Commander Cohen married Captain Baines, the CO Mason reported to directly, and the three of them became the closest of friends during their time on the Hesperia. Mason buried his feelings for Commander Cohen, but they never went away. He would do anything for her.
He sat naked on the floor of his cell and wondered if he would ever see her again. She was now a Captain, a genetic researcher at Earth Command in Houston, and her husband an Admiral. Mason suddenly became horrified at the thought of Admiral and Captain Baines knowing about him as he was now. He was a hero the last time they saw each other. She even kissed him for the first time the last day he saw her, and not just a peck on the cheek, either. A real long, deep kiss, full of passion, that told him she still cared for him as well. She wanted him to remember her. As if he could ever forget her as long as he lived.
Mason intentionally recalled his favorite lovemaking sessions with Sherrie to see if those memories brought any life back to his cock. Those memories usually drove him off the charts; Sherrie was so strong and responsive to his every touch. But his penis just hung there, dead and unresponsive. His scrotum, clipped and shocked frequently with such strong currents, had no pubic hair anymore, and the small black scars where the electrodes were clipped were plainly visible. What a cruel joke the Fates played on him: a huge penis that was dead and no longer capable of an erection.
The study of martial arts and kung fu in particular was Mason’s primary physical focus for over a decade. He could now perform some of the warm up movements in his cell, but the kicks set off his electronic shackles and sent hot currents of electricity up his legs. He continued his isometric exercises to keep any semblance of muscle movement in his cell. Eighteen months ago he was physically rated AAA-1, the top rating available. After two months in prison, hung by chains and shackled, he probably wouldn’t even physically qualify for his Prime Marine status. He did as much yoga as his shackles allowed.
Less than one percent of all Space Marines qualified for the achievement of Prime Marine, and Mason was one of their true champions. Would he ever get out of prison? Would he ever get to wear his Prime Marine crimson red tunic uniform and tall black boots again? He became very despondent and angry at the turn of events that changed his life, all undeserved. He wanted his life back. He wanted to have a future again. He wanted this to be over, to be history. He slapped his hands together, to intentionally send shocks from his wrist shackles throughout his body to end his present negative emotions. Hopelessness and anger would not get him out of prison.
Four days passed without any torture or further interrogations. Today, his room went from its normal pitch blackness to a very soft yellow light, and it hurt his bionic eyes. After his water hose shower, the guards threw an eye shield at him as they left, along with a clean prison uniform. Something was up.
The artificial sunlight began to light the room, slowly, ever so slowly, giving his tortured eyes time to adjust to its brightness. In a few minutes, it was at three-quarters strength, the most he could handle with or without eye shields. After a decade or more in space freighters and mining vessels, and more than two and a half months in prison, his body felt much older than its actual years, and his face showed it. His face, eyes and throat told the whole story of a career spent as a Prime Marine, accustomed to battles and hard physical labor, working in colored lights and breathing the different mixes of gases supposed to be safe for humans.
“Safe for humans.” The mere thought of the phrase sent a wave of laughter over his heavy muscled body, shaking his chest, and producing sounds that broke the silence so suddenly and loudly his cell walls were soon reverberating in choruses from neighboring compartments:
“Shut up in there!”
“What the fuck! Mason, you freak, you scared the crap outta me!”
“Whatsa matter witcha!” And then, finally,
“All right Mason, since you’re in such a happy mood, you first today, and MOVE IT!”
He loathed that guard. The inmates called him Tibby. Tubby Tibby. Tall, ugly as they come. Used to be a Prime Marine, or something equally as fierce, but now dreary, padded with belly fat. Forced to serve out his last years in this hell hole, with URE state prisoners. He hated everyone, especially himself, for having to be there at all. Counted off the days, like the cons, scratching tics into the walls. He looked like a canyon vulture in his brown turtleneck, the rest of his uniform a little too tight for him.
Tibby touched the palm recognition pad, and the energy bars of Mason’s cell disappeared. Mason stepped out, received a stronger eye shield to protect his tired eyes, and walked deliberately ahead of the guard, sauntering in his stride.
“Move it, you cocky bastard, or you’ll get put right back in your hole for the rest of the week,” Tibby threatened.
As they walked down the corridor, past the visual recognition station, and on toward ever-brightening light, Mason looked at the guards standing at the end of the hall, with their hot sticks at the ready, not too anxious to take over custody of him. All wore the shit-brown turtlenecks of the police corps, the fabric hugging their thick, muscular necks nearly up to their ears. Ugly color for an ugly job.
Not nearly as nice as the government officials’ and warden’s uniforms, with their metallic black turtlenecks, glistening with silver and cobalt blue trim. The fabric for those lucky govie lackeys seemed to be alive, shimmering and sparkling, with nano lights moving all throughout to keep them comfortable. He wished he could trade his prison uniform for their turtleneck right now, instead of freezing all night and sweating all day in this rat hole. But at least they gave him clothing to wear, after keeping him naked for over two months.
Tibby passed him through the energy bars at the guard station to the waiting transport guards, after shackling him with restraining cuffs on both hands and feet, chained together for more control.
