by Drew Avera
A hand grabbed the back of his collar and shoved him face-first into the white bulkhead, making him stop talking and leaving a bit of spittle where his lips made contact. It was a rough landing, but not one that resulted in a busted lip. Ilium was apparently holding back, not wanting to abuse the prisoner while the video feed followed him. It was smart, but not original, Brendle thought. Ilium kept him pressed against the bulkhead; probably shifting the weight of his cannon to keep from dropping it, or grinning about how much fun he was having playing the tough guy.
“I didn’t ask for you backtalk, traitor,” the word had the inflection of too much tongue being used to annunciate the second “t”, Ilium’s hot breath warming the back of Brendle’s neck in a way that would have been erotic if the man had been a woman instead. Brendle shook the image from his mind and shrugged his shoulder against the bulkhead to relieve some of the pressure from his face. “You have one more time to talk back to me and I will shoot you in the back. Do you understand?”
Brendle only nodded his head, holding back the retaliatory words on the tip of his tongue. The fact Ilium would shoot another man in the back yet considered Brendle a traitor was the biggest piece of hypocrisy Brendle had witnessed in a long while. Never mind the fact Ilium would be disobeying a lawful order from Captain Elastra. Brendle was sure the death of a civilian at the hands of the Telran’s Security Officer, regardless of previous charges, wouldn’t do too well for his promotion to Admiral. But it was better not to say so, at least for now. Ilium was still in control and there was no need to let on that Brendle was smarter than he was. There was still time for that, Brendle thought.
Another shove and Brendle was again walking towards the elevator. The door sat open like welcoming arms as he entered it, his face to the back reflecting off the dull sheen of the metallic surface. Maybe not everything was white after all. The reflection revealed minor details about Ilium and his security detail. The biggest one being that Ilium was the only one with his face exposed to the prisoner. It was as if he was trying to make a point of letting Brendle know who was tossing him onto the rock and to his death. It showed Brendle what kind of man Ilium was, one who made a point of being recognized for everything he did in hopes that the recognition would advance his career somehow. What better way to bring that kind of recognition than by setting someone up to be a traitor and also being the one responsible for carrying out the sentencing? The sneer on the man’s face did little to convince Brendle that the Security Officer wasn’t actually enjoying this part of his job immensely.
Brendle hadn’t even noticed the elevator had been moving until it stopped and with it the thoughts going through Brendle’s mind ended.
“Let’s go, traitor,” Ilium said, grabbing Brendle’s arm with a tight grip and dragging him backwards out of the elevator.
Brendle turned on his heels to walk forward. No need to trip on the metal plating of the deck and get dumped off with a bloody chin. The elevator had dropped them off at the forward most point in the cargo bay, leaving the long walk of shame to be displayed to his former shipmates as they watched from the comfort of their offices and dorms. It was a slight relief he didn’t have to face them as he was hurled to his certain death. It would’ve been nice to say goodbye to some of the people he had grown close to while onboard, maybe to shake Arender’s hand and tell him it wasn’t his fault, though it partly was. But Brendle wasn’t one for holding grudges; at least he didn’t think he was. Ilium might be the one to change his policy on that. When it came to goodbyes, he guessed that opportunity had slipped by already and the past was nowhere to live when your future was so uncertain.
“You know, I have a real nice position that presented itself recently,” Ilium whispered.
“Yeah, what position would that be?” Brendle asked, knowing he was being baited, but not caring. He just wanted to fill the time it would take to get from where he was to the surface of the moon without being confined to the horrific thoughts going through his head.
“Yeah, it seemed a position in Combat Control needed filling. The captain tasked me to take the job. Said he needed a real Greshian he could trust to rain hell on the enemy. Apparently the last guy went soft and turned on his own people.” Ilium racked the cannon as an audible warning that the weapon was pointed at the back of Brendle’s head. The sound of metal grating against metal rang in Brendle’s ear. He kind of wished he could hold the cannon, examine it. Maybe test its accuracy against Ilium’s face.
“You know it didn’t happen like that,” Brendle replied. He fought back the urge to plead his case, especially since it wouldn’t do him any good. He was getting off on that moon whether he liked it or not.
