Chapter Fourteen: Sebastian Giallo Realty

  I slept poorly, once again, but psychic dreams involving dead fellow soldiers will do that to you. Not helping my mental state was the ruminations. I’d looked over the reports I’d written in the wake of Jim Parkes’ and Sophie Kessler’s deaths, looking for insights that continued to elude me. I sighed. I think I liked it better when I lived by my wits and strength, and didn’t have to take orders or engage in self-reflection.

  I checked out a flyer that had been posted underneath my door, for a new casino on Cochrane Street, opening in a couple of days. Strange: I didn’t think anybody was fool enough to build anything new here, but maybe Port Moonstone was finally turning the corner? I made a note to check it out some other night. The Major still hadn’t called, which was fairly common for the Major: She was never the one to reach out.

  I spent most of the day attempting to be productive and looking after my mental health as best as I could: Some meal prep, watching some WWE, and going for a walk in the city to get me out of the house. I couldn’t let myself get cooped up with nothing to do, and if I managed to royally fuck things up with the Crystalline Initiative, then I wanted to keep an ear to the streets for more work that wasn’t just bouncing at Midnight Mirage. Port Moonstone’s economy wasn’t great, but there was work, if you were happy to deal with the seedier side of people. But none of it compared to the excitement and the rush of being a mech pilot.

  As the afternoon turned into the evening, I decided to go on a nice beach jog. With Port Moonstone still deep in winter’s grip, there weren’t many people on Almandine Beach. I jogged, past rows of restaurants, away from the port and the marina, without direction or a plan, seeking the peace that came with an empty mind. I wandered, not knowing what I sought.

  The house at the end of the peninsula was new, which was a surprise: A white, Mediterranean style villa, with a blue roof, like you might find in Santorini. Couldn’t be cheap: This was someone who simultaneously had a lot of money behind them, but also had the poor sense to build a house in Port Moonstone. As my father would say, can’t fix stupid.

  I wandered around to the front gate, where a big sign for Sebastian Giallo Realty stood, smarmy picture of the man included. I’d never known Sebastian Giallo personally, apart from the fight at the formal, but real estate agent seemed a slimy enough occupation for him to be involved. Whatever: a lot of my past was coming up as of late, and I didn’t need to add him to the list of past failures suddenly getting dredged up.

  It was well and truly dark now. I turned on a heel, and was confronted by Amy, arms linked with some blonde hippie who looked like the leader of either a yacht cult or a surfer cult, I wasn’t sure which. He raised an eyebrow at me, looking at me like I was growing extra heads.

  “Can I help you?”

  The smell of brine and fish hit my nostrils. I realized it wasn’t coming from the sea or the beach: it was coming from this Irish prick who had his arm around Amy’s shoulders. But I had to think fast, before old boy got suspicious.

  “Has this house been here long?”

  “No, it’s a new construction. Who the hell’re you?”

  If I looked stupid before, I looked like an absolute fucking moron now. Amy took this Irish weirdo’s arm from around her neck. “He’s a co-worker. Elias, this is Manannán McClear. Manannán, Elias Beltran. Elias, what are you even doing out here?”

  I stuck my hand out and received a cold, crushing handshake. I noticed a weird scar down the left side of his face, but chose to say nothing. “Uh, pleasure to meet you, I guess. Was just going for a run, and didn’t expect to see you out this late. Anywho, see you at work.”

  I waved goodbye and jogged off, making sure I was far the hell away from Amy and that Irish weirdo she was with. None of this added up. The house still had a For Sale sign up, and unless Amy had managed to bag herself a millionaire, ain’t no way this Irish hippie could afford to buy or build a house like that. So why were they heading into a house with a For Sale sign?

  Maybe I was jealous. Maybe I was paranoid. Maybe the smell of brine had triggered something deep in my psyche that I’d managed to repress until now. But I didn’t trust this guy, not in the slightest. And maybe it wasn’t my place to intervene, but I’ve spent enough time bouncing at strip clubs to know that there are a lot of people with bad intentions out there.

