Stranded (Part 2)
I should have stayed down.
A long ago thought. An unwelcome memory worn thin by time. I shake my head and the memory drifts loose. I let it go.
Every story has a beginning, says the voice. But yours, Traveler, is a story of beginnings.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” is what I want to say, but can’t seem to think of the words. This bothers me, I think, but the thought disappears before it can fully form. Around me, the darkness shifts restlessly. It seems impossibly tight, the air too thick. Thoughts slip by unnoticed. I want. I want... my brain scrambles for something, anything to latch onto. The memory floats up out of the darkness, like a bloated corpse bobbing to the surface. And this time, like a drowning man, my mind grabs on and doesn’t let go.
I can taste my blood. Can feel the grinding murmur of station machinery beneath me. The metal is cold against my skin. I need to get to my feet. My head feels impossibly heavy. I try to move, but every cell in my body screams in protest. Their laughter chases echoes around the corridor. They’re lost in the moment. High on victory and adrenaline and whatever else is coursing through their veins. It won’t last long though and when it does they will end me. Get up! Get up! Get up! I lift my head in time to see him turn and start running toward me. The moment comes on slowly, moving with the singular inevitability of an iceberg.
He doesn’t expect me to move. Not with the injuries they’ve given me. So when he kicks out, I grab his ankle and twist. He yelps, I suspect from surprise more than anything else, and then again, this time in pain, as he comes down hard on his hip. I’m up and moving then. The pain is a demon harpist, plucking at nerves that sing in agony. I reach the first of them, a tattooed Civire, just as he raises his weapon. I reach up and grab his wrist, punch him in the throat, and yank down hard. The weapon falls loose and bounces out of reach. Shit. But he goes down, choking. The other two have to move around him, which buys me just enough time to throw up a loose guard. I ride the first wave of blows – fire erupts across my chest - and kick out hard, hoping for a shin. I feel bone shift, something gives and then he’s down and screaming, clutching his knee. I turn, too slow, and a punch snaps my head back.
The world flashes black then white. Too bright. I squint and duck instinctively at a shadow, a swing that glances off my shoulder. I move for position, almost slip on something – spit or blood maybe, I wonder absently if it’s mine – but somehow manage to get in close enough to lock up an arm. Our eyes meet for a second and I see understanding there. I smile through bloody teeth, then jerk his arm straight and bring as much weight down on it as I can muster. His elbow shatters, the sick sound of it swallowed by his screams. To his credit, he doesn’t go down. He staggers back, cradling his arm. When he turns and runs, I almost chase after him in spite of my wounds.
The capsuleer is back on his feet. I wonder how long he’s been watching. He is tall and lean and his skin impossibly smooth, except for a designer scar along his jaw. What he does next unnerves me more than any threat or slur ever could. He starts to laugh. The same free, unburdened laughter I first heard back in the bar.
I don’t want to be here. Not in this station. Not in this bar. And not chasing ghosts. At first, the raucous laughter is grating, but before long I’m listening intently to what’s being said. What was it Tanvalin used to say? The truth of the world can be found at the bottom of a glass. Even from a booth half-way across the room, I can hear the man’s drunken boasts.
“It was a suicide mission and I knew it. But the payout was too good. No way was I going to let someone else have a crack at it.”
“Fucking capsuleers,” mutters a man too young to look that old. “Think they’re so special.” He raises his glass and then drops it back down, cursing me under his breath when I don’t reciprocate. I’m in no mood to talk. I’m more interested in listening to the conversation that I and most of the bar are being subjected to.
“And your crew?”
“You know,” he says, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’d completely forgotten about them.”
Laughter.
“So you jettisoned your pod and left them to die?”
“And what kind of man would I be if I did that! Of course not! I went down with my ship like any proper captain should.”
At that the table erupts in laughter.
I’m surprised to find myself pushing my way through the crowd even before he’s finished talking. I wonder if this is the sort of person Tanvalin worked for. Was it a quick death? No, I don’t believe that. That’s not how the world works. Tanvalin suffered. He dared to dream of a better life. Was arrogant enough to believe that hard work and determination would get him out. And for his hubris he suffered. When the ship’s shields failed, and the armor was gone. When all that was left was a wafer-thin hull, naked and exposed, did he panic? Or did he trust in the skill and judgment of a single person to save them all? A capsuleer into whose hands he and the rest of the crew had placed their lives. A capsuleer like this one. Tanvalin always trusted people.
Like most, I know little about capsuleers beyond the stories and rumors. But I know they bleed.
“You were a fool, Tan.” I mutter to myself, and charge the capsuleer. He stops laughing then.
He is trained, but not well. He is slow and predictable. I brush aside a few half-hearted strikes, break a hold, and smash my forehead down into his face. It hurts so badly that for a second I think I might pass out, but the satisfaction of feeling bones break keeps me going. He throws a few jabs, short, tight motions, catches me in the ribs with one that makes me wheeze. I feel something wet in my lungs and the taste of fresh blood in my mouth. He steps in and follows up with a knee, but rage and grief have long since carried me over the edge and I barely register the hit. I tackle him to the ground. He says something then, but I’m already punching and barely hear it.
I imagine Tanvalin in those final moments. I want to think of him helping others to lifeboats, screaming orders or sealing a breach, working defiantly to the last. But all I can see is my brother’s face twisted in pain and fear as round after round tears through the ship’s hull, venting metal and bone and blood into space, wondering if the next strike will be the one that finally takes him. A faraway klaxon screams in my ears, hollow and keening. Tears sting my eyes. I can barely see the capsuleer but every punch comes away sticky with blood. I don’t know how long it goes on for, but when I open my eyes his face is pulp, and my knuckles raw. It’s only then that I hear the klaxon’s ringing for what it really is: the sound of my own screams bouncing off the metal walls.
The memory fades and for a single moment my senses are my own. I’m back in the darkness when I hear the voice again.
You have come a long way, Traveler. But your journey is only beginning.
And then the darkness swells once more, like the hitched breath of a great beast. I feel it rise up, pouring into my mouth and lungs, feel the pressure behind my eyes and the sick sensation that I’m being crushed from within.
Sitting in the transport, staring at the stony faces around me, wondering what lies ahead, I can’t help but think that I should have stayed down. Maybe things would have been different then. Maybe I’d be with Tanvalin again. Maybe one day. The restraints cut into my ankles and wrists. In the end the choice had been a simple one: prison or the Valklears. That was how I found myself enlisted in the most elite fighting force the Minmatar Republic had ever produced. That was how I found my life’s calling. And all I had to do was kill a man.