by Martin Perry
A deep breath of rank, profusely scatological air later and he snapped out of this daydream. He questioned whether or not he had been drugged. There must be a reason for why he was finding it so hard to concentrate when he knew that focusing on his escape was of paramount importance. They must have; despite his alcohol intake he was never one for passing out. He considered the raucous nature of the bar he and his crewmates had inhabited that night, but his knuckles were too smooth for him to have been in an out-and-out brawl. Standing straight, he ran his left hand over his right fist, clenching hard and trying to remember.
The violent crashing of the water recalled the noise of the bar, but not the cackles of Kerra as he mocked his other friends. Her laughter, a noise he revelled in, brought back the wide bar stools, the silver tiled floor, the wall panels with circling blobs of colour, the thundering bass and the sight of the cylindrical bar that stood twenty feet away from the table. It had been one of the bar-maids that volunteered her belly button for the tequila, but the bump of Kerra’s knee against his throughout the night had reminded him over and again that he was only really interested in one patron of the bar.
Shortly after telling whatever joke had set her off he had stood up, the stool moving from under his legs as he shifted it back across the bumps between the tiles. The glass he held in his hand, long and still filled with golden bourbon, was thrust down onto the table as he declared that the seal must be broken. Staggering toward the toilets, he had had to search for the human male signage that directed exactly where his urine was supposed to go. He remembered scoffing at a puran as he exited their specific facilities. While the females were remarkably attractive, the males had rough, lumpy skin and famously inoffensive genitalia that required special assistance when nature called. He doubted that the effeminate individual was responsible for his incarceration. He just wasn’t that good at offending people. Not quite witty enough.
He had definitely made it to the bathroom though, as he remembered the feeling of relief as one too many shots were evacuated. Try as he might though, he couldn’t remember anything beyond that point, and quickly hit the more recent memory of blood rushing to his head. While it was somewhat ironic that his being assaulted in a toilet led to his torture in a sewer, there currently wasn’t enough positivity in his bones to appreciate it. Swinging his arms, he twisted round and headed back down the corridor at a much slower rate now that he had calmed. He made it to the opposite end. This time he wasn’t met with a continuous flow of water, but instead a large red, studded steel door. There was an expectation as he pressed his ears against it, gently laying his hands against the cold metal.
He expected to hear the murmuring of his captors, but instead he heard the stomp of their boots as they rushed toward the alarm he had just set off. A pressure sensitive alarmed door - why hadn’t he thought of that before pushing himself up against it?
It was time to panic again. Turning on his heels once more, his boots scratching against the ground as he pirouetted, he darted back down from where he just came. His destination was obvious. He had discovered only one exit despite how long he had spent marching around this maze-like underworld. He tried his best to stride forward, arms pumping into the air and the WoundGel now entirely separate from the edges of the gouges in his legs. His chest pounded, hearing the steel door crash against the dripping black walls with such force that small bits of dust and ceiling brick came free, raining down upon his broken, filthy figure. Angry grunts followed him down the corridor, the noise of flapping fabric just about audible over the thundering boots and the clanging of cold, bloody, metallic instruments colliding with each other. He had hoped not to encounter those again, so the only direction he looked was forward.
The only thing that met his gaze was a crashing flood of dread.
The river of sewage was the only place to go. Perhaps it was the only place he should have gone instead of stupidly setting off that alarm. It screamed in his ears, almost laughing at him as he bore down upon the watery exit. Grabbing the scavenged weapon from its holstering strap at his side, he leaned his arm backwards and fired off a few loud, obnoxious rounds in a limp attempt to delay his captors. Almost there, he thought, almost drowning in shit, piss and whatever dearly departed pets had been dispatched down here to keep him company.
He made an almighty leap, or at least the best that he could manage, screaming into the air as his feet left the slick ground and launched into the murky abyss. The water, and all it contained, collided with him, immediately soaking through the gaps in his borrowed armour and the ragged clothes he wore underneath. Once his hair dunked under, it swept into his face and stuck there, meaning his vision was almost completely blocked when he bobbed back up. He crashed his arms against the surface, hitting more solid objects than he wanted to, trying to find an equilibrium. Finding balance, only just, he could just see the darkened forms of his captors at the edge he had leaped from. The small glass skylights didn’t offer nearly enough light to see anything of them that was decisive.
The torrent rushed him onwards quickly, and what little he could see was lost as he clattered downwards into an even darker area of the sewer. The noise of the water changed enough to warn him of a sharp drop just ahead. In truth, he didn’t care any more. He was resigned to ending up wherever he was taken, provided he could keep his head above water. When it came, he limply fell over the edge, letting out a dejected sigh as the ghastly waterfall hurled him downward. Another dunking, another mouthful of abhorrent liquid, and another poorly lit stream. With a clang, his head hit against meshed bars, iron girders crossed over each other to filter out the larger chunks of waste. Apparently he was one of them.
