Too tired to defend myself, I shuffle over to the group taking in the scene. A dead pirate lies just inside the prison. It looks like The Legion realized they were losing the fight, so they dispatched this unfortunate soul to cleanse the population below. Apparently he didn’t realize how many of them there were. It appears that they overpowered him, taking his weapon, - among other things. A Sergeant fills me in on the standoff that occurred with the armed prisoner and the clearing team who discovered the captives.
Now, I bet he regrets giving his gun away.
The discussion begins out of earshot of the prison bars as one last Lieutenant joins us. The question is: What to do with the prisoners? One officer believes we should leave them on this ship because they’re not our responsibility. This is met with disagreement. Another proposes we release them, as well as give them control of the captured zeppelin to make their way as they choose. As ideal as this proposal is, a Lieutenant points out that they don’t have adequately trained personnel among them.
That’s about when I pipe up, “Why can’t we take them on board with us?”
This draws looks of surprise from some of the superior officers. I brush it off. If someone summons me for my opinion, I’m going to give it.
A sandy-haired Staff Sergeant cautions me. “Corporal, we don’t have enough provisions to make it to Shipwreck if we take them on.”
The utilitarian inside of me rises to the surface. “Is that using old math?”
The circle seems confused.
Deciding to press my luck, I continue. “All of you have been summoned here because you’re the highest in command onboard this ship. “ I take a second to try phrasing my thought as politely as possible. “In reality, we’re the highest ranking officers still alive aboard this zeppelin. I wouldn’t be here if we had our full complement.”
A few of the officers’ eyes narrow as they follow my reasoning.
I take a deep breath. “What I mean to say is, that for every officer who was killed, how many more marines also died who no longer require food?”
An old Captain with grey sideburns regards me coolly. “You savage the memory of those fallen soldiers.”
“How?” I ask, keeping my voice level.
The grey Captain draws himself up to his full height. “Even if we do have food that no longer needs to be eaten by our dead troops, do you really intend us to assign some louts to live with the grieving families who have been left behind?”
I hadn’t thought of that.
Licking my lips, I offer. “While I was still airborne, I saw the Artemis take several hits to the Living Quarters and other vital areas.” I need to choose my words even more carefully for this. “The families who were living in those areas most likely did not survive. The death toll could easily be three figures. We could repair those quarters for our new guests quickly enough with all of the materials we’ve found aboard this ship.”
There’s an uproar.
“You unfeeling bastard!”
“You love strangers more than your own people?”
“Calculating slag!”
I let it run its course. Once they quiet down, the grey Captain steps up. “Corporal, you obviously know nothing of the pain of the families affected by the battle today.”
Something inside snaps.
Wheeling around, I go nose to nose with the Captain. “Don’t you fucking tell ME about the pain of families affected by combat!”
Caught off guard, the Captain takes a step back.
I cover the distance. “Have you ever had a shell burst open your whole life, right in front of you?” I growl. Holding up my hands, I splay my fingers so everyone can see the scars etched across them.
“Have you ever tried pushing off cinders hot enough to melt your flesh, while choking on the smell of your own hair burning?” I ask.
The Captain says nothing.
“I didn’t think so!” I shout. Seething, I realize this outburst doesn’t serve as a good representation of me within the leadership.
“The Corporal’s right.”
Captain Dixon’s sure voice rises up over the group. Stepping to the center, her violet eye passes over the circle. “If we don’t take these people in, what separates us from the rest of the barbarians trawling these airways?”
Her endorsement not only shocks me, but helps ground my senses again. I’d forgotten she was here.
“We must make every effort we can to assimilate this population with the Artemis’s passengers,” she continues. “There comes a time when we must make sacrifices for strangers, and this is one of those times.”
A brunette Lieutenant begins protesting about the availability of food again.
Captain Dixon whirls around, fixing her with a glare. “We will ration our food if we have to. It’s not like we haven’t done it before.”
She walks up to the Lieutenant, leaning in and cocking her head to the side. “And if there are those who haven’t done it before, then it’s about fucking time.” Dixon’s eyes narrow as she growls. “You could lose some weight anyways, Lieutenant.”
Drawing herself back up, Captain Dixon turns around to face the rest of the circle. “Is it agreed?” she asks.
No one says a word.
The grey Captain raises his hand, stepping back into the circle. “If we were to take on the task of assimilating this population with our own, who would be in charge of that operation?” he asks.
I take a deep breath. The words stick in my throat.
“I . . . I will take charge of assimilating the new population.”
The words tumble from my mouth before I can rationalize them.
The Captain nods before gesturing. “Then it is agreed.”
The other officers also mutter, one by one, “It’s agreed.”
The pit in my stomach threatens to envelop everything else. After robotically contributing my own agreement, I turn to the two hundred or so hungry people behind me, gazing at them.. They’re my flock now . . . for better or worse. I can’t even keep my own quarters clean, and I volunteered for this?
Dixon sends word for the green flare to be fired. As the runner sprints up the stairs, one of the officers warns the prisoners to stand back before she shoots off the lock. They shuffle backwards, watching her with hungry eyes as she shatters the lock with a few shots of her pistol. The door grinds open, but the prisoners make no movement.
