The Colonel suspected that his days were numbered. But, frankly, he didn’t care. Ever since he had received that call on a secret line about that mission one year ago, he’d known something was up — and that it was well above his pay grade. Then, after the visit from those mercs, he realised instantly that someone was covering their tracks. The only two people who knew far too much about the failed mission were the Colonel and Johny — the former was still useful; the latter was dispensable.

He was no saint himself. He had climbed the military career ladder knowing full well that there were bodies left behind that some people would prefer to keep buried. And he hadn’t hesitated to cover things up when necessary — either for those above him, or simply when it was the right thing to do for the greater good of the rising Empire. Since the dead were obviously already dead, there was no need to dig up the dirt or get all righteous about it. Hell, nobody even wanted those missions to exist in the first place. They were a necessary evil — especially the few that had failed spectacularly, like the one in question. The Space Commandos were instrumental in those surgical, off-the-books yet quite often suicidal missions. Truth be told, they succeeded on most occasions with minimal or no casualties — all thanks to rigid training, genetic modifications, which the Senate and the general public didn’t need to know about, exceptional planning, and state-of-the-art equipment the regular military didn’t have.

The Colonel thought that, the occasional nightmares and pangs of conscience notwithstanding, there were certain quite enjoyable perks to being the one and only fixer for the Space Commando Corps. Every government in every era needed a guy like him — a fixer — who could mend what seemed unfixable and wag the dog. And people like him always enjoyed a special status. Truth be told, he enjoyed the perks: the big house, the grav-car, his expensive watch collection, the vacations — nothing overly posh so as not to attract unnecessary attention, but quite enjoyable nonetheless. All paid for by the government as “necessary military expenses”, which nobody would bother to check or report. While important and useful, he was still a relatively small fish who avoided the spotlight. Such was the nature of his job.

He looked at the old photo in the small frame on his desk. There was a Space Commando who looked like the poster boy any military recruiter could dream of to fulfil his quota. The Commando was wearing a graduation uniform, clearly excited for the future — bright (there were rarely any dumb people in the Academy) and full of that special young Commando’s bravado and anxiousness to become a war hero and change the world for the better. That was him forty years ago. How time flies, he thought. Gone were the hopes for a better future and the willingness to change the world, as well as part of his body. He was now somewhat cynical — he had seen it all, how it was all made: politicians coming and going, promises kept and broken, rising and falling military stars, dozens of wars, and so many special operations he’d stopped bothering to remember what felt like millennia ago.

The last mission of the Alpha Platoon, however, was quite memorable, and it was still relatively fresh in the Colonel’s mind. All but one Space Commando had died — something that had never happened in the entire history of the Corps. And as far as the media and general population were concerned, everyone had died. The Colonel did what he was supposed to do and what he did best: he covered it up and sent Johny to another quadrant, a few light-years away from the Prime System. But it seemed now that everything that could go wrong — including the cover-up — had done so, and in a spectacular fashion.

The Colonel’s retrospection was interrupted by a buzzing on his desk. Before he could respond, his office doors opened and three mercs came in, his aide looking extremely agitated and angry.

“Colonel, sir, I tried stopping them, but they didn’t listen! I’m going to call the guards… I don’t even understand how they got into the compound. They don’t even have an appointment!”

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t be such a party pooper,” said the Boss. “The Colonel wouldn’t want you to call anyone — let’s ask him?”

“Let them in, Mary, it’s all right.”

“But sir, shouldn’t I call the guards…?” Mary was desperately trying to fix what she thought was her mistake, although in reality there was nothing she could do.

“Don’t worry, Mary, I can handle it.”

Mary was shocked by this intrusion, but she knew the Colonel — and she knew better than to disobey him. The Colonel was the type to say things only once and expect them to be done without unnecessary questions. As he used to say, “The decision has been made, and we must proceed accordingly.”

Once Mary had left the Colonel’s office and closed the wooden doors behind her, the Colonel said in a stone-cold voice: “So, how can I help you, gentlemen?” He uttered the word "gentleman" with obvious contempt.

“Hi Colonel,” said the Boss. “It seems we have some unfinished business, wouldn’t you agree?”

“It seems we do, Mr Black — otherwise you wouldn’t be here, would you?”

“Indeed, Colonel, indeed…” said Mr Black and pressed his communicator, sending shockwaves through the Colonel’s cybernetic part of the body. He watched the Colonel gasping in pain, not able to mutter a single word, with obvious and sadistic pleasure.

“OK, boys, let’s get to work.”

These were the last words the Colonel heard before he blacked out.