He clung to the girders and pulled himself toward the nearest bricked edge. The energy was now completely sapped from his body. He was unable to muster anything other than a feeble dragging motion. A few of his fingers now felt broken, although the armour had staved off any fatally concerning injuries to the rest of his body. The smell was irrelevant, so caked from head-to-toe in the various atrocities that he had encountered that he was past caring. Eventually reaching the side of the filthy pool he dumped his arms onto the surface of the cold, black blocks that he now knew so well.
Mustering a final push of energy, his feet were once again against solid ground. Picking some of the larger chunks away from his face he stood tall and stared ahead of himself. The outline of a ladder was just about visible. Some small shafts of light from above caught its edge and glinted toward his eyes, a glistening prize in a dungeon of stomach churning humiliation. Now, much slower than the walls of this horrid place had yet witnessed him move, he shuddered toward it. Bleary hopes that it wasn’t some sort of hallucination blinked in and out of his mind as he tried to think of happier times and the warm cot that he hoped awaited him on the other side. On the brink of escape, a well of pity rose up in his stomach for the poor souls that had imprisoned him. He did not envy the jailers for having to work and live down here. The thought of it summoned a mix of a chuckle and a gag from his windpipe.
His left foot made contact with the bottom rung, clearing away the worries of hallucination. He took a grip, wincing in pain as he realised that there definitely were some broken fingers on his right hand. A slippy, unsure ascent followed, his shattered mind and degraded body hulking itself upwards towards sanctuary. The hefty metal cover met him at the top. It was a final slap in the face that he rallied against with what little force he had left in his body. It was lifted just enough to squeeze himself through. A blast of cool night air splashed against his face, grit between his fingers rather than slick block, a rotten corpse dragged onto the streets of Pura. He ached, and couldn’t run from the scuffling footsteps he could hear approaching from ahead of him.
“Maur? Maur, is that you? Guys, get over here. I think I’ve found him.” It was Kerra’s voice.
We’ll lie in the gutter,we’ll swim in the swill,
Because all the filth in the world can’t break korakian will.
We’ll muster desperate cries, our enemies will be shattered.
On the dark sand of Korak, to the bleak winds of Elsevern,
We’ll set fire to your houses, and send your children to Heaven.
But we’ll take our greatest victory, after you are under our thumb,
We’ll unsheathe our manhood, and have our way with your mum.
Roughly translated korakian battle song, year unknown.
Chapter Two
The wounds on Maur’s body were easily identified. Despite the fact Kerra had only recently passed basic medic training there were enough tell-tale signs, namely the volume of blood that was seeping out on to the dusty ground. His body was still trapped by the drain cover. She was impressed that in this state he had managed to shift it at all.
Maur, while perfectly capable in a fight, was not as strong as he thought himself to be. On more than one occasion she had witnessed him in the maintenance bay, nobly trying to lift one of the large spare tires for the scout vehicles, or perhaps a new part for their powerful engines, only for him to fall on his ass, scratching his head as if perplexed why his grip had been insufficient. It was cute, like a lot of his failings, but whatever the reason was for his disappearing act, it had certainly been enough to convince him to overcome his physical limitations.
His hair was filthy. Although never very tidy, Maur always kept the ragged mop clean. Ordinarily it swept over his forehead, a thick fringe not quite long enough to finish up tucked behind the ear. She noticed a fresh, cauterised wound around his right eye – it had obviously happened while he was down there, dried blood was spread across his forehead. Maur's reasonably handsome, well proportioned face didn’t look as appealing as it did a few hours back when she had been drunk in the bar. The bruises and cuts weren’t all going to disappear. He was going to have to deal with whatever battle scars he was left with. He wouldn’t get a kick out of telling the story of them either. Maur's encasement in crap would rob him of whatever great anecdote might be behind them. Nobody wants to share the tale of the day they were used as a human privy.
Her medical training was sufficient that she knew the filthy body armour was going to have to come off. Kerra rolled Maur onto his back, hoping that her actions wouldn’t inflict any further injuries, and began to unclasp the bindings that secured each panel around him. She started with the arm braces, the material that covered the part of his body that seemed least damaged. It was fortunate that he was passed out. While struggling to set his right arm free, Kerra knelt on a finger which made more crunching noises than it should have. At least he wasn’t conscious enough to notice. With the right brace off, she unclipped the left and only found a few extra bruises to contend with. It was unlikely that her medic gear was going to remain packed, but at least at this stage the injuries didn’t seem particularly horrific.
By now the morning sun was well risen. The coolness of the night disappeared as Pura’s colossal star arched up over the complex, oddly modern architecture. An early site of human settlement, sharp plastic panels formed boxes and oblique walls or flat roofs around the construction carried out by the planet’s natural inhabitants. Cirramorr, the city in which they were currently docked, was well known for its towering spires. The purans constructed from the ground up, literally, dragging in the surrounding muck and dust up into towers before coating it all. As such the profile of the city was spiky, yet lumpy all at once; impossibly twisted wiring blocked out some of the sun above. It was densely populated, the buildings constructed tightly together, merchants and traders lining the streets. Without getting up close to see the circular windows and doors, it may all well have looked as though it was constructed by insects. At least the human touch took the edge off things and made the planet somewhat reminiscent of Earth. Maybe even Bangkok, if you squinted your eyes.
