Secrets of the Antiwave

PART 3 | Chapter 11: Never Again Will We Wage War

PART 3

Now you may think that is where this sad and woeful tale ends. However, these were only acts one and two. I've illuminated that which the public didn't care to know, or knew wrongly. What follows is what the public couldn't know. Until now, that is. This act is third and final, and Chekhov's gun still hangs upon the wall.

Ten years later, it was 2098. Humanity's first interplanetary conflict had been far more gruesome than anyone had expected. As always, we had forgotten the horrific nature of war. Peace returned across the System and not a moment too soon. It came as a long-awaited gust of creamy menthol-flavoured wind, washing over wounds and reuniting those who were lucky enough to return home alive.

Dust settled. The Cold Giants were no longer colonies, nor a Wild West. They were now fully-fledged planet nations: Neptune and Ùranus had become sovereign members of the United Federation, free of Jovian rule. Jupiter and the 64 re-allied satellites even forfeited their Olympic nomination to Neptune as a sign of good-will. Now, the MFC seemed a disappearing nightmare and with warfare finally over, we could return to progress, celebration and careless folly once more. 'Never again will we wage war against other!' said all the politicians. I couldn't help but laugh.

What's more, the brutal weaponry developed during the Saturnian War birthed sonic showers, far larger and safer dirigible habitats able to withstand any Neptunian storm, and many other breakthroughs in the fields of medicine, neuroscience and microbiology. Meanwhile, people all across the System were eagerly preparing for the turn of the century. And amongst all these events, the excitement of the antiwave had settled like tea leaves at the bottom of everyone's subconscious, evaporating into glimmering motes of nonexistence.

I still had the keys to my hovercraft that was parked beside the facility.

I bought a hover-bike instead.

* * *

In the ten years that had passed, we always stuck to the same story: the antiwave was a flop, our funding went bust due to the MFC, and none of us knew where Rutherford was; end of interview, no further comments.

Of course, this didn't impede additional speculation, but the interviews eventually dwindled into nothing. Everyone realised that they could create their conspiracy theories without our input. In a way, they were right to think that we were hiding something. Technically, we never lied, but rather, we left many things unsaid.

When we walked out of the SMO, life without our work seemed impossible. Somehow, we had survived. We were now alive, but none us were living. I tried my best to stay in touch with the team. Inevitably, we drifted apart. Sometimes, I visited McGregor and Stevenson, since they both lived in Wyndham. DeVille was out at Bradbury. The rest had returned to their home planets. We seldom talked or holocalled because being together reminded us of all our happier days. Our recollections were always so vivid and wonderful that they made the hydrochloric nostalgia that followed all the more crushing. It was better to forget than to constantly pick out our wounds.

* * *

I was twenty-four. Domestic life had all but taken a hold of me. My curt interview with Samuel Huxley had jump-started his career. He soon became a respected correspondent, travelling across the System, going wherever there was a story to be told. We went on to become good friends and we'd always dine at the Enterprise whenever he was in town. I couldn't believe the things he told me. Sam was truly talented at being in the wrong place at the right time. He embodied everything a true journalist could hope to be, right until his tragic death on Pluto forty years down the line.. But I'm getting ahead of myself, that happened impossibly far into the future.