Ilium chuckled softly, “It might not have, but that’s the story going round the ship. Brendle Quin is as much a traitor as there ever was. In fact, I look the hero because I was the one who turned you in and you want to know a secret? I didn’t have to edit the video as much as you might think to make everyone think you’re a traitor either. It seems if anyone on the Telran was to turn on their people, then you were the most likely suspect.” The guards next to Brendle stifled laughter. It was obvious they were in on it as well.
Brendle spun around and faced Ilium. Despite the fact his arms were bound, he still made Ilium nervous as he glowered down at him. Ilium stiffened, the look in his eyes a threat that made Brendle nervous, which wasn’t hard to pull off with the cannon in Ilium’s hands. That kind of weapon was overkill, but then again so was framing someone just to advance your own career.
“Why would you frame me?” The question sounded more like an accusation. Brendle was finally starting to wear his emotion on his sleeve, too angry to fight it any longer. Ilium gave him nothing more than a raised eyebrow, but it was enough. “I see, to further your career. You weren’t man enough to stand on your own, so you needed to drop me off on a rock to make yourself look better, is that it?” The look in Ilium’s eyes revealed what Brendle already knew.
Ilium’s snide grin looked more sinister in the dim lighting of the cargo bay. “Toss his weapon overboard, Svere. Let’s hope the fall doesn’t damage it too badly.” Both men glared at each other, the ship settling to the ground as the sound of Brendle’s gun striking against rock echoed below. “You see, Brendle, you always thought you were so smart. You thought you could come on the Telran and pretend your superior attitude about promoting peace would convince the rest of us we were wrong about our purpose out here in the dark. What you failed to realize is our purpose doesn’t need justification. The Greshian Empire will expand with or without your spineless willingness to promote nonviolence. That is how we win wars. Hence the reason you’re about to get tossed to the wayside and left to die. I’d wish you a long life, but we both know you’ll be eating a bullet within a few days. That’s my gift to you.”
“You’re a real son of a bitch, you know that?” Brendle said; his voice full of contempt. Make a man angry enough and you might make him slip. Make him too angry and things might get a little out of hand. Brendle felt his hold on his own emotions starting to slip.
Ilium laughed, but it wasn’t joyful. “I guess I have you to thank for my promotion and how good I feel about it.” Ilium pulled out Brendle’s com-unit and toyed with it in his hands. “Maybe I’ll send a message to your mother and tell her how weak of a man you were when you ate the bullet. It won’t matter that it hasn’t happened yet. Maybe the grief of losing her son will drive her to the same conclusion. That is, if the dishonor of you being a traitor hasn’t done that already.” He tapped Brendle on the top of the head with the com-unit and winked at him.
The anger in Brendle’s chest was starting to burn and there was only one way to let it out, with violence. Brendle drove his head into Ilium’s face with enough impact to knock the other man on his ass, breaking his pointy nose in the process. He looked at one of the guards and said, “I’m ready to go now,” extending his wrists to be released from his bonds.
The guard, Svere, laughed as he unbo
und him, but said nothing.
Brendle turned back to Ilium, who sat wiping the blood from his face, and picked up his com-unit. “Thanks for reminding me, I didn’t want to forget this,” he said, waving the com-unit tauntingly. “Oh, and don’t forget that it only takes a little more pressure to drive the cartilage of your nose into your brain and kill you. Maybe you can think of this as mercy.” Brendle stood up and stepped down the cargo bay door, the steep decline making him realize how much falling would hurt. “That’s my gift to you, asshole.”
Behind him, Ilium scrambled to his feet and lifted the cannon. He followed Brendle to the cargo bay door where he looked down and saw the traitor looking back at him. Brendle was armed now as well. Brendle could see the rage in the other man’s eyes. He could see how badly the man wanted to pull the trigger and end Brendle’s life right there. A part of Brendle wanted to do the same, but for other reasons. Instead, as the cargo bay door slowly closed the men off from one another, he settled on the only thing he knew would get under the other man’s skin and last a long time. He winked.
