Aftermath

The sun over Cuba didn’t care who was in charge. It beat down the same way on ruins and generals alike, drenching everything in a heavy, salt-soaked heat. Shattered tarmac stretched out in every direction like a great wound in the pride of the UEC. Their forward operations base clinging to the coastline in pieces—half a comm tower, a couple prefab walls, and sandbags slumped like drunks against their posts.   Inside what used to be a maintenance hangar, the war room was a folding table, a heat-warped map, and a power cell keeping the lights just barely on. Kross leaned over the map with a penknife, carving idle circles around red markers that dotted the Gulf. His uniform was sun-faded and unbuttoned at the throat, collar stuck to his neck with sweat. His fingers traced the lines from Havana down through Veracruz, then out toward the desert. His voice came quiet, like it was more for him than anyone else. “You ever look into what it’d take to bring the Dam back?” he muttered.   Across from him, Stubnitski—or just Stubs, as everyone called him—shifted in a cracked plastic chair that complained under the weight of his rebuilt frame. Arms and legs, both military-grade bionics, hissed faintly as he moved. The air always smelled faintly of ozone when he was around too long. His voice rasped out from reconstructed vocal cords, fried in a blast that had taken half his throat with it.   “You mean Nero’s sandcastle in the sinkhole?” he coughed. “Hell no. Why, you miss Nevada?”   Kross smirked, but didn’t look up. “You know what I mean. I ran a query once—unrelated. Said it’d take billions in resources alone. Removing the sediment on the other hand? Two, maybe three years. Minimum.”   Stubs let out a dry wheeze that might’ve been a laugh. “Unless you’ve got an army of dredgers and a goddamn machine army.”   “Or a secret plan,” Kross muttered, finally looking up. “That’s what gets me. He chose that place. Out of all the dust and ruin. Nero doesn’t make moves without ten steps of backup. But now he’s a smear on a wall, and nobody knows why the hell he went there.”   “He wanted to build something,” Stubs said, tapping an invisible HUD only he could see. His artificial iris flickered. “A Singularity, maybe. His own little crown jewel. That’s what the whispers say.”   Kross nodded slowly, eyes drifting back to the Gulf map. “Now Clark’s burning every beach Cuba can see. Legado helped with the raid, so he’s hitting everything. Panama. The Keys. The Yucatán. Doesn’t matter if they were involved. Doesn’t matter if they’re even still there.”   Stubs leaned forward with a faint whir. “Told you. Clark’s not Nero. Nero made statements. Clark just does the math.”   The tent flap opened behind them. Gurtheim entered without a word.   Seven feet of armor and shadow, Gurtheim moved like something carved, not born. His presence cooled the air a few degrees just by existing in it. The augments weren’t showy—clean lines, matte finish, almost subtle—but no one mistook him for just a man.   He stepped beside the map and stared at it for a long moment. Then his eyes lost the thread. They drifted. Past the table. Past the room. Fixed on a point only he could see.   Kross didn’t call it out. Neither did Stubs.   Instead, Stubs coughed loud to get his attention. “Hey, big guy. You with us?”   Gurtheim blinked once—slow—and the spell broke. He refocused, like someone pulling back from a long way off.   “Thinking,” he said simply.   Kross and Stubs shared a glance. They never said it aloud, but they knew. Gurtheim had taken some hits deeper than skin. Real ones. Ones you don’t rebuild.   Stubs covered for him like always. “Man’s got strategy running on six cores,” he said, voice grinding like gravel. “Maybe we aren’t so fucked after all!”   Gurtheim gave him a look that almost passed for gratitude. Then he pointed at the Gulf. “Clark wants to make sure this never happens again.”   “He’s not stopping at that,” Kross replied. “This is a message. Not just to the Legado. To everyone. You cross him, he’ll redraw the map with fire.”   Stubs leaned back again, arms crossed, servo joints sighing as he shifted. “Bruges hasn’t stamped anything official. He’s acting Commander because there’s no one else here. Back in Europe? They’re watching. Worried. He’s not their first choice. Maybe not even their third.”   “Yeah,” Kross muttered. “But right now, he’s the only one with a chair.”   Outside, the wind picked up. Distant dropships whispered across the sea.   Inside, the three of them stood in silence for a while.   War changed people. They all knew it. Gurtheim had ghosts, real ones. Stubs had metal where memories used to be. And Kross—Kross had leadership thrust on him so many times he’d forgotten what it was like to follow.   But here, now, with this ruined base and the stench of burnt fuel and bitter salt, none of that mattered.   They were together. Still breathing.   Stubs broke the silence.   “You know,” he rasped, “we should get a real table. One with legs that aren’t made of ammo crates.”   Kross cracked a smile. “You volunteering to haul it?”   Stubs leaned back with a creak. “Hell no. But G here’s got the pips—he could make a few grunts hump it in.”   Even Gurtheim managed a smirk.   And for just a moment, the war felt far away.