Captain Dixon nudges me. “You’re up kid.”
I swallow hard, slowly making my way to the center of the cargo bay. The stench is unbearable. Large piles of refuse dot the deck. The bodies of those who expired are tucked away in the corners. These people have seen a lot.
A little girl stares at me with hollow eyes. I have to give them something to hold on to.
I clear my throat. “Hello. My name is Corporal Basmon of the USS Artemis.”
No response.
Turning to the other side of the cargo bay, I continue. “From what I can tell, you’ve received horrible treatment at the hands of The Legion. I would like to extend Artemis citizenship to you for a chance at living a better life.”
I look to Dixon for guidance, but find a stone wall. Wetting my lips, I push on. “If you choose to accept this citizenship, it will be my responsibility to find you appropriate quarters and rations. You may depart the ship once we’ve docked in the Northern Territory. You may make your life from there, or you may continue to stay on with us, if you so choose.”
A silence reverberates off the dark walls of the cargo bay.
Smoothing down a ruffle on the arm of my uniform, I say softly, “Would you please follow the officers up those steps so we can get you some food and water? Please signal to us if you cannot walk, or if someone in your party cannot move under their own power.”
The promise of sustenance stirs the prisoners from their positions. Slowly, one by one, they leave their spots, making their way towards the door.
Some prisoners begin signaling that they’re having trouble moving.
One such signal catches my eye. A glint of metal catches the faint light of the cargo bay as I make my way to the huddled group.
A young woman hunches over a noticeably pregnant prisoner. Standing over her is a severe looking man. He stands about six and a half feet tall, with a sharp, crooked nose reminiscent of the beak of an eagle. He also has the glare to match.
The only thing tearing my attention away from the intimidating force to the left of the pregnant prisoner is the woman tending to her. Her features appear washed out, as though she once was vibrant, but the ebb and flow of stress slowly ground her down. That’s not to say she isn’t striking, but she’s hiding something underneath her haggard visage.
She’s cut off the sleeves of her shirt to make cooling strips for the pregnant woman. Following her placement of the cloths, I see her most prominent feature extending from the fingers of her right hand up to the edge of her shoulder. At first it appears to be an elaborate tattoo, but I soon realize that it’s three dimensional in nature. There appear to be small chunks of metal embedded in her skin.
When she moves to apply more cool strips of cloth to the pregnant woman’s head, I can see that the foreign objects extend to the right side of her midsection as well. The light reflected by her metallic feature is the same color as her hair - a shocking blonde. What’s even more intriguing is the way she holds herself. Almost as though she’s being pushed off balance, but I can’t figure out what she’s fighting against.
I catch myself, realizing I’m staring. Glancing at the eagle man, I sense he’s been keeping a watchful eye on me the entire time.
I clear my throat again. “Excuse me ma’am, is there any way I can be of assistance in moving this woman?”
The studded woman keeps her eyes on her work. “Yes. She needs a stretcher,” she replies calmly.
Nodding, I can’t help but take another look at the studded woman’s arm. This feature’s new. The wounds are fresh.
I try once more to get her attention. “I’ll get that stretcher for you right away, ma’am. May I also get you a medic to take a look at your arm?”
Satisfied with her work, she raises her eyes to meet mine for the first time. They’re an azure blue that remind me of melting ice. I catch my breath as her cold look washes over me.
She takes her unstudded hand, lightly caressing her damaged arm. “You can certainly try. However, given that the last doctor who observed them said their removal would result in my hemorrhaging to death, I’m inclined to leave them in for now.”
That’s my cue to leave. The glaring look from her stoic companion confirms this as well. Making my way back towards the mostly disbanded Captain’s circle, I search for someone to find a stretcher. All of the runners have already been dispatched, leaving me with just my two hands.
That’s fine. The thick stench down here is beginning to wear on me anyways.
A refreshing gush of air blows its way past me as I reach the bulkhead, beckoning towards the setting sun. It’s bizarre. The deck I see now is so different from the one I knew only hours ago. Many of the dead are gone. Supplies and people now flow freely from ship to ship over the newly assembled gangplanks. It’s a shame I missed the signal flare. It’s always a cathartic moment, even if I’ve only ever seen it from the other side. Knowing you can finally go back home. Knowing you still have a home to go back to.
Not far from the gangplanks, I find two gurney boys taking a well-deserved rest from their efforts of the day. Greasing their palms with a few dollars each, I make sure they’re in tow when I head back towards the cargo bay.
Ensuring the pregnant woman is properly taken care of, I thank the boys for their service. The studded woman gathers up what little worldly possessions she has, while her bodyguard fixes me in his sights. There’s something about this woman I can’t figure out. Walking up to her side, I introduce myself. The giant on her left flexes the muscles in his jaw.
Slowly, I extend my hand. “Thank you for helping that woman. My name’s Corporal Sage Basmon.”
She looks at my open palm. “I know, you already gave a speech introducing yourself. Remember?”
I blush, but don’t retrieve my hand.
Seeing my determination she sighs, reluctantly taking it. “My name is Sabine.”
Stealing a quick look at her guard, I reply, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. We could use more people with your kind of heart on board.”