Chapter 13: Anki
It wasn’t like Anki to wake up from a dead sleep, but since reporting to the Seratora she had hardly had a full-night’s sleep. She was sure that most of it had to do with the anxiety of being in such a different environment, drifting towards the enemy presence for battle. Even understanding the justification for her restlessness was unnerving as she lay quietly in her rack, adjusting the sheets because the room suddenly felt too warm. She couldn’t help but think she was going crazy. Maybe, it was the confinement, the lack of pure air flowing in and out of her lungs. She had heard of people having allergic reactions to recycled air, but all of those reports were from decades-old ships made of materials with carcinogenic properties. The Seratora was not that kind of ship.
Frustrated, Anki rose from her rack and padded across her stateroom. Each step her feet touched upon the cold deck until she found herself standing in front of the mirror. She looked at herself, the darkness around her eyes from a lack of sleep and disheveled hair falling off her shoulders. Her amber eyes reflected the pale light of the room as she looked at the woman she had become. Only three years of training had changed her from the soft teenager without a clue of how the world worked into a grown woman, chiseled muscle and confident gaze. At least she was once confident, now she could see the fledgling fear hidden behind her eyes and wondered if others saw it too.
She turned on the water in her sink and splashed it on her face, the cool water helping to liven up her senses. Truth be told, she was bored and had too much on her mind during the long periods of doing nothing. She trained several hours per day, but that didn’t fill the void of empty thoughts permeating her mind, affecting her sleep. Anki looked at the time and it was a few hours before the official start of the workday on the ship. But I was up and might as well do something to occupy her time, she thought. She dressed in the gray uniform left sitting at the edge of her rack. The two-piece uniform hugged her body, but not too tightly. It was like a firm handshake, snug and secure, but comfortable. Her boots completed the ensemble, the dull black leather ― running halfway up her calves tied tightly at the top ― came equipped with electromagnets for walking in zero-gravity. In theory, they were designed to aid in infiltrating an enemy ship by allowing the Marines to stand on the hull and breach the airlock without the need for a full EVA suit. The theory hadn’t been tested in an actual boarding, though, so the jury was still out on whether or not they were effective. Anki thought about the horror of the boots failing and a bunch of Luthian Marines floating away into the dark until their oxygen ran out. It’s not an ideal way to go out, she thought. Better to take the bullet than let the float kill you.
The gym was empty this time of night, which was a good thing in her opinion. Too many people were a distraction, and a cluttered gym didn’t allow for a very fluid workout. As a Marine Operative she was trained to operate solo instead of as part of a regiment. The isolation from others might have been difficult to handle for some Marines, but her withdrawn childhood had given her advantage to beat back the loneliness. If anyone was cut out for her line of work then it was Anki Paro and others who grew up in similar situations. She didn’t look back on her youth with regret, though. Anki had coped with the loss of her mother by retreating into her own mind. Her father was always there for her, but sometimes she had to be there for herself. She hadn’t wanted to burden him with the grief she felt at losing her mother. It occurred to her that she had never told him that.
Why do my thoughts always drift to my childhood or to my imminent demise, she thought as she climbed onto a treadmill. Running in uniform wasn’t very comfortable, but she made sure to train that way at least once a week. It didn’t matter how much endurance you had, if you couldn’t run in boots then you were more likely to die. War was a dance and you needed to have the coordination to move across the dance floor unscathed. It was a horrible analogy, but it was the one given her by her Marine Instructor during the long, arduous runs weighed down with all of her equipment. Of course, he said that from the relative comfort of running shoes and shorts. The treadmill escalated faster as her booted feet pounded against it. The electromagnets added a heft to each step that made her shins burn the faster and harder she ran. That burn crept up her legs and into her back over the course of the next few minutes reminding her why she only did this kind of workout every six or seven days. It sucked.
Exhaustion flowed through her body more efficiently than oxygen did, but she kept running, gasping for breath, panting for air to relieve the yearning in her lungs. She wanted to drink, but thirst was a motivator to run harder, to meet her goal. She could reward herself with deep breathing and quenched thirst after her workout was complete, she decided, watching the numbers rise on the treadmill. It was through the dull thudding of her heartbeat in her ears that she heard an announcement over the ship’s intercom system. The voice sent a chill down Anki’s spine.