  I whipped out my phone began a web search for McClear, and found nothing. No Facebook or Instagram, no blog posts, nothing that had any proof that this man existed. As a long shot, I even tried the ABN registry, but still nothing. I kept jogging, trying to think why. He sounded fresh off the boat, but you’d think there would be something to tie him to somewhere. I even tried searching his name in Ireland itself, but came up with nothing that matched.

  As I jogged along the beach, I heard a loud splash, and a humanoid figure rising to his feet, before running back toward the house. To my disappointment, he was stark naked, and I yelled after him to put some pants on, but I don’t think he listened to me. The long hair made him look uncomfortably like Sebastian Giallo. I made a mental note to drink enough to wipe out that memory as I continued back to the apartment

  I made it back to the apartment, and tried one last desperate search. Rather than googling McClear himself, I decided to google that house on Bristle Close. Just as I thought: still listed on Sebastian’s company’s real estate website, and no sign of a current owner, which meant new or at least new-ish construction, and someone with the money to maintain the place while it sat empty.

  Suddenly, I realized how my actions might have looked to an outside observer. I deleted my search history, and began cooking dinner: chicken and veggies. This was stupid. Amy was a grown woman, capable of making her own decisions. Plus, she technically wasn’t a friend: she was a co-worker and nothing more: she’d said so herself. Who she dated was none of my beeswax. Maybe I just didn’t like McClear. This guy was a slimeball, I could tell. But maybe I had to just hold my tongue. And maybe the trash would take itself out if they were to break up.

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  Finishing dinner, and doing the dishes, I looked through my own profile on Down Under Connections. I wasn’t getting any other matches, and modern dating was a hellscape anyway. Seriously: If you’re married, or in a happy, healthy relationship now, you did the relationship equivalent of getting the last chopper out of Saigon.

  After dinner was done and I’d finished the dishes, I called The Major. I might have already eaten, but it was time for another slice of humble pie.

  I dialled the Major’s number, sitting on my couch. The jog hadn’t burned off as much nervous energy as I’d hoped, so I paced around the room, waiting for her to pick up. Finally, that familiar, sardonic tone filtered through.

  “Was beginning to think I’d have to start looking for your replacement, Beltran. I don’t have to tell you how serious this is?”

  “I know. I fucked up, and I’m sorry. Truth is, I’m worried, alright? You said you had the dreams too. I- this isn’t something I know how to defend against. And given everything that I’ve seen-“

  “I think I get it, Beltran. I wish I had an easy answer for you. And you’re right, we’re dealing with something that no amount of conventional Defence Force training is going to prepare you for. But The Crystalline Initiative aren’t conventional soldiers, Beltran. What we do here goes beyond modern conventional warfare.”

  “So what am I meant to do, boss? If you’re having these dreams, how do you keep your head on so straight?”

  The Major paused. “Best you can do is ground yourself. Focus on what you can control. You’ve got to understand, Beltran; if Rahab can send people psychic dreams or what have you, you’re not going to be able to defend against him using purely conventional methods. I would expect him to exploit any perceived psychological weakness. Parkes, Kessler, anything. Assume there’s nothing he won’t stoop to. You may have no choice but to take it. Have you reached out to ?ojjell or Roland?”

  “Yeah, Amy called me after I stormed out.”

  “Good. Make sure you thank her. I want to ask you a very serious question, Beltran: Why do you think the Australian government poured all that money into making sure that Staaldier worked? What does a mech do that conventional artillery doesn’t?”

  I paused. I’d never actually thought about it. On the face of it, mecha seemed like the ultimate weapon, but they didn’t really do anything that a more conventional military vehicle didn’t seem to. The Major continued.

