novelraw Chapter 161: Finally, Prof Jane learned the truth.
Chapter 161: Finally, Prof Jane learned the truth.
Vage takes my hand gently in hers, guiding me to a pile of blankets that offer warmth and comfort. I cast one last glance at our six sleeping children, noticing the boy with the silvery eyes wink at me. I am tempted to point this out to the alien next to me, but she is already asleep.
I lie there beside the ethereal mother of my children, yet sleep evades me. Silently, I walk over to the six little forms nestled in their blankets. Bending down, I whisper to them, "One day, I will understand you," both saying it aloud and sending the sentiment through the nanites deep into their minds.
But they did not even twitch....
***
Walking out of that room, I see Harana sitting where Vage had been earlier, her brow furrowed in concentration as she meticulously studies the data projected in front of her. It’s clear that her role is crucial in coordinating our efforts, blending tactical insight with the nuances that only she, with her alien perspective, can truly grasp. Her intense focus reminds me of the importance of every individual in this operation, each with their unique strengths that contribute to our overall mission.
As I enter the Command Center—an upgrade from my earlier thoughts on it being merely a room—I notice the atmosphere is thick with purpose. The air buzzes with an energy that is both exhilarating and daunting. There is no doubt that significant changes have been made in the training formation since I had last seen it. The most glaring observation is that not a single female soldier is present in the group—unless you count Leslie’s hologram, which flickers mirthfully among the bustling chaos like a beacon of hope.
Wilson, ever perceptive, spots me and strides over. He cuts an imposing figure, even with his casual stance. "I think we’re going to pull this off, depending on their numbers," he shares, his eyes locked on the troops as they engage in their rigorous drills. We stand in companionable silence together, observing the men put their all into this training. I notice, with a strange sense of relief, that none of them appear to be inappropriately distracted; their focus is razor-sharp and unwavering.
"I’ve been thinking about what you told me earlier," he continues, breaking the silence that had enveloped us. "About me wearing one of those nude suits." His tone carries a mix of seriousness and incredulity, like he is in disbelief that such a thing even needs discussing.
Annoyance bubbles up inside me—a visceral response to his wording—but I wrestle it down. Losing my cool in front of the others would serve no purpose. "Okay," I reply in a level tone, my voice as unyielding as granite against the frustrations of command and the absurdity of the suit concept.
Wilson’s pragmatism shines through, as he pivots the conversation back to strategy. "Well, you’re going to need a command post back here. One that doesn’t engage in attack runs—boarding runs?" He hesitates, a grin creeping across his face. "Damn it, I’m from the Army, not the Navy." The levity is a welcome distraction. "Anyway, unless you’re planning to control everything on your own, you’ll need another team at the helm to manage the squads that will be going on missions. Plus, a backup command post in case the first gets wiped out is essential."
I exhale in gratitude; this man is a fountain of wisdom in a chaotic environment. There’s no way I would have navigated that mapping of command roles on my own. "Make it so," I tell him decisively, fighting the urge to cheekily add, "Number One." The reference to Captain Picard from "Star Trek" flits through my mind but, of course, I stifle that inner fanboy who longs to play the role of the commanding officer.
That thought jogs my memory, leading me into another crucial consideration. "One last thing, and this is important," I say, ensuring that my gaze is locked onto Wilson’s. The intensity of my conviction must penetrate through the haze of busyness around us. "Absolutely no one, and I mean no one, is to wear a red shirt after today until the battle is over or until we are no longer among the living. If anyone complains, or dares to contest this, they’re out."
Wilson gives me a quizzical look, tilting his head slightly, but to my relief, he does not argue or question the order. Instead, he turns with a commanding presence and bellows out the new directive to the awaiting soldiers. More than I would have suspected, the response is a mixture of laughter and nods of agreement; it seems that my quirk has struck a chord.
---
The following two days are a whirlwind of training and bonding, an intense push of physical exertion, mental resilience, and a strange camaraderie. We mold these recruits into a makeshift army, but while they grow stronger, I find comfort in the familiar faces of the women who’ve come to support us. Each night, as the sun dips below the horizon, our makeshift warriors return home exhausted but fueled by determination, only to rise again each morning to the ever-dwindling threat we are preparing to face. Each dawn brings a fresh influx of individuals eager to join humanity’s fight. I often marvel at the collective tenacity surrounding me.
On the second morning, I find myself taken aback when Special Agent Albrecht strides into the room, her presence as formidable as the first light filtering in. Her gravelly voice carries weight as she glares down at me, and I can’t help but feel a shiver of recognition. "I knew there was something screwy about you, Mr. Smith," she states matter-of-factly. The intensity of her gaze suggests complex layers of judgment and understanding, and I can’t shake the feeling that her assessment of me goes well beyond the surface. With every fiber of my being, I am grateful I will not be within earshot of her female team when they don their light suits.
The next morning heralds yet another familiar face, Janet Jane. "It’s good to see you’re all right, Mr. Smith," she addresses me stiffly, her professionalism evident as she maintains a guard against any personal connection. "I’ve been worried about you, especially since I noticed you began missing so many of my classes after your... arrest outside the math competition." Her brown eyes bore into mine, laden with a mixture of concern and indignation. It is clear she wrestles with the implications of my actions, but I also sense there’s a deeper conversation she yearns to have, one she feels is not appropriate in such a crowded arena.
I roll my eyes slightly as I glance to where she is pointing. Of course, Leslie stands within a whirlwind of enthusiasts, treated like a celebrity, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with an ease that highlights the social divide between us. To Janet, I can only imagine how it must appear; it must look like I deliberately threw the competition to grant victory to their team.
"I couldn’t see the last question," I say defensively, attempting to justify myself.
"What? Oh, I know. The others told me." There’s a beat before she looks back at me, her expression softening into a smile that seems to illuminate the tension between us. "I guess I was just worried. I was told a little about what’s going on, but it sounds a bit far-fetched to me."
In that moment, I feel a strange compulsion to reveal the truth—to share my thoughts about my abilities and our impending invasion. As I explain, her brow furrows in thought, processing each detail. Professor Jane, after all, is no fool.
"You used your ability on me," she states rather than asks, her voice like steel. "That’s why I, er, we..." She glances around, possibly weighing the implications of her words in the presence of others, before whispering, "And why your voice still affects me."
I meet her gaze, feeling a profound swell of remorse. It’s not easy to bear the weight of my actions, knowing that I’ve manipulated her in ways she did not consent to. I feel awful, but I refuse to turn away. I understand her well enough at this point to know she is testing my integrity.
"Yes," I reply, steeling myself as the sincerity flows from me. "I’ll understand if you hate me, but I want you to know that I do not regret it."
Her eyebrows climb up her forehead, a flicker of surprise igniting her features before fading into something softer. "I know I should, but I don’t either." She glances away, as if shying from our proximity before adding, "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better go find a place to fit in and quit talking to you before I rip your clothes off."
Her light chuckle reverberates pleasantly through the air as she walks away, her extra swagger undeniably aimed at me, and I can’t help but smile at the prospect of our unspoken bond.
On the second day of rigorous training, the focus shifts to weapons training. The regimen is as grueling as one would expect, with half the day dedicated to mastering bladed weapons and the other half spent upgrading our proficiency with manufactured rifles.