“Mind yourself with this one boys, he’s one of the Esmeralda crew.” With that, they stepped a little away from Mason, and ordered him to walk three paces ahead of them towards the waiting tram. Mason noticed the younger guard breathing a little more rapidly, and saw the beads of sweat starting to form on his brow. He smirked at him, which only bought him several prods of the older guard’s hot stick in the gut. He tried to suppress the pain, but it doubled him over in agony. The guards locked him in their net and hauled him to the waiting tram. So, they all knew of the Esmeralda crew; maybe he wasn’t the only one from the ship imprisoned there.
Inside the tram, he was strapped into a seat in the rear of the cargo hold, and his helmet smashed roughly on him in preparation for the short ride. He vomited on his shoes and shackles from the pain and shock of the hot stick, so the guards left the tight shackles on him, making his feet swell during the trip. At least his wrists were freed, to better grip the armrests during the rough ride of the small tram, as it sped through the sealed corridor connecting the auxiliary prison to the main space station. His insides still stung, and burned like fire. The young guard roughly shoved a metallic tube into his neck, shooting him with a dose from his tranquilizer gun. Another pain he did not feel was deserved. Last season a hero, now a punching bag for these mindless brutes.
And it all started with the turtlenecks……..
II
Mason began remembering the day after the end of his assignment on the Hesperia. He wanted to spend a few days with his family home on Mars Colony III, when the announcement came over his com tablet about an opening on the Esmeralda. A brand new ship, exploration class, on a five-year mission and all the amenities he had dreamed of, including his own suite quarters. After years sleeping in a bunk-drawer, listening to crew men snore and jack off every night, this seemed like his reward was finally offered. He’d be a fool to pass this up, a golden opportunity on a brand new ship. The billet was filled his last day on Moon Base, without even so much as one day off duty to himself. But the excitement he felt was worth the sacrifice of his vacation and trip home, when he stepped on board that magnificent ship. Admiral Bain
es was pleased at his choice of the Esmeralda, and told him it would be a cruise he would not forget. How prophetic.
Gleaming titanium hull, well-lighted and clean, so clean. No one appreciates a clean ship like someone who’s spent the last seven years on a mining freighter. It was as near to paradise as a ship could get. Hot water for five minute showers, a real garden for fresh veggies and fruits. Dozens of shops, restaurants and bars, for variety, and stores where he could buy new uniforms and new boots, all on his account. The officers and crew were always polite, and rarely swore. His CO, Captain Esther Hanson, was an accomplished officer, a seasoned war bird pilot with off-planet experience, battle-tested, with a toughness he appreciated. His primary duty was to protect Captain Hanson, the bridge, engineering and medical officers. He escorted her wherever she went, at her request. She was several years older than Mason, confident, poised, and totally in command. She cut quite a figure in her class A uniform, slender and tall, and very strong.
No one wore tight turtlenecks then. There was no need to, not yet. The uniforms were standard utilities for most of the crew, except the cooks and medical staff. His own daily utility uniform was Prime Marine issue, light one-piece black, zipped up the front; but its special nano-fabric construction made it repellant to laser fire. It would even prevent knife and small blades from penetrating. The officers wore their utility uniforms at their duty stations, but wore their class A uniforms at dinner every night as was customary, since they did not do the dirty work. Hell, there was no dirty work on the Esmeralda, except maybe garbage detail, and the bots mostly did that. It was all research, science experiments, data collection, the kind of stuff he had no patience for. And conference after conference, meetings all day. Thank God he wasn’t stuck with that kind of life. He was a man of action, a Prime Marine, a highly-trained killer, especially bio-modified for deep space travel, and guardian of the command officers on this vessel. He lived the warrior’s way. It was an easy assignment, at least for the first eight months.
There were more than three hundred Space Forces and Space Marine personnel on the Esmeralda. But the research scientists were civilians working for the URE government. They pretty much kept to themselves, preferring their own company to that of the Space Forces officers. Their loss, Mason mused. Most of the scientists treated enlisted crewmen like servants, and only showed token respect to the junior officers.
They were all getting a little punchy, and the large ship seemed to be shrinking on them after nearly eight months since their last space station break. Even the little faggot Chief Chemist was being testy, finding fault with everyone in his lab, when Mason got called in one night to break up a fight. Fight, hell, these guys wouldn’t last ten seconds in a real fight, they were so soft. He easily broke up the altercation by picking up the main offender with one hand, and threatening to rip off the head of the other. Funny how that always worked with the scientific types. He paid no mind to the Chief Chemist on the floor, who promised to make all of them pay one day for destroying his experiment. He should have listened more closely to the ranting chemist then, and maybe things would be different now. Damn chemist, little runt genius who changed everything, the one who damned them all.
The prison tram stopped, and Mason snapped back to his senses. When the hatch opened, the guards came over and snapped the wrist shackles on him, unstrapped his restraints, and pulled him swiftly out of his seat. He forced back a smile at their rough handling of him, not wanting to get another hot stick in his gut again. They descended into the room in front of them, where his party was anxiously waiting for his arrival. The Captain stepped toward them, his disposition changing immediately upon seeing Mason.
