The Soldier

by Craig Gabrysch

At first, Sharil wasn’t completely aware of his surroundings. Then things began to come slowly into focus. Sharil was in his office. His face and neck ached like someone had parked a space-transport on it. He tasted blood. His tongue probed around feeling for damage. One tooth was missing, probably swallowed, three teeth were loose, and a front fang was chipped badly. After dental inventory, he moved on: everyone of his garage’s crew was likely dead. Anshon was dead. Lukal was alive and locked behind a security door. Sharil was in his office, sitting in his chair. And, finally, there was a giant hitman directly in front of him leaning against his desk. All around them was silence. Sharil groaned.

  “Thought you’d never come around,” the human said quietly. The man had a voice that Sharil imagined tectonic plates rubbing against each other would sound like. He sat on the edge of Sharil’s desk, idly sharpening a combat knife. Well, in his hands it looked like a knife. In most others’ it would have looked like a sword. Arrayed around him were a hodgepodge of tools from the shop: a plasma cutter, pliers, wrenches, and a bolt gun. Finally, the man’s gun was propped next to his side. Sharil groaned again. The man cleared his throat. “Sorry about your hand. You wouldn’t let go of the pistol,” he said. “I had to take it off with a plasma cutter.”

  “What?” Sharil looked down at his paw. Rather where his paw should have been. Instead, there was a twisted, blackened stump. Burnt flesh and singed fur replaced a working, articulated paw.

  Sharil screamed.

  The man looked bored.

  Sharil kept screaming. His throat began to hurt.

  Finally, the man stood. He narrowed his eyes, shouting, “Shut up already.” He stabbed the blade into the desktop, punctuating his sentence. “I know it doesn’t fucking hurt, because I put the damn tranqs in your arm. And you’re not going to bleed to death, either.”

  Sharil abruptly stopped.

  “That's better,“ the man said. “Now, let's begin. I'll start this meeting by introducing myself. I will follow by stating my reason for this operation. I am a Menelauen, the soldier-race. I am Retired Master Sergeant Korg of the Wolf Company Drop Troopers, 3rd Battalion, 2nd Regiment, 55th Division, in the employ of Queen Adelia. You have probably heard of us. We’ve ravaged too many worlds to count and won more wars than your worthless people have ever been involved in. Business brings me to your shop.

  “I am here to speak to Lukal, your boss. Unfortunately, he is behind a security door. Fortunately, I have you on this side of said security door. According to intelligence gathered from your dockhand upon entry, you are named Sharil. You are also Lukal’s right-hand man. You are both employed by the Company, an interstellar crime syndicate which operates seventy-to-seventy-five percent of blackmarket dealings in this and six other sectors of the galaxy. Any questions so far?” Sharil spit a bloody fang at Korg’s face. It connected with Korg’s chin, leaving a small blood spot. The defiance didn’t seem to phase the soldier, though. He simply wiped off Sharil’s blood as if he’d wiped the blood of another man from his face a thousand times before.

  “Let’s not start off on the wrong foot here, rat. I need to speak to Lukal. Lukal is behind a security door and you’re going to get me to him. We can do this one of two ways. The easy one, where you just talk, or the really painful one where you still end up talking. Makes no difference to me. Whichever option you choose, I’m getting through that fucking door.”

  Korg waited a moment for Sharil’s response. “Fine,” he said after none was forthcoming. The soldier turned around and began going through the tools. Sharil tested his bonds. Korg had been thorough, tying the crooks of his elbow to his thighs with zipties. The chair creaked as Sharil struggled against them.

  Korg sighed, his shoulders heaving. He must have heard Sharil’s fur rubbing against the plastic. “So, you’re trying to get out?  That’s your answer?”

  “What? Fuck you, you murdering piece of shit.”

  Korg turned around. He sized Sharil up economically: quickly, efficiently, with little or no regard to the axke himself.

  “You know, rat, most men would have started to beat you by now. Especially, after you spit a tooth in their face. I’ll commend you instead for an excellent display of disrespect for the enemy, and your unwillingness to compromise. Incredible in someone from your race. Your people aren’t necessarily known for their willpower. Part of a Menelauen’s conditioning from birth is to learn to keep three entities, or psychological constructs, completely separated within our minds,” Korg said. He turned around, a pair of pliers used for prying bolts from bulkheads held in his massive gloved hands. He stepped over to Sharil’s side, hunkered down in a crouch and went to work. He put the tip of the pliers to Sharil’s left index claw and closed the teeth around it. “Pardon the archaic methods I’m using,” he continued conversationally, “This was supposed to be a general smash and grab. I didn’t expect your boss to have such robust security measures. At home we have pain inducers that just trigger your nerve endings. It’s much more efficient than the tools I’m using today, primarily because little to no blood is lost during the session. You still pass out, but it’s just from the pain. Oh, I almost forgot.” Korg stood quickly, leaving the pliers connected to the claw. He walked behind Sharil and began rummaging through a pack. Sharil couldn’t see what it was and didn’t care. He was too focused on the pliers closed around his claw. Was the man really going to do this? The axke’s breath came in short, quick breaths. Oh, Big Crunch take us all!

