Page 67 of Break Me Apart
Military inbox first. Routine updates, shift adjustments, but nothing urgent or explosive. No formal complaint about a corridor incident — yet.
I log out of that, then, out of habit more than anything else, I open the civilian client. The connection takes a moment, then the screen flickers and the inbox refreshes.
There’s one new message.
From:[email protected]
Date:Sunday, October 31st, 1996. 20:29
Subject:Change of plans
—Caiden,
I landed without issue.
However, there’s been a development.
I’ve been informed that I will be sent on exercise for approximately six weeks. It wasn’t previously scheduled, which means it is not optional.
Communication will be limited, so I will email when I return. If possible, I will call.
Don’t do anything reckless while I am gone.
I love you.
—Ari.
I lean back in the chair and look at the screen. Amsterdam is already starting to feel like a distant memory. Ari was steady when he left. He had a plan. He talked about structure, contacts, and neutral ground. He spoke about it as if it were something we could actually build whenwe had the time.
Now it’s six weeks of silence.
Comms are limited. I know what that means. Field conditions, long hours, and focus on the job. No canals and no quiet mornings. Just routine.
I close the message and log out.
He told me not to do anything reckless. I almost smile at that, given what just happened with Harris. It’s as if he already knew. Six weeks is not distance. It’s time to get things in order here. Time to watch Harris properly and time to make sure Mason stays where he should be.
And I will still be herewhen he gets back.
TWENTY
ARSENY
It is only the second day, and Sergei has already made the same mistake three times, which would almost be impressive if it weren’t so irritating. He keeps rushing the drill as if speed will somehow cover the fact that half of what he is doing is sloppy. He cuts corners where he thinks no one will catch him, shortens the transition, skimps on his breathing, and then tries to throw enough force at the rest of it to make the whole thing look deliberate.
I let it pass once. The second time, I stop the line and wait until he works out why. By the third, I am finished being patient. “This again?” I ask.
He glances at me, then away, which is the first sensible thing he’s done all morning.
The rest of them stand in a crooked line, pretending not to listen, but of course they are. They always are when someone else is being corrected. I let the silence sit for a moment longer because it does more than shouting ever does. Then I tell them to reset.
They do it, rifles up, and feet still wrong. The timing is slightly better, but not enough to matter. I step in, shift Sergei’s stance, push another man’s shoulder down, tap his foot into place with mine, and then step back. “Again.”
This lot isn’t hopeless, which is unfortunate, because hopeless men usually break quickly and save everyone time. This group are merely irritating enough to think theycan get away with things. Small things. Fast things. Lazy things. Men always think small mistakes don’t matter until winter decides otherwise, and then suddenly everyone becomes very interested in the details.
Under normal circumstances, I would have less patience with them than this. The only reason Sergei is still standing where he is instead of being humiliated properly in front of the others is that I have been in a better mood this week than he deserves.