“Why is this man shackled like a common criminal? He is a highly decorated Prime Marine, and is to be treated with respect at all times. Why are his shoes soiled? Get this man into the shower and get him a clean uniform immediately.” The guards released his shackles, and did as they were ordered, taking Mason to the showers. The younger one was sent off to get a new uniform and boots for him. Soon he was shown into Captain Aziz’s office, all clean and new, snapping to attention.
“At ease, Prime Marine, please be seated. This is to be an informal meeting, where we will determine whether you can be released from your temporary quarters into my care here on base. Do I have your word that you will conduct yourself properly with respect?”
“Sir, yes sir,” Mason replied.
“Then be seated. Guards dismissed.” The Captain sat behind his desk, and opened the file on his screen. “You have had an exemplary career, until last year. I want you to tell me in brief what happened to make you throw it all away.”
“Has the Captain read my file? It’s all there, sir,” Mason replied, stiffly.
“I know what’s in your bloody file, and don’t be insubordinate with me. I am your only ticket out of prison, Marine, so you’d better be straight with me, right here, right now. Is that clear?” The Captain looked like his old drill sergeant for a second. “Do you agree to speak openly and honestly to me about this assignment?”
Mason said, “Yes sir, I agree. How much detail does the Captain want?”
“Tell me everything, from the day you first set foot on the Esmeralda.”
Mason took a deep breath, and began to tell Captain Aziz what happened aboard the ship, from day one. He told of a splendid ship, its crew, his CO, Captain Hanson. He answered the Captain’s questions about the various crew members, and his evaluation of their mental state when the laboratory fight broke out. His reports made while on the ship were always concise and timely, and he was never in his career doubted until this tour of duty.
“Am I correct, then, in understanding life and work aboard the Esmeralda was business as usual, until the week before the ship docked at Space Station Eight?”
Captain Aziz looked squarely at Mason, and, for the first time, Mason realized this man was psychoanalyzing him, not just conducting an interview. There were probably cameras recording this session, and some hidden probes in his chair measuring his body responses to the Captain’s questions. “Yes sir, nothing unusual before that laboratory ruckus took place. Business as usual, as you said, sir.”
“And you didn’t think anything out of the ordinary until you stopped the fight?”
“No sir, it wasn’t even a real fight, just a lot of broken glass, and tablets on the floor. The Chief Chemist was on the floor when I came in and broke up the scene, sir,” Mason replied.
“Were there any weapons in use?” The Captain asked. “Any broken glass being used on someone? Anything that could be misconstrued as a weapon in use?”
I was the only weapon there, Mason mused. “No sir. It just looked like guys in lab coats took a couple of swings at each other, that’s all, Captain.”
“Very well. And you’re sure the Chief Chemist said he’d make everyone pay for destroying the experiment?”
“Yes sir. He said that, sir.” And he evidently followed through on his threat. Mason was just beginning to pay for it, and so was everyone else.
“Very well,” Captain Aziz said. “That’s all for today. I have made arrangements for you to be housed here for a trial period, at least while we are conducting interviews with you. Unless you’d rather go back to the prison, that is. Will you conduct yourself as a Prime Marine, with honor? Do I have your word?”
“Yes, sir, I will conduct myself properly. May this Marine ask the Captain a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Am I under investigation or under analysis now? No disrespect intended, sir. I just need to know where I stand, sir,” Mason asked, standing at attention.
“Both, Marine. And the results of these discussions will determine your future. Sergeant Cross will show you to your quarters. You are confined to this base, and are to report to this office at o-eight-thirty tomorrow morning. Dismissed.”
Mason saluted, and left to find Sergeant Cross waiting just outside Captain Aziz’s office. “Follow me, please, Prime Marine
Mason. Your quarters are down this corridor.”
He ate in the chow hall, a real meal for the first time in over two months, walked around for a while, and went to the arcade. Even though he had no slices for the games or a movie, he enjoyed watching Space Marines relaxing, and felt at home, for once. He headed to his quarters, showered again, and went to bed in a real bed. The mattress must have been 15 centimeters thick, and it felt like lying on a cloud. He fell asleep almost instantly.
The next two weeks consisted of interview after interview, questions and more questions, and all about events prior to the Esmeralda docking at Space Station Eight. His interrogations in the prison were always about the occurrences after docking, when things started getting strange. He wondered if Captain Aziz gathered enough information about those events to satisfy him, or if he was only testing him to see if he’d change his story. Mason didn’t care. He was getting used to being questioned and the Captain and the other interviewers didn’t drug him, or deprive him of daylight like the prison guards did. His eyes were starting to see more clearly, and it took less time to focus once he awoke than before.
He was cooperating as fully as he could, trying to win his life back.
On the third week, Captain Aziz changed his interview location from his office to a room in the back where the lounge originally stood. The room still contained an old couch, a couple of chairs, and a big steel table that was obviously out of place. Now Mason put his guard up; he knew something was about to change.
Vengeance of Sukesh: John Mason (Legend of John Mason) Page 2