“Onboard Seratora, this is the Tactical Actions Officer. We have entered an area previously known to be occupied by the Greshian Navy. We are in a high-alert environment. At this time, no further communications will be emitted until we are outside the threat environment. Only if our situation escalates will an announcement be made. Thank you.”
Anki hadn’t thought the Seratora could travel so fast, but here they were, in an area where Greshians had murdered the last remnants of a non-hostile world. Her heart beat hard in her chest and it wasn’t just the workout’s effects on her body. It was as if her anxiety was met by the real world and the taste of potent revelation was too much to bear. She took her water now, in hopes of washing away the taste of bile slowly rising from her throat. This is the real deal now, she thought.
No sooner than the thought crossed her mind she felt the recoil of the ship’s countermeasures deploying. What the hell? There was no alarm or anything to indicate the presence of enemy forces, she thought. The deck beneath her feet shook like a leaf on the wind. If not for the electromagnets on her boots, she would have been tossed through the air as the Seratora listed port at a hard angle; what had been in front of her was now above her, which was very disorienting. It was true what they said about relying on your training to get through an emergency situation. The repetition of every simulation she had endured over the course of three years rang clearly in her mind. Her reactions were nothing more than acute muscle memory firing impulses to known stimulus. The ship quaked, and she adjusted her steps; the ship listed, and the bulkhead became the new deck. All her responses were autonomic as she hurled her way through empty passageways, the magnets in her boots helping her maintain her footing.
The Seratora was huge. In fact, in Anki’s mind it was bigger than huge, but that only meant she had to run harder to get to her station. She wasn’t entirely sure when the klaxon had sounded, but it was a nauseating ring in her ears now. Sailors and Marines were falling from their berthings, half-dressed and half awake. It was an emergency and thei
r trainings was probably kicking into gear through their groggy minds as well. She passed several Sailors trying to access a hatch that appeared locked. Heat permeated from the bulkhead, blistering the paint around it. Instinct told her there was a fire on the other side; that it was dangerous to try and occupy that space, but she couldn’t draw enough breath from her fear to say anything. She watched in unrelenting horror as the hatch was finally breached by their combined efforts, only to have them devoured by the flames rushing through the new opening they had created.
There was no time to scream, no time to formulate a new plan. There was hardly time to run, but that was her only viable option as the flames licked closer, kissing the backs of her legs as she hurled herself through the tumbling ship. Another burst of countermeasures erupted beneath her, feeling as if the Seratora was retching. It was something her body had the urge to do as well, but stopping meant burning. Anki leapt across an intersection of passageways and slid down a ladder well, feeling the heat radiating above and behind her as if it were stalking her and her alone.
She had no idea where she was going, but following her instincts was all she had. Her feet fell heavily on the deck, the threat of flames left behind, but the compulsion to keep running pulsating in her mind like a warning. The Seratora fired something nearby, it didn’t have the same quivering sound emitting through the hull as the countermeasures had. Perhaps it was a torpedo or rail gun. Anki didn’t know, all of the sounds were all too familiar, for all she knew it was the sound of the Sera being hit, breeched and boarded by the enemy, and here she was unarmed and left to her own defenses.
She stretched her legs, opening her gait to move more distance in a shorter span of time. it didn’t matter that her legs were feeling flimsy, that her shins were on fire, her feet slamming to the deck like hammers. She had to run, to find a way off the ship before it went nova. She didn’t know how she knew it was coming, but it was the most sure she had felt about anything in a long time. With every other step the hull of the ship felt as if it were tearing open, spilling its guts into the dark. Even the air was feeling thinner where she was. Anki found the frame number of her location and checked her com-unit for the location of her transport, the only safe way she could escape in one piece ― if she was lucky. The com-unit pinpointed her location in relation to the transport. Horrified, she noticed she had been running the wrong direction, and now she could hear the sound of footsteps, a lot of them.