Free Plasma Frequency Magazine: Issue 14 by Jes

her at all anymore.
    After a while, Dr. Russux murmured, “General, are you sure you can keep a handle on things?” He had only been my therapist for the past month or so, but already he was beginning to sense my warning signs.
    What could I say to that? 'Yes' would have been a lie. I had no idea how things were going to go. I was full of ache; it tightened my chest and my bone marrow, pinching in the joints of my spine so bad that I had a desperate urge to lay down on the elevator floor and stretch myself out. It was the sort of ache that could turn into anything. Tears, or screaming, or worse; the awful, acidic, eating-away-at-you feelings that didn't have names.
    At my silence, his mouth formed a thin line. But he didn't question me further.
    The mirrors blew open, and I found myself swarmed by hordes of scientists, other officers less well-known than myself, the other members of the General Quintet, and, of course, the reporters. I tipped the helmet over my eyes, and allowed General Keenan to grab my arm and lead me across the floor, to the Transmission room. There were flashes of cameras. Questions fell against me like droplets in a mist.
    “General Hardwick, why is it that you are permitted to send messages to your child while others are forbidden to send transmissions to Earth?”
    “Do you think your actions in this crisis make you a more deserving person?”
    “Is the government still going ahead with the plans of demolition, or is the General Quintet having second thoughts?”
    “In your personal opinion, do you think that Earth still has a chance?”
    A door shut, and the reporters were left behind with the officers, who shooed them back into the Civilian quarters of the ship.
    I could not keep in a growl. “When I find the soldier who let this leak, I'm going to personally ship him to the Sun and watch him burn.” General Keenan released my arm. The wrinkles around his eyes had deepened since our last meeting. His own medal gleamed in the light of the Transmission machines, whose screens, at the moment, were blinking a cheery yellow.
    “I still don't understand why the Hell we're doing this,” he muttered. Dr. Russux put a hand on his shoulder, leaning in close to whisper in his ear. Of course, I could hear him anyway. Dr. Russux has the deep sort of voice that reverberates, no matter how quiet he tries to be.
    “She needs some closure before we go ahead with the plans. If we don't do this, the combined guilt and grief would have devastating effects on her mental stability.” Then, even more quietly, “You know as well as I do how crucial she is to this entire operation.”
    That's right, I thought to myself, the yellow screens burning like fire in my eyes. In military school, I had been classified as a brilliant strategist and coordinator, and sent flying through the ranks until I was pulled into the nose-bleed heights of the General Quintet. I had been the one who had gotten the ships up and running so quickly, once we realized the danger on Earth. I was the reason four billion people's lives had been saved.
    And I was the reason that the other five billion had been left behind.
    I cracked my neck to one side, as a team of scientists scuttled about and readied themselves for transmission. We had sent a message to Earth about ten minutes ago, so that Vicky's machine would be up and running by the time we were ready to transmit.
    “Ready,” one of the lab coats squeaked. I came forward, adjusting the hem of my suit as I stood to stiff attention. The screen flickered closer to life. The four Generals and Dr. Russux retreated respectfully off-screen. Their eyes were hawk-like and watchful.
    I held my breath as blizzards of pixels tumbled across the screen, before shrinking to make up shapes. Vicky's face came into view, and I exhaled, slowly. She had thinned since a week ago. Her skin was tight across the cheekbones, sunken around the mouth, shining with infection. Her eyes were the hollow and distant