  “It’s all the psychological effect. Australia never used tanks back in WWI: A deadly and stupid mistake. How much terror did an old German Mephisto strike into the hearts of ANZAC troops? By that same token, how much did seeing a British Mark IV rolling through Villiers-Brettoneux encourage ours? The primary advantage of animal-shaped mecha is to produce that effect on a larger scale. It’s not all about overwhelming force. It’s about what it does for the troops on the ground.”

  “So why are you telling me all this?”

  “Because I need you to understand that not only are you part of an elite group, capable of taking on threats that a normal military unit would never survive, we do not expect you to do so alone. We will support you as best as we are able to do so. Your job, is to inspire fear in your enemies and hope in your allies using Silverback. Amy’s job is to use the Crystal Guardian to do that. And you can always lean back on us if you need it. ”

  “Thanks, I guess. What should I do in the meantime, boss?”

  “Beltran, I’ll be honest: You need a hobby. Something to take your mind off of everything.”

  “I mean, I do have hobbies. I’m into fitness, and I follow WWE-“

  “I meant something intellectual, or creative, to really occupy your mind. I dunno, start playing chess, or painting or something. Anyway, if I do much more shrink work for you, I’m going to have to start charging. I’ll see you back on base, when you’re ready.

  I hung up. For a moment, I considered calling her back, asking her to run a background check on McClear, but I pushed the thought out of my head. No way in hell was I risking my job at this point.

  Believe it or not, fitness and being a mech pilot is not my only hobby. My mother is a chef, so she passed down a love of cooking: half the reason I work so hard on my fitness is to compensate for all those delicious Colombian and Chilean dishes that she taught me to make. My dad had tried to train me to follow in his footsteps as a musician, but it hadn’t worked: From what my surviving aunts tell me, he’s still Chile’s national punchline, and any success he’d had in Australia was based on the promise that he wouldn’t actually sing. And while I’d dabbled in poetry, like many emo kids, Pablo Neruda I was not.

  No, I’m not sharing any of it. Fuck off.

  Still, the Major had a point. Despite my emo predilections, I’d been very focused on fitness and my physical welfare, so much that I’d maybe neglected more intellectual pursuits. The Army had kept me away from Port Moonstone, so a lot of friendships had sort of fallen by the wayside. Maybe it was time to educate myself, but what would I even try to learn?

  Maybe that casino could lead to a bit of fun. Back when my employment was a bit more sporadic, I was a pretty decent card shark. I pulled out my copy of Hoyle’s Rules of Card Games, and began looking through the rules, skipping through Bridge, Whist, Blackjack and Hearts, to Texas Hold ‘Em Poker, rememorizing the different hands and the rough odds. I smiled, already concocting a plan. If Port Moonstone really was about to turn the corner, then this casino would have a bit of money flowing through it. And with a little bit of luck, a working knowledge of poker hands, and the steely-eyed look of determination issued to every Lance-Corporal in the Australian Army, I’d take my slice.

  Still, who the hell even operates a casino in Port Moonstone? I looked closer at the flyer. Property owned by Sebastian Giallo Commerical realty. This motherfucker. Out of boredom, I decided to look up Sebastian’s Facebook profile. He’d blocked me, but I had a second account that I’d used to use for trolling purposes, back in the days when the net was still like the Wild West. I logged in and looked at what that prick had been doing with his life lately.

  My eyes widened when I saw Sebastian standing next to a blonde dude with long hair, arms around each other's waists. The scar was missing, but there was no mistaking: that had to be McClear. I double-checked the date: yesterday.

  I pulled out my phone, but stopped myself from calling or texting Amy. Of course, if I told her, now I'd look like a creepy stalker, and a homophobe to boot. I facepalmed. Of all the people this two-timing Irish bastard has to cheat with, it has to be her ex? The one person who'd hurt her worse than I had?

  Instead, I put in my headphones, blasted some music to try and forget everything I'd seen. I'd already broken her heart once. I wasn't going to risk it twice.