percy threw back his rum. “Disposal duty.”

“Just the two of them?”

“Their shift,” Rachel said. “You know the drill, Cooper. Drone scoopers do most of the heavy lifting.”

“Biggest haul to date,” Percy added. “Love to know what the clan does with their bodies. Burn? Bury?”

“Don’t matter.” Michael surveyed the team. “We shouldn’t be giving them back. They send those morons out here so we can blast them. Damn scoopers dump that shit outside their village, and