Sabine gingerly removes her hand. “I’m sure you could.”
She goes back to her packing. That’s enough conversation for now.
Turning to her bodyguard, I extend my hand again. “Corporal Basmon.”
I muster up the will to look him in the eye as my hand hovers in mid-air. No shake is forthcoming, so I let it fall to my side. “Alright.”
As I turn away, the sound of gravel fills the air.
“Talking to me is a privilege.”
Slowly, I turn back. “Well in that case, I’m glad I could earn it,” I say with a hint of a grin.
Leaving his gaze, I catch the sides of his face twisting into a grimace. This man’s not used to being toyed with. Regardless, I think I catch the beginnings of a smile on the side of Sabine’s face as I walk by.
Making my way back out into the fresh air, I see the light of the day is nearly gone. Its last rays pour over the cloud bank in a way that would have made Michelangelo proud. It’s the kind of sight that stops you where you’re standing so you can breathe in, just because you know you still can. It’s brief though. I get carried along with the tide of people making their way back over the gangplank.
I’ve always been impressed with the sturdiness of the gangplanks. You’d think something that’s been inserted between two goliath airships would be more unstable. I suppose there’s still the chance of a rogue gust blowing the two ships apart, killing all of us in the process, but there’s still no better way to transfer people and supplies.
Grasping the railing of the fore plank, I scan the banisters to see if anyone I know is waiting for me. Most people have already reunited with their loved ones, so the crowd’s begun thinning out enough to see individual faces.
No Cass. At least, nowhere that I can see. I was expecting too much. With the number of casualties I saw today, Cass will probably be elbow deep in organs for the next week. It doesn’t exactly set the stage for a fairy-tale romance. So much for my tear-streaked, throw-myself-into-your-waiting-arms arrival. It would’ve been perfect with the sunset too.
C’est la vie.
Setting foot back on the Outer Rim, I do catch a few friendly faces, mostly acquaintances and friends of acquaintances; no one I really know that well. That doesn’t stop us from flashing our index and middle fingers out in the shape of a ‘V’ to celebrate our victory. People see my uniform and grab my arm, shaking my hand. One elderly woman takes me by the face and delicately kisses my forehead before whispering something in Portuguese that I can’t understand.
Making my way through the crowd, I spot my group of hunched ex-prisoners. They’ve all mostly collected just outside the Living Quarters bulkhead, waiting for some direction. Taking a deep breath, I remind myself how important it is to keep my promises. Drawing myself up to my full height, I try exhibiting power I know I don’t have; these people need someone to rely on, and I’ll be damned if I let them down.
I walk to the middle of the group. Some of them seem to recognize me. Feverish murmurs carry on the wind. I call out in the strongest voice I can. I tell them that I’m thankful for their ability to be calm. I inform them of what I am going to do and how I’m going to do it. I talk about how, initially, there may not be enough food for everyone, but how I’ll find a way to make it work. I say how I might not be able to find housing for each family, but I’ll find some place safe to put them. Their hollow eyes follow me as I pace nervously back and forth in between them, not quite sure whether I can be trusted. Even so, they know there’s no alternative.
And there I leave them, to run to the housing supervisor
, the quartermaster, the head doctor, and all of the other positions of power who hold the well-being of these people in their hands. Most are willing to assist me to the fullest extent. Many of them have faced similar challenges where one act of kindness saved them from a sure demise. Now they’re willing to return the favor. For those who are less generous, I describe the children’s bloated stomachs, the austere sunken eyes of their parents, the shriveled bodies we found. One by one, they all give in. . . at least to most of my requests.
By the time I find everyone a place to stay and enough food until morning, it’s the dead of night. I wander the Outer Rim like a ghost. It’s gotten to the point where I’m so exhausted I don’t even feel drowsy, just . . . old. No one walks the deck except for the watchmen. Their dark coats glisten with the condensation of the fog that’s begun to roll in. It’s so thick, visibility’s dropped to about hundred feet.
My brain functions on auto pilot. Winding my way up and down steps and walkways, I miraculously find myself at my cabin. I fumble with my keyring, trying every key except for the correct one. When I finally open the door, it swings wide to reveal two empty cots. I stop. The panic rises up just underneath my ribs.
I take slow, deliberate steps over to Olan’s empty bunk and peer in.
“Hi Uncle Sage . . . ” a sleepy shadow whispers to me.
A sigh of relief quells a fraction of my stress. “Hi little lady. Where’s your Dad?”
Part of me doesn’t want to hear the answer.
Aoife takes her small hands and rubs her eyes to better take part in the conversation. “He said he would come back later.”
I bite my lip. “Weren’t you scared today, hon?”
Aoife shakes her head, not unlike her father. “Nuh-uh, the neighbors always let me pet their dog when the sounds happen.” She lowers her voice, whispering conspiratorially. “I don’t think he likes the loud noises very much either.”
I pause, not quite sure what to do next. Olan and I were separated after we stormed the bunker. I haven’t seen him all day. The image of his body on one of the stretchers flashes in my mind, but I shake my head to eradicate it. Fighting the haze, I come up with a new plan.
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