FORTY-ONE

Cutter was not a natural time-binder. He’d learned early in his career that he had to track dates; it was necessary to slice the calendar into months, weeks, days, hours, even seconds, to achieve military goals with the necessary precision. When he remembered big events, though, they were seldom linked to a number. Sometimes, even a year or season weren’t readily available. But there were a few dates that stuck.

Midnight bringing one of the most memorable ones was upon him.

As he sat behind his desk, staring through the wall and into the past, sipping at a fine bourbon whiskey over ice, he couldn’t forget what this day’s date meant.

Radé would have been nineteen today, had he survived.

He didn’t spend much time looking backward, there was no joy in that. Sure, you had to learn from history, or be condemned to repeat it; and yes, there were good memories that brought smiles. But in this universe, time’s arrow flew in one direction, and you couldn’t go back. Were that possible, he’d give everything he had, or would ever have, to be able to step in front of the bastard who killed Radé. And, if he could manage it, put a bullet into Melinne’s head on his way down. The universe would be better off.

Now and then when he was out of sorts, he considered hunting her down and doing that part. She was still out there, somewhere, and, unless there had been some kind of miracle, still fucking up everything she touched.

Her fault their son was dead.

He sipped at the bourbon. It was Hirsch Reserve, the last of the current bottle. Five hundred ND each—and that only if you bought a case at a time. It was aged for twenty-six years, first in charred French oak, then in isotet barrels, and sold to a select clientele. Cutter was on that list because he had done a big favor for the maker. He had five cases left, stashed in two different storage units on Earth, guaranteed to be safe from fire, flood, earthquake or other natural disasters. He allowed himself one glass a day, and he drank it slowly, though not so much so that the ice had a chance to melt too much and water it down. Normally, it was the highlight of his day, to sit quietly and drink his single glass of fine bourbon.

Not on what would have been his son’s nineteenth birthday, though. The taste was great, but the experience was tinged with too much regret.

Can’t fix something? Let it go.

He told himself that every year, but it didn’t really help.

He lifted the glass in salute: “Here’s to you, son. Wherever you might be.”