  Suddenly, swiftly, Korg was next to him, his voice still conversational, “Did you know your employee Anshon was a drug addict? I found this syringe on him, some kind of amphetamine-based drug in it. A dirty drug, but it’ll keep you awake. Some of the planets we invaded gave this to their soldiers, so I’m familiar with its effects.” Sharil glanced over at Korg just in time to see the human flick the tip of the needle and push some of the drug and air bubbles out. “I think he was going for a fix when I showed up.”

  Korg stuck the needle into Sharil’s leg. Sharil jerked, “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Shooting you up. It’ll keep you from passing out. That would be wasteful of our time together.” Korg pushed in the plunger. “There you go.  All better.  Now where was I?” Korg removed the needle from Sharil’s leg. Searing heat spread through his veins.  Korg continued, “Part of our conditioning is separating psychological entities from one another. The first two are 'us' and 'them'.  It’s difficult for some people to kill sentient lifeforms. Not for Menelauens.” Now Korg gripped his hand firmly around the plier’s handles. “We possess a very ‘us' and 'them’ mentality. A marvel of evolutionary theory. The third is a separation between the ‘yous.’ Your mind is your mind, your body is your body. For most it’s incredibly difficult to grasp this concept, since most sentient life's pain response is tied to their existence. It’s difficult even for us, but at least we can blunt the pain. It takes extensive practice, of course, which our childhoods and continuous meditative maintenance gives us. 

  “Some races, though, are actually able to switch off that pain response. That’s the way they’ve been designed, so to speak, by evolution. Then, of course, there are those that are truly engineered to have the capacity to shut off that function of their nerves. I’ll honestly say that evolution is a much better engineer than any scientist, though. There are far too many variables to consider on the battlefield and a civilian could never truly factor them all in. Even we can’t and it’s our purpose. You’d be surprised how quickly genetically engineered soldiers become genetically engineered casualties.” Korg yanked, extracting Sharil’s claw in one fluid motion.

  Sharil’s hand erupted in flames of pain. He screamed. He bit at Korg’s nose, the closest thing he could reach. The soldier was too fast.  Korg reflexively withdrew his face before Sharil could even consider closing his jaws. Sharil’s teeth snapped together and Korg’s massive hand immediately grabbed h
old of the axke’s snout. The Menelauen forced Sharil to lock eyes. In his other hand, Korg held up Sharil’s bloody claw. Sharil marveled at how his claw looked like an aged rat’s. “Give me a way around that door, Sharil,” Korg said, “and the pain stops. Give it to me or I take the rest of your claws.”

  Sharil’s mind was afire with nerve signals. His finger screamed at him to just tell the human whatever he wanted. Agony rippled through his arm. The axke felt the drugs kick in. He took deep, ragged breaths. “No, fuck you, Lukal will fucking kill me, my family, all of us,” he gasped out.

  “So you're afraid of Lukal?“ Korg said, shaking his great head slowly, “is that what's holding you back? Lukal will be dead.”  Korg stood and walked back to the work table.

  “My fucking claw . . . my fucking hand . . . you fucking piece of shit.”

  “Have I shown you my gun yet, Sharil? This firearm is truly a marvel of antiquated technology. Don't get me wrong, it's not as efficient as a laser or a plasma gun. Nothing beats those. The world I found this little trophy on hadn't even reached true spacefaring capabilities.” Korg turned around. There was the sound of oiled metal sliding on oiled metal as he pumped the handle beneath the barrel towards the pommel handle, then pulled it back up. “It's called a shotgun. Amazingly wasteful, if you want to know the truth. But very cathartic. The shotgun has this certain weight to it,” Korg explained, leaning against the desk, “that makes you feel like you're really using a tool that's designed to deal death. It fires little pellets through a chemical reaction. You see, it explodes a compound in the back of a cartridge, which then launches an entire wad of pellets through the air and into your target. The pellets aren't aerodynamic, so velocity decreases drastically at greater than ten or fifteen feet. But, Sharil, up close you shred people. And that big explosion when you pull the trigger is so much more terrifying to an enemy than the 'zzzzt' of a laser or the crackle of a plasma gun.” Korg extended the shotgun in one hand and put the muzzle against Sharil's kneecap. Sharil shook his head. The pain in his finger had begun to lessen, moving down the pain spectrum from screaming agony to dull, throbbing agony.