Sweat dripped from her brow, the heat only bearable because she had experienced far worse. Kerra flicked away the beads closest to her eyes, before dropping her hands to her waist, puffing out hot air to blow her bright pink hair away. The call to Thom and Charles had gone out well over ten minutes ago, and she was only just beginning to hear their approach. At least Charles would be able to help with the chest plate.
“Kerra! Is that him? God damn, we were still trawling the markets. Figured he might have wandered towards Annie.” Thom was referring to their ship, his goofy, big feet stomping the ground as he and Charles approached.
“It’s him alright. Properly fucked up.” Cursing didn’t relax Kerra’s mind as much as she had hoped it might.
“Well, you’re the medic. Can’t you fix him?” Charles said, his booming, ordinarily calm voice quivering slightly. He was by no means stupid, but his matter-of-fact tone had caused many to underestimate him in the past, usually to their physical detriment.
Kerra huffed as she turned around to Maur’s body. It was still limp and lifeless. In this moment of analysis, Charles had moved up beside her. Despite the amount of time she had spent around Charles, his imposing figure was still a little intimidating during combat. Just over seven foot tall, it wasn’t his height that was most impressive, but his breadth. Wide shouldered, with a barrel chest to match, his physique had been built by years of work as a soldier and general workhorse. Charles' strength was considerable. He had yet to meet his match despite countless encounters with other species.
Wrapped in his red vest, brown braces clinging to baggy combat issue trousers, he was obviously hot too. Rings of sweat hung to fabric around his neck and armpits. She could only imagine what his black, well-worn boots smelled like on the inside. Usually tucked in to the boot, his combat trousers had come free in the panic to find the pale, damaged figure that lay in front of them.
“We need to get him away. Whatever chased him won’t be far behind.” Nods from Kerra and Thom signalled no dissent toward Charles.
“Drag him over there, into that alley.” She pointed toward a dank midden between two of the plastic walls her species had graced this planet with. Leaks from the plumbing made it look oddly appealing, a mucky little oasis in the morning heat.
Thom shuffled around to Maur’s feet, before trying to match the ease with which Charles lifted the weight of their friend. It just about warranted a smirk from Kerra, but she held it in knowing how self-conscious the gangly cook got about being compared to the combat crew on the ship. Conversely to her, he had been combat trained to take on additional duties alongside his usual support role. There was some sympathy for the fact that soldier was the only choice for support staff. She had been able to pick between multiple secondary duties, settling for medic as she had seemed to demonstrate some ability for healing wounds during past missions. It had been tricky to deduce whether or not the sight of flesh fusing together during operations, blood spurting onto her face, was something that she could tolerate because she had a naturally strong stomach, or if it was because she was desensitised after so many combat operations. It was not a rare occurrence to get quite so close to the carnage during her time as part of the Earthbound Colonisation Force. Now, as part of a mercenary team, it was more infrequent.
She trailed behind her crewmates as they moved Maur towards the alley. Turning her head left and right Kerra was surprised by the fact a team of burly gangsters hadn’t been quickly behind her burden. Maur had a tendency to attract trouble – on more than one occasion she had had to bat her eyelashes, swinging a hip toward an angry brute just to stop him being hospitalised. The alley they were headed towards was actually the site of such an event, Kerra remembered. The back door of one particular merchant unit instantly recognisable for the holes in it.
They had been hastily patched over after the money lender who inhabited the unit had fired several rounds past Maur’s head during an argument over gambling debts. A guilty pleasure he had since learned to give up, one too many lost card games had landed him in a deep hole. Kerra was eventually able to convince the lender to let Maur
live on the condition that they would mule a number of packages, contents undisclosed, to their next port of call. Neither Maur nor she would have got work on any private craft ever again had they been caught, but smuggling mysterious leather crates onto Annie seemed like a better choice than watching her crewman’s brains drip down an alley wall. Still daydreaming beyond Maur's injuries, Kerra noticed an appropriate place for a make-shift sick-bay.
“Set him down over there. On top of that old mattress.”
“You sure? It doesn’t look... hygienic.” Thom said, his kitchen cleanliness slipping out into the real world.
“Maur is covered in shit, literally, I doubt a dirty mattress is going to bother him too much.”
Thom shrugged in reply, as best he could with Maur’s weight still slung in his hands.
“You didn’t get any information on what happened to him?” Kerra asked.
“No,” Thom replied. “Nobody seems to have seen him after the bar. One of the bouncers said they might have seen him leave with a girl.”
“Unless she lives in the local plumbing that seems unlikely,” said Charles.
“True. I don’t think Maur would ever be quite that desperate anyway,” said Thom.
“What brought you here?” Charles asked, looking to Kerra briefly.
“Chance. I just stumbled across him. I haven’t seen him this bad since our last trip to Korak.”
“He got covered head to toe in shit on Korak?” Thom asked confused. He didn’t have a great recollection of the mission in question.