  “No, no, no,” Sharil gasped, “you gotta believe me, Korg, you gotta believe me. If I tell you anything the Company will come after everyone I know.”

  “What colony are your people from, rat?” Korg asked, his tone changing to a commanding one.

  “Fuck you!” Sharil spat quickly, shaking his head violently. He knew he wasn't going to last much longer. Just the threat of that much agony was too much. Sharil had shot some gambler in the knee, had seen the pain and damage it had caused. He didn’t doubt that Korg would pull the trigger but the fear of the Company was still too great. Oddly enough, Sharil found himself not regretting shooting that gambler even though the same threat hung over him.

  “Tell me what colony you’re from, or I pull this fucking trigger and we see how your leg bone’s connected to your thigh bone.”

  “Axkume 39!” Sharil screamed.

  Korg removed the shotgun form Sharil knee, much to Sharil’s relief. The man moved in close to the axke’s face. He addressed Sharil softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “Sharil, do you want to know why I’m here? You know I’m a soldier, that I’m retired. You must have wondered already, but, strangely, you haven’t asked,” Korg said.  He leaned forward, looked Sharil squarely in the eye.

  “It’s not to collect payment from Lukal. No one sent me to push him out or edge in on his territory. I care fuck all about the Company. You people can do whatever you want when I’m finished. I’m here because Lukal has information pertaining to people I want. Those people did something horrible to a family member I never met.

  “I understand your feelings on protecting your family. I feel it the same. Contrary to galactic belief, Menelauens love their family dearly. We are hard on them because we want them strong. If they’re strong, they’ll come back. Lukal knows the whereabouts of a man who, along with several other men, beat and raped my niece while I was on tour. I will avenge her.

  “What you said is true, the Company is a far-reaching force to be reckoned with. They will come after you. They may go after your family. But, believe me, you have two much more pressing concerns.”

  Korg cocked the shotgun and pressed the muzzle to Sharil’s kneecap.

  “Your first worry should be for your knee,” he said. “You answered my question about where you’re from, Sharil, but you haven’t answered my first: How do I get to Lukal? Robotic prosthetic knees don’t work very well and they never truly meet the expectations of the unlucky owner. That’s if you can even get medical attention this far out. You’ll probably die in that chair, sitting just above a pool of your own blood. You’ll be in agonizing pain up until almost the last moment.

  “Your second worry is me. The Company will come after you, like I said, and may go after your family, but I certainly will. I will let you bleed to death here, just like they did to my niece. Then I will blow up the station just to kill Lukal. I need information he has, but that information is probably available somewhere else. I've already come this far up the Company's command structure, so I know it can be accomplished through another avenue of attack. After I demolish this station I will go to Axkume 39. I will find your family. I will kill them. Then I will find your associates and friends, whoever it is you buy your smokes from, for instance, and I will brutally murder them. Then I’ll move to the city level and outward. If I run across someone you share common strands of DNA with, I will kill them. I will exterminate your worthless people. You have my word of honor. Now, I want a way around that door.”

  Sharil locked eyes with Korg. There was intensity within those orbs. A terrifying intensity unlike anything Sharil had ever experienced. Korg was serious. He would find whatever and whoever it was he wanted. Then, when they were dead, he would move onto the extermination of the axke. But why? Simply because he’d made a promise. Korg’s honor demanded it. Sharil swallowed. It was hard, but he did anyways. His stomach turned from the influx of swallowed blood. He nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said, “okay. I’ll give you the code.”

  An hour later, Korg returned. “Still with me, Sharil?” Sharil nodded. The drugs had kept him twitching throughout Lukal’s agonized screams. Korg drew his blade and slipped it between Sharil’s fur and the zip tie. He cut upwards swiftly, releasing the axke from his bondage. He leaned against the desktop, arms crossed.

  “I've called an ambulance ship. You'll want to get that finger taken care of and your stump looked at. They'll take care of the bodies also. You're lucky you answered my question. I'm not one hundred percent familiar with axke physiology, but I'm pretty sure that the blood loss from losing a knee would have killed you already.”

  “What about Lukal?  Did you get what you wanted?” Korg nodded. “Then what about me? Aren't you worried about me talking to the Company?”

  Korg shook his massive head again. “No. Now you're mine. You'll continue to work for them. I still need information on other members of the Company, and you're going to help me get it.”

  Sharil shook his head. “Fuck you.”

  Korg just sighed. “My promise still stands. I'm leaving now.” And just like that, Korg strode to the door. He stopped, said, “I’ll be in touch,” without turning and walked out of the office.

  Sharil leaned back in his chair, his breath ragged. He needed a smoke and a drink.

  # # # #

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